The Marriage Bargain (12 page)

He wanted to protest, to tell her he’d fired above Esmund’s head. If he’d aimed for the heart, he’d be in France now instead of Esmund.

Spence looked into her face and saw only contempt. He did not know which was worse. That something had happened to Kellworth’s funds, or that Emma thought him a liar, a cheat, and a bully.

His eyes narrowed. “You can ask Wolfe and Blake. They will tell you I speak the truth.”

She laughed again. “And I am expected to believe them more than I believe you? These friends of yours were as quick to judge you dead as they were to judge me the cause of Kellworth’s decline. I hardly credit what they say.”

“It is the truth nonetheless.” He sounded damnably defensive.

She stood, her fisted hands held rigidly at her sides. “You did not cheat. You did not decrease the funds. You did not receive my letters. Let us suppose you are telling the truth—a great supposition indeed.” Her voice trembled and she faltered for a moment. “Even so, the fact remains that you did not once come to check on matters here at Kellworth. Not once. You did not come during the peace. You did not come after Waterloo. Did you even think of us? Did you think of us while you enjoyed yourself wherever you were? Paris, Belgium, wherever it was? Where have you been since Waterloo? That was nearly a year ago. In that whole year, did you not once think of us?”

Spence felt as if he’d been socked in the gut. She was correct. He, Blake, and Wolfe had frolicked in the newly conquered Paris. They had adventured through a Europe free of Napoleon before returning to England over a month ago. Once in London, he’d thought to inform Ruddock of his temporary residence at Stephen’s Hotel, but he asked no questions about Kellworth. He’d gone everywhere but Kellworth. Thought of anything but Kellworth.

He had not thought of Emma, either.

She suddenly gave a cry, something anguished, like a rabbit whose leg was caught in a trap.

She rose to her feet and marched to the door, opening it with a yank. “Let me ask you this, Spence. How am I to afford to replenish the wine stores and continue to feed your friends? How am I going to feed the other people of Kellworth at the same time? What will happen if the roof continues to leak? Or if the barn falls down? I am sick to death of worrying over such things. I will gladly cede these problems to the earl, now that he is here. Let such problems keep you awake at night, Spence.” Her voice was almost a sob. “I’ve had quite enough conversation. I wish you to leave my room.”

He felt glued to the chair, not by weakness but by a mixture of anger, fear, and guilt. He’d never wanted the responsibility of Kellworth. He’d wanted freedom and adventure. Now the weight of responsibility ensnared him, trapping him as surely as the coffin had done.

Emma was correct. No matter what the explanation for the missing funds, missing letters, and the gambling debts, responsibility for her suffering and the suffering of Kellworth must be placed squarely at his door. He ought to have checked on them. He ought to have acted the earl at least to that extent. What a foolish, selfish idiot he had been to entrust the well-being of his wife and his people to some man of business in London.

His parents had cared more for their own pleasure than for Kellworth and their sons. Spence was no better.

Emma waited by the connecting door, and he finally managed to make his aching muscles work well enough to get him to his feet. Relying heavily on the cane and feeling like a feeble, foolish, reprehensible old man, he shuffled across the room.

He no more got through the doorway than she slammed the door behind him. He heard the key turn in the lock.

Chapter
EIGHT

T
he next morning Emma took breakfast after her gentlemen guests had gone out to ride or shoot or whatever they did to pass the time now that they had finished poking their condescending noses into her business. Yawning, she poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it eagerly.

She had not slept well at all after her late-night encounter with Spence. She ought not to have been surprised that he denied any responsibility for the privations at Kellworth, but how dare he confront her at such a late-night hour, and in her chamber!

She had carefully planned her confrontation with him. She had compiled several lists to show him. Lists of the servants gone and those remaining. Lists of repairs to be made. Lists of household goods needed. Lists of money owed in wages and to shopkeepers. Lists of food and wine to replace what had been devoured by his friends. She’d envisioned herself throwing the lists in his face and stalking out of the room.

Unfortunately, the lists had been in a drawer in the library. Nothing had gone as she’d wished.

Spreading a piece of bread with some of the plentiful blackberry jam Cook put up, Emma eyed the lone boiled egg left on the sideboard.

She sighed.

Spence would leave when he recovered, she knew, but one thing was certain. She would not allow him to leave before he had secured a future for the people of Kellworth, a future without deprivation.

Ironically, had Spence died, Kellworth would have been saved. His uncle would have inherited, and such a status-seeking man as Zachary Keenan would not squander his property on a roll of dice or a turning of a card.

Had Spence died, she would have suffered, but not Kellworth. Although Spence had assured her that he had provided for her in the event of his death, he had also promised her a comfortable life. She no longer believed anything he said. She believed him three years ago—and look what had happened. She could put no more stock in him than she could put in her own mother. As a child she’d quickly learned that her father never broke a promise, and her mother never kept one.

Emma shook her head. No use to think of the past. What was important now was to determine some means of salvaging Kellworth, if that were at all possible. There must be plenty more valuables not entailed against selling, items that might generate enough money to keep them all from total ruin. She would discover what, then procure Spence’s permission to dispose of them as needed.

She glanced again at the egg that Cook would certainly use in some way to stretch out the next meal. It had been a long time since she’d eaten an egg for breakfast.

Spence entered the room.

“Good morning, Emma.” His voice was solemn.

He leaned on his cane, his strain palpable, as he crossed the room to reach the head of the table, adjacent to her seat. He leaned against the table for a moment as if to catch his breath.

She stood. “I will fix you a plate.”

“Perhaps that would be best.” He levered himself into the chair.

She sliced off another two pieces of bread and spread them with butter and jam. With only a momentary hesitation she added the precious egg in its cup.

When she placed the plate in front of him, he gave a wan smile. “I wonder if eggs are a part of Arjun’s diet. I don’t expect they are, for I have a great hunger for one.”

“Shall I remove it?” She reached for the plate, but he put his hand on her wrist, a warm and intimate gesture.

“Leave it.” Mischief lit his eyes. “I shall simply not tell Arjun of it.”

Emma’s brow wrinkled in dismay. That would be like lying, she thought. A very minor case of lying, to be sure, a lie of omission and to a very minor purpose. To a servant. About an egg.

Still, it reminded her of his other lies.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he picked up the eggcup. “Was it for you, Emma? I do not need it.”

She shook her head, even more disturbed by his thoughtfulness. “I rarely eat them.”

He placed it back down. “Arjun would likely approve of you.”

He was trying to joke with her. Why? Surely he knew she was still angry at him.

Emma nibbled on her bread and jam and watched him tap and peel the eggshell from the egg. “I expected you to breakfast in your room.”

He looked up, the blue of his eyes as affecting as always. “I am determined to stay out of that room as long as I can.”

The undercurrent of emotion in his voice did not escape her. She did not wish to think on it.

She lifted the teapot. “Do you care for tea?”

“Please.”

This would be a good moment to mention her lists and to emphasize his responsibility to his people, she thought. She merely needed to think of how to start.

He spoke first. “Emma, I have errands that need doing. I no longer know who in the household to ask.”

She tried to keep her expression bland. “It depends upon the nature of the errand.”

Without hesitation he said, “I wish for someone to fetch Reuben. I want to speak with him today.”

“You want to speak with Reuben? Why?” As soon as the words escaped from her mouth, she realized she had been presumptuous to ask him, the earl, his business.

But he answered her as if it were the most usual of occurrences. “I want to know exactly what my uncle told him.”

Her brows knit. “Reuben set off for London yesterday to apprise his father of your presence here.”

His spoon halted in midair. “To London? Deuce. I wish I had known.”

“He sent around a message. I did not think it important to tell you.”

He shook his head. “No reason you should have told me. It is merely that I could have asked him to check on this business of Kellworth’s funds.”

She stared at him. He sounded so genuine.

“I suppose I could send a draft to the bank at Maidstone,” he went on. “Assuming there is money to be had.”

“Money?” She could not help repeating.

He gave her a serious look. “I did not gamble the money away, Emma. I have had no difficulty receiving my own money. I can only hope the bulk of the fortune is intact. I will send a draft to the bank for as much as you think necessary, and I suppose shall discover eventually if there were funds enough to redeem it.”

“I have prepared a list . . . ,” she began, but she let her voice trail off. She was acting as if the funds would truly be there.

“I will make this up to you, I promise.” His voice turned low. “You and Kellworth will have all you need. That was our bargain, was it not?”

“Our bargain.” She set her jaw. She would believe in this money only when she held it in her hands.

“I wish to speak with Larkin.” His manner was all that was agreeable. It made her suspicious. “If he can take time to travel to Maidstone this day, the money shall be in our hands shortly.”

He scooped out the last of the egg, then took the remaining eggshell out of the cup. He tapped on it with his spoon, making a cross-shaped hole in its bottom.

She peered at him. “What are you doing?”

He winked. “When the witches go sailing, they sink.”

Her eyes widened.

He grinned and leaned forward, a conspiratorial gesture. “Witches live in eggshells and make boats of them. Surely you knew of it.”

She could not help but giggle. “That is nonsense. Superstition.”

He wagged his brows. “Superstition it may be, but I take no chances.”

Her smile faded. But he did take chances. He played at games of chance. She dare not believe his denial of it.

“It is a jest,” he said in a quiet voice.

A jest that almost made her forget she could not believe in him.

She started to rise. “I have much to do.”

“Stay a moment,” he pleaded. “Tell me what supplies you need. Perhaps Tolley can go into the village to purchase them.”

She gaped at him. “You have no money. You just said you must send for some.”

“Wolfe will have money.” His tone was quite matter-of-fact. “I will pay him back.”

She gave him a look of dismay.

He peered at her. “You never asked Blake or Wolfe for money, did you?”

“Certainly not.” Although with the passage of a few more days, she would have been forced to, or else there would have been nothing for them to drink and precious little to eat.

“They would have given you what you needed, Emma.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I have no reason to trust them with my personal affairs.”

“They are my friends,” he said. “I would trust them with my life.”

Giving him a scornful look, Emma stood. “And we have seen how well they guard your life, have we not?”

She turned on her heel and strode out of the room.

Spence rested his head in his hands as he sat at the library desk, wading through the lists Emma left him. He had discussed the situation a bit with Mr. Larkin, who answered his questions with the air of a disapproving grandfather. His reputation as wastrel was solid at Kellworth.

According to Larkin’s brief discourse, matters at Kellworth were dire. The manager had taken the bank draft and left immediately for Maidstone. Dropping everything in his haste, Spence thought.

He picked up one of Emma’s lists, one detailing which servants had been let go. The names were as familiar to him as his own, though he’d not thought of them in years. They were the Marys and Bessies and Toms of his childhood, children of the village and of the tenant farms, who had grown up expecting a home and livelihood at Kellworth. Now they were scattered about the countryside, far from mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers.

More fuel for his guilt.

He picked up another list and another. Countless repairs were enumerated. Could three years of neglect have accumulated so much that needed doing?

He sank his head in his hands again. No one had taken real responsibility for Kellworth since Stephen died. No one but Emma, but Spence had not seen that she had the means.

He looked at another list. Necessities were listed—food, wine, candles, coal—it went on and on. He read through them again.

Emma had listed nothing for herself. No bolts of cloth, no gloves, no lace, no ribbon. Somehow the lack made him feel even more loathsome.

There was a quick rap on the door, and Blake and Wolfe burst in, smelling of the out-of-doors and of horse.

“Look at you, dressed and downstairs!” Blake smiled so widely it looked as if his dimples had sliced his face.

“Are you feeling well, Spence?” Wolfe’s countenance, by contrast, included a furrowed brow.

Spence gestured for them to sit. “I confess I’m fatigued already.”