Though Blake and Wolfe had greeted his entrance at dinner with enthusiasm, throughout the meal Emma’s expression remained grim. He suspected it was in anticipation of what was soon to come. If he had recovered sufficiently to take the stairs, he had damned well recovered enough to listen to her account of matters here at Kellworth—and of what volatile emotions lay between the two of them. He would not rest until his questions had answers.
His body apparently took it literally that he would not rest. Sleep eluded him that night, even though the exertion of attending dinner ought to have exhausted him. True, he’d not tarried with Blake and Wolfe and their port after the meal. He left the room with Emma and had been rather proud to show her how he could climb the stairs unassisted. When he looked back after reaching the top, she still stood staring at him as if he were the Tower’s executioner.
Now he could hear her in her bedchamber and could see the lamplight from the crack in the doorway. More than once the past week he’d thought of begging for Emma’s company at night, of lying next to her, holding her and feeling totally safe, but he did not want her to see all his weakness of mind.
He had forced himself to forgo the lamp and make do with a glow from the fireplace and moonlight from the window. He repeated Arjun’s word over and over and soon mastered the panic of the darkness. He almost felt himself again.
Spence was still too weak to fear giving in to his masculine urges, the ones that on his wedding night gave him a battle quite different from any in the war. She had been so very young. He knew he’d have no time to show her what lovemaking could be. His uncle had frightened her enough with kissing and pawing at her. She would have needed a slow, gentle introduction. And what if he had got her with child and then returned to the Peninsula? That worry alone convinced him he must leave her the very next day.
Though not as terrifying as the confines of a coffin, Kellworth could be another sort of entrapment, one that bound him with memories and regrets. Even this bedchamber was a torture of memories. Stephen was everywhere in it. Spence could picture his coat and boots thrown casually aside. He could see Stephen turn and smile at him, could remember them both as boys scrapping on the floor. And just when he succeeded in banishing Stephen from his mind, the tall, shadowy figure of his father emerged, gone so long Spence could no longer remember his face without looking at the portrait below stairs.
He’d been only five years old when his parents perished at sea on their return from Naples, an excursion meant to acquire more treasures of antiquity to adorn Kellworth. Spence wondered if Emma had left the Roman or Greek statues in their various corners. The statues always stood like ghosts to remind him of what had been stolen from him.
But better for him to sit cross-legged on his bed and concentrate on the strange word Arjun had given him than let his mind travel in that direction. The direction in which his thoughts meandered was a mere indication he was bored. This mundane country life was like death to him.
Spence glanced back at the light glowing from Emma’s room. He imagined her seated at her dressing table, brushing her luxuriant hair. His fingers flexed with the memory of her soft curls. He recalled the scent of her, a scent so much like Kellworth she might have been spawned from its stones.
He sat up. Why wait until the morrow for their confrontation? There would be no interruptions at this time of night, no other tasks to perform, no distractions, except perhaps the recall of her soft curves beneath her thin muslin nightdress.
Spence reached for his cane and eased himself off the bed. Earlier he’d refused the nightshirt Tolley tried to hand him, and he could not visit her dressed only in his drawers. He hobbled over to the bureau and fumbled around before his fingers found his banyan. Grimacing at the shot of pain when he shoved his arm into the sleeve, he wrapped the robe around him and quietly walked to the door, opening it wider.
Emma sat at her dressing table exactly where he’d fancied her to be, brushing out her hair. In the dim light from the lamp, her hair looked as dark as his own, giving her an exotic, sultry air. Emma the rosebud had opened into full glory.
“Emma?”
Her brush stilled and she turned. Even in the darkness he could see her apprehension. She did not speak.
He entered the room, carrying but not using the cane to emphasize how well he had recovered. He stopped near the chairs by the windows and gestured to them. “Shall we talk?”
She turned back to the mirror, and he watched her straighten her spine and rise. She lowered herself into the chair but remained poised, like a Scottish Kellas cat ready to pounce.
He braced himself. “I am ready to hear it, Emma. Do not hold back. I am ready to hear everything.”
Her gaze did not waver as he took the chair opposite her. The moonlight from the window bathed her in a soft light, making her look as angelic as his fevered mind had fancied her. Her white nightdress completed the celestial impression, except that it clung to her body, revealing the very real woman underneath.
Desire stirred within him—a desire he knew himself still too weak to indulge—but it pleased him to feel so much a man in her presence.
When she did not speak, he murmured, “Tell me why you are unhappy.”
She blinked and her hands curled into fists in her lap. She seemed to steel herself before speaking. “My unhappiness ought to be no surprise to you, sir. Everyone at Kellworth has suffered. Did you not think we would?”
As it had so many times this week, the feeling that he’d missed something important, something he ought to have known, returned. “But why, Emma? Why have you suffered?”
Her eyes shot daggers at him. “We suffer from lack of funds and well you know it.”
The puzzle was no closer to being complete. He tried to remain calm. “You mentioned this before. What lack of funds?”
Her contempt could not have been more visible even in a noonday sun. “Do not toy with me, Spence. You cut the funds for Kellworth within my first year here. You ignored me when I begged you to send money, and so I had no choice but to economize where I could. When your friend Mr. Wolfe runs to you with his tales of how the house needs repair, ask him if the farm was neglected. Ask him if we saw to the crops and to the people—”
Spence held up his hand for her to stop.
She did not. “We let as many servants go as we could. They had to seek employment elsewhere, and now most of them are far from their homes and families. Loyal retainers like Mr. Hale and Susan stayed on, as well as others like Tolley, who would not find good situations otherwise, but the older ones deserve to be pensioned off. It is hardship for them to work—”
He could barely assimilate all this. He remained caught at trying to discern what she meant by cutting the funds. He had never cut the funds. He would never do such a thing. He wanted everything at Kellworth to remain as it had been when Stephen was alive.
Spence had no desire to live at Kellworth, but he cared about the property and he cared about the people. The people of Kellworth, the house servants, stable workers, even the farm laborers, raised him after his parents died. They were always more present to him than his uncle had been.
“—I begged you to release more money,” Emma continuted. “I told you what we had to endure. Why did you not answer my letters?”
He tried to take a breath. “Emma, I never received any letters from you.”
She huffed.
He tried to calm himself, by forcing his muscles to relax as Arjun taught him, but his voice took on a frantic quality. “I knew of no decrease in funds and I received no letters!”
She glared at him. “Do not speak fustian to me, sir. You forbade me to write to you except through your man of business, but I sent you letters in every way I could think of. To the Regiment, to Spain or France, or to wherever I thought you might be. Had I known of the existence of your friends, I would have sent them letters as well.”
He shot back. “I did not forbid you, Emma. Going through Mr. Ruddock was meant to be the most efficie
nt means of contacting me. But I received no letters.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “It is no effort for you to say you received no letters. Would you sit here and admit to me you left us only a pittance? No, I daresay you would deny the whole.”
If he’d possessed more strength, he would have jumped to his feet. “No man would dare accuse me of lying. I warn you, do not you do so.”
She laughed. “Why? Will you challenge me to a duel? I do not recommend it, considering the result of your last one.”
His fingers curled into fists. “I received no letters. But then you never answered my letters. I assumed you had no wish for a correspondence.”
She blinked, but the hard look returned to her face. “There were no letters from you. You are attempting to turn this around.”
She’d accused him of lying again, but he let it go. He’d sent his letters through Ruddock as well. Ruddock had a lot to answer for. Spence wished he could get his hands around the man’s throat right this moment. Had Ruddock been playing it light and fast with the money and with Emma’s comfort?
He frowned. “I never decreased your funds.”
Her nostrils flared. “We have not had enough funds for almost three years. Kellworth has suffered. The whole village has suffered because of it.”
He moved forward to touch her hand. “But I did not decrease the funds. Why would I do such a thing? It is nonsensical. I had no need of money.”
She snatched her hand away. “Not even for your gambling debts?”
The wind whooshed from his lungs, leaving him as dizzy as he’d been the week prior. It was as if he’d plummeted from a great height. He pressed his fingers to his temple. “Emma, I have no gambling debts. I never wager more than I can afford to lose.”
Her eyes flashed.
“This is the truth.” He spoke in a firm voice. “I draw no more than my yearly portion, no more or less than I’ve drawn for years.”
She glared at him.
He leaned forward, looking her directly in the eye. “Who told you this? Who told you this gambling story?”
Her voice was tight as she responded. “Mr. Ruddock sent letters to Mr. Larkin and to me about the decrease in funds. He did not explain the reason. Reuben discovered it from your uncle, who was privy to the information.”
Why would his uncle be privy to Spence’s financial dealings? Uncle Keenan was no longer his guardian. He’d been out of Kellworth’s affairs ever since Stephen had reached his majority.
The only answer was that Spence’s money was being embezzled and as a result Kellworth had suffered. He had assumed all was well, but had never checked closely.
Spence’s anger and resentment broke into his voice. “Listen, Emma. I will tell you again. I did not lie. I did not know of the decrease in funds. And I did not gamble myself into debt.”
“Oh?” She lifted her chin. “Was your duel not about gambling? Did you not nearly die from it? You were accused of cheating, were you not? What gentleman would cheat at cards except one who could not afford to lose?”
The notion that she thought him a cheat as well as a gambler made his eyes burn. “I did not cheat at cards.”
She shook her head. “I suppose the opponent in the duel accused you as a lark.”
“I do not know why he accused me,” Spence said. “He was little more than a foolish boy.”
She gave him such a look of loathing that he felt like she’d slapped him in the face. “How very honorable to shoot at a mere boy.”
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
The 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 ou
t 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.
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