The Marriage Bargain

by Diane Perkins

  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.”

  Wolfe pointed to the papers on the desk. “Has Lady Kellworth
set you to work?”

  The smile froze on Spence’s face. “She has not set me to anything, Wolfe. It is merely time for me to attend to my duties—”

  “I daresay there is plenty to attend to,” broke in Blake cheerfully. “What have you there?”

  Spence picked up the sheets of paper. “Lists. It appears Kellworth has need of many things.”

  Wolfe made a derisive sound. “That bears repeating. The place is crumbling around our ears.”

  “Not only repairs, Wolfe.” Spence pointed to one of the lists. “Stores for the kitchen, candles, wine, soap. Many things. I do not know how Emma managed.”

  “She spoke to you, then?” Blake asked.

  “Last night.” Spence refrained from telling his friends he had sought the interview in her bedchamber. “She told an extraordinary tale. Kellworth’s funds were apparently cut severely almost three years ago. Without my knowledge, I might add.”

  Blake nodded. “We heard the same from Larkin, your manager here. And from everyone else, for that matter.”

  “I told them you did not do it,” Wolfe said.

  “Indeed.” He frowned. “I need to discover who was responsible for the cut and why it was done. Lady Kellworth was told I gambled Kellworth’s fortune away.”

  “Ha! We heard that as well,” Wolfe cried. “It would be more likely you’d won the fortune.”

  “More accurate to say I break even.” Spence smiled. “Most of the time.”

  Blake and Wolfe disclosed their own assessment of Kellworth, telling him how all focus had been on the farm, livestock, and needs of the people who worked so Kellworth produced income. They also detailed the neglect and disrepair, not indicating anything Emma had not put in a list. Spence tried to imagine how Emma had shouldered this burden alone. Now he knew why her dresses all seemed old and worn. A sick feeling of shame rested in the pit of his stomach. He wondered if it would ever leave him.

  “I would wish to have a few words with your man of business, if I were you,” Wolfe remarked. “You have only Lady Kellworth’s word that he decreased the funds.”

  “And Larkin’s,” Blake reminded him.

  Wolfe gave Blake a skeptical look.

  Spence spoke in a voice that brooked no argument. “Lady Kellworth suffered on my account, Wolfe. Do not imply any of this to be her doing.”

  Wolfe opened his mouth, but then shut it again, as if thinking better of saying more.

  At that same moment Blake shot to his feet. “Lady Kellworth.”

  She stood in the doorway, cheeks flaming, her expression brittle. She had overheard Wolfe’s ill-chosen words.

  Spence and Wolfe stood, Spence with more effort. “Come in, Emma,” he said.

  Blake rushed to smooth the unpleasant moment. “You must pardon our dirt, Lady Kellworth. Wolfe and I discovered Spence out of his room and we could not resist a look.”

  Gazing directly at Spence, she took a step inside the room.

  “We were discussing the situation at Kellworth,” Spence explained.

  She looked from Blake to Wolfe. “Indeed?”

  Blake and Wolfe both glanced away.

  She glared at them. “Did you forget my one request to you, gentlemen?”

  “Request?” Spence asked.

  “I asked your friends to wait until I judged the time to be right before speaking to you of Kellworth.” Her voice was stiff.

  “I assure you, my lady, we meant no harm,” Blake said.

  Wolfe glowered. “He asked.”

  She returned a withering glance.

  Spence leaned against the desk. “I did ask them, Emma. The fault is mine.”

  “I asked as well, Spence,” she said in low tones.

  Blake walked over to her. “You did indeed, my lady. You have our sincere apologies for going against your wishes.” He bowed. “Allow us to make it up to you. Perhaps there is some service we might perform for you? Wolfe and I would be delighted to do whatever you wish.”

  She stared him in the face. “It is odd—is it not, Lord Blakewell—that you and Mr. Wolfe have not seen fit before this moment to ask if I needed anything. You were content to eat my food and drink my wine and criticize my care of the house without one thought that I might need some assistance from you.”

  Blake and Wolfe had the grace to look ashamed. Spence’s cheeks burned as well. Even his friends had failed her.

  The charm left Blake’s voice, revealing a truer emotion beneath. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  Wolfe managed a bow.

  She looked from one man to the other, her chin high. Without speaking she spun around and left the room.

  Blake collapsed in a chair and rubbed his brow. Spence lowered himself into his seat.

  Wolfe paced in front of them. “She ought to have asked us. How else were we supposed to know? We would have done what she asked.”

  “Stubble it, Wolfe,” cried Blake. “She only made the one request and we even failed to keep that one.”

  “Deuce,” muttered Spence. A crushing fatigue came over him, enough to make his limbs tremble.

  Since they’d been boys, he’d hated to be separated for too long from the Ternion, but now, for the first time, he realized he wanted them to be away.

  He riffled through the lists and found the one detailing supplies Emma required. He handed it to Wolfe. “Go into the village with Tolley and purchase as much of what is on this list as can fill the wagon. If I am not mistaken, you are not short of funds, Wolfe. Buy what Emma needs.”

  Wolfe took the list and skimmed it. He did not argue.

  Spence went on. “Tomorrow I need for you both to perform a task for me.”

  They nodded.

  “Return to London. See what you can discover about this business with Kellworth’s funds. I cannot do it myself at present and I believe I have ignored this matter long enough. I’ll write some letters to give whatever permission necessary.” He stood, hoping for enough strength to make it upstairs. “And, for God’s sake, discover if there is enough money left to see to what must be done here.”

  Leaning heavily on his cane, Spence started across the room. Before reaching the door, he turned to Blake and Wolfe. “One more thing. When you go to the village, buy Emma something nice. A hat or lace or something. And find out if the dressmaker is still in the village. Tell her to call on Lady Kellworth. Tomorrow, if she is able. Have her bring her nicest cloth.”

  “We will attend to it,” said Blake.

  Spence attempted a grateful smile, but the effort was beyond him. “I’ll write those letters a bit later.”

  With his last reserve of energy Spence hobbled out of the room and up the stairway to his bedchamber.

  Emma stormed off to the garden. She was so furious with all three men she thought she would explode. She did not care if the sun was bright this day, she attacked her weeds as if each one had the name Spence or Blakewell or Wolfe written upon it.

  When she finally walked back to the house, a wagon drew up and another behind it. She quickened her step.

  The wagons were filled with supplies. Emma could not help but feel excited, like a little girl again, her father home from London laden with dolls and dresses and tea sets. Except these baskets and boxes were filled with flour, tea, coffee. Chocolate—such an extravagance! How long had it been since she’d tasted a cup of chocolate? There were lemons and sugar and large joints of beef.

  Mrs. Cobbett, who was trying to direct the unloading, told her Blakewell and Wolfe had gone into the village with Tolley to purchase supplies. They had not remained with the wagons, which pleased Emma. She was not ready to be grateful to them yet, even though the stores they brought her were more than she dreamed possible.

  “Candles!” she exclaimed after opening yet another box. She sniffed. “Beeswax.” A luxury unheard of.

  Mr. Hale came to offer assistance, but Emma cautioned him to leave the heavy boxes to Tolley. Cook was beside herself with joy. Tolley kept repeating, “And we stopped at the inn for a pi
nt of ale.” His energy remained high even with hoisting box after box from the wagons.

  It was not security, Emma reminded herself, but wonderful nonetheless. They would all eat well this night. And the next. And the next after that, and still without worry that food would run out.

  Mrs. Cobbett opened a box tied with string. “Oh, how very nice.” She handed the box to Emma. “This is for you, m’lady.”

  Inside was a paisley shawl in gentle swirls of aqua, red, and green. Emma lifted a corner. Its wool was so soft she thought it would disintegrate like a flake of ash in her hand.

  She had seen the shawl in the village shop where gloves and hats and ribbon were sold, most brought in from London. She wished she could say such frivolity was not to her taste, but it would be a bald untruth. She loved such beautiful things. The only part of London she’d enjoyed in her brief time there had been the beautiful fashions. A lady could buy anything she fancied. Beaded reticules, glittering necklaces, buttery soft gloves. Seeing the shawl in the shop had reminded her of London merchandise. It also reminded her how shabby her own clothes had become.

  With a sigh of delight she lifted the shawl from the box and wrapped it around her. “It is lovely, is it not, Mrs. Cobbett?”

  “Very lovely, m’lady.” Mrs. Cobbett smiled. “It does my heart good to see you in it.”

  There was a mirror over the fireplace in the drawing room, and Emma wanted to run to look at the lovely drape of the shawl around her shoulders.

  But there was also still too much to do, too many more items to be unloaded and put away. She refolded the shawl and returned it to its box, setting it aside. Tears stung her eyes. She was still angry with Blakewell and Wolfe, but it had been kind of them to buy her a gift, especially one so fine.

  When dressing for dinner, she could not resist draping the shawl over her dress, even though it was warm enough to not need it. She hesitated self-consciously at the door of the drawing room, where the men waited until Mr. Hale announced the meal. She heard them conversing.

  Spence would be there. She had not heard his voice, but she knew, because she’d peeked into his bedchamber before proceeding downstairs. As quietly as she could, she walked into the room.

  The men were drinking some of the Madeira purchased that day. They stood at her entrance.