He ought to have checked the curricle. It would have only taken a moment to examine the wheels and the undercarriage. Instead, he had been feeling sorry for himself because he would be forced to face Stephen’s death once again.
Every person he had ever loved had died. His mother, his father, Stephen. He’d dared to fall in love with Emma and now she could die, too.
“Please, God,” he silently prayed. “Let it not be so.”
He ought to have checked the curricle.
Mr. Price stepped away from the bed and walked over to Spence, who steeled himself to hear the worst.
“She’s had a nasty hit on the head, looks like,” the surgeon began. “I expect you recall how that felt.”
Spence nearly took the man by the collar and demanded he get on with it.
The surgeon took a long look over to where Emma lay on the bed. “She answers me, however. At least some of the time. With yes and no.” He tapped his fingers against his lips and Spence clenched his hands into fists. “I daresay she will be fine in the morning. No reason to believe otherwise.”
Spence collapsed in a nearby chair and dipped his head into his hands.
Mr. Price put a hand on his shoulder. “There, there, my lord. Nothing to fear. Have her remain abed for a day or two. That is all she will need.”
Spence heard Price walk over to say the same to Mrs. Cobbett, who saw him to the door and returned to her lady’s bedside. Spence finally looked over at Emma, staring at the delicacy of her profile, the luxury of her hair tumbling around her shoulders. Her maid tucked the bedcovers around her.
He’d escaped God’s fate this time, but how soon before he caused another fatal accident? Or what if she died in childbirth? Women died bearing children. Reuben’s mother had died giving birth to a dead baby. She’d been a silly woman but had filled in when Spence’s mother accompanied his father on their travels. She’d done her lying-in at Kellworth while Uncle Keenan was in London. Spence remembered her screams.
He placed his hands over his ears now and rose, striding out of the room.
His heart beat in panic and he spun around in the room, helpless for what to do. Acknowledging his fear only made it more real to him, more inevitable.
When Tolley walked into his bedchamber a few minutes later, Spence was stuffing clothes into a valise. “What are you doing, m’lord?”
“Leaving.”
“Leaving?” cried Tolley in a shocked voice.
“I . . . I have urgent business in London. I must be away.” He walked to the bureau and dumped in his razor and hairbrush.
“While my lady is sick?” Tolley’s eyes were wide with shock.
“I will pen her a note.” He waved his hand at the footman. “Run get me ink and paper.”
Tolley did not move.
“Do it!” Spence shouted.
Tolley dashed out of the room, but it was Mr. Hale who brought him the writing implements.
Mr. Hale gave him a puzzled look. “You are leaving, my lord?”
Spence grabbed the ink bottle, paper, and pen, making the mistake of looking into the faithful old retainer’s concerned eyes. He nearly lost his tenuous control.
He glanced away, clearing his throat. “I do not belong here. I never did. I’m going back to London. Tell . . . tell Lady Kellworth she shall have all the money she needs, but I cannot stay.”
“My lord—” began the butler.
Spence sat at the table and started writing. “That is all, Mr. Hale. You may go.”
Spence did not look up from his pen, but heard Mr. Hale hesitate before finally leaving the room. Spence threw the pen down and crumpled his note into a ball. He could not think straight. All he knew was, he must leave.
He scribbled a note and blew the ink dry before folding it and writing her name on the back.
Then he grabbed the valise and ran from the room, down the stairway and out the door, heading toward the stables. If he rode hard, he would reach London by dawn. He could not think beyond that.
Several hours later, Spence sat on the floor outside the door of Blake’s rooms in the Stephen’s Hotel on Bond Street where he, Blake, and Wolfe always stayed in London. The hotel clerk, surprised to see him arrive full of dirt from the road at such an hour, informed him that Mr. Wolfe was out of town and Lord Blakewell had not yet returned from his evening outing. Spence thanked the man, took the key to his room, and dumped his valise inside. Then he waited in the hallway for Blake so he would see him straightaway.
He fell asleep, his head resting against the wooden door, until whispering voices in the hall woke him.
Blake tiptoed down the hall leading the cloaked figure of a female, admonishing her to be quiet. Spence tried to stand as Blake caught sight of him and hurried over.
“Spence! What the devil—what are you doing here?” Blake gave him a hand and pulled him to his feet.
“I nearly killed her, Blake,” he mumbled.
“Killed her!” cried the cloaked young woman.
“Shhhh.” Blake shot the female a stern glance. He made sure Spence could remain standing and stuck his key in the door. “Come inside and sit.”
Spence gestured to the girl. “No, it can wait. I will return to my rooms. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow,” said Blake. “Come in and sit. I won’t be but a moment.”
Spence entered the room and found a chair, flopping down in it. Blake lit a lamp and whispered something to the girl.
“Naw,” she cried. “T’isn’t fair!”
Blake raised his voice to Spence. “Wait there for me. I shall be back directly.”
He took the girl by the arm and led her protesting out the door. Spence rested his head on the back of the chair and started drifting off to sleep again.
When Blake returned he was alone.
“Forgive me.” Spence rubbed his face. “I ruined your dalliance.”
Blake laughed. “It was of no consequence. I promised her a bauble to appease her. I believe she was even happier for it.”
“A bauble? You have so much money to spend?”
“Of course not.” Blake winked. “It shall be a very cheap bauble and that will be the end of that.”
Spence stretched out his legs. “Who was she?”
“An opera dancer.” Blake opened a cabinet and took out a bottle, pouring for both of them. “Now talk, Spence. What are you doing here?”
Spence took the glass and brought it to his lips, smelling the brandy before tasting it. Its warmth eased the numbness inside. “I left.”
“As I surmised.” Blake sipped. “But why?”
After a second’s hesitation, Spence blurted out the story, only leaving out his fears of Emma dying in childbirth.
At the end he said, “I ought to have checked the wheels. It is my fault.” He looked at Blake. “I am cursed. All I need do is love somebody and they die.”
Blake listened with that calm, placid expression that rarely left him. When Spence finished, his friend gave him an intent look. “You are daft. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Spence scowled. “I agree I am less than coherent, but, I confess, I expected a bit more sensibility from you.”
“Rubbish.” Blake wore a half-smile that Spence suddenly wanted to punch off his face. “You need someone to kick you in the pants. All this talk of killing your brother and almost killing your wife, of making people die, it is rubbish.”
Except that it did not feel like rubbish to Spence. It felt real.
Blake ignored him. “You were not the first foolish puppy to upset a phaeton, God knows. Which one of us has not raced at imprudent speeds? And I have yet to hear of another earl who must maintain his own carriages. You do hire a man for that work, do you not?”
Spence shot him a quick glance before looking away again. “Yes, but the man is new, an ex-soldier or someone. I do not know him. I ought to have checked up on him to make sure he did his work.”
Blake was undaunted. “Is that not Larkin
’s responsibility? This talk of failing to check the vehicle? More rubbish.”
Spence glared at him.
Blake leaned forward, staring him in the eyes. “Did you drive the curricle recklessly?”
“Of course I did not!” he shot back.
Emma had already been nervous about the excursion. He would not have frightened her by racing down the country lanes like a deranged man. The wheel broke. The wheel he ought to have checked.
“They were accidents, Spence. Nothing more.”
Blake’s words were beginning to sound reasonable. Spence gazed at his friend, wanting to believe.
Blake put a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. “If your theory were correct, why, then, have Wolfe and I been able to get through an entire war without a scratch? Or do you have no fondness at all for the Ternion?”
Spence stared at him.
“Go home,” Blake said.
Spence dropped his head in his hands. “If what you say is true . . .” Spence’s panic had receded and rationality returned, but also the harsh reality of his actions. He had run out on Emma a second time.
Blake’s brows rose. “Do you love her?”
Miserable, Spence downed the last of his brandy and nodded.
“Go home,” Blake repeated.
Could it be that simple? Spence straightened in his chair. “I will do it. She will have lost trust in me again, but I’ll fight to win it back.”
Blake clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!” He poured Spence more brandy.
Spence leaned back in his chair, feeling a weight off his shoulders. “Where is Wolfe, by the way?”
“France. He insisted upon searching for Esmund, who is hiding out somewhere on the Continent. Last seen in Paris.” He spoke these last words with dramatic emphasis.
“Indeed? I thought you would have sent Esmund news of my recovery.”
Blake laughed. “Of your resurrection, you mean?” He poured himself another glass. “We notified his family immediately and intended to send a dispatch directly to Esmund. His family would not tell us his whereabouts. They forbade us to do more. It was all very havey-cavey, as Wolfe would say, and it sent Wolfe jauntering off to find the twit. He suspects some sort of plot. You know how his mind works. Of course, we did discover Esmund’s debts had been paid off shortly after the duel.” He looked up at Spence. “I say, you must not have received my letter. I exerted myself to write all about it.”
“I’ve had no letters from you for over two weeks, not that I am tabulating,” Spence said.
Blake responded with a guileless look. “I sent the letter two days ago. Possibly you crossed paths with it on the road.”
“Anything else you exerted yourself to write?”
“Yes . . .” Blake frowned. “We found Ruddock.”
Spence sat up. “But that is splendid—”
Blake held up a hand. “Not so splendid. He was fished from the Thames. How his brother identified him, I shudder to think. The fellow had been in the water for weeks, apparently.”
“Drowned?”
“That is correct,” Blake said. “No money on him. His coat and shoes were gone. The victim of footpads. There has been an increase in crime apparently. Blamed on ex-soldiers with no work.”
“Deuce!” Spence sank back in his chair.
Blake leaned forward. “I did not write this in the letter, but the senior Ruddock told us that his brother received a message from your uncle about a week before he disappeared.”
Spence leaned forward. “My uncle?”
“Wolfe, as you may expect, perceives a connection between the two events, but they were a week apart.” Blake took another sip of his brandy.
“Was the message found?” Spence asked.
Blake shook his head. “But”—he lifted his finger—“there were two men arrested for attempting to rob a fellow in that very neighborhood. The man fought them off and got the better of them.”
“Did they admit to the crime?”
Blake laughed. “Of course they did not!”
Spence lowered his brows in thought. “My uncle may be involved in the embezzlement, however. He seems to have played a role in keeping Emma’s letters from reaching me.”
“That appears likely,” Blake agreed.
Spence groaned. “I should clear up this mess once and for all.”
There was much of a practical nature to accomplish. His affairs were still managed by Ruddock and Ruddock, and he certainly did not wish to continue there. He also wanted to fix things so Emma would feel secure about money, transfer a substantial amount to her name. If he returned to Kellworth bearing papers proving that, perhaps she might forgive him for running off in a panic.
The sky outside began to brighten.
“Do you have pen and ink?” he asked Blake.
Blake opened a drawer and placed the items on the table in front of Spence. “What are you doing?”
Spence dipped the pen in the ink. “Writing to Emma that I will return to her in three days’ time.” He glanced up at his friend. “I shall try to explain.”
But he feared she would not believe a word of what he wrote. Putting money into her hands might be his only chance to make restitution.
Chapter FOURTEEN
The next morning Emma woke with a throbbing head. Too filled with pain to open her eyes, she groped for Spence, but he was not there. His absence made her feel adrift, a ship without a sail in an ocean of pain. She made herself lie very still, but it was of scant help.
She tried to lift her eyelids, but it felt like being speared with sunlight. Clamping them shut right away, she’d not seen a thing, but something did not feel right. More cautiously she peered through her lashes until her eyes grew accustomed to the light. She blinked several times.
She was in her own bedchamber, in her own bed, alone. Forcing her mind to work, she tried to remember why she was not in Spence’s bed where she’d woken these past four weeks.
Memory returned. The crack of wood shattering. The curricle tipping. Flying through the air.
“Spence!” She sat up at once, then clutched at her head to stop the surge in pain.
Dorrie gave a surprised cry and jumped to her feet from the bedside chair. “There, there, my lady. You mustn’t rise up like that. You are supposed to rest. You had a very nasty spill yesterday.”
Emma gripped the girl’s arm. “Spence?”
Dorrie patted her hand. “His lordship is hale and hearty, I assure you. It was he who brought you home.”
Her maid eased Emma back against the pillows, and Emma closed her eyes again while her head throbbed. “I want to see him.”
Dorrie ceased her fussing with the bedcovers and did not answer right away. “His lordship is not in the house, my lady.”
“Have someone fetch him, Dorrie, if you please.”
“I . . . I do not know—” Dorrie began.
“Please send for him,” Emma cried. “Please, Dorrie.”
She wanted to see for herself that he was unhurt. She wanted the comfort of his arms, the consolation of his low voice, because she truly felt wretched.
The maid hesitated again. “Yes, my lady.”
Eyes still closed, Emma heard the swish of Dorrie’s skirts and the sound of her footsteps as the maid left the room. Emma lay very still until the pain diminished and she dozed off.
The sound of the door opening woke her. She sat up, but it was not Spence who walked in, but Mrs. Cobbett with Dorrie behind her.
Wincing with the pain again, she asked, “Where is Lord Kellworth?”
Mrs. Cobbett bustled to the bedside bearing her usual kindly smile. “Now, just you rest, my lady. His lordship is not here.”
“Where is he, Mrs. Cobbett?”
A sympathetic expression came over the housekeeper’s face and Emma sensed the foreboding of bad news. Mrs. Cobbett fussed with her chatelaine, jingling her keys like a musical instrument.
Emma seized the woman’s hand. “Where is he?
”
Mrs. Cobbett glanced sideways before meeting Emma’s intent gaze. “My lady,” she began in a soft voice. “His lordship is gone—to London, my lady. He did not leave word when he will return.”
“Gone?” Emma gasped, her voice thin and reedy.
Mrs. Cobbett nodded.
“Gone,” she repeated again, this time more like a moan. She rose up on her knees, releasing her hold on Mrs. Cobbett. “No! It is not so! Say it is not so!” Tears stung her eyes and she pounded her fists against the mattress. She pulled at the bedcovers, twisting them in her hands. The two servants grabbed her arms, trying to calm her.
“No,” she cried over and over, trying to escape their grasp. “No.”
“You must calm yourself,” Mrs. Cobbett said with alarm. “You must be quiet.”
“He cannot have gone,” she wailed. “He cannot. There is some mistake.”
Her head pounded with pain, and she tried to grab it, but the two women would not release her. The stabbing pain exhausted her, and she fell back against the pillows in an agony of both body and spirit.
“There, there, now,” Mrs. Cobbett murmured, petting her head.
Dorrie dampened a towel in water and placed it on Emma’s forehead. Emma, despairing inside, could not move. Her breathing was ragged and tears streamed down her cheeks, pooling in the corners of her mouth. She could taste their saltiness.
Why had he left her? Why, when she lay ill in bed, after being insensible a full day? Was he so heartless? Why did he wait until she was most in need of him to flee from her again?
It pained her to think. The pain throbbing in her head made it impossible to make sense of anything.
Except that he had left her.
Her aching head kept her from moving, though she wanted to rage, to throw things, to shatter something as she herself felt shattered. Trying merely to bear the pain, she became aware of a sticky dampness between her legs. With a cry she rose up again, startling her servants. She flung off the covers and pulled up her nightdress.
The Marriage Bargain Page 17