The Marriage Bargain

by Diane Perkins

Emma was sick to death with achieving ecstasy one minute and plunging to the depths the next.

  As they made love over and over during the night, she’d convinced herself he would not be able to part from her, but still he’d ordered her away. Doubt planted itself in her mind. What if he had contrived the horse’s attack as a way to convince her to leave?

  She shook her head as a wave of nausea hit her. He would not do such a thing, would he? But once the seeds of doubt were sown, they began to grow. Was this all an elaborate ruse to be rid of her?

  If he did not want her, perhaps she could show him how well she could live without him—even if she despaired she could not.

  A grim-faced Tippet came in to help her dress.

  “My lord has paid me the quarter’s wages and left me with a letter of reference,” Tippet told her. “But one wishes for employment.”

  Emma placed a consoling hand on the maid’s arm. “I am sorry, Tippet. I fancy I know how you feel.”

  “He is sending you away, too, isn’t he, m’lady?” Tippet dared to ask.

  “Indeed.” Emma gave her a determined look. “But he cannot keep me away.”

  When Emma descended the stairs, she formulated a new plan. She would allow Reuben to return her to Kellworth, but the next day she would send for a post-chaise to bring her back to London, with Tolley to accompany her, perhaps. She would again beg to stay at her mother’s house, until finding accommodations of her own with the money he’d banked in her name. Spence would see her at every society event he attended.

  When she entered the dining parlor, three gentlemen stood. Reuben, Spence, and Blakewell. Emma’s eyes narrowed when she saw her husband’s friend.

  Spence barely looked at her. Reuben seemed almost cheerful.

  Blakewell bowed slightly and gave her a dimpled smile. “Lady Kellworth, I am delighted to see you.”

  “Lord Blakewell,” she responded in a flat voice. “What a surprise to see you here.”

  “Indeed,” he said, with a brightness of mood she found most suspicious and irritating. “But I understand you are to be leaving us.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  She tolerated Blakewell’s friendly conversation as best she could. A few minutes later, Keenan entered the room and Spence presented him to Blakewell.

  Keenan gave Emma a direct look, before turning to glare at Spence. “I hear you are sending your wife back to Kellworth.”

  “I am, sir,” Spence replied, without apparent emotion.

  Keenan did not address her or anyone else in the room, but ate in silence, looking very disturbed.

  Soon Reuben’s groom pulled the curricle up to the front of the townhouse, and Emma’s trunk was strapped in. Reuben ran upstairs for something he had forgotten. Emma, with her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves on, was ready to depart. Spence did not speak to her. Keenan stood in the hall looking just as grim.

  When Reuben came rushing down the stairs, it was Blakewell who walked her to the door and out to the waiting carriage. Taking the ribbons from his groom’s hands, Reuben climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Before lifting her into the curricle, Blakewell spoke quietly, “Do not worry, my lady. All will be well.”

  She peered at him. His face was sober.

  She settled herself next to Reuben. His groom jumped on the back and they were off. Emma looked over her shoulder as they pulled away. There in the doorway of the townhouse was Spence, watching. He remained there until Reuben turned the corner at Berkeley Square and Emma could no longer see him.

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Blake walked back from the street to where Spence still stood watching, though the curricle was now out of sight.

  “I hope you know what you are doing,” Blake said.

  “She needed to be out of harm’s way,” Spence responded.

  Blake watched the empty street with him. “You told her everything?”

  “Everything except the name of the man we suspect.” Spence could not bring himself to tell Emma that fact. The man she might have married, the man who now shared Spence’s house, who shared his blood, might be the one trying to kill him.

  Spence and Blake entered the townhouse. Spence’s uncle stood in the hall, a stony look on his face. “If you still wish to speak with me, I will be available in one hour. I have some correspondence to attend to first. Meet me in the library.”

  Keenan turned his back and walked away. Spence glanced at Blake. Spence had sought out his friend the previous day after he’d left Emma, needing the familiar support of the Ternion. Together they planned how to confront his uncle. Blake insisted upon being present, even though doing so would place him in danger as well, because the Ternion were stronger together.

  At the appointed time, Spence, flanked by his friend, entered the library.

  Keenan sat behind the large desk, still writing. Without speaking, he finished, sprinkling sand on the ink to dry it. He tapped off the sand and, in a quick movement, half rose, leaning across the desk. “What the devil are you about, sending your wife away within days of reuniting with her? You trifle with her feelings.”

  Spence took an involuntary step back, surprised at this onslaught. If his uncle intended diversion, this was skillfully done.

  He recovered and faced his uncle with the straight back and steely voice of the officer he’d once been. “That, sir, we will not discuss.”

  Sitting back in the chair, Keenan poured himself a glass of port without offering any to Spence or Blake. He gave no heed to Spence’s command. “You have treated that woman shabbily from the moment you married her, leaving her alone at Kellworth all those years.”

  Spence used the barb to turn the focus back on his uncle. “What do you know of it, Uncle? Exactly how much do you know of my affairs? Of Emma’s years at Kellworth? That is what I am here to discover. Tell me all you have done and, most of all, why?”

  “Done?” Keenan took a sip of his port. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Blake stepped forward. “Sir, we have recently discovered evidence that while Spence was stationed abroad, Ruddock was embezzling funds from Kellworth—”

  Keenan pointed a finger at Spence. “See! I warned you that an estate’s business could not be delegated. If the man stole your money, it serves you right.”

  Spence felt his body tense.

  Blake went on. “There is also reason to believe Ruddock did not act alone.”

  Keenan grunted. “Of course he did not act alone.” He glared at Spence. “The man was an idiot. His brother is well enough, but, even so”—he pointed at Spence again—“it was your responsibility to know precisely every detail of the management of the Kellworth fortune. How much did you lose?”

  Again Spence forced himself not to become defensive. And to hold his temper in check. “It is not the amount I lost that I credit but how much Emma suffered.”

  His uncle’s eyes widened. “Emma suffered?”

  “Ruddock cut funds to Kellworth and to Lady Kellworth’s allowance,” Blake explained. “Lady Kellworth was forced to make severe economies.”

  Keenan shot Spence a venomous look, before narrowing his eyes. “What has all this to do with me?”

  Spence gave him a level stare. “Explain that to us, if you please.”

  The man’s eyes did not waver. “I cannot explain what I do not know.”

  Spence leaned into his uncle’s face. “Here is what we know, Uncle. You failed to forward Emma’s letters to me, which would have alerted me to the situation at Kellworth. You sent Ruddock a message a week before he was killed. You knew my whereabouts on both attempts on my life—”

  “Attempts on your life?” Keenan’s brows shot up.

  Spence scoffed. “You knew where I would be walking the night of the musicale. You knew Emma and I would be returning from Piccadilly.” He lowered his voice to a dangerous level. “It was not well done of you to put her in jeopardy.”

  His uncle shook his head, the very picture of confusion. “I
know nothing of this. Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Spence tried to scrutinize the man’s expression, which seemed real enough at first glance. “You sent footpads to attack me the first time. Then you sent a horse and rider to try to run me down with Emma at my side. She missed being trampled by mere inches.”

  “My God.” Keenan was barely audible. “I would never do such a thing. Why would I?”

  “The obvious reason is to succeed to the title,” Blake interjected, maintaining a didactic tone. “The embezzlement is more difficult to understand, because, in effect, you were stealing from what would be yours. Unless your intent was to cause Lady Kellworth hardship.”

  “Cause her hardship?” Keenan rose from his chair with such energy Spence took another involuntary step back. “Cease this nonsense at once! I’ll have you say no more!” Keenan charged around the desk to where Spence stood. Blake stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with his friend.

  But Keenan did not attack. Instead, he looked as if his insides had been twisted into knots. “You understand nothing. Do you not know I would never do any of this?”

  “We merely present the information we have gathered,” Blake put in, in a pragmatic tone.

  Keenan looked at Blake as if he were some new species of insect. “You insolent cur.” He turned back to Spence and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Do you not realize?” he whispered. “I would never hurt her. Never.”

  Blake again said, “You are the logical suspect—”

  Spence put a restraining hand on Blake’s arm. He met his uncle’s eye with a searching glance. “Why would you never hurt her?”

  His uncle’s eyes reddened. “I love her.”

  “You . . .” Spence began, but could not finish the sentence. He swallowed and tried again. “You wanted her—I knew that. But . . . ?”

  His uncle averted his eyes. “She was so fresh and beautiful. It made me feel young just to look at her.” He glanced back at Spence. “But seeing her now . . . Now I merely feel very old.”

  Spence murmured, “But, if not you, who?”

  His uncle backed away and paced in front of them. “If she had given me letters for you, I would have forwarded them. I would have done anything for her. I would have given her money if she needed it. By God, why did she not ask me? All I wanted was her happiness, and you”—he turned on Spence again—“you thought nothing of her.”

  But Spence felt a new dread, more insidious than his own guilt. “Who, then?”

  At that moment the butler rapped at the door. Opening it a crack, he said, “Lord Kellworth, a gentleman insists upon seeing you. Two gentlemen, actually. And another person.”

  Before Spence could reply, Wolfe burst through the door, knocking it against the wall with a bang. He dragged Lord Esmund, Devlin’s former dueling partner, with him. Arjun followed.

  The butler looked horrified.

  Spence walked over to him and said, “It is all right. Leave us, if you please.” He closed the door.

  “I had the very devil of a time finding you,” Wolfe said. “You could not leave word at the hotel of your whereabouts? I think I have been all over London trying to locate you. I daresay they were not happy at White’s—”

  He released Esmund, but Arjun stepped up to take hold of the red-haired young man’s arm. Esmund looked both frightened out of his wits and as angry as a bear.

  Blake gave Wolfe an appreciative look. “You dragged the fellow all the way from France?”

  Wolfe nodded. “Easier than you would think.” He noticed Keenan. His brows rose, a question in his expression.

  Spence stepped forward. “May I present my friend Mr. Wolfe to you, Uncle Keenan.”

  “Keenan!” cried Wolfe, pointing at him. “That’s the man! I told you the duel was a setup. Keenan was the man behind it. Hired Esmund to kill you in exchange for paying off his debts.”

  “See here.” Keenan’s face was flushed in anger. “This is absurd.”

  “No,” wailed Esmund, trying to pull from Arjun’s grasp.

  Arjun tightened his grip.

  Spence swung toward his uncle. “You almost had me fooled. Was this about Emma, then? Were you trying to punish her and me, as well? Or was that all a hum and only the title you desired? I suspect you would like sitting in the House of Lords.”

  “You insufferable prig!” shouted Keenan.

  “Perhaps it is time to send for the magistrate,” Blake suggested.

  “Send for the magistrate, then.” Keenan shot daggers at his nephew. “It was not enough for you to tempt Emma away with your title and estate. Now you mean to ruin me.”

  “No!” wailed Esmund again. “You have it all wrong!”

  He finally received their attention.

  His red hair fell over his forehead, and he swiped at it with his free hand. “I have never had the pleasure of this gentleman’s acquaintance.” He tried again to twist out of Arjun’s grasp. “Though I have heard of you, sir,” he added cordially.

  Spence strode toward him. “Cut line, Esmund. What the devil are you trying to say?”

  Arjun released him.

  Esmund brushed off his sleeves and straightened his jacket before answering Spence. “It was not this Keenan who held my debts and made me fight the duel—I do beg your pardon, sir.”

  “Never mind that,” Spence snapped. “Who put you up to it?”

  “Not this Keenan,” retorted Esmund. “The other one. You know, the vicar. Reverend Keenan.”

  “Reuben,” Spence moaned.

  Blake’s eyes widened and Keenan’s face turned white.

  “Reuben!” Spence shouted. He looked from one man to the other, the horror becoming all too real. “My God, I sent her off with him!”

  By the time Spence was on the road, he figured to be at least two hours behind Reuben. Leaving Blake and Wolfe to sort things out in London, he’d ordered his horse saddled and changed into riding clothes, all the while chafing at how much time ticked by. The streets of London were even more congested than when Reuben’s curricle had pulled away, and Spence needed to thread his way through carriages and wagons and pedestrians before reaching the open road. He changed horses frequently, asking at each posting inn if they’d remembered seeing a curricle of Reuben’s description. Each time they said yes, and he’d known Emma had been safe that much longer.

  It began to rain, just enough to make the road a muddy mess, slowing travel but not halting it. He’d not bothered with a great coat, and it took no time at all for his clothing to soak through. He hoped Emma had remained dry. The rain caused him to fall farther behind. They’d had two hours’ driving on good road before the rains began, two more hours than he’d had.

  He prayed Reuben had taken Emma back to Kellworth. He prayed no harm had come to her. He feared his prayers were too late.

  The long hours in the saddle gave him plenty of time to think. He remembered the poacher’s shot, his curricle’s shattered wheel. Had Reuben masterminded those events? If so, he’d been heedless of Emma’s safety then, too. What of the other mishaps that occurred at Kellworth? The medicine making Tolley ill? The stirrup breaking? It all seemed patently clear now that these were manufactured events.

  What motive could his cousin have for all this treachery? Did he desire the title? It seemed far-fetched, since his father was next in line. Or did he mean to kill his father, too? Had Reuben, professing all through childhood that he was called to the Church, broken the commandment, thou shalt not kill? Had Reuben coveted Kellworth so much as to damn his soul?

  Rain trickled into Spence’s boots as he rode, but he ignored the discomfort. Spain in winter had been much worse.

  Why would Reuben wish to harm Emma? Spence could not figure it. Reuben seemed devoted to her, and she was no threat to him.

  Unless she produced an heir.

  Spence groaned. Reuben would have known he and Emma shared a bed. There were no secrets in houses full of servants. Emma had been safe only when it was certain she would n
ot bear an heir.

  Daylight waned by the time Spence entered the familiar countryside surrounding Kellworth. The rain had ceased, and try as he might to urge the horse into a gallop, its hooves stuck to the still-muddy road. When Kellworth Hall finally came into view, it looked like an apparition through the still-misty air. Spence shouted as he approached the main entrance. He dismounted and burst into the hall.

  A stunned Mr. Hale stood there. “Lord Kellworth! What a surprise.”

  Tracking mud from his boots and dripping water onto the floor, Spence lost no more time. “Where is Lady Kellworth?”

  Mr. Hale’s brows rose. “Why, I do not know, my lord.”

  Mrs. Cobbett swished into the hall, her chatelaine jangling. “I heard some shouting.” She halted, spying Spence. “Oh my goodness!”

  “Is Emma here?” he asked again, too impatient to credit their surprise.

  “She is in London, my lord,” Mrs. Cobbett replied, curtsying.

  “Not here?” he repeated, his fear escalating.

  “No, my lord,” they answered in unison.

  He could waste no time explaining. “I need a dry greatcoat immediately. Bring it here to the hall.”

  He raced to the gun room, unlocking a cabinet and removing a pistol and a pouch of cartridges. He checked the flint of the pistol and bit open a cartridge, pouring in the powder and packing the ball with skilled efficiency. He wrapped the loaded pistol in an oilskin against the damp and slung the pouch across his shoulder. His eyes lit on a dagger in an elaborately tooled leather sheath, a relic from one of his father’s foreign trips. He strapped it on and hurried back to the hall.

  Tolley waited with the caped coat. “What else can I do, sir?”

  “Wait for my friends to arrive,” Spence told him. “Blakewell and Wolfe. Tell them to come straight to the vicarage.”

  Tolley helped him into the greatcoat. Spence tucked the pistol into a pocket and dashed out the door to where the horse now munched on a patch of grass nearby. Spence mounted the beast again and set as fast a pace as he could toward the vicarage.

  Not more than ten minutes later, he dismounted in front of the two-story house that had been home to Kellworth’s vicars for three generations. Almost slipping in the mud as he hurried to the door, he paused a moment to unwrap the pistol and place it back in the pocket. He then hammered on the door until Reuben’s housekeeper answered.