Emma went through the entryway of their rented house just as Amy flounced around her. The butler stood holding the door as the young girl turned to Emma.
‘I won’t marry that milksop!’
‘Thank you, Gordon.’ Emma undid the frogs on her opera cape and allowed the butler to take it from her shoulders before turning to Amy. ‘I wouldn’t want you to have to marry him.’
‘What?’ The look on Amy’s face said she had expected a fight.
Emma would have smiled if she hadn’t been so tired and so discouraged. ‘He is too much in his mama’s pocket to make a good husband.’
‘You wouldn’t?’
Emma nodded to the butler. ‘You may go now.’
She didn’t want the entire household to know about the conversation she and Amy were about to have. Not even the old and loyal retainer.
‘No, Amy, I wouldn’t. The man is wealthy and could pay all of Papa and Bertram’s debts, but the price on you would be too great.’
Amy’s rosebud mouth nearly dropped. ‘Why, Em, I…I…’
‘Let us go into the drawing room, Amy. I need to talk to you.’
She put a hand on Amy’s back and urged her into the room before Amy could dig her heels in. The girl was amazed at what she’d just told her, and glad from the dazed look on her face, but when she heard the rest Amy would be far from happy.
Amy moved near the unlit fireplace and shivered. ‘It is freezing in here, Em. Can’t we have a fire?’
Emma looked at the coals, piled and ready to light, and gave in. The cost would be minuscule all things considered. She found the flint and lint, and struck a spark as Amy pulled an old, patched chair closer. The fire caught and Emma blew to fan the flames.
Amy stripped off her white gloves and held her hands out. ‘That feels so good. It may be summer, but it is cold early in the morning—or late in the night,’ she ended with a giggle.
Emma smiled. If only she didn’t have to wipe the pleasure from her sister’s face. But she did.
Emma pulled another rickety chair close and followed Amy’s example. She doubted the cold bothered her as it did Amy, but still the warmth felt nice. ‘I am glad you like it.’
Amy closed her eyes and leaned into the heat. ‘I wish I could go to Italy. I hear it is lovely and warm in the summer. Much warmer than here.’
‘I wish you could, too, dear. And perhaps one day you will.’
‘When I marry a rich man?’ Amy opened her eyes and looked directly at her sister.
‘Yes.’
‘That is why you told Gordon to leave and brought me in here, isn’t it?’ She frowned. ‘Although it’s not likely to be Mr Kennilworth, the mama’s boy.’
Emma met Amy’s eyes. ‘Yes.’ She pulled her hands from the warmth and folded them in her lap. The position was one Mama would take when she had unpleasant news to impart.
‘Then get on with the reasons for why I must marry.’ Amy’s blue eyes bored into Emma.
‘While I think Mr Kennilworth would probably not be a suitable partner, it is time you found someone. Quickly.’
A look of weary knowledge moved over Amy’s delicate features. ‘It is Bertram and Papa, isn’t it?’
Emma sighed. The situation was one she shouldn’t discuss with a girl Amy’s age, but Amy was the one being sacrificed. She felt it only fair to tell her the truth. ‘Yes. Bertram has been gambling heavily while he has been here. It seems more so than normal.’
Amy’s mouth curled. ‘While he has been protecting our reputations?’
It hurt to hear the sarcasm in her young sister’s voice. Disillusionment was a tough pill to swallow and she wished Amy did not have to be put through this. But there was no other alternative. Guilt moved through her. She should have married George Hawthorne in spite of his carrying on with another woman. Amy would not be in this position if she had. But that was the past, and she could do nothing about it.
‘I’m afraid he has gone so deeply that Mrs Kennilworth felt compelled to discuss the problem with me. That means everyone is aware.’ She took a deep breath, not wanting to say the rest, but knowing she had to. ‘You must find someone to marry quickly before every eligible bachelor decides we are too big of a financial burden.’
Amy’s fair complexion turned purple, a sign of anger. ‘So, not only am I the fatted calf, but now I’m to be led to the slaughter before I even have a Season. How unfair.’
‘I am so sorry.’
The urge to go to Amy and gather her close was strong, but she knew Amy would not want that. The young girl was too angry at the moment and needed time to fume.
If only she had held George Hawthorne to their engagement. If only Bertram didn’t gamble as though he had a fortune to lose. If only…if only…
Amy jumped to her feet, her hands clenched, her mouth a tight line. ‘So who should I chase to ground?’
The instinct to correct Amy’s use of hunting cant gave way to compassion and Emma said nothing. The girl had a right to her fury.
‘Well?’
‘Is there anyone you think you could stand to marry, dear?’
Amy glared at her. ‘Don’t try to be Mama and come all gentle and calm, Em. Even Mama could not make this look or feel good, so you certainly cannot.’
Emma flushed, torn between being hurt at Amy’s harsh words or disappointed that she had tried to be like Mama and failed. She had struggled against the odds to make things work out and now they were falling apart. Mama would have found a way to keep everything from crumbling. Mama would have made it all right.
She had failed. Again.
‘I didn’t mean to sound like Mama, Amy. I’m only trying to make this as easy as possible.’
‘Nothing about this is easy or fun.’ Amy stomped to the far wall, turned and stomped back. ‘This is all Bertram’s fault. Instead of talking to me about finding someone to marry, why don’t you shout at him? Send a note to Papa telling him what Bertram is doing and demand that he be ordered back to the country. Goodness knows that might not be enough to make him leave.’
Amy was right and they both knew it. Even if Papa would order Bertram home and that was doubtful.
‘I will write Papa a note.’
‘For all the good that will do.’ Amy kicked the fire grate. ‘Ouch!’ She hopped back, her satin-covered foot in the air.
‘That had to hurt,’ Emma said in sympathy.
‘Blast!’
‘Amy!’
All the starch went out of the girl and she sank to the chair. Tears ran down her cheeks.
‘Oh, Em, I hate this. This is my first and only Season. It was supposed to be fun. Not horrible—’ she hiccupped ‘—like this.’
Emma left her chair, fell to her knees in front of Amy and wrapped her arms around her sister. ‘I know, sweetheart. I know.’
Amy sobbed onto Emma’s shoulder, her tears soaking through the wool of Emma’s gown. Emma said nothing. Sometimes all she could do was hold Amy and love her. If only things could be different.
Chapter Seven
Hours later, Emma tossed from side to side, the bed covers tangling in her legs and nightdress. The night’s events kept running through her mind. First Amy’s open disdain for Mr Kennilworth, then Mrs Kennilworth’s disclosure about Bertram, followed almost immediately by Charles Hawthorne and another meeting with Harriette Wilson. Last, but always woven in with Emma’s sense of guilt, came Amy’s tears.
Emma felt like a prisoner stretched on a rack made up of failure to prevent awful things happening to the people she loved. And why didn’t she just ignore Harriette Wilson? The woman was a courtesan, after all.
Sleep eluded her as the answer to her question appeared. She didn’t ignore Miss Wilson because the woman was honest and open and…and she liked what she saw of her. So, if she was going to be part of her sister’s problem, she might as well shoulder all the responsibility that was hers.
Emma groaned and sat up, her mind whirling around the situation. She finally settled on
her brother as the issue to resolved first.
Bertram had to be stopped before every eligible party in London crossed Amy off his list of possible brides. Not that she considered Mr Stephen Kennilworth eligible. It had been made clear the man was tied to his mother’s ample and controlling apron strings. He would not do for Amy. But someone must be found.
Flinging the covers aside with a burst of frustration that sent them tumbling to the opposite side of the bed and spilling onto the floor, Emma swung her legs to the side. The chill early morning air hit her like a splash of ice water. Gooseflesh chased along her arms as she grabbed her woollen robe and yanked it on. Standing, she tied the belt and slipped her feet into cold slippers.
She needed a cup of hot chocolate. Cook was still abed, but the coals in the kitchen would be banked and ready to be lit. There would be some bit of milk left and the cocoa was in a jar in the pantry. The drink always soothed her and cleared her mind. She needed that badly.
Minutes later, Emma passed through the foyer and heard the door knocker. She jumped, the light from her lone candle jiggling and casting dancing shadows on the walls. Who could be knocking at this hour?
She went to the door and peered through the peephole. The full moon cast the man outside in silver. Bertram. Why was he knocking when he had a key? Unless he had forgotten it or lost it, both of which were possible.
The inclination to let him stay outside was strong. The last thing she wanted right now was to see or speak to her brother. She was raw inside and he was the main reason. If she had to deal with him now, there was no telling what she would say.
He pounded on the door again, this time louder.
Emma sighed. He would only continue to beat on the door until he woke someone up. She let him in.
He stumbled inside, his beaver hat falling to the floor. His straw-coloured hair lay in limp wisps around his forehead, and the flickering light from her candle made the freckles on his nose look like moving dark spots. His eyes were swollen.
‘Why didn’t you use your key?’ she asked, knowing the answer, but wanting him to confirm it.
He drew himself up stiffly. ‘Don’t have it.’
The sweet smell of port rolled over her with his hot breath. She stepped back and suppressed a sharp reply. Confronting him in this condition never did any good. Her mood would make it worse.
‘I see.’ She turned away, needing a cup of hot chocolate more than ever.
He moved to block her. ‘I have a fairly large debt of honour to pay tomorrow.’ His words were only slightly slurred.
The import of what he said was like a blast breaking down the wall of her control. Those words were everything she had dreaded to hear from him. Everything Mrs Kennilworth had led her to expect to hear.
She should angle around him and leave. Now. Instead, she glared at him. ‘Fairly large?’
Anger seethed from her. Anger at him. Anger at Amy, mingled sharply with the guilt she felt over Amy’s situation. She should have held Charles Hawthorne’s brother to their engagement. Then none of this would matter. Anger at herself joined her mounting fury.
He swayed. ‘Yes. We will have to find something to sell.’
‘We?’ The urge to slap him was so strong she set her candlestick on the nearby table and clasped her hands behind her back. ‘Why don’t you send a note to Papa. The two of you are the ones who should deal with the situation you are in.’
He twirled his ebony cane. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
The words were slurred just a bit, but she understood him. She refused to be pulled into a solution for his weakness.
She shook her head. ‘There is nothing here to sell.’ She spread her arm to indicate the worn table and brass candlestick. The mirror on the wall was old and its frame nicked and faded. ‘Nothing.’
He frowned. ‘You or Amy will have to sell one of your baubles if you can’t find something else.’
She ground her teeth together. ‘Amy and I have nothing of value. Tonight she wore flowers in her hair and a satin ribbon around her neck—’
‘And you wore Mama’s pearls.’
‘Yes, I did. They are all I have of her.’ And they gave her comfort when little else did.
He leaned closer while putting one hand against the still open door for support. ‘They should fetch enough for my needs.’
She blanched. ‘They are mine, and I won’t give them to you to throw down that black hole you call gambling.’
‘They are Papa’s. He lets you keep them, but they belong to him, and we both know he would agree that they should be sold to pay my debt of honour.’
He was right. Papa would tell her to give him the necklace. A debt of honour was always paid.
Devastation swept over her like a storm wave crashing to shore. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. She would not cry in front of Bertram. Not anymore.
A memory flickered. She had been six and fallen and skinned her elbow. Bertram had been the first to reach her. As a much older ten—or so it had seemed at the time—he had kissed her scrape. She had cried then.
The memory disappeared amid her current anguish. ‘Debt of honour, Bertram?’ Her voice was hoarse from the effort not to cry, but anger strengthened her. ‘You have no honour or you would have stopped before reaching this point.’
His face darkened and she knew she had pushed him too much, but she hurt. The pearls were all she had left of Mama, and she knew Papa would order they be sold. It wouldn’t matter to Papa that she had asked for them after Mama’s death as a tangible reminder of the mother she had loved so dearly. He would take them back and sell them without a second’s thought.
Bertram slammed the door shut and stood with only a slight waver. ‘You know nothing about honour, sister.’
She looked at him and wondered that he could be so drunk yet continue saying things that hurt so much. She struck back.
‘I know nothing of an honour that continues to put hardship on those dependent on you. Is honour losing your inheritance at the gambling tables and forcing your sister into a marriage of convenience to pay your debts with no regard for her wishes?’
He drew himself up straight. ‘You are a shrewish harpy and know nothing of the matter. My gambling debts must be repaid.’ Only the slight glassiness of his eyes revealed how inebriated he was. ‘And I do take care of you and Amy.’
She snorted. ‘By making Amy a fatted calf to your weakness and selling the only thing I have left of Mama? That is a strange form of caring.’
He slumped from tiredness and too much wine but caught himself. He looked down his nose at her. ‘People in our class marry for money all the time. It is Amy’s duty and she will be happier for it. As you would have been.’ He struck a pose that was ruined when he wobbled. ‘Because you didn’t marry Lord Hawthorne, I must take care of the situation you have created by your selfishness.’
She stared at him speechless. He must be more drunk than she had thought. He had always been a voluble drinker, but tonight he was besting himself.
‘A situation I created?’ She wondered what tangent Bertram was heading down now.
‘Yes. Because you refused George Hawthorne, Amy had to come to London much too young. Then you have been unable to keep her from compromising herself with Charles Hawthorne.’
Emma’s mind reeled. Bertram spun one situation after another. Yet everything he said was true, except…
‘She has not compromised herself with Charles Hawthorne.’
He laughed, a short, harsh sound. ‘As good as. She flirts shamelessly with him, and you allowed him to introduce both of you to HarrietteWilson.’ He paused for breath, his figure stiff with indignation. ‘Harriette Wilson is a whore. But I am going to take care of that. When I am through, no one will say another word, and Amy will be able to marry even the highest stickler.’
Emma began to think Bertram was lost in a world of delusions. This often happened when he had too much alcohol. But this time he was more dramatic than his norm.
He drew himself up and squared his shoulders. ‘I have challenged Charles Hawthorne to a duel. That will take care of everything.’
His pompous tone and posture did nothing to prevent the sudden clenching of Emma’s stomach. Her immediate fear for him made her sharp. ‘You challenged him to a duel? You can’t shoot and you can’t fence. What kind of duel are you planning? One where you commit suicide?’
His lips thinned, and for a second there was the hint of uncertainty in his hazel eyes. It was gone as quickly as it had come. ‘I intend to fight him for Amy’s honour. When I win—as I will since I am in the right—Amy’s name will be unblemished.’
She gaped at him and wondered if he’d been inebriated at the time of his challenge. That was the only thing she could think of to explain his craziness. ‘Did you just do this? This evening?’ she added at his blank look.
‘No. I did it several days ago. At White’s.’ He smirked. ‘George Hawthorne was there as well.’
Emma reached behind, feeling for the wall and its support. What more could happen? ‘Before or after you lost a great sum of money?’ Perhaps this was why he had played so deeply. Fear.
‘After.’ He looked down his nose at her. ‘I didn’t gamble from fear, Emma.’
The tears she had managed to hold at bay when confronted with the loss of Mama’s pearls threatened once more. This was horrible. She had to do something.
‘Call off, Bertram. You must.’
His eyes widened in surprise. ‘Can’t do that. Even if I wanted, which I don’t.’
‘Yes, you can,’ she persisted. He would be killed. Furious as she was with him, she didn’t want to lose him. He was her big brother. She loved him. ‘No one even knows about the duel. Do they?’ she added, when he shook his head as though she were deranged.
Georgina Devon Page 9
