Now as he drove the curricle sedately around that same sharp turn, he could not help but remember how the phaeton started to tip, how he’d tried to pull the horses to compensate, how the speed was too fast. He could still hear Stephen’s shout as the phaeton flipped over. Spence jumped up, laughing, without a scratch. But Stephen . . .
Stephen lay in a heap under the tree he’d been thrown against. He died in Spence’s arms.
The curricle passed that tree while Spence felt the wrench of agony, the taste of bile in his throat. But as soon as it had been reached, they were past the spot, unscathed, merely scraped by a painful memory. The horses were as sprightly as when they had started, and Emma had relaxed her grip on the seat. Spence felt as if he had scaled the rocky face of an Alpine mountain. He exhaled a long, pent-up breath and glanced at Emma. She smiled back at him and a knot loosened inside him.
Everything would work out, he suddenly felt. The future was as bright as the sun shining down on them. First they would enjoy the shops at Maidstone and who knew what other adventures they could share. They had the rest of their lives to discover.
Spence took in the familiar countryside as if seeing it for the first time. He savored the glimpse of verdant hills, of lush foliage. He lifted his face to the sun.
As the horses turned down the next bend in the road, he heard a loud crack from the wheel on his side. The curricle tipped as the wheel shattered. He was in the air, hearing Emma scream as the sky turned upside down and back again. He landed hard on his wounded shoulder, through stars of pain glimpsing the horses dragging away the now one-wheeled vehicle.
“Emma!” he called, painfully struggling to his feet. He twisted around to search for her. “Emma!”
She did not answer.
He finally saw her at the bottom of the slope at the side of the road, looking like a rag doll tossed away. She didn’t move.
“Emma!” he cried again as he slid down the embankment and limped to her side.
He untied the ribbons of her bonnet, searching her neck for her pulse, his shaking fingers frantic until finally he could feel its tiny beat.
She moaned, and he was grateful for another sign of life. He felt for her spine and checked her arms and legs. Nothing seemed broken. There was a tiny scrape near her hairline, but no other evidence of harm.
“Wake up, Emma,” he demanded. “Talk to me.”
But she made only unintelligible sounds.
He needed to get her back to Kellworth, to send for the surgeon. Reluctant to leave her, even for a second, he climbed back to the road. Through the trees he could see where the road doubled back. He caught sight of the horses galloping out of sight.
They were at least six miles from Kellworth. He could not carry her such a distance. No one would come looking for them until day’s end, and even then they might assume they had stayed the night at Maidstone. This road was too untraveled to trust another carriage to happen by.
He hurried back to Emma’s side and pulled her into a sitting position. “Wake up, Emma,” he pleaded again.
“Mmmmm,” she murmured, falling against him.
He did not have the strength to carry her up the embankment and was forced to drag her up the steep incline, her new dress tangling in a prickly vine and ripping. Once on the road, he lifted her over his good shoulder, as he had done many a time to carry wounded men off the battlefield.
His shoulder throbbed with pain and his legs felt weak, but he ignored the discomfort and headed toward Maidstone, toward the main road some two to three miles distant. Carriages and wagons and riders would use the road heading to the town. Someone would find them.
With luck one of Kellworth’s tenant farmers came upon them, returning from Maidstone. He made room for them in the back of his wagon, and drove them all the way back to Kellworth, Spence holding Emma in his arms the whole way. She woke several times while he held her, but always slipped back into unconsciousness again.
It was well past noon when the farmer brought them directly to Kellworth’s door and later still when Mr. Price attended her. Spence paced her room while the surgeon performed his examination. Mrs. Cobbett and the new lady’s maid stood by her bedside.
All Spence could think was that she would not wake up, that he had killed her, as he had killed Stephen. She would draw one long, deep breath and release it slowly and life would leave her as it had left Stephen. Spence had seldom prayed since that day, except to ask God why his life had been spared and his brother’s taken, why he walked off a battlefield when thousands of good men did not. He prayed now, for Emma. He prayed to God, who took from him his parents and his brother, not to take Emma as well.
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.