“But not your temper,” Jenkins insisted, kicking a jagged fragment of glass out of his way. “Young Banks thought you might be in here smashing the windows.”
The earl paused, his fresh glass of brandy halting in midair. “Smashing windows? How positively barbaric.” The earl shook his head, dismissing the servant’s remark, and took a long swallow of his drink. Reaching down to the floor, he picked up a second goblet. After filling it, Damien silently held it out to his valet.
Jenkins stood up on his feet and accepted the glass with a rueful grin. He looked down at the earl, a man he had known and served for nearly all his adult life. A man whose sense of honor, intelligence, and strength of character were the finest Jenkins had ever encountered. “This behavior will accomplish nothing.”
The earl nodded his head in agreement. “I know, Jenkins. It is a totally irresponsible, perhaps even idiotic way to spend an evening. Yet I am determined to drink every last drop of brandy on the premises. It is my way of bidding a proper farewell to this house.”
“You didn’t have sell the place,” Jenkins insisted, still holding his untouched glass in his hand. “Lord Poole could have waited for his money.”
“Ah, Lord Poole, my illustrious brother-in-law,” the earl drawled, the name bringing a light of anger to Damien’s steely gray eyes. “The only moment of satisfaction I have received from this entire fiasco was being able to throw that bank draft in Poole’s face this afternoon. You have no idea what a relief it is to no longer be in debt to that swine. And his scheming bitch of a sister.”
Jenkins’s eyes traveled automatically toward the portrait of the stunning woman over the fireplace. “It is bad luck to speak ill of the dead,” the valet suggested softly.
“Emmeline is not dead, Jenkins,” the earl insisted vehemently. He tossed off the remainder of his brandy and refilled his glass. “I don’t know what sort of scheme that bitch is playing at this time, but I firmly believe my traitorous little wife is still alive. Somewhere.”
“Her death was an accident,” Jenkins pressed on.
The corners of the earl’s mouth curled up in a mocking grin. “Don’t you mean suicide? Poole is still spewing that nonsense. He was exceedingly disappointed when his loathsome accusations didn’t get a rise out of me this afternoon.”
“It was an accident,” Jenkins repeated firmly, but he could see his comments were being ignored.
Jenkins sighed audibly. He and the earl had already had this conversation more times than Jenkins could recall. Even after two years, Damien could not accept Emmeline’s death. It had all happened so suddenly and unexpectedly. Two years ago, while making a rare appearance at Damien’s country estate, Whatley Grange, Lady Emmeline had gone out riding. Alone. Several hours later, her horse had returned without her.
At first there seemed no great cause for panic. Damien himself led the initial search team. Although their marriage was not a particularly happy one, the earl took his responsibilities toward his wife, the mother of his two children, very seriously. By darkness that night, Emmeline had not yet been found and the atmosphere of The Grange changed to one of fear and trepidation.
Mid-morning of the following day, a gruesome discovery was made at the large lake bordering the edge of the property. Muddy horse prints and torn-up grass led to the possible explanation that Emmeline had been thrown from her horse and accidently landed in the lake. There was no sign she had emerged from the water.
For three weeks the reed-choked waters were dragged. Emmeline’s riding hat, handkerchief, and left riding glove were recovered, giving further credence to the theory that she had somehow fallen into the lake and drowned. Because of the unusual depth of the water and the presence of thick, choking reeds, the local constable finally concluded the countess’s body had been claimed by the depths of the lake and would forever remain on the bottom of its murky floor.
Damien adamantly refused to acknowledge Emmeline’s death. After a few weeks, Emmeline’s brother, Lord Poole, insisted on conducting a funeral service for his dead sister in the village church, but Damien would not attend, nor did he permit his two young children to be present. The earl’s behavior infuriated Lord Poole, and he took it upon himself to spread all kinds of nasty rumors about the earl, hoping to discredit him in society’s eye.
Damien considered Lord Poole’s actions merely a nuisance, having little interest in the activities of theton.He was more concerned over the fate of his missing wife. Over the next two years, Damien’s search for Emmeline yielded nothing, and yet, although he had no evidence to substantiate his claim, the earl still clung stubbornly to the belief that his wife was alive.
“Almost from the first Emmeline was displeased with our marriage,” Damien said reflectively, remembering with distaste his hasty courtship and wedding. “I know I am to blame for the coldness of our relationship. Emmeline told me often enough how unhappy I made her.”
“As I recall, she did her fair share of spreading unhappiness,” Jenkins insisted.
“Perhaps.” The earl shifted in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Emmeline craved excitement and romance. She longed for a grand passion. She told me once that she wanted an adoring husband, someone to spoil and cosset her. I am afraid I fell far short of the mark.”
Jenkins heard the edge of self-loathing in the earl’s voice and instantly responded. “You did not marry Emmeline because you loved her, Damien.”
“No, Jenkins,” the earl confessed softly. “I married Emmeline for her fortune. And she came to despise me because of it. Yet she knew of my motivation before we were wed. I never made a secret of my need for her money.”
“You had to marry an heiress. It was the only choice left to save The Grange,” Jenkins declared. “It certainly was a shock for both of us coming back from the war and finding your father had lost nearly everything.”
Damien nodded in solemn reminder. “Poor Father. He had an endless streak of bad luck while we were fighting in the Peninsula. It was an almost unbelievable combination of several years of crop failure, falling agricultural prices, unwise investments, and lavish spending habits. At the time of his death, he was on the very brink of financial ruin. Emmeline’s—or more specifically her brother’s—money saved The Grange, Jenkins.”
The valet took a long swallow of his drink. “Their money helped, Damien,” Jenkins insisted. “But it’s your hard work that has saved The Grange from complete ruin.”
Damien modestly knew his servant spoke the truth. He had worked tirelessly to reduce the mortgages and repay the piles of debts his father had incurred before his death. Saving The Grange from the creditors had become an obsession for the earl. Still, Damien often wondered if the personal sacrifice he’d made had been too high a price.
“I’ve never been able to determine precisely why she married me, Jenkins,” Damien continued. “With her looks and fortune, she could had her pick of young bucks of thebeau monde.I have come to believe her brother forced Emmeline into accepting my suit, but I cannot think of one single reason Poole would do such a thing.”
“I always suspected Lord Poole had his eye on The Grange,” Jenkins interjected, warming to the subject. He finished his glass and held it out for the earl to replenish.
“Naturally, I feel The Grange is an exceptional estate,” Damien answered as he poured out the brandy. “But there are many other choice pieces of real estate in Harrowgate. Poole is a rich man. He could have bought any number of estates that are far greater in value. There has to be another reason.”
“Perhaps,” Jenkins ventured, “but I doubt we will ever discover what it was.”
