A Christmas Wedding Wager (19 page)

He put his arm about her shoulder and led her into the parlour. The simple act calmed her, made her see that she had to take control of the situation. She could not give in to temptation and weep.

'My father has taken ill. The servants have summoned Dr Milburn.' Emma was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. But how faraway and distant. She shrugged his arm away, stepped from the warm circle of his embrace. 'I must go to him.'

She staggered a few steps, and was amazed at how light her head seemed. She should have eaten more at supper, but her nerves had been too great. The staircase appeared to grow with each step she took.

Then suddenly she was there, at her father's door. She peered in and heard the steady sound of her father's breathing, saw his form on the bed. At her footsteps, Annie looked up from where she sat and came hurrying over.

'How is he, Annie?'

'Sleeping, miss. Praise be to God, the worst appears to have passed.'

Sleeping. Emma dared breathe again. Her father was sleeping. The fit had passed. She had seen them so many times over the past few weeks. They were always the same. First the fit, and then the long sleep, as if life itself had exhausted him. But afterwards, when he had taken the pills Dr Milburn prescribed, he could remember little of it, and insisted that he was fit and well. 'Thank you, Annie.'

Annie's face creased. 'But, miss, he mustn't see you like this. You are as pale as a ghost. You know how it upsets him if he thinks you are perturbed, particularly after one of his turns.'

Emma put out a hand and held onto the doorframe. 'I am fine. Truly.'

'She is far from fine. She has had a shock and needs to sit down,' Jack said, and his strong arm went around her shoulder, led her out of the room. 'You may come down to the drawing room when you are certain he is settled, Annie, and tell Miss Emma all about it.'

Emma wanted to protest, but her knees were beginning to feel like jelly. She allowed Jack to take her down the stairs. When they reached the drawing room she paused and tried to pull herself together. 'It was the shock of it all. There is no need to fuss and fret.'

'You will do your father no good if you collapse as well. When you have recovered your breath you may go and sit with him for as long as you like.' Jack propelled her to an armchair.

'Fackler, get Miss Emma a brandy.'

'I never drink strong spirits.' Emma put a hand to her head.

'You need something to bring back the roses in your cheeks.'

Jack pressed a crystal balloon glass into her hand, and gave a stern nod. Emma was tempted to refuse, but she did need something. She took a small sip and felt a fiery trail go down the back of her throat. Her nose wrinkled. 'I can't say that I am over-enamoured of it. But I shall look on it as medicine.'

'It will do you good.'

'I suspect I might do better if I took some of Father's tonic.' Emma gripped onto the armchair, ready to stand.

'What exactly is wrong with your father?' Jack's eyes burned into her soul. 'And do not try to tell me that it is a simple chill. It is much more than that. Trust me with your secret, Emma.'

Emma put her hand to her head and sank back down into the chair. The room gently swayed, merged, and then became clearly focused again. All the while the awful truth kept repeating in her head.

He knew!

Jack Stanton knew her father was ill. And he had known for some time. She had thought she was being clever and he had seen through her, toyed with her much as a cat played with a helpless mouse, waiting to see if she would confide in him.

Emma gulped air and tried to fill her lungs. She had to keep her wits and not give way to blind panic. Panic never served anyone. She had always known that she might have to face this one day, and that day had finally arrived. But all her explanations and half-truths vanished. Only the full truth would do.

'Yes, it is,' she said in a small voice. 'Much more than that.'

Her hands gripped the arms of the chair. She looked over his shoulder at the clock ticking.

There was a muffled noise as the clock struck the hour, but beyond that silence grew. She tried to explain, but her voice refused to work. The prick of tears behind her eyelids grew stronger. Jack had to understand what she couldn't say. He had to see.

'I want to learn,' Jack said into the silence. 'I want to know, Emma. I want to know what I can do to help.'

Emma averted her head from his penetrating stare, focusing on one of the rivets that held the upholstery to the armchair. Help? Would he be so willing when he knew the full extent? Or would his predatory instinct come out? Her heart whispered that she could trust him. She had seen what he had done for Davy and the little holly-seller. He was a man with compassion in his soul. But her mind recoiled, remembering Dr Milburn's stories of how Jack had obtained his wealth.

A single tear rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away with impatient fingers.

'I am afraid. I have buried one parent in my twenties, and now it appears I shall have to bury my father,' she whispered, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. She looked up and saw compassion mingled with sorrow in his gaze. She swallowed hard and turned her face away, forced her voice to continue on. 'It has been awful living with the knowledge...keeping it from him, from you. I have felt dreadfully alone. There was no one I could turn to.'

'I waited for you to turn to me on your own, but you will have to trust me now.' Jack stood there, solid and real in his evening clothes. 'What ails your father precisely, Emma? Stop shielding him. You are doing him no favours.'

'He has turns.' Emma pressed her hand against her eyes and strove for control of her voice.

'Sometimes he goes rigid and his muscles shake. Afterwards he says that he remembers nothing, and chides me for being overly concerned.'

'When did these turns start? Is there any pattern to them?'

'Oh, God, I don't know.' Her hands curled around and held onto the arms of the chair as her body shook. Then the storm appeared to pass, and she regained control. She knew she could speak.

'Take your time, Emma.'

'They started just after my mother died.' Emma closed her eyes, remembering her terror at discovering her father slumped at his desk that afternoon. The papers, the pens and the empty tonic bottle strewn about the top as if some child had been playing. Her father was always precise in where everything went on his desk, always knew where everything was. He had been lying there, the man who had always been strong and who liked to boast that he had never been sick a day in his life. 'The first one came without warning. It was a bad one, and I called Dr Milburn.'

'And then what happened?' Emma could hear the tension in Jack's voice.

She forced her hands to relax. 'Back to his old self once he learnt that the bridge was a reality instead of a distant dream. He lives for that bridge. It occupies his mind, keeps him from dwelling on what could be.'

'And these fits--do they occur regularly now?' He leant forward. 'Think, Emma. Has he been doing anything in particular before they happen?'

'Most of the time he is fine, but occasionally he is vague, uncertain where he is. Dr Milburn keeps increasing the dose of the tonic and it seems to help for a little while.' She paused, and then continued in a trembling voice as she concentrated on the pearl button of her glove. She glanced quickly up into his eyes and then back at the button. She had to tell him. She had been a coward before. 'He makes mistakes, though.'

'Like the calculations for where the bridge should be. He was the one to make the errors, not you. You were covering for him.' He slammed his fists together, making her jump.

'You knew!' Emma's mouth dropped open as her mind raced, grasping for bits of information, impressions. He had known, known and not said a word. When had she betrayed her father? She had been willing to take the blame. 'How did you? When did you?'

'I told you that you have a distinctive way of making your "e"s and equally your numbers. I told you I always recheck everything. I did so the night of the ball, when sleep evaded me.'

His eyes darkened and his voice became hard and uncompromising. 'The figures in your handwriting were correct. Several in your father's hand were wrong, potentially dangerous.'

Emma put her head back against the chair as a great wave of tiredness washed over her. He knew, and he had never said a word.

'Why didn't you say?' She struggled to sit up. 'Have you told my father? It could kill him if you approached it in the wrong way. Things have to be put in a certain way, otherwise it agitates him. Dr Milburn explained this to me after the first fit.'

Jack made no move towards her, but continued to look at her with his deep black eyes. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his waistcoat. Uncompromising. 'Spare me Milburn's homilies.'

'He is a good doctor. He cares about his patients.'

'I had been waiting for you to explain,' he said quietly, 'but then I saw the relief in your eyes the other day, when we were at the bridge, and I knew there was more to it.'

'I only discovered the mistakes the day you arrived. I never thought my father would make errors like that.' A shiver went through her as she remembered her horror at the discovery. 'At first I did not want to believe it. I tried to tell you, but you thought it was my fear of the ball and Lottie Charlton. And then...then that day at the bridge I was too much of a coward. You were checking the calculations I had concerns about, and I had no wish to borrow trouble.'

'You thought I would blame you?'

'Never that.' Emma brought her head up. 'I was worried about what would happen to my father's business if the truth became known. I thought I could get the line of the bridge moved without.... without explaining everything. I was willing to take the blame. That is the unvarnished truth.'

Her breath caught in her throat. He had to believe her. There was no sound in the room except the slight popping of the fire.

'Are you sure your calculations are correct?'

'I have gone over and over them. I don't understand where he got the information or how he did the calculations. It makes no sense.'

'Emma, I am checking all the experiments your father did. Your father taught me that--to check and recheck,' he said, breaking the silence. 'We shall see what went wrong. I blame no one at this point.'

'He was a great civil engineer.'

'You cannot change the past.' Jack made a chopping motion. 'But enough of this. The fact remains you were prepared to risk the fortunes, the lives of others, to preserve one man's vanity.'

'It wasn't like that at all. His turns have only just started to become more frequent. And I did discover the errors. I was trying to put everything right!'

'And if you hadn't done...'

A cold chill passed over Emma. She regarded her hands. It did not bear thinking about. All those lives, innocent lives. He was right. She had not properly considered the consequences.

A life was more important than a reputation. It had to be. But the problem had been solved.

Steps had been taken. She refused to dwell in the land of might-have-been.

'We are discussing what ifs and theory while my father lies immobile up in bed. I must go to him.' She rose, started forward. 'He will be devastated when he realises what he has done.

The knowledge could kill him.'

'You should have tried harder to tell me.' His voice bounced off the walls.

'Me?' Emma stared at him in astonishment, anger growing inside her. 'I tried! It was you who encouraged my father to play that silly game of forcing me to go to the ball. I had to dance with you before you would even entertain any notion of speaking about the bridge.'

'And what of it?' A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he moderated his voice.

'You treated me like a brainless ninny. You made assumptions about me that were false.' She glared at him, daring him to say different.

'I have never thought you brainless.' A half-smile appeared on his face. 'Misguided, perhaps, but never brainless.'

'And that is supposed to placate me?'

'I hope so.' He held out his hands. 'What is done is done, Emma. The past is written in stone, unchanging. It is the future that is yet to be.'

'But you do believe me, believe that I tried?' Emma leant forward, staring into the abyss that was his eyes. He had to. He had to understand she had tried.

'God forgive me, but I do,' Jack replied after a long moment. 'You should know that I made an offer for Harrison and Lowe before I knew the full extent of your father's illness. I have every hope of him accepting it. You must make sure he accepts it.'

Emma stared at him as her stomach flipped over. He had made an offer. She should have guessed before. And now he would decrease the offer. She knew how these things worked.

She knew what vultures businessmen could be. Friendship meant nothing in the world of finance. She doubted he would let friendship stand in the way of acquiring a company like Harrison and Lowe.

'I know what your business practices are like.' Emma looked at him with a level gaze. She knew what was coming next. He would lower the price. It was what she had feared. And the whole awful round of negotiation would begin, until they had nothing and he had everything.

This night, which had started beautifully, was rapidly becoming a bad dream.

'You know nothing about my business practices!' Jack thundered, his fist hitting the table, making the Dresden shepherdess jump. He caught it before it tumbled off. 'How could you say such a thing? Think such a thing?'

'I have heard rumours...I have been interested in your career.' Emma pressed her hands together to stop them from trembling. She had to say it now. Before it ate into her soul. If she knew the truth, then it might serve to end her attraction. 'No one amasses that great a fortune without cutting a few corners.'

'Or without making a few enemies.' His eyes were hard lumps of black glass.

'Then how did you do it? How did you make it?' Emma pressed her hands against her stomach. She hated to ask the question. She wanted to believe Jack. But she had to know.