Read His Wicked Embrace Online
Authors: Adrienne Basso
His Wicked Embrace (2 page)
Chapter One
London, Englandâ1820
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“You traitorous, lying, deceitful bitch!”
Damien St. Lawrence, eighth Earl of Saunders, shouted his frustration loudly before succumbing completely to his anger and hurling his nearly full goblet of brandy at the portrait hanging over the unlit fireplace. The flying glass hit the painting with remarkable accuracy, considering the lack of light in the room and the earl's inebriated condition, and he grunted in satisfaction.
Gleefully, Damien watched the shards of glass spray the portrait and several thin streams of brandy slither over the face and form of the stunning woman portrayed on the canvas. Only when the largest piece of broken goblet rolled to a stop on the floor, joining its seven predecessors, did the earl turn his back on the painting.
Damien took several unsteady steps toward the center of the room and literally threw himself into an overstuffed chair, the single piece of furniture in the dimly lit room. With a brooding expression on his darkly handsome face, the earl reached down for the brandy decanter he had left on the floor next to his chair. He lifted the decanter high in the air and eyed its contents, pleased to note it was still half full.
The earl reached down a second time, searching fruitlessly for his brandy goblet. He gave a loud snort when he realized that he had just flung the last remaining glass. Never even considering doing anything as uncivilized as drinking the brandy directly from the bottle, Damien instead bellowed for his servant.
“Jenkins! Jenkins! Get in here at once. And bring more glasses!”
Two young footmen, standing sentry outside the locked doors of the drawing room, exchanged nervous glances.
“I'll go get the glasses,” the one called Manning volunteered. “You wait here for Jenkins.” Before his companion had a chance to argue, Manning left his post, scrambling quickly toward the back of the house.
The other footman, Banks, even more nervous now that he was left alone, winced noticeably when the booming voice of the earl echoed through the house a second time.
“Is his lordship yelling for more brandy, Banks?” Jenkins inquired in a conversational tone, walking up to the drawing room doors.
“N-not yet, Mr. Jenkins,” Banks stammered, his eyes lighting with obvious relief at the sudden appearance of the older man. “But he is calling for you, sir. And for more glasses.”
Jenkins shook his gray head in understanding. “Been smashing them up pretty good, has he?”
Banks nodded eagerly. “Manning and I have been hearing the glass shattering for the past hour. I suppose it was. the crystal,” Banks responded slowly. “Of course, it might have been the windows breaking.”
“Windows?” Jenkins stated with puzzlement. “I hardly think the earlâ”
“I've brought the goblets, Mr. Jenkins,” Manning interrupted, calling out to the two men as he rushed into the foyer. The young servant awkwardly juggled five mismatched crystal glasses in his arms while walking quickly across the large hallway. “Sorry I couldn't find a tray to put them on. Mrs. Forbes has already packed all the plate and flatware. I found these glasses on top of an open crate.”
“Good job, Manning,” Jenkins said with approval. He took the glasses from the lad and gingerly brushed off several pieces of straw. “Now go down to the wine cellar and bring up the rest of the brandy. There shouldn't be much left.”
“More brandy?” Manning squeaked. “The earl's already had three bottles brought up since dinner.”
“Aye,” Jenkins agreed wryly. “Not to mention the two bottles of wine he drank
for
his dinner.”
for
his dinner.”
A telling look passed between the two young footmen. “I suppose his lordship will be f-falling asleep soon?” Banks finally ventured.
“You mean passing out, don't you, boy?” Jenkins replied with an easy grin. “Well, if he does, it will be the first time I've ever seen it happen. And I've been with the earl for almost twenty years.”
With that said, Jenkins unlocked and entered the drawing room, leaving the two young footmen once again alone in the foyer, their mouths gaping.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
“And a pleasant good evening to you too, your lordship,” Jenkins replied to the husky voice that spoke from the shadows.
The valet stumbled awkwardly into the room, blinking his eyes rapidly in the semidarkness. The only source of light, a single candle on the far side of the room, cast an orb of illumination throughout the vast, empty room. Jenkins suppressed a shiver. In addition to the gloomy darkness, the room was ice cold. “Good God, how can you see anything in here? It's like a bloody tomb.”
“I prefer it this way,” the earl retorted. Damien sighed and leaned his head back in his chair, restlessly stroking the neck of the brandy decanter he gripped tightly in his left hand. “And since when do you address me as 'your lordship'?”
“Since you stopped acting like one,” Jenkins shot back. “I thought a subtle reminder that you are a peer of the realm might help you sober up.”
The earl laughed loudly and lifted his head toward his servant. “I swear, Jenkins, you have always held a romantic and unrealistic opinion concerning the conduct of the nobility. By drinking myself into a bloody stupor, I am acting precisely as a true earl would. Furthermore, you do not, as I recall, possess one subtle bone in your entire body.” Damien reached out and took the glasses the valet was balancing in his arms. He carefully lined them up on the floor by his feet. “Besides, I believe I am still far too sober for my own good.”
Jenkins made a face at that remark but did not comment. Instead he walked to the mantle and found a hand of candles with the majority of the tapers still a considerable length. The valet located a flint and lit the candles, then bent down over the cold hearth and started building a fire.
“Watch out for the broken glass,” the earl warned, when he saw his servant kneeling in front of the marble fireplace.
“I would have to be a blind man to miss it all,” Jenkins replied smoothly. “ 'Tis everywhere.”
“I think I actually hit her eyes with the last shot,” the earl mused aloud, staring up at the portrait, now brilliantly illuminated. “I do believe, my friend, my aim has improved over the course of the evening.”
“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 the
ton.
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.
ton.
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'sâor more specifically her brother'sâmoney 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.
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