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Chapter Thirty

T he moment Gemma stepped through the door of Volk House, the sense of despair that hung about the place hit her immediately.

The house was sparsely lit in an attempt to save money, with just a single lamp flickering above the front door, and a lone candle on the mantel in the sitting room cast its light into the hallway.

The wide wooden staircase stretched out ahead of her, filled with shadows.

Even in the dim light, Gemma could tell the stairs had not been swept.

No doubt her grandmother had had to let some of the household staff go.

Gemma had always known that her childhood home was in need of some care and attention, but compared to the pristine and polished halls of Larsen Manor, the place seemed in utter disrepair.

It smelled stale and musty, and the entrance hall was freezing.

The feeling of sadness that had seeped into the walls felt as though it were pressing down on her from every side.

The butler took their cloaks and Gemma instructed Ivy, who had ridden in the carriage with her, to take the bag containing her nightgown and a change of clothes up to her old bedchamber. Her lady's maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried up the stairs.

At the sound of their footsteps, Jane appeared at the top of the staircase and hurried down into the entrance hall. She threw her arms around her eldest sister. “Gemma! You came!”

“Of course I came.” Gemma squeezed her sister tightly. Jane felt thin and fragile in her arms—too thin. Had her sister always been this tiny, she wondered? Or had the stress of the past few weeks been affecting her more than Gemma had believed?

A pang of guilt struck her hard. For four weeks, I was so caught up with my husband that I did not stop to pay attention to my family when they needed me.

For the first two weeks of her marriage, she had been too terrified of gossip to show her face in public. Too terrified to leave Larsen Manor, even to visit her family. And the past two weeks, she had been so enamored with Wyatt that she had barely wanted to leave her side.

What a fool I have been.

“But what about the ball?” Jane asked.

“Never mind about the ball.” Gemma took the candle from the mantel in the sitting room and headed up the stairs towards her father's bedchamber, her grandmother and sisters following. “How is Father?” she asked Jane.

“The physician gave him something to help him sleep,” her sister told her. “He says he believes this is all merely his body's reaction to the shock, and to a lifetime of terrible drinking habits. But he believes that if he makes an effort to control his drinking, he has a chance of full recovery.”

Gemma nodded. That's something, at least. Not that she had any illusions about how difficult it would be to get the Earl of Volk to stop drinking. What was it she had said to Wyatt? Habits are hard to break.

With a pang, she realized that in her husband's case, it had not been so difficult. He had not been out on the town in weeks. Instead, he had been at home with her. Dining with her. Chatting with her. Making love to her…

She pushed the treacherous thought away. You are not here to think about Wyatt.

She tapped lightly on the door to her father's bedchamber. His valet opened the door immediately. At the sight of Gemma, he bowed his head slightly. “Your Grace. Your father has been asking after you.”

Gemma stepped into the room. It smelled of sickness.

Of sweat. Of the simmering oil of the lamp.

Tentatively, she approached her father's bed.

The Earl looked old and worn in the expanse of the bed; as old and worn as the colorless bedclothes he lay beneath.

His greying hair looked scruffy and overgrown against the pillow, his face paler than Gemma had ever seen it.

The lamp on the bedside table seemed to highlight every deep line in his face.

When did my father get so old?

“Father?” Gemma pulled up the chair that sat beside the bed and perched on the edge. She reached for the Earl's hand, covering it with her own.

His eyes fluttered open. “Gemma. You're here.” A faint smile appeared on his colorless face.

“Of course I am here.” She squeezed his hand gently. “I'm so sorry I've not come more often.”

“The money,” her father said huskily. “And the brooch. I did not?—”

“I know, Father,” Gemma said quickly. “I know you did not steal it. I know you would never do anything like that.” A painful lump formed in the back of her throat.

“It was all that dreadful Miss Henford. The Duke's former betrothed.” A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the edge of her father's pillow.

“She hurt you to get to me, Father. This all happened because of me.” The words had been building up inside her since she had heard Miss Henford's confession.

And now, as she spoke them, Gemma's tears fell harder and harder, until she could barely contain her sobbing.

“Gemma.” Her father tried to sit up, but she pressed a gentle hand to his shoulder, easing back onto the mattress. He turned his head on the pillow, looking at her with shadowed, watery eyes. “None of this is your fault, my child. Do you hear me? I have brought this on myself.”

“No.” Gemma shook her head. “She set you up… To shame me…” But she was so exhausted she could barely finish her train of thought. Her father reached for her hand and gave it a soft squeeze.

“That's enough of that nonsense,” he said gently. “You cannot blame yourself for these things.” He managed a small smile. “How are you, my dear daughter?” he asked. “I hope the Duke is making you happy.”

Gemma swallowed heavily. “Yes Father,” she squeaked. “He makes me very happy.” There was no way she was going to burden her father with talk of all that happened tonight between her and Wyatt.

“I'm glad of it,” said the Earl. “He's a good man.”

Gemma said nothing. This, she realized, was the first time in months she had had a conversation with her father in which he was not drunk, or going off in search of his next drink.

This, she thought, was the kind and caring father she had known as a child.

The man he had been before her mother had died.

The man she only ever saw glimpses of these days. How desperately she had missed him.

What a kind and wonderful man he is deep down. If only the rest of the ton could see that. If only Wyatt could see that.

She shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts from her mind. She had told herself she no longer cared what anyone thought of her. But it seemed she was right—a habit was a hard thing to break.

The Earl drew in a long breath. “In the morning?—”

“I know, Father. Grandmother told me the men will be coming to collect your debts.” She squeezed his hand. “It is all right. We will find a way to give them what they want.”

“I have shamed you,” murmured the Earl. “And your husband.”

“No.” The word came out sharper than Gemma had expected.

“You are not to worry yourself over my husband. He does not deserve your time. Or your concern.” She closed her eyes for a moment, regretting her outburst. “Get some rest, Father,” she said, forcing a gentleness into her voice.

She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

“We will all need our strength come the morning.”