The soundof her father’s quiet weeping echoed in the stillness of the night. Emma lingered in the hall outside his study, wondering if she dared interrupt his misery. Since Mother had died the year before, Father had been slipping deeper into despair with each passing day and month. Time had not lessened his grief; instead, it had only seemed to heighten. The loving man who had doted on his three daughters had been replaced by a hollow ghost who wandered the halls when he returned from his jaunts in the early hours of the morning, smelling of spirits, the dark circles beneath his eyes a testament to his lack of sleep.
Still, Emma hesitated before she knocked. Her father was not ordinarily home at this time in the evening. Ever since Emma had been inadvertently compromised at the Addington ball the previous month, he had been disappearing with greater frequency, and she knew her disgrace was the cause of his absence. So much hope had been pinned upon her ability to make a good match.
Emma had been prideful and stubborn, wrongly assured of her position in society. She had so foolishly believed that nothing she could do would tarnish her reputation. But one stolen kiss on a moonlit terrace, and everything had been forever changed. Lord Vincent, the man who had compromised her, had declined to offer for her hand. What a dreadfully awkward discussion that had been the following day, with her aunt, Lady Rosamund Morgan, presiding over the affair.
Lord Vincent had regretted to inform her that he was incapable of making an offer for her hand.
The death blow had been dealt.
Lady Emma Morgan, diamond of the first water, most-sought-after debutante in London, the hope of her family, had been ruined.
She knocked on Father’s study door.
The only answer was his continued weeping, so she rapped again, louder this time.
“Who’s there?” demanded her father. “Donley, is that you?”
“It is not Donley, Father,” she called. “It is Emma.”
Perhaps he had forgotten Donley, the family’s treasured butler, had recently been dismissed. It was yet another sign of an ominous future. The rest of the domestics had been reduced severely. Several pictures had been sold from the walls. Emma supposed she should have realized, leading into the Season, after her last had been ended prematurely after Mother’s death, that their circumstances were rapidly declining. There had not been sufficient funds for new gowns, and Father had gradually begun requesting her jewelry, inventing sundry excuses. None of the pieces had ever been returned, and she knew now they never would. Each bauble had been sold off in an effort to pay off her father’s creditors. Even Mother’s most treasured sapphires, which she had brought into the marriage.
Gone.
Every bit of gold, each gem.
Nothing but memories remained.
“Emma?” her father repeated from within the depths of his study. “What’re you doing wandering about at this time of the evening, my girl?”
His words ran together in a strange mix that was nearly incomprehensible, which could only mean one thing. He was in his cups.
Deeply so, unless she missed her guess.
But then, it would hardly be a different or new state for him.
“I wished to speak with you,” she said grimly. “May I enter?”
“If you must.”
His voice was reluctant. Likely, he did not wish for her to see him in such a state of distress. For some time now, he had been doing his utmost to keep Emma and her sisters, Abigail and Cassandra, from knowing the extent of both his grief and his gambling.
She opened the door and crossed the threshold, her eyes attempting to adjust to the murk within. A reduced household meant less light, and the lone taper her father had lit by the armchair at the scarcely glowing hearth did nothing to illuminate the chamber.
Tightening her grip on the candle she had brought with her, she approached him. He did not bother to rise, which was quite unlike Father, even when he was under the influence of drink. The Earl of Haldringham was always a gentleman.
“Emma, poppet,” he said, speaking to her as if she were a girl.
For a moment, she feared he was so inebriated that he was imagining them years ago, in the happy past of her childhood, when she had roamed the fields of Ralston Abbey and no losses, worries, fears, or disappointments had yet to infiltrate her heart.
“Where is your Aunt Rosamund?” he asked, dispelling her worry.
“She has gone to bed for the evening, Father,” Emma said, blowing out her taper before settling it next to Father’s on the table. The last year had taught her how to be economical. No sense in wasting one candle if another was already burning.
“Just so. I should have expected. It must be midnight by now, I suppose.” He held a crumpled handkerchief in one hand and a bottle of port in the other.
She imagined he must have scrubbed his face dry before she entered, hoping she would not see the telltale sheen of tears on his cheeks. Although the most obvious signs of his misery were gone, traces remained. His nose was red and his eyes were bloodshot.
“It is perhaps approaching midnight,” she acknowledged, for her mantel clock was broken, and they had not possessed the funds to see it repaired. “Why are you not at your club?”
Ever since their return to London for Emma’s second—and what she increasingly feared would prove her last—Season, Father had been growing increasingly erratic. He spent scarcely any time in their town house. Instead, he was always gone.
“I wished to stay here.” The smile he sent her was tremulous. His voice cracked beneath the strain of his pent-up emotion.
Her heart broke, for she had not seen him this distraught since Mother’s death. “Something is wrong, Father. Will you not tell me what it is?”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the backrest of his chair, as if he were overwhelmed beneath the weight of whatever invisible worries were causing him so much agony. “It is my burden to bear, my dear. Not yours.”
Again, his words were slurred. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long draught, without opening his eyes.
“Please, Father,” she entreated, for she hated to see him this way. “Tell me.”
He lowered the bottle, a sound of raw despair leaving him. “Oh, Emma. My dearest, darling daughter. I have failed you. I have failed you all.”
“No,” she said. “I have failed you. I know you had great hopes for me to make an advantageous match and soothe the way for Abigail and Cassandra.”
Instead, she had caused a dreadful scandal, ruining her chances of ever being considered marriageable. The last month had shown her just how desperately reduced her reputation was. Her friends had fled her. The lords who had fought over her attentions no longer called upon her. Her invitations were rescinded.