Carla Kelly (18 page)

He stared at her in amazement, then glared back, wondering at her sudden vehemence, more curious than angry. “You think I should go there?” he asked. “To Norfolk, I mean, not Dante's Inferno.”

“It is your land, my lord. You should attend to the needs of your people,” she said, her voice quieter now, as though she regretted her outburst. She sat down in the chair next to the bed and pulled out the letter again. “You can visit your estate, approve the new roofs, and then at your next dinner party, impress the young lady seated next to you with your benevolence toward your tenants.”

She said it so calmly, so factually, that it suddenly became quite clear that Emma Costello despised him. She did not have to express her loathing for his class in her voice or manners; it was amply evident in the matter-of-fact way she reduced any good intention—had he possessed any—to pure calculation.

“And you are disgusted that you must cajole me into doing what I should, eh, Emma?” he asked quietly, interpreting the wooden expression on her face. “I do not need a special rung in the Inferno, because you have already located me there.”

He spoke quietly, biting off each word. He did not think she would reply, and she did not; she did not need to. In silence he picked up the eye patch and put it on, feeling strangely as though he was attempting to cover his nakedness and failing utterly. He had been weighed in the balance and found wanting by a maid who, had she found him bleeding by the side of an Irish road, would probably have crossed on the other side. As it was, she must serve him, whether she liked to or not. The shame of it bored into his brain like an awl.

“Go away, Emma,” he said quietly, rubbing his forehead. “I'll be ready in an hour, and we will see my banker.”

She left without a word or backward glance.

He picked up the tea tray and pulled back to throw it across the room, then changed his mind. Such a stupid gesture would only confirm his unsavory character, he considered as he set it on the end of the bed and got up. He shaved and dressed in fifteen minutes, then sat at his desk and read through his correspondence that Emma had separated for him.

Mama had decreed that he would accompany her and Sally to a boring dinner two blocks over, charades and parlor talk four blocks beyond, and then to a dance for four or five hundred of a distant relative's closest acquaintances.
By all that's holy, this is a paltry existence, and Emma is ever so right. I am lazy and bored and don't know what to do about it.

Dressed and ready to go, he remained in his room and read over all his letters, penciling notes to Emma, instructing her to write his bailiff and tell him to proceed with repairs. He set aside two invitations that interested him, with directions that Emma respond. He worked his way through the stack, pausing on a letter with a peer's frank. It was from his father's old friend Sir Augustus Barney, whose land marched beside his in Norfolk. He would write a personal letter tonight and advise the old fellow to expect a visit soon. He spent a few minutes in conversation with Lasker, perused the correspondence in the book room, then made it to the breakfast room before the maid removed the ham and eggs.

He ate standing up, looking out the window, wondering if spring would ever put in an appearance this year.

“You'll ruin your digestion, son, if you take your meals standing up,” said his mother from the doorway.

He smiled and turned around. “Mama, will you still be scolding me when I am forty or fifty?”

She stood in the doorway with a cloak draped over her arm and blew him a kiss. “If you do not marry, I am certain I will. As it is, I hope you will find a wife who can scold you instead of me.”

He shook his head. “It's a heavy business, Mama. I don't think I made much of an impression on anyone last night at Almack's.”

She nodded in agreement. “Thank goodness there is an entire Season stretching before you, with ample time for redemption.”

He sighed inwardly, dreading the idea. “I am sure you are right, Mama. I am bound to develop a little polish.”
Perhaps I can even get my secretary to tolerate me,
he reflected.

Lady Ragsdale came closer and held out the cloak to him. It was brown, quite plain, but heavy. “The first few items have arrived from the modiste. I believe you wanted this for Emma.”

He took it from her, pleased with the weight of it. “This is almost warm enough for a London spring that refuses to come.” He kissed her cheek. “Thanks, m'dear. Emma and I are off to the banker's again. She is determined to organize me.”

Whether she will speak to me during the ride to the City, I cannot tell,
he thought as he went to the book room and peered inside.

Emma sat at the desk now, her head bent over the ledger, copying entries. She looked up at his entrance and rose to stand beside the chair, as Breedlow always used to rise when he came into a room. He expected such deference from Breedlow, but coming from Emma, it seemed strangely out of place.
You do not wear servitude well,
he thought as he watched her.
Emma, what were you before you came here?

He almost asked her outright but stopped himself before he committed that folly. One didn't inquire of servants’ personal lives, for it was the one thing they were entitled to keep to themselves. He chose a less dangerous subject.

“I see you found this morning's correspondence,” he said, indicating the pile in front of her. “Please be seated, Emma.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied. “I will have a letter to your bailiff ready for your signature this afternoon,” she offered.

He came around the desk to look over her shoulder. She knew how to write a letter, he had to admit. Her writing displayed just the proper firmness and tone of command, exceeding even Breedlow's skills. “Sounds about right,” he said. “Tell him I'll be there in a few days.”

She looked up at him, surprised, then favored him with a slight smile. She made a notation about the letter, then finished her entries in the ledger as he sat on the edge of the desk and watched her. When she blotted the book and then closed it, he held out the cloak to her.

“Here. I can't have my secretary shivering every time the wind shifts.”

He noted with a certain unholy glee that she was at a loss for words.
Feeling bad for ragging on me this morning?
he thought to himself as she took the cloak from him.
Blushing a tad from guilt, are we?
he considered as she stood up and draped the cloak over her shoulders.

“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured.

“You're quite welcome. Now, please have Hanley burn that rag of yours,” he ordered. “It still stinks of Newgate.”

She nodded. “It will be burned at once, my lord.” She ran her finger over the finely textured wool as though it were satin and smiled at him.

He searched her face for some sign of irritation with him, but there was none at the moment. She was a child with a new present, looking for all the world as though she wanted to hunt for a mirror and twirl herself around in its reflection.
How changeable women are,
he thought.
It's just a cloak, and not a very attractive one, at that, but if it gets me out of the doghouse, so much the better.

“Are you ready to go to my banker's?” he asked. “I think one more trip ought to be enough to familiarize yourself with the business, and then you can do it alone.”

She nodded and put the bills in her reticule, then pulled on the kidskin gloves that must have come from his mistress's collection. A bonnet would have been nice too, something to set off her green eyes and the attractive way her auburn hair curled around her face, but that was beyond his powers of both interest and philanthropy at the moment. Too much largess would only make her suspicious of his intentions, he reckoned.

There was a long silence in the carriage as the horses clopped along London's busy streets. He managed a glance at Emma out of the corner of his eye, and she looked as though she was on the edge of comment several times. He realized she was working up to an apology and chuckled inwardly.

She finally came out with it as the coachman slowed the horses in front of the bank. “I am sorry for the way I spoke to you this morning,” she said, the words all tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I was inexcusably rude.”

He nodded. “You were. It's a bit disconcerting for an Irish chit of no consequence to tell me my business with my tenants. And no one's wished me to blazes lately, except myself. That's not really your department.”

She winced but was silent, looking straight ahead as the coachman let down the steps and opened the door. “I'm sorry,” she repeated, her voice so low that he had to strain to hear it. “Mama always told me that I should think before I speak.”

“Your mama was a wise woman,” he agreed. He touched her arm as she leaned forward to take the coachman's hand. “But I should take better care of what is my own, Emma. Let us leave it at that,” he finished when they were both on the sidewalk.

She nodded, too shy to speak, then followed him into the bank, staying several steps behind, as a good servant should. He thought he heard her sniff back tears as they passed single file down the long hall. An hour ago, he would have been glad to know that she was crying, but now he just wanted to clap his arm around her shoulders and tell her to forget it.
I can't do that,
he thought.
A little remorse won't hurt the chit.
Instead, he reached inside his overcoat, drew out his handkerchief, and handed it to her behind his back as the porter hurried them along. She blew her nose loud, and he grinned; not for Emma a dainty dab at the nostrils.

In no time, the matter of Fae Moullé’s demands was signed and sealed, with the banker's promise to deliver the draft that afternoon. “Unless you wish to do that in person, my lord,” the banker suggested.

“Oh, no!” Lord Ragsdale stated, leaning back in his chair. “I'm through with that one. When Fae vacates the premises, you may tell my real estate agent to rent out the property.”

“There, Emma, I am on my way to reformation,” he told her when they stood outside the bank again. “I have finally done Fae Moullé a good turn. Soon I will be a pattern card of respectability. Women will swoon for my good report.”

He looked sideways at Emma, wondering how to get a rise out of her. She almost said something but changed her mind. “Yes, my lord” was the response she settled on.

“Come, come, Emma,” he chided. “You were about to say something much more interesting than ‘yes, my lord.’ “

The coachman held open the door for them, but Lord Ragsdale stood in front of it. “No ride for you unless you tell me what you were about to say,” he ordered, a smile playing around his lips. “Come, come, Emma.”

They stood there staring at each other, his arms folded across his chest. She pursed her lips into a straight line, then sighed.

“Oh, very well! I was merely going to suggest that you look rather too piratical ever to be mistaken for a pattern card of respectability.” She smiled when she said it, and Lord Ragsdale sighed with relief.
Better and better,
he thought as he helped her into the carriage.
Emma, we have to get along.

“John, take us to the gallery in Kensington,” he said as he climbed inside.

He returned her questioning gaze with a smile. “Emma, you may redeem yourself for all misdemeanors this morning by accompanying me to the art gallery. I have it in my head to invite a young lady I met at Almack's to tour it with me and my cousin Sally, and I had better know where I am going if I do not wish to appear … well, overly piratical and uncouth.”

She relaxed at his words and nodded. “You can probably purchase a guidebook at the entrance, my lord. If you commit it to memory, then no young lady will ever accuse you of being uncouth, lazy, and bereft of purpose.”

He wagged his finger at her, and she blushed. “Emma, mind your own manners! If you ever wish to leave my indenture before you are gray-haired and toothless, you must learn to like me at least a little.”

He leaned back in the carriage, satisfied with himself, and pleased at the embarrassment on Emma's face.
Now I will deliver the ultimate blow,
he decided. “Emma, I almost forgot to tell you. I spoke with Lasker this morning, and he has arranged for you to move into a room of your own.”

“What?” Emma exclaimed, her eyes wide.

He nearly laughed out loud at the look of chagrin on Emma's expressive face. “You'll still have to duck the rafters, but you did say your own bed would make you happy.”

He absorbed himself in gazing out the window then, content to let Emma stew in her own juices. He heard her apply herself vigorously to his handkerchief, and his cup ran over with merriment.
Got you, Emma. I dare you to be rude now.