Carla Kelly (19 page)

HERE IS NO LOGICAL EXPLANATION FOR MY desire to visit the art gallery with Emma,
Lord Ragsdale thought as the carriage began to move.
I am either a bigger bully than I thought, or I love art beyond my previous recollection.
The initial ride had begun with an ardent desire on his part to get the banking business done and then return Emma to the book room. He never considered himself a man susceptible to female tears, but there was something so oddly touching about Emma's obvious remorse at her mistreatment of him. He hoped she would not mind a visit to the gallery, but he was beginning to find her interesting.

And, he reasoned, there was at least some truth in what he had said to her about wanting to look over the place. He knew he needed to do as his mother and Emma had mandated and find himself a wife. A gallery would be a good place for a quiet tête-à-tête; he would test his theory on Emma. If it proved to be a good place to spark a lady (or at least, in Emma's case, discussion), he would store the knowledge for future reference.

Emma was still struggling with her emotions, so he did not overburden her with conversation. He was content to gaze out the window at the Inns of Court, where several wigged barristers were getting themselves into a carriage for the short ride to the courts of justice. English law, he thought, a noble thing. He glanced at Emma. She was watching the barristers too, but her expression was a set, hard one, as though she looked upon something distasteful.

“English law,” he said out loud, and it sounded inane the moment he uttered it.

“Don't remind me, my lord,” she murmured and directed her gaze out the opposite window.

How singular,
he thought.
We see the same thing, and yet our estimations are completely different. I wonder if this is because she is a woman or because she is Irish. I suspect it is both,
he concluded.

So much silence,
he thought as they rode along. He was not a man accustomed to silence.
I have spent too much time in drawing rooms, card rooms, and taverns, where conversation seems obliged.
It was different with Emma, he reasoned. Despite her remorse, she still did not wish to speak to him.
Or could it be that she is shy,
he wondered.
I see Emma as a budding good secretary, but perhaps ours is an odd association. After all, she is female. Indeed she is,
he thought for no good reason, and smiled to himself.

He wanted to ask a penny for her thoughts, and the realization gave him a start. He had never cared what any woman thought before. During his affair with Fae Moullé, never had it entered his head to inquire what was on her mind, because he suspected that nothing was.
My word, how strange this is,
he considered as he settled back in the carriage.
I want to know what this woman is thinking.

He stared out the window, not seeing anything on the crowded road.
If she is thinking of me, it will not be charitable.
He glanced her way and rubbed his forehead, wondering why it mattered all of a sudden that she change her opinion of him.
She sees me as a dilettante, a drunkard, a rogue, and a wastrel,
he thought,
and she is right. And I am British.
He grinned at his reflection in the glass.
That I cannot change, and it may be the only thing that she cares about the most. I wish I understood Emma Costello.

The gallery was bare of sightseers. There was only a cleaning woman, who wasn't dressed much better than Emma. The char-woman looked up from her brush and pail as they skirted around the area she was scrubbing. Lord Ragsdale could tell she was surprised to see someone so obviously a man of consequence with a woman in broken shoes and a plain cloak.

To his chagrin, Emma noticed the look too. “I really don't belong here, my lord,” she whispered to him, her face red. “Oh, please … I can wait outside.”

Serenity, John, serenity,
he told himself as he touched her elbow lightly and steered her into his favorite room of the gallery. “Nonsense, Emma. This is a public place, and we are the public. Remember now: I want to bring a young lady here, and you are my trial effort.”

That sounds pretty artificial
, he thought as he sat her down on a bench;
I wonder if she will buy it.
He glanced at her then, gauging her response, and was relieved to see a brief look of approbation cross her expressive face.

“Oh, excellent, my lord! The sooner you are reformed and at least soundly engaged, the sooner you will be rid of me.”

He laughed in spite of his own nervousness. “Emma! Am I that much of a trial? Come now, be fair.”

To his relief, she smiled.
I wish you would laugh too,
he thought as he watched her.
Your laughter is almost a balm. Ah, well, not this time. Perhaps another day.
He put his hands behind his back and sauntered over to inspect a painting—it must be a Vermeer—he had not remembered from his last visit several years ago.

All was silence in the gallery; he found himself relaxing in the quiet.
This would be a good place to bring someone special,
he decided as he moved from picture to picture.
The devil of it is, I cannot imagine any eligible lady of my acquaintance remaining quiet long enough to absorb what is here.

He glanced back at Emma, who remained where she was on the bench, as if afraid to move from where he had put her. He turned to watch her then, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall.

As usual, she paid him no attention. She sat stiff at first, her feet in her poor shoes tucked up under her so they would not show. (
I must see to a cobbler, and when are those promised dresses coming?
) As she stared at the painting opposite her, her shoulders lost their tenseness and her face seemed to soften. She sighed once, and he could hear it across the gallery. Her eyes grew dreamy, and for the first time in their brief acquaintance, the wariness left her expression.

Emma was looking at one of Raphael's numerous madonnas, mellowed, as all his works, by a caressing brush and sweetness of expression on the face of Mary. She smiled at the painting of mother and child, and as he watched, she got up from the bench and stood directly in front of the work. There was no barrier in front of the painting, and she reached out her hand, outlining the child.

So you like children, Emma?
he thought, wondering at the same time if he was going to have to spend the rest of their association guessing about her past. Presumably one didn't ask servants their business.
We have already established that you do not like me,
he thought.
I wonder if there is someone you do like. Or someone you love.

He felt a moment's irrational jealousy, which made him laugh out loud and broke whatever spell Raphael was weaving on Emma Costello. She jumped away from the painting and put her hands behind her back, retreating to the bench, where she sat down again.
Serenity,
he told himself again as he nodded to her and continued his stately pace about the gallery, hoping she would relax enough again to explore the place herself.

She did not. After a half hour, in which he felt his own frustration growing, he returned to the bench and sat down beside her. She edged away from him slightly and moved forward on the bench, ready to bolt as soon as he said the word. He said nothing, wondering if she would speak first. Finally, she cleared her throat.

“You know, my lord, I could be finishing my perusal of your old correspondence right now and starting on that letter to Sir Augustus Barney in Norfolk,” she reminded him.

“You could,” he agreed. “But isn't it nice just to sit here?”

She did not answer, and he sighed and stood up. She was on her feet in an instant too, but he took her arm before she could move and held her firmly.

“Tell me, Emma. Is this really a good place to squire a young lady?”

He looked into her eyes, and her expression made him drop her arm and step back. He had never seen such terror before, terror that he was responsible for because he had taken her arm. He looked away and gave her time to collect herself, thinking,
So, Emma, you do not care to be grabbed, do you?

His own mind in turmoil, he merely nodded to her and started to leave the gallery at a slow pace. In a moment, she was walking at his side and slightly behind him. “I didn't mean to startle you, Emma,” he said. “Seriously, what do you think? Should I take a young lady here?”

“No, my lord,” she replied, and her voice was smooth and in control. “She will want to chatter, and you will want to admire, and it will not speed any wooing you might attempt.”

“How well you know your own sex,” he murmured as he climbed into his carriage and made no move to help her. “But, Emma, you were silent as the grave in the gallery,” he insisted. “How can it be that any young lady I would bring there would be a gabble box?”

She pulled her cloak tighter about her. “My lord, if it were someone who returned your regard, she would want to talk with you, wouldn't she? I mean, I would.”

And so you were silent. Touché, Emma,
he thought. He let it go at that, leaned back in the carriage, and closed his eyes.

He did not expect another word from her and was even dozing off when Emma spoke.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but could I ask you something?” she was saying. “It is a favor, in fact.”

“Only if you promise that it will not cause me any exertion,” he teased.

“Oh, it will not,” she assured him seriously, and again he was verbally flogged by her reply.

You think I am in earnest,
he wondered. “Say on, Emma,” he stated finally when she hesitated.

He thought for a moment she would not speak, after all.

“Well?” he prompted. “Come, come, Emma, you make me fear that it is an outrageous request.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” she assured him, her expression worried now. “Nothing of the sort. I was merely wondering if you would permit me a day off once a week.”

Is that all?
he asked himself, but he did not respond.

“I have some business in London,” she said quickly when he did not speak. “Please, my lord. It is only once a week. I can see that everything is left in order before I leave.” She was pleading now, and he wanted to know what it was she had to do in London.

He almost asked her.

“A half day then, sir? Oh, please,” she was asking now, her eyes on his face.

He felt shame then.
I am a churl to make you grovel,
he thought as he sat up straight.

“A day, Emma,” he said firmly. “Mr. Breedlow had a day, and it is only fair.” He leaned forward. “And when would you like this day?”

“Tomorrow, my lord, if you please,” she responded, a little breathless.

“You'll have that letter to Sir Augustus ready?” he temporized. “And another which I shall dictate tonight to my bailiff in Norfolk? I mean to leave in two days.”

“Anything, my lord,” she said.

“Tomorrow it is,” he said, adding, “although I cannot imagine what it is that you would have to do in London.”

It was only the tiniest opening, but she did not take it.
Of course she did not,
he told himself, feeling the fool, and a bully in the bargain.
John, you maggot, did you ever quiz David Breedlow about his day off? God knows you should have, in his case, but here is Emma Costello, and she is powerless, harmless, and poor. London is safe from whatever she could possibly be planning.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and her gratitude made him wince.

“You're welcome,” he grumbled, “although I wonder what evil plans you have afoot.” Ah, there. He was rewarded with a smile.

“If you're worried, Lord Ragsdale, you'd better lock up the silverware before I leave your house,” she replied, with just the hint of a twinkle in her eye.