Carla Kelly (21 page)

“It will probably happen again and again, my lord,” she replied, each word distinct, her brogue more pronounced than usual. “Unlike some of us in this room, I do not succumb easily to misfortune.”

“Emma Costello, you are impertinent!” he shouted, wondering even as his voice carried throughout the room why he was yelling at someone who did his work so well and who looked so defeated. Miserable and furious in turns, he waited for her to speak.

She took her time, and it occurred to him that she was as surprised as he was by his outburst. The wariness returned to her eyes, and he knew that he had erased whatever meager credit he had accrued in the last day or two.
I am British and you are Irish, and that is it,
he thought as he stared at her.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, and he felt even worse. “I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you, my lord.”

He could think of none, other than the fact that she had not been there to hear his account of his day with Clarissa Partridge. Had he been a small boy, he would have squirmed.

“Is that all, my lord?” she asked.

Unable to think of anything, he nodded, and she went to the door. She stood there a moment, clutching the handle. “If I were not impertinent, Lord Ragsdale, I would have died five years ago. Good night, sir.”

She was gone, the door closed quietly behind her. Filled with that familiar self-loathing that he had hoped was behind him, Lord Ragsdale resumed his pacing at the window.
I have heard this conversation before,
he thought, summoning up images of standing before his father when he returned late and endured the familiar scold that his mama assured him only meant that his father cared enough to worry about him.

He stopped walking and looked at the door again, wishing that Emma would walk back into the room so he could apologize.
Someday when I have sons and daughters, pray God I will remember how I feel right now,
he thought as he leaned against the window frame. Somehow he must make amends to his servant, even though he knew there was nothing he could do.

I would like to help you, Emma,
he thought.
How can I convince you that I mean it?
He shook his head, and smiled ruefully.
This whole thing begins to smack of profound exertion. I think I am going to be wonderfully ill-used during your tenure here, Emma Costello, drat your Irish hide. I had better find a wife quickly so I can release you from your indenture and be miserable in private.

He went to the window again, wishing that spring would come.
I need a change right now
, he thought,
something that will sweeten my life.
He considered Clarissa again and smiled into his reflection in the windowpane. “Madam, you are a peach,” he said out loud, rejoicing in the fact that he had only yawned a few times during their hours together at the balloon ascension. Tonight he was escorting his mother and cousin to Covent Garden Theatre. With scarcely any effort at all, he could train his glasses on the Partridge box and watch her from a distance.

He resolved to make the Norfolk stay a short one. The place only held ghosts and leaky crofters’ cottages anyway. He would point his secretary toward his bailiff and let them do the wrangling. He would pay a brief visit to Sir Augustus Barney, then prop his feet up in front of a comfortable fire and think about Clarissa Partridge.
That ought to make everybody happy,
he thought.
Even Emma will approve,
he told himself,
provided she is speaking to me. I may even be forced to apologize. How unlike me.

THINK I WILL MURDER LORD RAGSDALE, EMMA thought to herself as she took off her dress and crawled into bed. She shivered in the cold, wishing for once to be still sharing a bed with the scullery maid. She may have snored, but she at least provided a warm spot. As it was, Emma could only lie there and warm herself with vast ill-usage.

She knew she should be tired. It had been a long, discouraging day, spent standing in the cold entry of the Office of Criminal Business, wondering when it would finally be her turn to speak to Mr. John Henry Capper, Senior Clerk. She sighed again and thumped her pillow soundly, trying to find a soft spot in the old thing. The first problem would be getting past that miserable worm of a porter. Thinking of that dreadful little excuse of a man, she thumped the pillow again.

She thought she had approached his desk with the proper amount of deference that the English seemed to require from the Irish. Her inquiry had been innocent enough; she just wanted a brief interview with Mr. Capper. One of her fellow servants in Virginia had told her that the illustrious John Henry was the man to see, and she had clung to that scrap of information through her own indenture, a dreary return sea voyage, and now incarceration in the household of Lord Ragsdale.

Something in the porter's eye should have warned her that he would stall and stall. Her inquiry had only earned her an elaborate stare, when the porter finally bothered to look up from shuffling the papers in front of him. When he gazed around and saw that no one else was with her, his stare turned into a smirk. “’Ave a seat,” he said. “Ye'll ’ave to wait your turn, like everybody else.”

And so she had waited all day in the cheerless anteroom, watching others go in before her to complete their business with Mr. John Henry Capper. She sat and fumed for the morning, and then in the afternoon, despair set in. As the shadows lengthened in the room and the cold deepened, she realized that there would be no audience with Mr. Capper that day. Her chances of ever getting past the porter shrank with every minute that passed, and every man who secured an appointment before her.

She only left the building because the porter shooed her out and told her he was locking up. Swallowing her pride, Emma managed her broadest smile—the one Papa declared would melt marble—and asked when she might have an audience with Mr. Capper. The porter had looked at her in elaborate surprise, as though he were not aware that she had been the only inhabitant of the anteroom for the last two hours.

“Oh, miss, you're still here? What a pity Mr. Capper could not see you today.”

She forced down the angry words that she wanted to shower on him and winked back the tears. “Do you think I could see him next week, sir?” she asked, knowing his answer even before he looked up from his desk many minutes later.

“I am sure you can try,” he had replied and favored her with a mocking, superior smile.

By all the saints,
she thought, in his better days, her own father would have had that porter whipped for insolence.
And in my better days?
she considered ruefully.
I would never be here alone and unprotected, without my brothers around me. I would be home with Mama, and there would be suitors, and I would marry one of them, and life would continue the pattern of centuries.
She sat up in bed and hugged the pillow to her, thinking of change and turmoil and wishing with all her heart that she knew—really knew—where her brothers and father were.

She lay down again, bunching herself into a little ball to defeat the cold. If all her searching led to a certain knowledge of their deaths, at least she would be sure. She could return to Virginia when this pesky indenture was up, and with Mr. Claridge's blessings probably find some kind of employment in Richmond. Experience had taught her that she could eventually wear down the sorrow until it was a manageable pain.

And if they were alive? She would spare no effort to join them, even if the cold trail, years old, led to a prison in Van Dieman's Land, or dismal servitude in Australia. “Perhaps Australia is not as bad as everyone says,” she told herself, relaxing gradually as the moon peered through her window, then moved on. At least it would be warmer than here.

Warmer in many ways. Lord Ragsdale's scold this evening was almost a fitting culmination to a dreadful day, Emma allowed, wondering at the coldness of her reception. She prodded her tired brain, trying to make sense out of his surprising tirade but gave up as sleep finally overtook her.

Morning brought with it the guilty realization that she had over-slept, and a summons to Lady Ragsdale's chamber. Emma dressed hurriedly, hoping that Lord Ragsdale was still in bed and not looking about for his mail. She hurried, breathless, down the stairs, hoping to snatch up the mail from the table by the door and sort it upstairs after she endured whatever scold Lady Ragsdale had in mind. She scooped up the mail and was hurrying fast for the stairs again when Lord Ragsdale stepped from the breakfast room. He flattened himself in mock surprise against the wall as she hurried past.

“If there is a fire somewhere, Emma, perhaps you should let me in on the secret?” he commented.

She stopped, gritting her teeth and wondering if he was angry still. She looked at him, and to her amazement, he winked. Without even thinking, she smiled back and held out the mail to him.

He took it from her and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. “I'm sorry I was so beastly yesterday evening, Emma,” he said simply. “I was worried about you. The streets are dark, and London's full of ugly customers.”

With that he nodded to her as she stared at him in wonder, and started down the hall, opening a letter as he went. Before she could collect herself, he laughed out loud and turned back to her. “This is too good to keep to myself,” he said. “It's from Fae Moullé. She expresses her—it's either gratitude or attitude, or possibly latitude—and declares that when I marry, she will trim a bonnet for the new Lady Ragsdale! I defy anyone to come up with a better offer from a mistress, Emma. What do you think?”

I think I am full of gratitude or attitude myself,
she thought, dimpling at the idea of Fae Moullé presenting Lord Ragsdale's bride with a bonnet and sharing bedroom confidences.

“I think you will have to be extremely diplomatic, should this eventuality arise, my lord,” she replied, feeling a slight twinge at her own deception with Fae. “Perhaps it would be best if Fae remained your little secret.”

“My thought precisely.” He paused then and a slight wariness crept into his eye. “Emma, you won't be needing me today, I trust.”

“Well, we did need to look over your estate receipts before we leave for Norfolk tomorrow, my lord,” she reminded him gently, not wishing to disturb the moment.

“Tonight, then, Emma. I am off to Tatt's to buy another horse,” he told her. “When that arduous endeavor is completed, I will toddle over to Whitcomb Street and pay a morning call on Clarissa Partridge.”

“Very good, my lord,” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows.

“And then, with or without your permission, I will descend on White's for lunch, a brief snooze in the reading room, and then a gentlemanly glass of port. Only one, mind you,” he assured her as he continued his progress to the book room. “I intend to become a pattern card of respectability.”

She watched him go, shaking her head and wondering why men were so strange.
He must be in love,
she concluded as Lord Ragsdale took his correspondence into the book room and closed the door behind him.
This isn't the same tight-lipped man who greeted me with such a scold last night. Something wonderful must have happened at the theatre,
Emma decided as she climbed the stairs on light feet.
If this romance with Clarissa prospers, perhaps I will be sprung from this indenture faster than I had hoped.