Carla Kelly (30 page)

Lord Ragsdale thanked him, got to his feet, and brushed off his trousers. He strolled toward the entrance, his mind in a ferment.
Emma, what is your business with that band of thieves?

He stood outside the building a moment, wondering what Emma would do if he joined her in the anteroom.
This is none of my business,
he argued with himself.
If she wanted to tell me, she would. I have given her plenty of openings.
He thought again of Sir Augustus's advice.
Do I dare poke at your wounds, Emma? You prodded mine, but then I agreed to it. I have no right to do the same to you.

And Clarissa was waiting. “Blast it!” he said out loud, and started running toward his curricle. He looked back once at the building, then tried to put it out of his mind.

ORD RAGSDALE HAD ALWAYS LIKED Hampton Court, even from his earliest days, when his mother and father took him walking there on one of their infrequent trips to London. He loved the sound that a pair of firm footsteps could make in the great hall, and never objected, no matter what the weather, to a perambulation about the whole building to gaze at the medallions on the walls and wonder about the arrogance of kings. As he grew older, he occasionally thought how nice it would be to bring a lady to Hampton Court. He couldn't imagine a better place for a little serious wooing.

But not today, not even with one of the Season's loveliest diamonds hanging on his arm and looking at him with those crystal blue eyes. On another day, perhaps he could have appreciated the way her bosom brushed his arm, and the way she had of running her tongue along her lips that had probably reduced other peers to blancmange. As it was, he entertained as best he could with tales of headless ghosts, thinking of Emma in that anteroom of the Office of Criminal Business.

Merciful heaven, criminal business. But Clarissa was tugging at his sleeve and pouting her prettiest pout, one that surely should have earned her a quick kiss at least. He swallowed, fighting down words of irritation that he knew he would regret, and resisted the urge to brush her off.

“You're not listening to a thing I am saying, John,” she said.

She was right. He hadn't heard one word in ten of her babble.

What was she carrying on about? Could it be even half as important as what Emma was doing, even now as he dawdled through a musty old hall with England's prettiest woman on his arm. There were other tourists about, and he looked up occasionally from his contemplation of the parquet flooring to notice the envious glances other men were giving him.
I am a fool,
he thought, and the idea cheered him immensely.
But I was already a fool, so this is nothing to repine about.

“I'm sorry, my dear Clarissa,” he said, hoping he sounded contrite. He stopped and faced her, taking both her hands in his. “I do have a little business on my mind.” He kissed her nose. “Let me resolve to forget it.”

But he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried to devote his whole attention to the beauty he squired about. His head was beginning to ache. His scalp began to itch where the ties to his eye patch knotted at the back of his head. He found himself walking faster, as though trying to hurry up the afternoon so he could return to the Home Office. He could not fathom why he had ever considered Hampton Court such a favorite of his.

Clarissa, Clarissa, what am I going to do with you,
he asked himself.
You are beautiful, and it could very well be that I love you, but right now, I wish we were anywhere but here.
He thought a moment, considering his options, and then decided that only the honorable thing would do; he would lie.

“Clarissa, I do have some pressing business in the City,” he confessed. “It involves some … some charitable work I am doing at Newgate.”
What a corker that is,
he thought.
The Lord may strike me dead. Why couldn't I have mentioned orphans at St. Paul's or the deserving poor under some bridge?

“Newgate?” she echoed, her voice reaching a distinctly unpleasant pitch. “You?”

“Well, yes,” he said, piqued that his reputation was so lackluster that she considered philanthropy out of the question, and then ashamed of himself for the lie. “They are wretched creatures!”

That was no prevarication. He could testify to their wretchedness. He took her hand and strolled along, resisting the urge to whip out his pocket watch and begrudge each second that crawled by. “I have a transaction I must perform on their behalf at the Office of Criminal Business, and I really should not put it off.” He placed his hand on his chest. “They need me.”

He tried not to wince, waiting for an offended deity to smite him dead. Nothing happened, except that Clarissa clung to his hand even more tightly and gazed up into his face with an expression closely resembling adoration.

“What a wonderful man you are,” she breathed, and again he wondered about the stress to her corset strings. “I am sure I never knew anyone as considerate as you.”

Her statement was so ludicrous that only by force of will did he keep from laughter. He lowered his head and bit his lip, and managed somehow to appear so modest that Clarissa rested her glorious blonde hair against his arm for a long moment.

“You must tell Papa all about your philanthropic work among the felons when we see him in Bath in three days.”

Good heavens, what have I promised?
he asked himself wildly.
When did I ever say I would go to Bath? Could that have been when I was admiring her bosom during the interval at the opera and nodded?
He quickened his pace toward the entrance.

“I don't precisely remember Bath,” he began cautiously as he directed the porter to bring his curricle. He staved off the beginnings of a pout by a quick kiss on her forehead, wondering what else he had promised Clarissa Partridge. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory.”

“Silly boy,” she began, generous in her scold. “I'm sure you have so much more on your mind than little me.”

You can't imagine
, he thought and kissed her hand. “Oh, you are a dear one,” he mumbled. It made no sense, but Clarissa would never know.

“Papa is in Bath because of his gout, and you promised Mama and me that you would accompany us there on Thursday,” she reminded him.

Did I?
He slapped his forehead. “Oh, of course, my love,” he said. “Silly me.”

She dimpled prettily and let him help her into the curricle. “You said you wanted to talk to Papa about something.” She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I can't imagine what …”

I am to be married,
he thought wildly. It was a cool day, but he could feel sweat forming on his spinal column. He took his time going around to the other side of the curricle.
Calm, calm, John,
he told himself.
You know this is what you want.

“I am certain Sir Cecil and I will think of something to say to one another,” he teased, feeling as though someone else was speaking through his mouth and he was standing outside his skin, watching. “My dear, if it chances that my business should take another day, would Friday be amenable to your plans?”

“I am sure Mama and I would be only too happy to delay our departure and give you one more day to do good. John, you cannot imagine how I feel.”

Nor I,
he agreed, starting his horse off at a sedate pace, when he really longed to snap the whip and leap hedgerows.
I know this is what I want, and I will make Emma ever so proud. Why are my hands shaking?

He was able to convince her to come to the Home Office with him, assuring her that he would only be a minute. He left her standing in the entrance and sprinted toward the Office of Criminal Business. He would go to the porter and ask for an appointment with Mr. Capper on the morrow; perhaps he could learn Emma's business that way.

He hurried to the anteroom door and stopped. Emma stood there alone in the room, her back to the door. He looked around in surprise. No one else was there except the porter, who was busying himself with papers on his desk.
How strange,
he thought.
Surely Emma arrived early enough this morning for an audience.
He tiptoed quietly away from the office and met Clarissa at the main lobby.

“This is a dreadful place,” she whispered to him as she grabbed his arm. “I have never seen so many sinister-looking fellows.”

“And those are just the solicitors,” he joked. She looked at him blankly, and he knew then that his future would involve explaining witticisms to his wife. “Well, never mind, my dear. Let me drive you home now.”

He resisted her invitation to dinner, assuring her that he would not faint from hunger between Whitcomb and Curzon Streets, and promising her that he would take her driving tomorrow afternoon. “We will discuss this delightful expedition to Bath, my dear,” he said as he blew a kiss in her general vicinity, leaped into his curricle as soon as the door closed, and sprang his horse back to the city.

Emma was not in the anteroom when he returned, out of breath from running through emptying corridors. The porter was gathering up his papers and climbing down from his stool by the inner door.

“We're closed now, sir,” he said, nodding to Lord Ragsdale. “Come again in the morning.”

“I am sure that won't be necessary now,” he said as he approached the porter. “That pretty woman who was here a moment ago … did she finally get in to see Mr. Capper?”

The porter laughed and shook his head. “I love to diddle the Irish!” He winked at Lord Ragsdale. “She can keep coming back week after week until she wears out, and she'll never get through that door.”

Lord Ragsdale stared at him. “What are you saying?”

The porter grinned back. “I'm saying that I have no use for the Irish. I think they should all be transported, and not just a select few.”

And so I thought too,
he considered, pausing to catch his breath.
I hated them all, but now I just worry.
He tried again.

“Was she asking for information about someone transported to Australia?”

“Well, laddie, America's out now. Where else do we send them felons?”

“I'm Lord Ragsdale to you,” he snapped, suddenly furious, and fighting down the strong inclination to grab the man by his neck cloth and do him damage. “Give me a straight answer, or it's your job tomorrow.”

The porter obviously believed him. His eyes widened, and he hurried to straighten his coat and run a hand through his thinning hair. “I means no disrespect, my lord,” he gasped. “She … she said something about wanting to know the whereabouts of some prisoners transported after the Castle Hill Revolt in 1803.”

Lord Ragsdale nodded. Castle Hill. He remembered reading about it in the London papers over his morning brandy. There were hangings, which only pleased him at the time, and a man who declared that no one would write his epitaph until Ireland took her rightful place among the nations. He remembered laughing over that bit of high Irish drama.

“And you won't let her in to see Mr. Capper?” he asked quietly, turning his attention back to the porter. “What gives you that right? You are a scoundrel, and I don't mind telling you.”