Carla Kelly (35 page)

He did as she said, pausing here and there for advice on lover-like words. He finished and signed his name with a flourish. “I suppose you realize this means that I will be reformed, rehabilitated, married, and will probably turn into someone so dull that my children will wonder what their mother was thinking.”

She smiled at him. “Serves you right, my lord,” she replied, with just a touch of her former acidity. She took the note from him and opened the door upon Lasker, who appeared to be waiting outside. “Please have Hanley deliver this to the Partridges on Whitcomb Street,” she instructed.

“And bring us some coffee, Lasker,” Lord Ragsdale said as he returned to the sofa. “It's going to be a long night.”

“I told you to go to bed and rest your eye,” Emma said, then blushed and added, “my lord.”

He resumed his former position on the couch. “I won't leave, Emma. Sit down right here and let's start looking.”

I am seeing the backside of too many dawns,
he reflected several hours later as Emma finally admitted defeat after two readings of the lists.
I would have quit after one reading,
he thought, closing his eye to the smudged, faint lists, and weary of looking.

Ever mindful of his eye, Emma had done much of the reading, going slowly through the lists, saying each name aloud and only troubling him when she could not decipher the words before her. He lay with his eye closed, listening to her, holding his breath when she paused, and sitting up once or twice when he heard her sharp intake of breath. But each time was a false alarm. There was no David or Samuel Costello on any of the lists they had searched so hard for.

“Could it be that the political prisoners were not even mentioned?” he speculated at one point. “I mean, if the assizes have no record, why should the ships’ manifests?”

It was a discouraging thought, but early morning was a time for discouraging thoughts. Emma considered it a moment, then rejected it. “I cannot see how that would be so,” she argued. “A ship would need to know precisely how many were on board, concerning matters of space and food.”

“I am sure you are right,” he said, happy to agree with her.

And so she had read through the manifests two more times, grumbling the second time about ship captains and bad handwriting. On the third reading, her voice was subdued. Finally, after the clock chimed three, she put down the lists.

“They're not here,” she admitted.

She sat on the floor beside the sofa, leaning against it. He reached down and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Emma, do you really think they ever left Ireland?” he asked quietly.

She was silent for a moment as she rested her cheek against his hand. “Yes,” she said finally. “They were in good health, and it was Eamon”—her voice faltered—“Eamon who confessed to everything.” She drew up her knees and rested her chin on them. “Do you know, the interrogators pressed him for other names of accomplices, and he recited the whole family graveyard.” She turned her head to regard him. “No. Eamon implicated no one else alive. They had no reason to kill Da and Sam too. No reason.”

“Well, then, we must find the
Minerva
and the
Hercules
,” he said. “Give me a hand up, Emma.”

She stood up, rubbed the small of her back, then helped him to his feet. “I suppose it can keep until you return from Bath,” she said as she placed the lists on the desk.

“Emma, you have my permission to return to the docks and check some more,” he said. “Only please take the footman with you and enough petty cash for bribes. Oh, and return the lists tomorrow.”

She nodded. “I'll make sure you have receipts for anything I spend.”

“It's not necessary, Emma.” He opened the door, surprised how dark the hall was, then remembered that everyone else was long in bed. “I'm so tired,” he said, more to himself than to her.
And discouraged, and wondering when this will end for you.

They walked upstairs together, and she said good night to him on the landing that led to the servants’ quarters on the third floor.
Emma, stay with me tonight,
he thought suddenly.
It's only a few hours before dawn, and I'm a little low in spirits.

He shook his head at the thought and wished it would go away.

But there it was, dancing about in his head like a little shadow puppet.
I do not wish to do anything to you—I'm too tired for that—but I would like to hold you in my arms.

“My lord,” Emma said, her hand on the railing.

He looked up expectantly, wondering if by some miracle she could read his mind and was not opposed to the idea.

“Yes, my dear?” he asked, his voice soft.

He could hear her chuckle in the gloom, even though he could not see her. “You should know that I made another confession yesterday morning.”

Her tone was playful, but not amorous, so he put away his own roguish thoughts. “Say on, Emma.”

She must have sat down on the stairs, because he heard a rustle of skirts, and her voice was lower. “When I went to Fae Moullé we … I encouraged her to cheat you. The receipt we compiled for her milliner's shop was greatly more than she really needed.”

“Emma, you're a rascal,” he said, amused where a month ago he would have been angry. “You wanted to cost me money.”

“I hated you, my lord,” she said simply, her voice coming at him so quiet from the darkness of the stairs. “You were just another Englishman.”

He felt his way to the landing again and rested his arm on the newel post, not certain of where she was. “Well, what penance did the priest suggest?”

She laughed and got to her feet, and he could tell that she was farther away than he thought. “Remember, I told you he was Irish too! He told me to pray for your soul, but only if I thought I wanted to.”

He joined in her laughter. “And do you?” he asked finally.

“I already have,” she said quickly, and she seemed almost surprised at his question. “Good night, my lord. I'll be in the book room for your instructions in the morning.”

And then she was gone, hurrying up the stairs to her little cubbyhole under the eaves. In another moment he heard a door close quietly.

OULD IT BE THAT THIS IS WHAT THE FRENCH
aristocrats felt like on their way to the guillotine?
Lord Ragsdale thought, as the Partridge carriage rumbled on its sedate way to Bath. He could almost imagine the cheering, cockaded crowds milling about and ready for a whiff of blood.

But this is absurd,
he thought, as he smiled down at Clarissa Partridge, who had captured his hand so possessively and pressed her thigh against his in a manner that was faintly pleasant.
When they clamp me to the board, slide me under the blade, and we are pronounced man and wife, I will be the envy of my generation. Envious males will probably drink my health in clubs all over London, and marvel at my good fortune.
The thought sent a shudder through him, which he could only ascribe to feet of the coldest sort.

See here, John,
he told himself,
it is merely that you are afraid for nothing. Surely every man experiences some little trepidation at the loss of liberty and at the reality of life with a wife.
He returned his gaze to Clarissa again, admiring the gold of her hair and her flawless complexion.
Clarissa, if you happened to throw out freckles like Emma Costello, you would probably lock yourself in a dark room and remain there.
But there was no danger on that head. Clarissa possessed skin that most women could only dream about.

“Don't you agree, John?”

What? What?
Clarissa was gazing at him with something akin to adoration and obviously waiting for an answer. “How could I disagree with you, my dear?” he replied, hoping that would satisfy and wondering to what he had just put his imprimatur.

She appeared satisfied with his response, if he rightly interpreted the little squeeze she gave his arm.
Pay attention, John,
he admonished himself, even as her voice rippled on and he thought about his departure that morning.

Sally Claridge had met him in the breakfast room with the startling announcement that she was returning to Virginia with Robert. He had sputtered into his tea briefly, reminding her that there were several young bucks—chaps he had handpicked, mind you, because they did not require a fortune—who were hovering on the brink of offering for her. She only treated this magnanimity on his part by a smile and a kiss in his general direction as she breezed by.

“I would rather go home,” she had insisted when Lady Ragsdale added her admonitions to his. Sally smiled at him, then at Robert. “I am mindful of all you have both done for me, but I want to go home.”

His pride piqued, Lord Ragsdale appealed to Robert. “Let me remind you, cousin, that for reasons which you know only too well, Sally will make a much better marriage over here.”

Robert was no help. He only shook his head and dug a little deeper into his eggs and ham. “Cousin, you don't really argue with women, do you?”

“Well, I, no …” he stammered.

Clarissa looked at him, her eyes wide, her lips in their readymade pout, and he realized he was talking out loud. “My dear, I don't think I would be a disappointment to you behind a curricle of my own,” she was saying. “Papa taught me to handle the ribbons.”

“Oh! I am certain you would not,” he agreed. “Whatever could I have been thinking?”
Pay attention, you cloth wit,
he told himself, then promptly dismissed Clarissa again.

Sally was not about to change her mind. “I will return home to Virginia,” she had stated firmly, after he went through a patented catalog of reasons why she should remain in England. “Cousin, I do not care how poor we Claridges are, or how everyone else in Henrico County laughs at us because of Robert's spendthrift ways.” She smiled at her brother. “I know he means to change, and besides all that, I want to be with my family. It's where I belong.”

Of course she is right,
he thought, as the carriage traveled through the spring finery of Berkshire. He listened patiently then to Clarissa's description of the rest of this year's Season and the twin delights of a ball and a presentation next month, which, he knew in his bones, would somehow involve him to an unpleasant degree. He nodded where he was supposed to and felt some small relief when Clarissa's eyes closed and her adorable head came to rest against his arm. Lady Partridge smiled indulgently at him and returned to her tatting.

And so he had given his blessing for a happy journey to both of the Claridges, had finished his breakfast, and had adjourned to the book room, where Emma waited with his correspondence to sign. He signed where she indicated and was struck by the fact that if Emma found that her father and brother had indeed been transported, she would probably want to join them in Australia.

The thought was distressing in the extreme. He sat on the sofa and watched her as she finished some last-minute paperwork he had requested. She was young and strong and healthy, but the thought of her going to such a place made him want to rise up in protest. He had heard stories at his club from army officers who had returned from duty in the antipodes, and they had nothing kind to say. It would be the worst exile of all for someone so lovely, vibrant—for someone with such promise—as Emma, he decided. And she would be fifteen thousand miles away. She might as well be on the moon.