Ransom Redeemed (16 page)

He rode at his usual clip, his thoughts finally settling on the pleasing image of Miss Ashford without her bonnet. How could he explain his desire to have her remain in his company? She would roll her eyes and say he needed a dose of gripe water. But her portrait on his bedchamber wall had looked down on him for eight years, solemnly waiting for something, and on Wednesday it had tried to tell him that the "something" was about to happen.

Since then he'd looked at his world through new eyes. He couldn't be sure it was all due to her, but it seemed more than likely. Why else would he find himself smiling whenever he thought of her? He raised a hand to his lip. She'd drawn first blood. That ought to be warning enough.

Ought to be. But Ransom Deverell, in common with most of his family, had always taken issue with the word "ought".

* * * *

When Mary arrived back at the bookshop that evening, she found Thaddeus Speedwell in a very jolly mood. Even her sister was laughing giddily as she stuck mistletoe in her hair. There was a large fire in the hearth tonight, extra candles lit and bunches of holly decorating the mantle.

"Your sister thinks she must have a secret admirer, Mary," said Thaddeus, gripping her arm in his excitement, "for somebody sent us a large hamper this evening, full of Yuletide cheer. Look!"

It had come from Fortnum and Mason— a big, heavy wicker hamper filled with an abundance of Christmas delights, including savory pies, bottles of wine, fruit, nuts, smoked salmon, cheeses, marzipan and plum cake.

She knew at once who had done this. Who else? It was perhaps what he had been up to while he waited for her to leave his mother's suite.

What if I was to tell you that your sister will eat very well this evening and manage perfectly without you?

"You look very pale, Mary," her sister exclaimed. "I hope you're not going to be peevish and say we should send it back to the shop."

She took a deep breath. "No. Of course not. It is a wonderful gift. It would be ungracious to refuse it. And impractical."

Violet wrinkled her nose. "You're not going to weep, are you? You look odd."

"Really, Violet! When was the last time you saw me shed a tear?"

"When you climbed that tree on a dare and got stung by a wasps' nest."

Yes, fifteen years ago or thereabouts. "I'm surprised you remember," she muttered. "You couldn't have been more than five or six at the time."

"Naturally I remember," her sister replied pertly, the little clump of mistletoe nodding above her ear. "I remember because it
is
such a rare occurrence and hasn't happened since."

It had happened since, of course, but only when she was alone and nobody would know. Tears, like regrets, were ineffectual. Unless one was lucky enough to look endearing when sobbing copious tears, and Mary was not. She merely looked moist and droopy, as if she had a very bad cold, which had the effect of making people back away from her in alarm, rather than offer a hug of reassurance and comfort.

"Where's your bonnet?" her sister demanded.

Oh no. She had abandoned it to Deverell's clutches! What wickedness would befall her bonnet in his house?

Although she had tried to pretend his kisses did nothing to her, they had left her in a state of intoxication so that she could barely put one foot before the other. Hopefully he had not noticed. But now she was no better than those women who left dancing slippers— and probably a great many other things— behind in his house.

She licked her lips. They felt somewhat bruised, but warm too, despite the weather.

"I must have left it somewhere," she managed eventually, one hand checking that her hair was not in too great a disorder. "Never mind. It was a rather old and sad bonnet. If some beggar in the street has found it, they are welcome to keep it."

"Soon you shall be able to buy another, Mary my dear," Thaddeus exclaimed, "for I have more good news." He had fetched the ledger from under the counter. "A great many of our debtors have paid their bills today, quite suddenly. I wonder if it is the Christmas spirit we have to thank for all this."

Mary studied the ledger and saw that a handful of "PAST DUE"s were scratched out and "PAID IN FULL" written in, along with the amount.

"We shall have a very merry Christmas indeed," he added, eyes gleaming up at her through his spectacles.

She thought of Ransom Deverell reading that ledger upside down. the calculating light apparent under his lowered lashes. His gaze had scanned the lines in a matter of seconds, far less than a minute, as far as she knew. Yet he must have memorized the names and addresses of all those debtors.

Again there was no doubt in her mind that he was behind this change of fortune, however it was achieved. She was not certain she wanted to know how.

Why
had he done all this? Of all the things she'd ever overheard or read about that man, she would never guess him to be generous.

On the other hand, Mary already knew how gossip favored bad news and scandal. Good deeds were far less likely to be mentioned.

As her Uncle Hugo would remark airily, "The loudest critics are always those who have nothing good to say." Of course, being a man who liked to raise questions, tempers and eyebrows, Hugo always turned it to his advantage. "One must remember, a bad review often provides an artiste with their best exposure. A
very
bad review will make others curious to see for themselves. To be liked all the time would be a dreadful bore."

What she
did
know about Ransom Deverell for certain was that he always got what he wanted. Even Raven had told her that. He was outspoken and straightforward. And seldom still for long. She had seen for herself that he did not hide his attraction for a woman. On Wednesday she thought it was simply a habit of his, to flirt. But was this his method of seduction— to overcome her protests with gifts and favors?

Whatever he was up to, it would last only until another woman caught his eager eye.

Perhaps he merely felt pity for her. That idea rattled her Ashford Pride.

"Mary! You're pulling all the berries off that sprig of holly!"

She hastily dropped the partially massacred clump of seasonal cheer and left her sister to finish decorating the mantle.

Again she thought of Elizabeth Stanbury in his doorway that evening. And of the French whirlwind who had chased him down the street only a few days before. Of the other woman whose scent had clung to him when he came to her shop.

If I had a good woman, Mary Ashford, to put me to rights, I might become a worthier man. In time. Don't you think?

Such a man was impossible to trust or take seriously. But he was not— so she had discovered— difficult to smile at, or even to forgive for his blunders.

And it was certainly not at all challenging to become enchanted by that man. It was all too easy. Even to fall a little bit in love. Just a little. Not with her "whole being" this time.

Just a little in love. Nonsensical as it was for her to feel that way about Ransom Deverell.

He'd probably forgotten all about her already.

But when she glanced down, Mary realized she'd made a little arrangement of scarlet berries on the table, forming a dramatic letter R.

She allowed herself to look at it for just a moment, feeling rather naughty, and then, before anyone else might see, she quickly swept the berries into her palm and tossed them into the fire.

Whatever might happen to her bonnet in his custody, she almost envied the damnable thing.

Chapter Fourteen

Lady Charlotte had expressed an interest in meeting Violet, so Mary took her sister to Mivart's Hotel on her next visit. As she could have predicted— knowing her ladyship's penchant for pretty things— the introduction was a success.

"Violette is a charming, sweet little thing, and it is time I took on a new project," she told Mary. "I will chaperone her in society this winter, for I know how desperately frugal you are, Mary! No expense should be spared, and I shall see to it that it is not."

Many of Lady Charlotte's old connections in society no longer existed, since her scandalous marriage to True Deverell and then her even more scandalous divorce. However, she still clung bitterly to the few remaining "friends" and, since Raven married the Earl of Southerton, her circle had begun to enlarge again. Not liked by many, they considered her a necessary evil to remain on her influential son-in-law's good side, and she knew this. But she was not a woman to let dignity get in her way. She made the most of her daughter’s advancement.

"Do not look at me with that fearful expression, Mary. I have funds of my own and since my one and only daughter declines my assistance at present, why should I not find another protégée? Lord knows, I have tried with you, Mary, and you simply have no care for fashion. It is most frustrating for a woman of my tastes and sensitivities to be faced with you in that burgundy day gown that has been out of fashion for five years and has a visible darn at the elbow."

Violet beamed happily. "My sister prefers to be dowdy so that she is not smiled at in the street by gentlemen who are not respectable."

They both laughed and shook their heads at Mary, as if she was a little girl standing there with cake crumbs on her face and in her hair.

But she did not mind it. Putting up with Lady Charlotte's less than flattering remarks would be worthwhile if it gave Violet something to be happy about at last. It was also true, of course, that supervising this "debut" would give her ladyship something to occupy her mind, and keep her from thinking about Oxfordshire and her daughter. In addition, Mary's knowledge and interest in fashion could, in no way, satisfy her sister's thirst for that subject. All things considered it seemed an advantageous connection from both sides.

A few days later, a trip to the haberdashers was organized and soon Lady Charlotte and "Violette" were lost among the rolls of fabric, while Mary — with no book in her possession at that moment— was obliged to occupy her mind by reading an advertisement for Beecham's Pills and another beside it for French corsets and petticoat frames. She was just wondering whose idea it was to put women into cages, be they French or of any other origin, when she was aware of a warm movement of air behind her and then a deep male voice muttered,

"I do hope you're not thinking of purchasing one of those contraptions, Miss Ashford. Disguising the natural female shape in such an unwieldy manner, so that a man cannot admire it, is deplorable and vastly unfair. Disguising yours would be an abomination."

She turned quickly and found Deverell very close. It was almost a week since he had her brought to his house. By now she had expected him to forget about her entirely. But his eyes were just as heated and demanding today as they had been then. As if no time at all had elapsed since he kissed her, and as if their conversation had never been interrupted.

"You have no idea what my legs look like." Alas, that was the best she could do, too startled by his sudden appearance to prepare any better, more ladylike retort.

A devilish grin meandered across his mouth, as if it had all the time in the world. and she, equally lazy, watched it. "As I told you, there is nothing amiss with my imagination."

"What are you doing here?" Another remark blurted out. She felt sixteen again, light in the head and feet, capricious and scatter-brained.

"I like to keep an eye on the enemy."

"I beg your pardon?"

"If one wants to know what women are up to, a haberdashery is the ideal place. Here one learns all manner of secrets and tricks of the trade." He tapped the handle of his walking cane at the corset advertisement. "And be prepared for whatever devilry one might encounter. Under a lady’s clothes."

The man was exceedingly improper. He was also despicably handsome— and unavoidable in such close quarters. If he had the limbs of an octopus Mary could not have felt more surrounded. Anxiously glancing over his shoulder, to be sure no other customer in the shop was looking their way, she said, "Your mother is here. I'm certain she'll be pleased to see you."

"Is she, by Jove?" But he didn't turn to look. His dark gaze remained fixed upon Mary.

"Thank you, sir," she managed finally, "for the hamper of Yuletide cheer. I wish you had not gone to such trouble and expense. I cannot think why you did."

"Don't be unduly modest, Miss Ashford. It's very tiresome. You know why I did it. I am, if nothing else, straightforward in my purpose when I take pursuit."

Yes, but had she not made her position clear? She took a deep breath, which only succeeded in letting his scent invade her lungs, his presence filling her senses completely yet again. No floral undertones today, thank goodness.

Had he swayed toward her another half inch? She could have sworn she felt a sigh of breath against her temple, and the sly stroke of his finger moved the pleats of her skirt.

"You left your bonnet behind," he said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

"It does not matter. It is old and frayed. Burn it for all I care." That came out with more insolence than she'd meant, but his proximity and the powerful feelings he evoked, triumphed mercilessly over Mary's ability to remain unruffled and civil.

"As you desire. I prefer you without it in any case."

She looked up and found his gaze questing over her hair with the sort of blatant, lusty admiration a proper gentleman ought to hide. Her fingers itched to pull the hood of her cloak up again, just to keep him from looking. But her brain issued no approving command and so her hands remained at her sides, flapping about uselessly, as if they had turned into two ham slices.

Suddenly, much to her abject horror, he slid his hand through the opening in her cloak and settled his hand on her waist. It was heavy, warm, the fingers spread, the thumb stroking the material of her bodice.

"Mary," he whispered. "I could get you out of that corset as easily as I once got you free of that knotted string. Then I would show you exactly how imaginative I can be. I would tell you a story you won't find in one of your books, and I would do it all without a word spoken."

She urged her feet to move, but they were as helpless as her hands. He drew her closer still and his mouth...oh, his mouth touched her hair.

"You deserve much more than this. Never limit yourself."

In the next aching breath, he was gone again, striding out of the shop without another word. The door slammed loudly shut, and several folk looked over, curious.

Lady Charlotte was one whose attention had been caught, and she immediately gestured Mary over to the counter. "Was that my son? I thought it was him. The surly boy would not bother to greet me, would he?"

Mary gave no answer and pretended to peruse the fabric samples with her sister, although she could not touch them because her hands were trembling. What did he mean by saying she deserved more? More than what?

"I told him we were coming here today. One would think he'd take the time to stop and speak to his own mama. But I suppose I expect too much. He was here, no doubt, to buy some common slattern a trinket. Probably that actress hussy he's been running about with. What did he say to you, Mary?"

She swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that stuck there. "Nothing very much. I hardly heard. He seemed in a great hurry."

"Hmph. As always. Never a moment for polite conversation. I quite despair of him."

I am, if nothing else, straightforward in my purpose when I take pursuit.

It was ten years since anybody had seriously pursued Mary. Eight since her heart and pride were unceremoniously trampled. She had, as she was always telling Violet, resigned herself to her lot and her only hope now was to see her sister well and happily married. In the meantime she had her novels, the bookshop, and all those little things in which she took pleasure.

But was it enough for her?

You deserve much more than this
.

Even when her father and brothers were alive, nobody had ever suggested she deserved anything special. Daughters were never as important as sons. Women took whatever chance they were given and made what they could of it. They did not carve out their own opportunities, or else they were accused of being forward. It was not dignified to grasp. Certainly Mary had never dared suggest she wanted more than she was likely to be offered.

Why would she, when she did not know what else she could have?

Suddenly the possibilities before her had expanded.

As she glanced through the window of the haberdasher's, pretending to examine the weather, Mary saw that Ransom lingered outside the shop, apparently caught in conversation with another man. He ran fingers back through his hair and laughed. People passing on the street turned to look at him, because he was too beautiful to be ignored. Men and women alike stumbled into each other, too busy wondering who he was to pay heed to their steps on the crowded pavement.

But suddenly the hammering beat of Mary's heart ceased again when she saw a face from her past. There, across the street, also watching Ransom, was a tall, distinguished gentleman in a fine grey coat. His hair was a little whiter than it had been the last time she saw him, and the skin had a few more folds, but there was no mistaking the hard, proud features of George Stanbury.

She moved away from the window, fearing he might see her.

Then, chiding herself for being so foolish as to think he could see her in the window from across a busy street, she peered out again. This time he had crossed the road and was walking toward the shop. But his steps slowed. He stopped, half turned, consulted his fob-watch. People did not look at George as they passed, for there was nothing especially interesting that drew their notice, but she saw how they instinctively gave him a wide berth. His forbidding air of grandeur kept them from any attempt at contact, even that of the eye.

Had he seen her?

No. He walked on, passing the shop, moving with the flow of people, just a few feet behind Ransom Deverell.

She could breathe again. George Stanbury had no idea how close he came to being beaten by Violet's shoe.

* * * *

He had called in at the law offices of Stempenham and Pitt, but Damon was not there. A visit to the boy's lodgings also yielded nothing.

Deciding he did not have the time to trudge up and down town looking for his brother, just to give him bad news, Ransom gave up. Damon would find him when he was ready. In all likelihood the boy was sulking over a bottle of brandy somewhere, licking his wounds.

And Ransom had other, more pleasant, subjects upon which to dwell. Sitting in his office at the club, thinking about the sensuous arc of Mary's waist under his palm and the perfume of her hair, he grew restless again and got up to pace around his desk.

Finally his gaze fell to the book, still sitting where he had left it after unwrapping the parcel and reading her note of apology.

If you ever get around to reading that book I sent you, Mr. Deverell, then we might have something to talk about.

He had expected to be over this fascination by now, but it was worse, spreading throughout his body. And seizing his mind like some sort of tropical fever.

With a heavy sigh, he tapped one finger to the cover and then walked around his desk in the other direction to pour a brandy and light a cigar.

Below, in the club, business was brisk. The sound of male voices and laughter echoed up from the main floor. Later he would go down and walk around, greet some of the regulars, ensure that all ran smoothly. But for now he had a moment to himself.

He sat and reached for the book. Miss Ashford, for all her clever insights, did not know that Ransom had an extraordinary ability to read a vast number of pages in a short time. Not only that, but his mind absorbed the words and kept them there, exactly as he read them on the page. This was yet another peculiarity of his that irritated tutors and fellow students, and from the first moment he discovered this talent he used it to annoy them even more.

But one had to make one's entertainment somehow.

Wouldn't do any harm to peruse a few pages of this book Miss Ashford thought he might enjoy. Slowly he opened it and began to read.

I am born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously...

* * * *

Ransom did not leave the club until much later. It was full night by then, but the rain had paused and a handful of stars speckled the cold, inky black sky. The air tasted like snow. By morning the ground would have its first crust of white, no doubt.

After a few words with Miggs, who would close up that night, he set off for the house and his bed. For once he was actually looking forward to sleep. His thoughts had lately been so full of Mary Ashford that there was no room for the ghost of Sally White.

Ahead of him, in a pool of gas light, a figure stepped off the pavement and raised a hand in greeting.

"Deverell! I knew it was you."

He slowed the horse, wondering who it was, not recognizing the voice.

That crisp glitter of starry night sky was reflected too in a puddle that stretched across the road.

Those stars— first the pattern on the ground and then, once again, those in the sky— were the last thing he would remember seeing that night, just after he dismounted and the first blow struck the side of his head.