Ransom Redeemed (9 page)

"I know, in time, it must all come out and father will be made aware," Damon groaned, fingers drumming against his glass. "But before that happens I'll be on my feet. Elizabeth and I will be living together. If I present father with a
fait accompli
, what can he say? I'll prove to him I can manage this and weather the scandal. When I was sixteen he told me that if I thought I was old enough to make decisions about my life I had better be prepared to face the consequences too. So here I am. I'm not a boy. I own up to my mistakes and don't run from them."

Ransom had been about to pour another brandy, but instead he replaced the crystal stopper in the decanter and picked up his cigar. Again he thought of Miss Mary Ashford's quiet voice.

I wouldn't run away. Usually, problems are better dealt with at once, rather than put off. It saves everybody a vast deal of trouble.

He got up, walked to the window and looked out.

"I'm sorry," Damon muttered behind him. "I didn't mean to bring that up."

"Bring what up?"

"The accident and... Sally White's death."

Ransom stared at his reflection in the window. He had not been thinking of Sally White. For the first time in years she hadn't been hovering there in the shadows. Instead his mind had been caught up on another woman, another face. It shocked him to be reminded of Sally again so suddenly.

Reflected in the glass he counted the deep lines furrowed across his brow, the weariness in his expression betraying so many nights without good, solid sleep. His shirt sleeves, rolled up to his elbows, shone white in the window, one moving like a wing as he lifted the cigar back to his mouth. "You mean that Sally's death was one of my mistakes and you suggest that I ran away from it?"

"No, I didn't mean that. I spoke about facing consequences and not running away before I realized how it might sound. You know what people say about all that and about you. But I don't think the same as them. Of course, I don't."

He knew his brother referred to the fact that he'd left Sally on the moor after the accident and that when she was first reported missing he had not told anybody he was with her. His failure to be honest immediately had, of course, increased the suspicion against him later when her body was found. The truth was, Ransom simply hadn't been able to find her after he regained consciousness and so he assumed she'd wandered off or met someone else— an absurd, all-too convenient assumption perhaps, although at the time he was not thinking with clarity at all. He had been just as bloody stupid, arrogant and unthinking as every other twenty-four-year old. As Damon was now.

But Ransom didn't want to talk about Sally White, so he said, "If I give you employment here in the evenings, what will happen to your position at Stempenham and Pitt?"

"I'll manage both, if I can. It shouldn't be difficult. If not, I'll quit the law."

And their father would come to London at once, looking for blood. He would blame Ransom, undoubtedly, for "encouraging" or "supporting" Damon's abrupt change of direction. Apparently the boy thought money would come quicker, easier and more abundantly working at Deverell's. With Ransom as his employer he no doubt expected a comfortable sinecure.

"But you refuse to discuss this decision with our father?"

"Not until he
must
know. Once I have everything well sorted... with Elizabeth."

Ransom strode back to his desk. "Well, if you won't seek his advice, you must let me meet this woman."

Damon exhaled a curt laugh. "To ask her intentions?"

"Yes. Why not? For your own good. For all we know she could be seeking to unload her child on you simply because you're a Deverell."

"Of course, you never trust anybody outside the family, do you?"

"With good reason." Some within the family were equally untrustworthy, but that he left unsaid.

"Very well. If you want to meet Elizabeth, I'll arrange it. I'll send her to you."

"Good. Send her to the house in a day or two, not here. Then we'll decide what we should do."

"We?"

"You're asking for my help, are you not? I can't tell you what to do— wouldn't try. But I
can
give you advice."

Reluctantly the young man agreed. He stood and reached across the desk toward the little pile of books that sat there. "What's this? Etiquette and manners?" He laughed, rocking back slightly on his heels. "
You
?"

"A woman sent them to me in error."

"How odd. What woman would be mad enough to send you books like these? Who is she?"

"Just...a woman."

Damon's eyes sparked with amusement. "I do hope, whoever she is, she does not think to change you, brother."

"Definitely not."

"Perhaps I should meet her and find out her intentions. For
your
own good."

"Most amusing. Considering your predicament, Damon, I'm astonished that you can find something to laugh at."

"Ha!" His brother's head tipped back as another guffaw exploded from his mouth. "Now you sound just like father. Are you turning into him in your old age? I confess myself disappointed, as you were always the one who said nothing should be taken seriously. I thought I would never get a lecture at least, if I came to you. Out of anybody I thought you would understand."

Naturally, Damon did not want to disappoint their father, or sully his image as the golden boy of the family. So when he found himself in difficulties he came instead to his ne'er-do-well half-brother, unloaded his troubles, and kept his own shining halo intact. For the time being.

Ransom managed a smile, clapped his brother firmly on the shoulder and sent him on his way with the reminder to send his pregnant lover for an interview. "I'll do what I can, but I still think you should stay at Stempenham and Pitt. Don't waste your education. Be patient. Father has great hopes for you."

"And that's another thing! Father never needed an education or patience. He managed brilliantly without either." Then he pointed at the books again and scoffed, "Those too. He would laugh at etiquette lessons."

Ransom opened his office door to see the boy out. "Imagine what he might have achieved if he
had
read a book once in a while."

Thus Mary Ashford was back again, wandering across his moor.

"Just imagine how much more successful you might have been, if you managed to pick up a novel once in a while,"
she exclaimed pertly, looking up to address the falcon that perched amid the bare branches of its tree
.

Where the hell had he seen her face before? The more he thought of it, the more certain he was that he knew her from somewhere. It was as if she'd been there all along.

"Have you heard from Justify?" Damon stopped just outside the door. "When he was on leave this autumn we were supposed to meet, but he didn't arrive. It's not like him to say he'll be somewhere and then not turn up."

"I believe your brother had much on his mind at the time. I saw him only briefly this summer."

But long enough for Justify to ask for his help, turning to Ransom out of desperation. Just as they all did lately.

"Don't mention any of this to him...about Elizabeth," Damon muttered. "He'd never approve. He's always so damned upright and proper."

"Of course." But everybody had their secrets— even the most upstanding and honorable Naval Captain Justify Deverell. And for some reason, Ransom had become the brother to whom they all divulged these furtive matters. The brother to whom they looked for help, even though his own life frequently teetered out of control.

Did it make them feel better to give him custody of their problems, he wondered?

They didn't offer to help
him
, of course. But then he wouldn't ask.

He was beyond redemption, and everybody knew that.

As he looked across at the books on his desk again, it occurred to him that he'd appointed Miss Mary Ashford to an impossible, thankless task that morning.
Save me
, he'd said to her.

He couldn't remember, in the whole of his thirty years, ever asking anybody for help before. Not for anything.

Chapter Eight

To Miss Ashford;

I find these worthy tomes are not suited to me after all, and so I return them to your shelves. However, I appreciate the attempt to improve my mind, which is sadly sunk beyond rescue. So I have enclosed ten pounds for your services and inconvenience. I feel it would be remiss of me not to pay for the time you spent and the patience with which you tolerated such a troublesome customer.

Yours sincerely,

The King of Siam.

* * * *

On that Wednesday night, when sleep finally claimed him, Ransom was not chased by Sally White's ghost. Instead he dreamed of running between the shelves of a cluttered bookshop, but he was the one chasing, and had no idea who or what he chased after. Then he stumbled and managed to knock all the bookshelves over, one after the other, like dominos.

Waking as the last shelf tumbled, shaking the floor under his feet, Ransom realized he was still in his office at the club, having stayed the night on a couch as he often did if it was a busy evening. The couch was old and worn, but comfortable enough and there was no real reason to go back to the house. Nobody waited for him there. He only made more mess for the staff when he was in residence.

Briefly, with a little pang, he thought of Belle. Sweet-scented, soft-skinned, uncomplicated Belle. He wondered whether he ought to send her a gift and make it up to her for yesterday. Perhaps he'd been hasty in sending her off. She did have her good qualities...

But no, it was best to nip this thing in the bud before she became even more possessive and somebody got hurt. Miss Ashford was right about that.

Ah yes, Miss Ashford. Yesterday he'd met a different sort of woman.

Encountered might be a better word. Ran into her as painfully as he ran into that gas lamp in the street.

Sometimes a man knew when an event of significance had occurred in his life; sometimes he didn't know whether it was good or bad, just that it was noteworthy.

And that was what she was.

He took a deep breath and stretched his arms up before bending them behind his head.

Surprisingly, this morning, for the first time in many years, he woke refreshed. The possibilities for his day seemed unusually bright.

How long had he slept? As his gaze wandered around the room, he spied his pen dropped to the blotter beside an ink stain and a list of names. Ah, yes. That was the last thing he did last night after writing his note to Miss Ashford and before dropping to the couch. Or was it very early this morning? In any case, at some point he'd decided to send those books back to the thorny bookseller and had sent a messenger boy off with the package. Better he not keep any reminder of her, he'd thought, for every time he glanced at that little pile of books he found her in his mind again, mocking him with her eyes, distracting him from his business. A puzzling, quick-witted, clever, challenging woman, the very opposite of any he ever sought out. She simply had to go.

Alas, this morning Miss Ashford was apparently still at large on his moor, despite repeated efforts to chase her off. She looked up at him with clear grey eyes, her chapped fingers tugging on his sleeve for attention.

Ransom smiled when he thought of what she would say when she saw those books returned. Ha! He liked to have the last word.

Fully awake at last, he got up and opened the sash window. It was raining out, but he enjoyed the feel of rain on his face, especially in the early morning.

Far below, the street was slowly coming to life. Flower sellers called out in sing-song voices as they wandered by with their baskets. A stout woman sold oranges from a barrel on wheels, and beside her a man puffed on a tobacco pipe while setting up his baked potato stall. It was cold and the air was smoky, as well as damp, not to mention slightly redolent of moldy cabbage leaves and horse dung. But this concoction of scents, sounds and sights was something Ransom relished. He liked the chaos of it, that feeling of standing in the midst of an ever-changing bazaar— one rich with color, drama and spice.

That was why he loved managing Deverell's, for it too was full of life, unpredictable and always evolving.

He took a deep, lusty breath of that good, honest, filthy London air, and blinked the rain from his eyelashes.

As he looked down to the awning over the steps of Deverell's, he saw a woman in a blue bonnet, with a covered basket under one arm, hastening away from the building. She glanced up at the sky, just once, squinting against the drizzle and then stopped to buy an orange.

"Ash—Mary—Miss—Miss —Ford—Ashford!" He could barely get the name out, taken by such surprise that he didn't know what to do first. Not looking up again, she paused on the pavement, waiting to cross the street.

"Miss Ashford," he shouted again, louder this time, startling a pigeon from the ledge outside his window. Alas, a large carriage drawn by four horses thundered by at that moment and then she hurried away across the street with her head bowed against the rain, putting the orange into her basket.

Ransom left the window and ran out of his office. For the second morning in a row he found himself tumbling and tripping down a set of stairs, but this time he was not the one running away. Just like his strange dream, he was the one who gave chase— he, who had never chased after anything or anyone in his life.

Miggs was just closing the front door of the club with one hand and yawning wide.

"Look out," Ransom exclaimed, pushing his way by. "Why did you let her get away?" Not stopping to hear an answer, he dashed out, down the steps and along the pavement, looking for that blue bonnet.

He was half way across the road, dodging carriages and horses, before he realized how bizarre it was that he should be chasing after a woman. Even then he didn't stop until he was forced to admit he'd lost her while turning a corner onto Jermyn Street. The crowds were thicker already now, the narrow street full of people charging this way and that. He didn't stand a chance of finding her on foot. And his shirt sleeves were now soaked as the rain came down full force.

But he knew where to find her anyway, did he not?

Of course.

What an idiot he was! If he really wanted to see her again, he could. Any time he wanted. Just had to find his way to that funny little bookshop hidden down an alley. If his messenger had found it, he could too.

Comforted by this thought, he turned to go back and then spied her blue bonnet as she walked into a shop across the street.

At once he hurried across, dodging between carriages, until he found himself at the window of a pawnbroker's establishment.

Holding his breath rather than steam up the glass, he peered inside and saw her there, in the shadowy depths of the shop, conferring with a plump, mustachioed fellow. She reached into her basket and brought out something in her hand, holding it so nervously for the man's appraisal that she almost dropped it.

Suddenly Ransom felt something strange. He couldn't put a name to it, but he knew he couldn't let her see him there. So he spun around and hurried back to St. James Street and the club, where Miggs held the door for him, that big, round face looking quietly amused.

"Did you enjoy that brisk morning constitutional, sir?"

"Yes," he snapped, running fingers back through his wet hair. "It was most...bracing."

"I would have recommended a hat and coat, sir. Perhaps even an umbrella, next time you go out in the rain after a bit o' petticoat."

"Thank you, Miggs." Still breathless, he added, "That was Miss Mary Ashford, was it not?"

"She didn't give her name, sir."

"Well, what did she say? Why didn't you let her in?"

Miggs stumbled to a halt and stared in surprise. An overly dramatic sort of surprise. "Women aren't allowed in the club. It's the rules."

"Well, I know women aren't allowed, of course, for Christ's sake! But the club isn't open at this moment and when she asked for me you should have let her in out of the damned rain."

Both hands behind his back, Miggs looked quizzical. "But she didn't ask for you, sir."

"She didn't...she didn't ask for me?"

"No, sir."

Now he really felt foolish. What the devil was wrong with him? Fancy racing after a bloody woman, getting drenched in a downpour, then finding her and running away again. Had he lost his mind? Were there not enough women plaguing his life already, without him chasing after that one?

Miggs sniffed loudly through his squashed, misshapen nose and abruptly held out a package that he must have been hiding behind his back the entire time. "She left this though. And, by crikey, look at that! It has your name on it, so it does."

Ransom scowled. "Then why didn't you say so, for the love of—"

"If I'd known she were an important bit o' petticoat, Mr. Deverell, as opposed to the usual soggy crumpet," Miggs cracked a slow, cheeky grin, "I would have made her come in, even though she said she were in a hurry and couldn't stay."

Snatching the package from the other man's hands, Ransom made some attempt to retrieve a little dignity. "Make sure this carpet gets well scrubbed today. It's looking grubby. And the glass chimneys on the lamps in the dining room could do with a clean."

"Yes, sir. I'll make certain."

"What about this chandelier? It's time all the crystal was washed. I want to see it shining and twinkling like new tonight."

"Yes, sir. I'll see to it. Don't you worry yourself. I can see you've other matters on your mind."

"Indeed I do. When you have a moment, come up to my office, will you, Miggs? I've got a list of people to whom I need you to pay a visit."

"A visit, sir?"

"Yes. On behalf of an acquaintance. A matter of business."

"Very good, sir."

With a satisfied nod, Ransom hurried back up to his office, carrying the parcel under his arm, not wanting to open it in front of anybody. The paper was damp with rain, the ink smudged, but yes, that was his name written there in her neat penmanship. Spelled correctly.

Had she walked all the way to St. James Street in the rain? She must have set off soon after receiving his parcel of returned books, which meant she was a very early riser and not afraid of walking a fair distance. That fussy doctor chap wouldn't like to know she'd been out chancing her health so carelessly.

But she did so for him. Well, not just for him— clearly she had other errands.

Damn it all to blazes, why was he sweating like an adolescent with his first fancy?

Impatient he tore open the wrapper and found a book with her note.

Dear Sir;

Please accept my apologies for the selection I previously sent to you in error. It was remiss of me not to provide you with reading material that you might find pleasurable. I would never want to dissuade a man from reading, and I fear my attitude yesterday has done that very thing.

Enclosed you will find a copy of 'David Copperfield' by Mr. Charles Dickens, very newly published as a complete novel. I hope you will find this story to your liking, as it concerns the struggles of a boy who overcomes much adversity in life.

Again, I must tender my deepest apology for yesterday. I'm afraid I released in your presence some anger that
you
had not earned with me, and I should hate for that mistake to ruin any chance I might have of encouraging a new reader.

In the words of Mr. Dickens himself —

"Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, cannot be renewed."

Yours sincerely,

M. A.

He stared at the letter for quite some time. Nobody, in their sober mind, had ever apologized to Ransom Deverell before. Not for anything. He didn't have the first idea how to take it. Was he even deserving of an apology? She seemed to think so.

When he turned the note over he found another line of her neat writing along the edge.

If you are agreeable, I shall deliver more books, once you have completed this one, until your ten pounds is spent to the fullest.

He had to smile at her determination to turn him into a reader.

Good of the wench to care, he supposed, even if her effort was wasted on him.

But what was in it for her? A mere ten pounds, unless she had some sly trick up her sleeve.
She must be up to something devious; she was a woman, wasn't she? Aha! Perhaps she merely wanted an excuse to visit him. Wench was obviously smitten.

Lingering over her letter, he traced the words with one finger, even smelling the paper to find her scent. As if that might tell him more.

This was bad; he was clearly in danger of letting her remain on his moor, and forgetting his rules about women. It was all the fault of her lips. Or her eyes. Or her chapped fingers. Even the way she walked away from him had a certain inexplicable allure! Since when had the back of a woman's neck, as he followed her down a crowded street, become a matter for warm contemplation? Or the slightest tilt of her head caused him to wonder what she was thinking?

Oh, Miss Mary Ashford was trouble indeed, if she did this to him without even trying.

Now to the matter of that list of names he had for Miggs...

Because he
would
have the last word, whether that stubborn woman liked it or not.