Reforming Lord Ragsdale (Carla Kelly’s Regency Romances)

Chapter 5

D usk was approaching when Lord Ragsdale arrived at his Grandmama Whiteacre’s house. He stood for a long time outside the building, admiring the stonework as he always did. The facade had been quarried from the same rockworks as many of Oxford’s buildings, and it glowed with that same otherworldly honey color of late afternoon. But the ivy was dead on the stones now, drooping in the drizzle that had begun as he crossed the Isis and hurried past her neighbor’s homes.

He never could think of the place as a home, no matter how hard he tried. There was none of the rest within that he ever associated with his own home. “And precious little of that on Curzon Street either, nowadays,” he mused out loud. He wished he understood what had happened to his own home. True, Lady Ragsdale kept it beautiful and timely as always, but he felt no peace there anymore. And there was none here.

As he stood in the rain, several lights came on. He didn’t want to go in. Grandmama would be there to pounce on him and scold him. Heaven knows she probably had plenty of charges in her arsenal. Sally would probably cry some more, and there would be Robert, pouting and looking ill-used. Mama would smile at him as though she knew something he didn’t. And Emma? Oh, dear .

At what point did I lose control of my life? he thought as he started toward the front door. When did everything become an exertion? He rubbed his forehead and wished that the rain did not slither down his clothes and onto his back. He knew that he could not face his grandmother.

He stared hard at the house again, and there was Emma standing in the window. She stood as he was already used to seeing her, with her hands folded in front of her, the very stillness of her impressive to him, for all that he disliked her. He could not make out any of her features, but he knew it was Emma.

As he watched, he thought she raised her hand to him in a small gesture of greeting. He could not be sure, because the light was so dim, so he did not return the gesture. Besides all that, she was his servant.

My servant! he chided himself as he lifted his hand to the knocker, and Applegate—grayer but supercilious-looking as ever—allowed him to enter. Why on earth didn’t I just let Robert lose her at the turn of the card? He might even have won, and either road, I would still have my horses. “Yes, what, Applegate?” he asked in annoyance.

“I merely wished you good evening, my lord,” Applegate repeated, sounding, if anything, even more disdainful than Lord Ragsdale remembered.

“Oh, very well,” Lord Ragsdale snapped. “Applegate, am I in my usual room?”

“Of course, my lord,” the butler replied as though he addressed a dim-witted child. “My mistress wishes to see you first, however. If you will follow me, my lord?”

“I’d rather not,” John said honestly as the footman grasped the back of his coat and helped him out of the wet garment.

It was Emma. “She especially requested that you visit her in the blue room, my lord,” she reinforced as she held out her hand for his hat.

He handed it to her. “No relief for the wicked, eh, Emma?” he asked, no humor in his voice .

“Not in your case, my lord,” she replied promptly.

Applegate coughed and looked away as Lord Ragsdale nailed Emma with a frown. John slapped his gloves in her hand. “I should have left you at the Norman and Saxon,” he murmured.

“It’s a mystery to me why you did not,” she responded, the lilt in her voice so prominent.

He shook his finger at her, ready to give her a share of what remained of his frazzled mind. Applegate coughed again, so he swallowed his angry words and followed the butler down the hall. He looked back at Emma once to give her another evil stare, but there she stood again, as calm as usual. Curse me, but you are irritating , he thought.

To his infinite relief, only Grandmama waited to pounce on him in the blue room. He was spared more of Sally’s tears and Robert’s distemper. He would have liked a pitcher of whiskey, but his grandmother handed him a cup of tea.

“Well, John, what do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded after the maid fled the room.

He took a sip of the tea and pronounced it insipid. In silence for a moment, he gazed back at his relative, wondering what imp was suddenly at work in his brain. “Grandmama, why do you always greet me that way?” he asked, determined not to be afraid of her this trip. “I cannot remember a time since I was out of short pants that you addressed me otherwise.” He sat down beside her. “It is not my fault that our American relatives are sadly wanting.”

There , he thought, I have counterattacked. He took another sip and regarded his relative, noting that all the females of the Whiteacre side of the family were blessed with pretty faces, from Grandmama to Sally. I wonder why I never saw that before , he thought as he took another sip, winked at the old lady, and set down the cup. Of course, they don’t have Emma’s high looks, but— what is in this tea? I must be losing my mind. Emma has put an Irish curse on me. He stared into the tea, his hastily acquired aplomb in serious danger already .

If he was going insane right there in the blue room, Grandmama did not appear to notice. She choked over her tea and glared at him. “It is ill-bred to wink, John,” she reminded him.

Recovering, he smiled to himself, happy to have set her off guard. “Tell me what you think of the Claridges, my love,” he said, delighted to watch her choke again at his unexpected endearment.

She scowled at him. “Pathetic!” She wagged a heavily ringed finger in front of his face. “And so I told my daughter it would be when she insisted on marrying that American.” She snorted in disgust. “Sally cried until my ankles started getting wet, and Robert could only say how ill you had treated him.”

“Silly of me, wasn’t it?” he commented. “I wouldn’t let him gamble his servant away to a lecher.” He paused and took a thorough, if covert, look at his grandparent. It was always hard to measure her mellowness, but Lord Ragsdale turned on his most blinding smile and ventured. “By the way, Grandmama, how would you like another maid around the place?”

Grandmama let out a crack of laughter. “Not so easy! She’s all yours, John! I hear from my daughter that you spent a fortune in horseflesh for her.”

“I didn’t have any choice!” he shouted, his desperation returning. “Grandmama, what am I going to do with Emma Costello?”

“Buck up, John,” she retorted. “I never would have taken you for a whiner.”

She finished her tea, refilled it half full from the pot at her elbow, and handed the cup to him, gesturing with her head to the cherrywood cabinet against the far wall. “Put in a drop of brandy before your mother returns,” she ordered. “I expect you’ll find some use for Emma, if you’re any grandson of Lord Whiteacre. Besides all that, she’s prettier than your mistress. ”

He stopped at the sideboard, his hand on the brandy, and then poured in more than a drop. “Madam, pigs will fly before I would even consider kissing Emma Costello’s cheek!” He doused his own tea with enough brandy to cause a blaze if he sat too close to the fire.

She took the tea and nodded at him, triumphant to have the upper hand again. “It doesn’t surprise me that you should mention pork when you think of your light-skirt.”

He glared at her in exasperation, wondering why he could not ever win an argument with this feeble old woman. “Fae is a fine-looking woman,” he said, trying to inject the proper amount of injury into his voice and avoid any suggestion that he was getting a little tired of her. “I prefer women with a little avoir du pois ,” he stated. That was true enough. However, the Irish woman did have a pleasant shape, even if she was a trifle thin.

But this was no time to allow the mind to wander, and his cause was not being served by the fumes that rose from his teacup. “If you will not help me, m’dear,” he said after a long, thoughtful sip, “give me some suggestions. Mama has already arranged to have a lady’s maid waiting for Sally when we return. You know, someone who knows the ins and outs of life here better than Emma would. And I assure you I will not leave Emma within ten miles of Robert Claridge, no matter how she irritates me.”

“You could put her in the kitchen, John,” Grandmama said, taking another sip of her brandied tea, and held out the cup for more. “That’s a good place for the Irish.” She giggled.

“Not Emma,” he said, wondering how she would fare belowstairs with the servants he employed. Besides that, as much as he disliked her, he couldn’t ignore Emma’s obvious intelligence anymore than he could overlook her trim shape. The kitchen was no place for Emma, no matter how much she richly deserved to be sentenced there.

“This becomes difficult,” he told his grandmother as he laced their tea with a little more brandy. “I don’t need her, Mama and Sally don’t need her, the kitchen would be better off without her. . .” He went to the window and grasped the frame as the room wobbled. “Maybe she can clust and dean. I mean, dust and clean.”

Grandmama made no reply. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. Her head drooped on her chest, and she was beginning to snore. He sighed and rested his head against the window frame. What was he going to do with Emma?

~

To Lord Ragsdale’s infinite relief, Robert Claridge allowed himself to be taken quietly to Brasenose College in the morning. The two of them rode in silence through the narrow streets of Oxford, which already bustled with scholastic purpose. Lord Ragsdale introduced his sullen cousin to the warden and gave him his back without a qualm. After Robert had been ushered away, he spent more time with the warden, urging that worthy to let him know of any infractions.

“He’s a worthless young man, sir,” Lord Ragsdale concluded. “Had I known the extent of his worthlessness, I would never have moved heaven and earth to foist him upon you at this juncture of the term. But here he is, sir.”

The warden regarded him with some amusement. “Do you have any sons of your own yet, Lord Ragsdale?”

“I do not, sir.”

The warden smiled at him. “You cannot imagine, then, how many variations of your conversation I have heard before.”

He paused and Lord Ragsdale understood. “My own father, eh?” he asked, with just a ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

“Yes, my lord. Somehow we managed to turn you into someone acceptable to the world at large. I suspect we will succeed with this American too.”

Lord Ragsdale managed a reluctant smile. “The Brasenose touch, sir? ”

“Exactly, my lord. I think we can render him sufficiently busy to keep him from the gaming table.” The warden rose and held out his hand. “I will attempt to warn him with the perils of serving in the ranks, should he choose to indulge in a gaming career within our walls. Good day, my lord.”

Grandmama Whiteacre kindly loaned him a horse and saddle for the return to London so it was not necessary to stifle himself inside the family carriage this time. The day was no warmer than before, but at least it did not snow. His horse, serviceable if somewhat elderly, plodded sedately alongside the carriage where Mama read, Sally slept, and Emma continued her everlasting stare out the window. He watched her and resolved to turn her over to his butler. Emma Costello could polish silver or clean out drains, for all he cared.

London was already foggy with the light of many street lamps when the carriage turned onto Curzon Street and released its grateful occupants. Lord Ragsdale remained on his horse. “Mama, I am off to White’s,” he told her. Lady Ragsdale, shaky and pale from a day’s travel, nodded to him as Emma helped her from the carriage. The front door opened, and Lasker stood there with the footman and Mama’s dresser behind him.

He left them without another qualm, praying that traffic would not be so terrible on St. James that he would be kept long from the brandy he had been thinking about all day. He would sink into his favorite leather chair, a full bottle near his hand, and pronounce himself liberated from all further exertions. Fae would be glad enough to see him later, he was sure. In her own practiced fashion, she would remove any rough edges that remained from the day. That was what he paid her for.

As he was dismounting in front of White’s, he was struck by the thought that this was what he had done the day before yesterday, and the day before that. Barring any unforeseen eventualities, he would do it all again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. The thought dug him in the stomach, and he clutched the reins tighter, ignoring the porter who stood by to receive them.

Something of his unexpected agony must have crossed his face. In a moment, he heard the porter ask, “My lord, my lord, are you all right?”

He looked down at the little man, and after another long moment, handed him the reins. “I am fine,” he said, fully aware for the first time that he was lying. He had never been worse. As he went slowly up the steps and into the main hall, he realized that he would probably never be better, either. This was his life. Mercy , he thought to himself. Mercy.

The milkmen were already making their rounds when he returned to Curzon Street. His head was large as usual. He had drunk too much brandy at White’s and then compounded the felony at Fae’s by falling asleep, which irritated Fae. She muttered something she refused to repeat.

The house was dark and silent. In another hour or so, the kitchen staff, with yawns and eye rubs, would gird itself for another day of cooking, and the upstairs maids would answer tugs on the bell pulls with tea and hot water. Lord Ragsdale listed slowly down the hall toward the stairs, which loomed insurmountable before him. I think I will sit down here until they shrink , he thought as he grasped the banister to keep it from leaping about, and started to lower himself to the second tread. To his relief, it did not disappear. He sank down gratefully, leaned against the railing, and closed his eyes.

He opened them a moment later. He was not alone on the stairs. Someone else sat nearby. He turned his head slowly, wondering what he would do if it was a sneak thief or cutpurse come to rob and murder them all. Lord Ragsdale sighed philosophically and sat back to wait for the knife between his ribs. At least when they found his sprawled corpse at the foot of the stairs, the constable would think that he had died there defending his family. It would be rather like Thermopylae , he thought, and giggled .

“All right, do your worst,” he managed finally, looking around.

In another moment, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman sat near the top of the stairs, asleep and leaning against the railing. He looked closer and sighed again. Heavens, it’s Emma Costello , he thought, the plague of my life. As he watched her, his mind began to clear and he wondered what she was doing there. Surely she was not waiting up for him.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she had no place to sleep. He remembered his mother mentioning something about hiring a proper lady’s maid for Sally. The woman must have arrived and usurped Emma’s place in the dressing room. He stared at Emma and wondered why his mother had not done anything about the situation, until he remembered her exhausted face as her own maid helped her from the carriage. Mama must have gone directly to bed, too tired for a thought about Emma.

And here she was now, at the mercy of his staff, and asleep on the stairs. He felt an unexpected twinge of remorse, remembering his own disparaging words about her to his butler. The staff knew how he felt about the Irish.

“Emma,” he called out softly, not wishing to startle her into a plunge down the stairs.

He called her name several times before she straightened up, moving her head slowly as though her neck hurt. She was silent a moment. “My lord?” she finally asked, not sure of her answer.

“The very same,” he replied. “Emma, what are you doing sleeping on my stairs?”

She was silent a long moment, and he wondered if she still slept. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said finally. “It seems that all I do is apologize to you. I don’t have a place to sleep.”

He didn’t say anything. After another small silence, she rose and shook out her skirts. “I’ll go find the back stairs, my lord,” she mumbled. “I can sleep there.”

Without quite knowing why, he put out his hand to stop her .

“Just a moment, Emma,” he said. “Help me up, will you?”

She could have left him there, and by morning’s light, he probably would have put the whole thing down to an imaginary alcoholic haze. Someone else would find him and help him to bed, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Emma would sleep on the stairs for a few more nights until his mother got wind of the situation and straightened things out below-stairs. It didn’t have to be his worry.

He was about to withdraw his hand when she clasped it firmly in her own and, with one swift movement, tugged him to his feet. He swayed on the stairs, and she quickly grasped him around the waist and commanded him to take up his bed and walk. It was a voice of command, resounding inside his head, crashing around from ear to ear until he wanted to whimper and crawl into a corner. Instead, he did as she ordered, putting one foot in front of the other until he was outside the door to his own room.

“I’ll be all right now,” he gasped. “You can let go.”

Other servants had helped him to his room before. Practice told him that he could negotiate the distance from the door to his bed and throw himself down on it, not to rise until afternoon or the resurrection, whichever came first. He tried to turn her loose, but she would not budge. Suddenly he realized, in spite of his weakened state, that the rules had changed.

“I’ll see you to your bed,” she insisted, her voice low but carrying into his brain where her earlier words still careened off his skull. “I’ll not give you the satisfaction of telling someone tomorrow that your shanty Irish servant did you an injury, no matter how richly you deserve one,” she assured him.

She lowered him to his bed, and he flopped there. In another moment his shoes were off, and she was covering him with a blanket.

“That should hold you until morning,” she said.

His head throbbing beyond belief, he waited like a wounded animal for her to hurry up and leave. To his chagrin, she stared around his room until her vision rested on his untidy desk. He watched stupidly as she shook her head in amazement at the ruin of his life.

Then the whole thing made him giggle. He tried to raise up on one elbow, but he seemed to have misplaced his arm. He remained where he was, content to watch the two of her. “Reform me, Emma,” he said, and then hiccupped.

“You are disgusting, Lord Ragsdale,” she said at last, each word as distinct and penetrating as a bell. She shook her head. “I never saw a more worthless man, much less served one.” Her words boomed about in his skull some more. She went to his desk and rummaged about for a moment. He raised up his head to watch her sit down at his desk, clear off a spot, and put ink to paper.

She sat there quite awhile, crumpling two sheets of paper and then resting her elbows on the desk as she contemplated him lying helpless and drunk on his bed. In another moment, she dipped the quill in the inkwell again and wrote swiftly, pausing at last to read over what she had written in the dim light. She nodded, picked up the paper and the ink, and came back to the bed.

“Emma, would you get out of my room?” he insisted, wishing he did not sound so feeble.

“Not until you sign this,” she replied, sitting down next to him.

“Here.” She thrust the paper under his nose.

He tried to wave away the paper, but she would not relent.

“What is it?” he asked finally. “At least tell me that.”

“It has to do with what you just said, my lord,” she said. “You have given me such an idea. Now sign, and then I will leave you.”

Said? Said? What did I say? he thought wildly. I really must stop drinking so much. He closed his eyes, but she rattled the paper at his ear.

As drunk as he was, Lord Ragsdale knew that he could leave the paper alone, roll over, and go to sleep. She would go away eventually, and he would be in peace. Nothing would change. By evening he would be at White’s again and drunk, or at Fae’s and miserable. He was on the verge of sleep when Emma Costello touched his hair. She smoothed it back from his sweaty face and rested her hand for a moment on his head. “Sign, my lord,” she ordered, her voice softer now, and held out the quill to him.

He grasped the pen and managed to scrawl out his name. He closed his eyes then and relaxed as she stood up. He reached for her hand. “Emma, please tell me that I have just released you from that unpleasant indenture. Then you can go away and I will be happy,” he said. It was his longest speech of the evening, and his head lolled to one side.

I should worry , he thought when she started to laugh. Have I signed away my fortune to this Irish harpy? But she was speaking now, and he strained to listen.

“Lord Ragsdale, I owe you two thousand pounds, and I will pay this debt,” she was saying.

“How?” he managed at last, wondering at the effort it took to form the word.

“By reforming you, my lord, now that I have your written consent. It was your idea. Good night.”