Reforming Lord Ragsdale (Carla Kelly’s Regency Romances)

Chapter 7

E mma spent the rest of the morning in the book room, sorting through the clutter of bills, many of them unopened, that resided in dusty piles on the desk. As she arranged them chronologically, oldest first, she found herself wondering how Lord Ragsdale had managed to keep himself out of Newgate. Does this man ever pay a bill? she thought as she frowned over requests for payment from liquor wholesalers, procurers of livestock feed, and mantua makers.

Mantua makers? She scrutinized the bill at arm’s length and then remembered that Lady Whiteacre in Oxford had mentioned a mistress. Well, at least she’s stylish , Emma thought as she created a separate pile for bills from modistes, milliners, cobblers, and sellers of silk stockings and perfumes. I had a pair of silk stockings once , she thought as she picked up the bill. I will not think about that.

But she did think about it, leaning back in the chair as she sniffed at the faintly scented paper. I wonder who is living in our house now , she thought. I hope they have not made too many changes. Mama had such exquisite taste.

“Now, Emma, you know you cannot think about her,” she said out loud and put down the paper. She knew she had to think of something else, so she concentrated on the house again. The china was gone, of course. The last sound she remembered as they were dragged from the front door was the crash and tinkle of china as the soldiers rampaged through.

Ah, well, the view is still the same , she reminded herself. Even British soldiers cannot move the Wicklow Mountains. She closed her eyes, thinking of the green loveliness of it all and knowing that she would never see her home again. True, Virginia had been a reasonable substitute, and she knew that she could return there with some peace of mind when this onerous indenture was fulfilled. Emma rested her chin on her hand. Springs could be soft there, with redbud, flowering dogwood, and azalea, but she knew in her heart that there would never be the shades of green from home, no matter how hard Virginia tried.

And so I must forget , she thought and picked up another stack of bills. There is an Englishman here who should keep me sufficiently occupied. He is utterly without merit and ought to occupy my mind to such a degree that I do not have time to remember.

“Seriously, Hanley, how does Lord Ragsdale keep himself from debtor’s prison?” she asked the footman, who stuck his head in the room an hour later to see how she did. She indicated the neat piles on the desk and in her lap. “He hasn’t paid a bill in at least three months. I can’t find any posting books with accounts. Do you know where they would be kept?”

The footman looked around at the order she was creating out of catastrophe, his eyes appreciative. “Gor, miss, there’s wood on that desk after all!” he joked.

Emma smiled and indicated a chair beside the desk. “What is his secret, Hanley?”

“Simple, miss. He’s richer than Croesus, and all these tradespeople know that he will pay eventually. If they get tired of waiting, they petition his banker.”

“I call that a pretty ramshackle way to live,” Emma grumbled .

The footman shrugged. “If you or I were to forget a bill, now that would not be a pretty sight.”

Emma nodded in agreement. “Too true.” She placed her hands down on the desk. “Hanley, how did you manage with Lord Ragsdale?”

“Oh, he cleaned up pretty well after you left, miss.” The footman laughed. “I think he’s not your best friend, though.”

Emma shook her head. “And he never will be! I suppose that radical reformation must always exact its own price.” She changed the subject. “Hanley, do you know how to get to Newgate Prison from here?”

“Gor, miss, you can’t be thinking of going there on purpose ?” the footman demanded. “I won’t tell you!”

She was about to reply when she noticed he was staring at her left hand. She put her hand in her lap, coloring slightly. “I have to, Hanley,” she explained, hoping he would not ask any questions. “David Breedlow—I believe that is his name—is imprisoned there awaiting transportation, and I need to know something about Lord Ragsdale’s account books, if I am to acquit myself as his secretary.”

Hanley’s eyes opened wide at that piece of information.

“ You’re going to be the master’s new secretary? I never heard of such a thing!”

Emma blushed again. “It’s part of my indenture agreement, and you needn’t frown about it. Do you know who Lord Ragsdale banks with, or the name and direction of his solicitor? I need to speak to someone about his accounts.”

The footman stood up, tugging at his waistcoat. “I wouldn’t know, miss.”

Emma sighed and deposited the papers from her lap onto the desk. “Perhaps I had better ask Lord Ragsdale, though I would almost rather ingest ground glass than do that.”

The footman laughed out loud. “I don’t think he’ll cooperate with you today.” He went to the door and peered out, obviously on the alert. “He told me to tell you that pigs would fly before he lifted another finger on your behalf. ”

“Oh, he did?” she said as she looked about for a pencil and tablet. “Well, then, this mountain will obviously have to go to Muhammad.”

“Miss?”

“If the Almighty upstairs is in a twit, I will just have to visit his former secretary, won’t I? Please tell me how to get to Newgate,” she asked again.

The footman stared at her and shook his head. “Miss, didn’t you hear me? You can’t go there!”

Silently, she agreed with him. I have had my fill of prisons , she thought. I hope the walls are thicker at Newgate than they were at Prevot. I don’t want to hear anything. “Of course I have to go,” she said out loud. “How else am I going to find out how to straighten out His Excellency’s books?”

“I don’t know, miss,” said the footman, his voice doubtful.

She could have left it at that, admitted defeat, and returned to pushing around papers into neater piles. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so, but as she regarded the footman, she knew she had to go ahead. If Lord Ragsdale knew he had the upper hand by refusing to help her, she would never be able to reform him. And I will not stay in this indenture one more moment than I have to , she thought grimly.

“Well, then, Hanley, if you won’t help me, I’ll just start out walking and ask the first person I meet.”

The footman blanched. “You can’t do that, either. Oh, very well.”

Armed with Hanley’s directions, she left the house on Curzon Street before the noon hour. The footman had suggested that she ride the distance into the City, but she had no money. I’ve walked farther , she thought as she tugged her cloak tighter about her and set off at a brisk pace. I’ve walked from County Wicklow to Dublin, most of the time carrying my little brother. This will be a stroll.

The day was cold, and she kept her head down, wishing for the luxury of a warmer cloak and a muffler for her neck. Pedestrians all around her were dressed for the weather, with fur-trimmed cloaks, muffs, and stout shoes. She hurried along, knowing how out of place she must appear in that elegant neighborhood, and hoping that her shabbiness would not attract the attention of a constable. Well-groomed horses minced by on dainty hooves, pulling curricles and phaetons of the latest fashion. She wanted to admire the bonnets of the ladies who passed, but she kept her eyes before her on the pavement, looking up at each curb to make sure she was following the footman’s directions.

The broad streets of Mayfair, with its stylish row houses, gave way to the business end of Picadilly. She paid closer attention to her surroundings, knowing she had to watch for the streets that would eventually lead to the Strand and then Fleet Street. The cold clamped down, bringing with it a whiff of sewage from the river. She wished she had not come.

“So help me, Emma Costello, if I have to call your name one more time, I’ll leave you here to freeze your Irish bones.”

Surprised, she looked over her shoulder and then back down at the sidewalk. Calm, calm , she told herself. No one knows you in London. It must be a mistake. She started walking faster.

“Emma!”

There was no mistaking that peremptory voice. She stopped and looked into the street this time.

Lord Ragsdale, wearing a heavy overcoat and sitting under a lap robe, walked his horse and curricle beside her on the street. A tiger, fashionably dressed in the family livery, shivered behind the seat. When his master reined in his horse, the little Negro leaped down and indicated that she should allow him to help her into the curricle.

Emma stared in amazement and then allowed herself to be seated.

The tiger smoothed the lap robe over her too and then resumed his chilly position behind the seat. Lord Ragsdale snapped his whip over the horse, and they entered the stream of traffic again .

They passed several blocks in silence before Emma worked up the courage to speak. “I am going to Newgate, my lord.”

To her further surprise, Lord Ragsdale smiled. “If only they would keep you, Emma,” he murmured, before his voice became firm again. “Hanley told me. Tell me, Emma, and don’t be shy. Is your head filled with porridge instead of brains? Have you not a single clue that you were walking into a neighborhood that not even a gypsy is safe in?”

As she listened to his bracing scold, she realized the idiocy of her plan. When he finished, she raised her chin and looked him in the eye.

“I only want information that will help me straighten out your bills and receipts, my lord.” It seemed foolish now, and she stared back down at her hands.

“Your energy continues to astound me, Emma,” he said dryly. “But why on earth did you leave my house with no gloves, no bonnet, and no muffler? I call that silly.”

“I don’t have any of those things, my lord,” she replied, trying to keep the embarrassment from her voice. It was his turn to be silent for several blocks.

“Well, you should have waited for warmer weather, then,” he muttered finally. “Those bills have kept this long; they’ll keep until warm weather.” He was silent then, his eye on the traffic.

Emma glanced at him, hoping he was not too angry with her. Somehow I must learn to get along with this man , she thought as she watched his expert hands on the reins guide his horse through city traffic. She was impressed, despite her suspicion.

He spoke to his horse, pulled back slightly on the reins, and looked over his shoulder. “Are we going back?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Emma,” he replied as he turned the corner onto Bailey. “Actually, I’m looking forward to the opportunity to give David Breedlow a piece of my mind.”

Are you sure you can spare that much? she thought and smiled in spite of herself .

Lord Ragsdale glanced at her and then pulled his horse to a stop. “I don’t know what you find so dashed amusing about a prison, Emma Costello,” he snapped.

She sobered immediately and tugged her cloak over her cold fingers. “There is nothing funny about prison,” she said, her words more distinct than she intended.

He snorted and nodded to the tiger to help her down. “You say that like an expert, Emma Costello.”

She didn’t mean to respond, but the words came out anyway.

“I am, Lord Ragsdale,” she replied, then turned to the tiger and took his helping hand.

As Emma waited for Lord Ragsdale to join her on the sidewalk, she looked up at the gray pile before her. So this is Newgate , she thought. I wonder if they are here . The view blurred over then, and she found herself in tears. Quickly she dabbed at them, intensely aware that Lord Ragsdale was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face. She waited for a jibe or a scold, but instead, he took her arm and steered her toward the entrance.

“It’s a sooty neighborhood, Emma,” he said as he pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to her.

He nodded to the porter who stood lounging beside the low entrance. “Mind your head, Emma,” he directed as he ducked his head under the gloomy stone portal.

She followed him in, holding her breath against that first whiff of prison air that she knew was coming. The oak door beyond was open and topped with a row of spikes and transverse bars. She hesitated a moment, fearing all over again the sound of such a door slamming.

Don’t be silly, Emma , she told herself. Another porter stood there, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Lord Ragsdale’s elegant clothing and then ogling her own shabbiness. He winked at her, and when she drew back, surprised, he made kissing noises that stopped when Lord Ragsdale turned around and fixed him with a stare that could have melted marble .

“Dreadful place,” Lord Ragsdale said as he waited for her to stand beside him. “I don’t know why you couldn’t have just asked me to answer your questions, Emma.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Hanley told me that you had no intention of helping me.”

Emma thought he smiled at that, but the antechamber was gloomy with the light of only one lamp, and she could not be sure.

“He is quite right, of course,” Lord Ragsdale said as he motioned the porter forward. “But perhaps I would have given you the information you needed in a day or two.”

She couldn’t tell if he was quizzing her, so she made no reply.

The stench of the place was appalling, and she held Lord Ragsdale’s handkerchief to her nose, thinking to herself as she did so that British prisons smelled much like Irish ones. Spoiled food, unwashed bodies, filthy straw , she thought, disease rampant, and I wonder, does despair have an odor? She concluded that it did as she stood next to Lord Ragsdale.

“Tell the governor of this fine old institution that John Staples, the Marquess of Ragsdale, wishes an audience with him,” the marquess was telling the porter. He held his hand to his nose a moment.

The man nodded, backed through a doorway, and vanished. He was back promptly. “It’ll be a moment, my lord,” he explained. He looked at Emma. “Is she with you, my lord?” he asked.

“Regrettably, yes.”

The porter smirked at Emma. “Then she’ll have to be searched by the warden over there before she goes any farther.”

Emma looked to the left where he pointed and saw a pale, thin woman leaning against a doorframe. The woman straightened up and started toward her. Despite herself, Emma found herself crowding closer to Lord Ragsdale .

“A search will hardly be necessary!” the marquess snapped, and he stepped slightly in front of Emma.

“My lord, you’d be amazed what females try to smuggle in here under them skirts,” the porter assured him. “Go with her like a good girl, miss, or I’ll have her lift your skirts right here.”

Emma took a deep breath, regretted it instantly, and steeled herself to step forward. It’s not that bad , she told herself. You’ve done this before , she thought as the female warden gestured to her impatiently.

“I hardly think this is necessary” came Lord Ragsdale’s smooth voice. “Emma, be a good girl and open your reticule for the nice lady.”

She did as he said, and he peered inside first. “Hmmm, nothing more dangerous than a tablet, pencil, and what appears to be a letter. Are you satisfied, madam?” he asked the matron.

The woman looked inside too, then stared up at the marquess.

“I’ll still have to look under them skirts.”

“I don’t think so,” Lord Ragsdale said. “Emma is irritating and three parts lunatic, but I would wager that there is nothing under her skirts beyond a pair of legs.”

The porter tittered behind his hand, and the matron glared at him and cracked him so suddenly on the side of his head that he dropped to his knees. Emma flinched and leaped back against the marquess as the little man howled in pain. Lord Ragsdale put his hand on her shoulder and moved them both out of the reach of the matron.

The woman jerked her hand back to strike again when the door to the governor’s office opened suddenly.

“Mrs. Malfrey, remember yourself!” growled the man who stood in the doorway, a napkin tucked under his chin. As he came closer to the marquess, Emma noticed his greasy shirtfront and wondered why he bothered with the nicety of a napkin .

The matron slunk back to her side of the hallway as the governor of Newgate wiped his hand on equally shiny breeches and bowed elaborately to the marquess, who merely nodded at him.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” he asked. “It’s a little late for morning callers.” He laughed at his own humor.

“We have a matter of business to discuss with David Breedlow,” Lord Ragsdale said. “He embezzled from me and is awaiting transportation.”

“Breedlow, Breedlow, Breedlow,” said the governor as he motioned them into his office. The remains of a leg of mutton and various pastries were jumbled over his desk, mingling with various papers and what looked like an earlier meal. “Ye caught me at table, my lord,” he apologized. “I always eats in my office, I do.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Do ye know, I was cited by the Lord Mayor himself last year. He called me a model of efficiency, he did.”

“I am sure you are,” Lord Ragsdale murmured, shaking his head when the governor offered him a chair. “We won’t disturb you much longer. Show us to David Breedlow, please.”

The governor looked longingly at the mutton again and then laughed. “I’ll have to find the bleeder first, won’t I?”

“I’m sure he can’t have gone far,” Lord Ragsdale said, more to Emma than to the governor, who busied himself with a row of books that looked old enough to have been in William the Conqueror’s library, if that notable had been literate. He opened the newest-looking ledger on the row and thumbed through it, muttering, “Breedlow, Breedlow.”

In another moment he stuck his head out into the antechamber and called to the porter. They conversed a moment while Emma stayed close to Lord Ragsdale, who was looking about him in real distaste. Finally, the governor turned back to them, bowed to the marquess, and indicated the door again.

“Follow this bloke. He’ll have Breedlow taken to an assembly room. ”

“Come, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale said. “Let’s see what delights this charming place has for us.”

The governor laughed out loud and then winked at the marquess. “Come back anytime, my lord, anytime.”

“Not if I can possibly help it,” Lord Ragsdale replied as they followed the porter down a narrow hallway, lit, almost as an afterthought it seemed, by candles here and there. “Emma, what did I do to deserve this?”

She thought a moment and then smiled in spite of herself as she hurried to keep up. “Well, you will own, my lord, that you have probably not thought about a drink lately.”

He laughed out loud, and the porter stopped and looked back, startled. The marquess only gazed at him serenely. “That was laughter—a natural eruption of good humor that occurs when people are amused. Do lead on, man. If we stand here much longer, we will use up all the air in this part of this fine old institution, I am sure.”

They continued deeper into the building, winding around in narrow passages that made Emma pray that the porter would not abandon them. We would never find our way out , she thought. They passed several gang cells, filled to bursting with men and women jumbled in together. Somewhere she heard a child cry, and her heart sank. She must have sucked in her breath or said something, because the marquess reached behind him and took hold of her hand. She clung to it gratefully.

They stopped finally before another oak door bound with iron, one of many they had passed through. For all I know, we are back at the entrance , Emma thought, her sense of direction confused by the gloom and the halls. The porter selected a key from the many that dangled at his waist and opened the door.

“In here,” he said as he swung the door wider. “Breedlow, you have visitors.”

Emma squinted in the gloom as she looked around. There were several other women there, sitting on benches facing a row of prisoners who were chained to the wall by one hand. Most of the men sat on the straw-covered floor, their one chained arm raised over their head as though they had a question.

“That’s Breedlow, my lord, standing there on the end.”

“I know him,” the marquess said.

Emma looked at Lord Ragsdale, surprised at the uncertainty in his voice. She glanced at Breedlow, rail thin and pale as parchment, who gradually sank to the floor as though he had not strength to remain upright. His eyes were on the marquess, and in another instant, he started to sob.

The suddenness of the sound stopped all the low-voiced conversations in the assembly room for a moment. When Breedlow continued to cry, the talking began again, like water washing around a boulder in a stream. All this misery, and no one has any pity , Emma thought to herself as she watched Lord Ragsdale’s former secretary. Yes, this is very much like Irish prisons. I shall feel right at home. She moved toward the bench and then looked back at Lord Ragsdale, who had remained by the door.

“My lord? My business will take some time, so perhaps if you wish to give your secretary a piece of your mind, you might go first,” she said.

There was no reply. “My lord?” she repeated. It is different, is it not , she thought as she watched Lord Ragsdale’s face, to turn someone over to justice in a fit of rage, and then to see the results of it. “Really, my lord, you may go first. I don’t mind.”

“No, Emma,” he said finally. “I will wait for you in the hall.” The door closed behind him.

Emma seated herself in front of Breedlow and handed him the marquess’s handkerchief. “It is only a little wet,” she said.

He took it, wiped his eyes, and then stared at her.

“I am Lord Ragsdale’s new secretary,” she said. “I believe that you can help me. You see, I am reforming Lord Ragsdale.”