Reforming Lord Ragsdale (Carla Kelly’s Regency Romances)

Chapter 12

I think I will murder Lord Ragsdale , Emma thought to herself as she took off her dress and crawled into bed. She shivered in the cold, wishing for once to be still sharing a bed with the scullery maid. She may have snored, but she at least provided a warm spot. As it was, Emma could only lie there and warm herself with vast ill-usage.

She knew she should be tired. It had been a long, discouraging day, spent standing in the cold entry of the Office of Criminal Business, wondering when it would finally be her turn to speak to Mr. John Henry Capper, Senior Clerk. She sighed again and thumped her pillow soundly, trying to find a soft spot in the old thing. The first problem would be getting past that miserable worm of a porter. Thinking of that dreadful little excuse of a man, she thumped the pillow again.

She thought she had approached his desk with the proper amount of deference that the English seemed to require from the Irish. Her inquiry had been innocent enough; she just wanted a brief interview with Mr. Capper. One of her fellow servants in Virginia had told her that the illustrious John Henry was the man to see, and she had clung to that scrap of information through her own indenture, a dreary return sea voyage, and now incarceration in the household of Lord Ragsdale .

Something in the porter’s eye should have warned her that he would stall and stall. Her inquiry had only earned her an elaborate stare, when the porter finally bothered to look up from shuffling the papers in front of him. When he gazed around and saw that no one else was with her, his stare turned into a smirk. “’Ave a seat,” he said. “Ye’ll ’ave to wait your turn, like everybody else.”

And so she had waited all day in the cheerless anteroom, watching others go in before her to complete their business with Mr. John Henry Capper. She sat and fumed for the morning, and then in the afternoon, despair set in. As the shadows lengthened in the room and the cold deepened, she realized that there would be no audience with Mr. Capper that day. Her chances of ever getting past the porter shrank with every minute that passed and every man who secured an appointment before her.

She only left the building because the porter shooed her out and told her he was locking up. Swallowing her pride, Emma managed her broadest smile—the one Papa declared would melt marble—and asked when she might have an audience with Mr. Capper. The porter had looked at her in elaborate surprise, as though he were not aware that she had been the only inhabitant of the anteroom for the last two hours.

“Oh, miss, you’re still here? What a pity Mr. Capper could not see you today.”

She forced down the angry words that she wanted to shower on him and winked back the tears. “Do you think I could see him next week, sir?” she asked, knowing his answer even before he looked up from his desk many minutes later.

“I am sure you can try,” he had replied and favored her with a mocking, superior smile.

By all the saints , she thought, in his better days, her own father would have had that porter whipped for insolence. And in my better days? she considered ruefully. I would never be here alone and unprotected, without my brothers around me. I would be home with Mama, and there would be suitors, and I would marry one of them, and life would continue the pattern of centuries. She sat up in bed and hugged the pillow to her, thinking of change and turmoil and wishing with all her heart that she knew—really knew—where her brother and father were.

She lay down again, bunching herself into a little ball to defeat the cold. If all her searching led to a certain knowledge of their deaths, at least she would be sure. She could return to Virginia when this pesky indenture was up, and with Mr. Claridge’s blessings probably find some kind of employment in Richmond. Experience had taught her that she could eventually wear down the sorrow until it was a manageable pain.

And if they were alive? She would spare no effort to join them, even if the cold trail, years old, led to a prison in Van Dieman’s Land, or dismal servitude in Australia. “Perhaps Australia is not as bad as everyone says,” she told herself, relaxing gradually as the moon peered through her window, then moved on. At least it would be warmer than here.

Warmer in many ways. Lord Ragsdale’s scold this evening was almost a fitting culmination to a dreadful day, Emma allowed, wondering at the coldness of her reception. She prodded her tired brain, trying to make sense out of his surprising tirade but gave up as sleep finally overtook her.

Morning brought with it the guilty realization that she had overslept and a summons to Lady Ragsdale’s chamber. Emma dressed hurriedly, hoping that Lord Ragsdale was still in bed and not looking about for his mail. She hurried, breathless, down the stairs, hoping to snatch up the mail from the table by the door and sort it upstairs after she endured whatever scold Lady Ragsdale had in mind. She scooped up the mail and was hurrying fast for the stairs again when Lord Ragsdale stepped from the breakfast room. He flattened himself in mock surprise against the wall as she hurried past .

“If there is a fire somewhere, Emma, perhaps you should let me in on the secret?” he commented.

She stopped, gritting her teeth and wondering if he was angry still. She looked at him, and to her amazement, he winked. Without even thinking, she smiled back and held out the mail to him.

He took it from her and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. “I’m sorry I was so beastly yesterday evening, Emma,” he said simply. “I was worried about you. The streets are dark, and London’s full of ugly customers.”

With that, he nodded to her as she stared at him in wonder, and started down the hall, opening a letter as he went. Before she could collect herself, he laughed out loud and turned back to her. “This is too good to keep to myself,” he said. “It’s from Fae Moullé. She expresses her—it’s either gratitude or attitude, or possibly latitude—and declares that when I marry, she will trim a bonnet for the new Lady Ragsdale! I defy anyone to come up with a better offer from a mistress, Emma. What do you think?”

I think I am full of gratitude or attitude myself , she thought, dimpling at the idea of Fae Moullé presenting Lord Ragsdale’s bride with a bonnet and sharing bedroom confidences.

“I think you will have to be extremely diplomatic, should this eventuality arise, my lord,” she replied, feeling a slight twinge at her own deception with Fae. “Perhaps it would be best if Fae remained your little secret.”

“My thought precisely.” He paused then and a slight wariness crept into his eye. “Emma, you won’t be needing me today, I trust.”

“Well, we did need to look over your estate receipts before we leave for Norfolk tomorrow, my lord,” she reminded him gently, not wishing to disturb the moment.

“Tonight, then, Emma. I am off to Tatt’s to buy another horse,” he told her. “When that arduous endeavor is completed, I will toddle over to Whitcomb Street and pay a morning call on Clarissa Partridge. ”

“Very good, my lord,” she interrupted, raising her eyebrows.

“And then, with or without your permission, I will descend on White’s for lunch, a brief snooze in the reading room, and then a gentlemanly glass of port. Only one, mind you,” he assured her as he continued his progress to the book room. “I intend to become a pattern card of respectability.”

She watched him go, shaking her head and wondering why men were so strange. He must be in love , she concluded as Lord Ragsdale took his correspondence into the book room and closed the door behind him. This isn’t the same tight-lipped man who greeted me with such a scold last night. Something wonderful must have happened at the theatre , Emma decided as she climbed the stairs on light feet. If this romance with Clarissa prospers, perhaps I will be sprung from this indenture faster than I had hoped.

And why not love? she mused as she walked down the hall to Lady Ragsdale’s room. He said he was thirty, high time for any man to be thinking seriously about marriage and a family. She knocked on the door, hugely pleased.

Lady Ragsdale was still in bed. She looked up over the newspaper and smiled at Emma. “Ah, my dear. Over there are the dresses John ordered for you. They came yesterday with Sally’s things, and we didn’t notice it until the afternoon.”

“For me?” Emma asked as she approached the dresses draped over the chair.

“For you, Emma. And don’t look so dumbfounded! John has a very kind streak, once someone calls his attention to a necessity,” Lady Ragsdale stated.

“But I never said anything,” Emma insisted, picking up the dress on top and admiring the softness of the deep green wool. There were lace collars and cuffs on the chair too, and a petticoat far better than the ragged thing she wore.

“No? Well, perhaps neither of us gives John credit for the good he does. ”

“I am certain you are right, my lady,” Emma said. The other dress was black, and experience told her how good it would look as a background to her auburn hair and pale complexion. “Oh, please tell him thank you for me.”

“Tell him yourself,” Lady Ragsdale said with a smile. “And Emma, I have a paisley shawl inside my dressing room that I never wear. It’s hanging on the closest peg to the door.”

In a haze of pleasure, Emma went into the dressing room and was brought quickly back to earth by Lady Ragsdale’s dresser, who obviously had been listening at the door. Acton thrust the shawl into her hands and hissed, “Don’t think you’ll get any more from my lady.”

“I learned long ago not to expect anything,” Emma whispered back. “I’m certain you’ll be quick to tell me if I overstep my place here, Acton.”

The shawl looked especially fine with the green dress. Emma remembered to drop a quick curtsy to Lady Ragsdale and another breathless “Thank you” before closing the door quietly behind her. She was down the stairs in a moment and knocking on the book room door.

“Emma, you needn’t knock,” came Lord Ragsdale’s voice from within. “I’m not ingesting opium or chasing the chambermaid. At least not presently.”

You are so outrageous , she thought with a grin. It almost amounts to Irish wit. She opened the door and came into the room, suddenly shy. “I just wanted to thank you for the dresses,” she said.

He looked up from the desk where he was going over her neatly entered account books. “I hope they fit.”

Some sense told her that they would be a perfect fit. “I am sure they will, my lord.” When he continued looking at her, she hesitated. Why do I dislike being under obligation to this man? she considered as she watched him lean back and continue his perusal of the ledge. “Sir, you didn’t need to go to such expense for me. ”

He closed the book and indicated the chair next to the desk.

“Emma, I may have many faults, but dressing poorly is not among them. I like the people whom I employ to look at least half as grand as I do.”

She laughed out loud, and he joined in her laughter. “Well, I don’t expect you to match my incomparable high looks, Emma, but you must agree that if we are to do business together, I have certain standards.”

“Yes, my lord,” she agreed, a twinkle in her eyes. “I have standards too. Does this mean that if I do not approve of your waistcoat or pantaloons, you will change them to oblige me?”

It was the closest she had ever come to a joke with an Englishman, and he seemed to know. He laughed again, reached out, and touched her arm. “By all means, by all means. I have it on unimpeachable authority that a good wardrobe covers a multitude of character flaws. You are welcome to correct me.”

She watched him a moment more, struck by a sudden and wholly unexpected wave of pity. You are so convinced of your own flaws , she thought, and how sad this is for you. And how strange that I am feeling sorry for an Englishman.

“Emma, you must have something quite serious on your mind,” Lord Ragsdale was saying when she paid attention to him again. “Can it be that my flaws cannot even be covered by a good tailor and boots from Hobie?”

I am going to be impertinent , she thought as she sat there. “You have far fewer flaws than you think, my lord,” she said, her words coming out in a rush, as though she feared she would not be able to say them if she gave them thoughtful consideration. “And ... and thank you for being concerned enough last night to give me the scold I deserved. I promise not to be out past dark in the future on my day off.”

There , she told herself, think what you will. I mean every word of it. As she sat there in embarrassment, it was as though a great stone rolled off her heart. She could not have explained the feeling to anyone, because it was new to her. All she suspected was that it might not be such an onerous chore to serve this man until her indenture was up.

He regarded her as seriously as she knew she was looking at him. “Why, thank you, Emma,” he said finally. “I believe you mean every word of that.”

“I do,” she said promptly as she stood up. “Now, tell me what you want me to do today while you are out, and I will get at it.”

He considered her another moment, a half smile on his face, then set her some tasks that would keep her soundly busy until it was time to leave tomorrow for his Norfolk estate. “When I return this afternoon, I’ll expect you to join me in the stables for a look at my new purchase,” he finished, making room for her at the desk and going to the door. “I warn you it will be expensive, so if you want to prune up now, make faces, and act like a secretary and fiscal adviser, be at liberty.”

She smiled. “I have no qualms about what you spend your money on, my lord,” she assured him, “as long as it will lead to prompt double entries, your continuing reformation, and eventual marriage. You know the terms.”

“Indeed, yes,” he agreed, opening the door and leaning against it. “Do wear the green dress first, will you?”

She blushed and busied herself at the desk, murmuring something in reply.

“Don’t mumble, Emma,” he said. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Very well, my lord,” she said distinctly. “By the way, I meant to ask: did you have an especially nice time at the theatre last night?”

“You mean, why am I so pleasant this morning?” he asked in turn, leaving her to wonder at his prescience. “Actually, I admired Clarissa’s charms with my opera glasses from the safety of my own box and spent the rest of the time trying to figure out how to apologize to you. Good day, Emma. ”

She sat at the desk and stared at the door. He opened it again.

“And Emma,” he continued, “if you should ever feel the urge to trust me enough with your own problems, I might even be able to surprise you with useful solutions.”

I wonder if he truly means that , she thought several times that morning as she worked in the book room. This reflection was followed by the fact that no Englishman had ever kept his word to her or her family. She dismissed his offer but noted, to her annoyance, that his words kept popping into her mind as she answered his correspondence.

Such a plethora of invitations , she considered as she looked them over and sent regrets or acceptances, according to his instructions. Now, I would prefer a picnic al fresco to a dinner at the home of some stuffy, gouty duke , she thought. Perhaps Lord Ragsdale prefers old cigar smoke to ants. She wondered what would happen if she arrived at one of these events in his place, chuckling to herself at the imagined expressions on the face of her surprised host. Papa had always assured her—especially on those days when her brothers were more trying than usual—that she had the poise and ability to move in any social circle. Of course, I would have to lose my accent and study the trivial so I could be sufficiently vacuous.

Her thoughts drifted to Clarissa Partridge. “I hope you are intelligent enough to realize what you might have,” she murmured. “Lord Ragsdale is certainly potter’s clay for the molding, if you are suitably managing. He could even amount to something, with the proper guidance.”

Emma was starting to rub her eyes and wonder where the day had gone when Lord Ragsdale reappeared in the book room, looking none the worse for wear for what must have been a strenuous day for one so indolent. Do be charitable , she thought as she looked up, wincing at the sharp pain between her shoulders.

“Yes, my lord?” she inquired, noting that in their brief acquaintance, seldom had she seen him looking so pleased with himself.

His eye was lively with good humor, and he seemed to throw off that boyish, barely contained energy that she remembered—with a pang—about her own younger brother.

“Emma, you must see my horses!”

“Horses in the plural, my lord?” she inquired.

“Yes; singular, isn’t it?” he quizzed. “I found myself in the middle of a wonderful sale, and who can resist a sale?”

“But two horses?” she asked. “I know sales are wonderful, but. . .” She stopped. “It is only two, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he assured her, taking her by the arm and pulling her to her feet. “Sir Bertram Wynswich of Covenden Hall, Devon, periodically finds himself under the hatches, and he is obliged to lighten his stables. How lucky I am today. Emma, the letters can wait!”

She capped the ink bottle and let him lead her out of the house and into the stable yard, amused by his horseman’s commentary on the finer points of his fortuitous acquisitions.

“Next you will be telling me they can fly,” she grumbled as he hurried her along.

“Very nearly like, Emma,” he agreed, and stopped before the largest loose box. “Well, what do you think? Is this not a sound investment?”

She could not disagree. The horse that came to the railing when Lord Ragsdale leaned his arms on it would have charmed the most discriminating gypsy. He was a tall chestnut, taller than she ever could have managed, with a noble Roman profile, deep chest, and legs that went on forever. He looked as well-mannered as a gentleman, with an intelligent face that seemed to broadcast equine good humor.

Emma stepped up on the railing and glided her hand over his nose. “Oh, you are a bonny lad,” she whispered. “Lord Ragsdale, this must be your lucky day! ”

He nodded. “Indeed. Didn’t I say so? Do you know I even won at cards this afternoon? I have discovered that it is much easier to play when I am sober. Then I paid a call on Clarissa Partridge.”

“And Miss Clarissa agreed over tea and macaroons to follow you to the ends of the earth?” she teased in turn.

Lord Ragsdale laughed. “Not precisely, you goose, but she did consent to let me escort her to Covent Garden when we return next week.”

“Bravo, my lord!” Emma said, clapping her hands.

Lord Ragsdale bowed, then looked over Emma’s shoulder. “And here is another beauty.”

She turned around to look across the aisle at another horse, a gray mare, smaller, but just as interested in the people in the stables as they were in her. Her ears were cocked forward, almost as though she understood their conversation. Emma reached up to pat the second horse, admiring every inch of her elegant bearing. Lord Ragsdale knows horses , she thought as she found herself nose to nose with the little beauty. She thought of her father’s stables then, remembering with a rush of pleasure completely independent of any regret or longing.

“Oh, Lord Ragsdale, I wish you could have seen my father’s stable,” she said, forgetting where she was. “He had a roan that would have given your hack a run for his. . .” She stopped, acutely aware of Lord Ragsdale’s full attention. “But you couldn’t be interested in that,” she concluded. She stepped away from the mare, embarrassed.

Lord Ragsdale turned his attention back to his horse, sparing her further embarrassment. “Emma, you’re no more shanty Irish than I am,” he commented, not looking at her. “Something tells me that your father had a whopping good stable.”

He cannot possibly be interested in anything I have to say about my family , she thought, suffering the familiar panic she always felt around Englishmen. “Yes, he did,” she concluded, “but I needn’t tax you with that.” She glanced at the gray, desperate to change the subject. “This is a lady’s horse, my lord. I hate to tell you, but if you bought this for Miss Claridge, you will be disappointed. She doesn’t ride.”

She waited as he continued his scrutiny of her, hoping he would ask no questions that would rip her wounds wideopen, leaving her to bleed inside again. Oh, please, my lord , she thought, change the subject.

He turned from his regard of her and fondled the gray’s ears.

“If you must know, I was looking to the future,” he explained, after a moment’s hesitancy. “Perhaps Clarissa will enjoy this horse someday.”

My, but you are in love , she thought, smiling at him and grateful he had taken another conversational tack. “Perhaps you are right, my lord. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have your work to finish.”

He smiled at her and reached in his pocket, pulling out a sale’s receipt. “Very well! Enter this and send it to the bank.” He grinned at the astonishment on her face as she absorbed the amount. “I can afford it, so don’t you dare scold, Emma!”

She shook her head, thinking that Lord Ragsdale’s indulgence in two horses could feed small cities. She stared at the amount. Or build new cottages for all his crofters and the neighbors besides. I hope he is so generous in another day, when he’s inspecting thatching and rafters.

And so it goes , she thought, as she took a last look at the beautiful horses and started from the stable. Lord Ragsdale fell in step beside her, shortening his stride to hers.

“Of course, I need to exercise both horses. Emma, could I convince you to ride with me tomorrow on our way to Norfolk? I am assuming that you are a rider.”

A very good one, my lord , she told herself. There was a time when I could match my brothers mile for mile across the whole of County Wicklow. You’d have thought we owned it, or at least, part of it. And so we did, but that seems like someone else’s life, and not my own .

“I would like that, my lord, but I don’t have a riding habit,” she temporized, grateful for an excuse and wondering why at the same time.

“That’s no difficulty,” he assured her. “I am certain my mother has a habit you can wear. She doesn’t ride anymore, and it may be a trifle outmoded, but I fail to think that would bother you overmuch. Ride with me, Emma?” he asked again.

It wasn’t a command. She knew she could say no. Emma hesitated.

“Of course, if you would prefer to ride in the carriage with Mama and Sally and Acton, I will understand,” he continued smoothly.

Acton. The thought of riding for a day and a half in a carriage with that harpy glaring at her made her flinch. “No, no,” she said hastily. “I’ll ride with you, Lord Ragsdale.”

~

Lady Ragsdale’s habit was not a perfect fit, but her boots were, Emma decided, as Lord Ragsdale threw her into the sidesaddle the following morning. She settled herself comfortably and accepted a crop from him, enjoying the feel of the saddle and the particular pleasure of good boots. She tapped the leather with the riding crop, thoroughly satisfied, for all that she would have to think of something to say to Lord Ragsdale through a whole day of riding.

Leading out in front of the carriage, they negotiated London’s early-morning traffic and soon left it behind, riding into the morning sun, which struggled to get away from the low clouds and fog that seemed part of London’s perennial landscape. They rode steadily to the north and east, and soon the breeze blowing toward the Channel cleared the air of haze, presenting them with a blue sky of surpassing loveliness.

To Emma’s relief, Lord Ragsdale chose not to converse. They rode side by side, but he was silent, and she wondered if he was already regretting his decision to go to Norfolk. Lady Ragsdale had confided in her last night as Emma was helping with the packing that he had not been at Staples Hall since his father was laid to rest in the family cemetery there.

“And even then he was brought into the chapel on a stretcher,” she said. “He has never been back since.” She sighed and looked down at the petticoat in her hands. “And we do not talk about it.”

Emma looked at Lord Ragsdale’s profile. At least you know where your father is buried , she thought. You don’t lie awake at nights, wondering if he is alive or dead, as I do.

“Yes, Emma?”

His question came out of the blue, and she glanced at him, startled. “I ... I didn’t say anything, my lord,” she stammered.

“But you looked as though you wanted to,” he offered.

She shook her head. “You must be mistaken, my lord.”

“I must be,” he agreed serenely and said no more.

As they rode along, mile after mile, she discovered it was not an uncomfortable silence. I could almost like this , she reflected, even though I suspect I am boring company. This is a peer used to card rooms, and clubs, and teas, and drawing rooms, and levees, and balls. I hope he will not fall asleep because I am so dull, and dump himself off his horse. She smiled at the thought.

“Yes?” Lord Ragsdale asked.

She laughed in surprise. “You must have eyes in the back of your head,” she protested.

“Nope. Just one on the left, but it does yeoman’s duty. What’s so amusing?”

Obviously there was no point in holding back. “I was just picturing you ejected from your horse and supine on the ground, bored into sleep because I am a dull conversationalist.”

He shook his head. “On the contrary, Emma, I was about to congratulate you on the pleasure of your silence. Do you know that just since the beginning of this interminable Season, I have heard every stupid conversation that people such as myself utter? I am sure that the things we say over and over, thinking ourselves so witty, must be written somewhere on clay tablets.” He looked her in the eye then. “You may reform me too completely, Emma. Suppose I become addicted to long silences and rational conversation that leads somewhere? Imagine the shock to my friends.”

He joined in her laughter. “Seriously, Emma, we are half-way to luncheon, and you have not made one single remark about the weather, fashion, or the latest gossip.”

“What would you like to talk about, my lord?” she asked finally. “Weather, fashion, or gossip?”

He reined in his horse, and she was compelled to stop too. “My father, Emma. Please.”