Reforming Lord Ragsdale (Carla Kelly’s Regency Romances)

Chapter 16

L ord Ragsdale had always liked Hampton Court, even from his earliest days, when his mother and father took him walking there on one of their infrequent trips to London. He loved the sound that a pair of firm footsteps could make in the great hall, and never objected, no matter what the weather, to a perambulation about the whole building to gaze at the medallions on the walls and wonder about the arrogance of kings. As he grew older, he occasionally thought how nice it would be to bring a lady to Hampton Court. He couldn’t imagine a better place for a little serious wooing.

But not today, not even with one of the Season’s loveliest diamonds hanging on his arm and looking at him with those crystal blue eyes. On another day, perhaps he could have appreciated the way her bosom brushed his arm, and the way she had of running her tongue along her lips that had probably reduced other peers to blancmange. As it was, he entertained as best he could with tales of headless ghosts, thinking of Emma in that anteroom of the Office of Criminal Business.

Merciful heaven, criminal business. But Clarissa was tugging at his sleeve and pouting her prettiest pout, one that surely should have earned her a quick kiss at least. He swallowed, fighting down words of irritation that he knew he would regret, and resisted the urge to brush her off .

“You’re not listening to a thing I am saying, John,” she said.

She was right. He hadn’t heard one word in ten of her babble.

What was she carrying on about? Could it be even half as important as what Emma was doing, even now as he dawdled through a musty old hall with England’s prettiest woman on his arm? There were other tourists about, and he looked up occasionally from his contemplation of the parquet flooring to notice the envious glances other men were giving him. I am a fool , he thought, and the idea cheered him immensely. But I was already a fool, so this is nothing to repine about.

“I’m sorry, my dear Clarissa,” he said, hoping he sounded contrite. He stopped and faced her, taking both her hands in his. “I do have a little business on my mind.” He kissed her nose. “Let me resolve to forget it.”

But he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried to devote his whole attention to the beauty he squired about. His head was beginning to ache. His scalp began to itch where the ties to his eye patch knotted at the back of his head. He found himself walking faster, as though trying to hurry up the afternoon so he could return to the Home Office. He could not fathom why he had ever considered Hampton Court such a favorite of his.

Clarissa, Clarissa, what am I going to do with you? he asked himself. You are beautiful, and it could very well be that I love you, but right now, I wish we were anywhere but here. He thought a moment, considering his options, and then decided that only the honorable thing would do; he would lie.

“Clarissa, I do have some pressing business in the City,” he confessed. “It involves some ... some charitable work I am doing at Newgate.” What a corker that is , he thought. The Lord may strike me dead. Why couldn’t I have mentioned orphans at St. Paul’s or the deserving poor under some bridge?

“Newgate?” she echoed, her voice reaching a distinctly unpleasant pitch. “You? ”

“Well, yes,” he said, piqued that his reputation was so lackluster that she considered philanthropy out of the question and then ashamed of himself for the lie. “They are wretched creatures!”

That was no prevarication. He could testify to their wretchedness. He took her hand and strolled along, resisting the urge to whip out his pocket watch and begrudge each second that crawled by. “I have a transaction I must perform on their behalf at the Office of Criminal Business, and I really should not put it off.” He placed his hand on his chest. “They need me.”

He tried not to wince, waiting for an offended deity to smite him dead. Nothing happened, except that Clarissa clung to his hand even more tightly and gazed up into his face with an expression closely resembling adoration.

“What a wonderful man you are,” she breathed, and again he wondered about the stress to her corset strings. “I am sure I never knew anyone as considerate as you.”

Her statement was so ludicrous that only by force of will did he keep from laughter. He lowered his head and bit his lip and managed somehow to appear so modest that Clarissa rested her glorious blonde hair against his arm for a long moment.

“You must tell Papa all about your philanthropic work among the felons when we see him in Bath in three days.”

Good heavens, what have I promised? he asked himself wildly. When did I ever say I would go to Bath? Could that have been when I was admiring her bosom during the interval at the opera and nodded? He quickened his pace toward the entrance.

“I don’t precisely remember Bath,” he began cautiously as he directed the porter to bring his curricle. He staved off the beginnings of a pout by a quick kiss on her forehead, wondering what else he had promised Clarissa Partridge. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory.”

“Silly boy,” she began, generous in her scold. “I’m sure you have so much more on your mind than little me. ”

You can’t imagine , he thought and kissed her hand. “Oh, you are a dear one,” he mumbled. It made no sense, but Clarissa would never know.

“Papa is in Bath because of his gout, and you promised Mama and me that you would accompany us there on Thursday,” she reminded him.

Did I? He slapped his forehead. “Oh, of course, my love,” he said. “Silly me.”

She dimpled prettily and let him help her into the curricle. “You said you wanted to talk to Papa about something.” She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I can’t imagine what. . .”

I am to be married , he thought wildly. It was a cool day, but he could feel sweat forming on his spinal column. He took his time going around to the other side of the curricle. Calm, calm, John , he told himself. You know this is what you want.

“I am certain Sir Cecil and I will think of something to say to one another,” he teased, feeling as though someone else was speaking through his mouth and he was standing outside his skin, watching. “My dear, if it chances that my business should take another day, would Friday be amenable to your plans?”

“I am sure Mama and I would be only too happy to delay our departure and give you one more day to do good. John, you cannot imagine how I feel.”

Nor I , he agreed, starting his horse off at a sedate pace, when he really longed to snap the whip and leap hedgerows. I know this is what I want, and I will make Emma ever so proud. Why are my hands shaking?

He was able to convince her to come to the Home Office with him, assuring her that he would only be a minute. He left her standing in the entrance and sprinted toward the Office of Criminal Business. He would go to the porter and ask for an appointment with Mr. Capper on the morrow; perhaps he could learn Emma’s business that way.

He hurried to the anteroom door and stopped. Emma stood there alone in the room, her back to the door. He looked around in surprise. No one else was there except the porter, who was busying himself with papers on his desk. How strange , he thought. Surely Emma arrived early enough this morning for an audience. He tiptoed quietly away from the office and met Clarissa at the main lobby.

“This is a dreadful place,” she whispered to him as she grabbed his arm. “I have never seen so many sinister-looking fellows.”

“And those are just the solicitors,” he joked. She looked at him blankly, and he knew then that his future would involve explaining witticisms to his wife. “Well, never mind, my dear. Let me drive you home now.”

He resisted her invitation to dinner, assuring her that he would not faint from hunger between Whitcomb and Curzon Streets, and promising her that he would take her driving tomorrow afternoon. “We will discuss this delightful expedition to Bath, my dear,” he said as he blew a kiss in her general vicinity, leaped into his curricle as soon as the door closed, and sprang his horse back to the city.

Emma was not in the anteroom when he returned, out of breath from running through emptying corridors. The porter was gathering up his papers and climbing down from his stool by the inner door.

“We’re closed now, sir,” he said, nodding to Lord Ragsdale. “Come again in the morning.”

“I am sure that won’t be necessary now,” he said as he approached the porter. “That pretty woman who was here a moment ago ... did she finally get in to see Mr. Capper?”

The porter laughed and shook his head. “I love to diddle the Irish!” He winked at Lord Ragsdale. “She can keep coming back week after week until she wears out, and she’ll never get through that door.”

Lord Ragsdale stared at him. “What are you saying?”

The porter grinned back. “I’m saying that I have no use for the Irish. I think they should all be transported, and not just a select few.”

And so I thought too , he considered, pausing to catch his breath. I hated them all, but now I just worry. He tried again.

“Was she asking for information about someone transported to Australia?”

“Well, laddie, America’s out now. Where else do we send them felons?”

“I’m Lord Ragsdale to you,” he snapped, suddenly furious, and fighting down the strong inclination to grab the man by his neckcloth and do him damage. “Give me a straight answer, or it’s your job tomorrow.”

The porter obviously believed him. His eyes widened, and he hurried to straighten his coat and run a hand through his thinning hair. “I means no disrespect, my lord,” he gasped. “She ... she said something about wanting to know the whereabouts of some prisoners transported after the Castle Hill Revolt in 1803.”

Lord Ragsdale nodded. Castle Hill. He remembered reading about it in the London papers over his morning brandy. There were hangings, which only pleased him at the time, and a man who declared that no one would write his epitaph until Ireland took her rightful place among the nations. He remembered laughing over that bit of high Irish drama.

“And you won’t let her in to see Mr. Capper?” he asked quietly, turning his attention back to the porter. “What gives you that right? You are a scoundrel, and I don’t mind telling you.”

“Y-y-yes, my lord,” the porter stuttered, retreating behind his desk again.

“How dare you humiliate that lady,” he said, warming to the cause and coming around the desk.

The little man scrambled over the desk and darted for the door. “But she’s Irish! She’s fair game!” he shouted as he tripped over the doorsill, leaped to his feet, and ran down the hall, leaving Lord Ragsdale in possession of an empty anteroom.

It was dark out now. Lord Ragsdale shoved his hands in his pockets and walked slowly from the building, nodding to the night watchman. Outside, he leaned against the wall and collected himself. How can we be so cruel? he asked himself. What gives us the arrogance to treat our own kind like the meanest vegetation? She has family somewhere, and no one will help her find them. I make her do my stupid business, when I should be doing everything in my power to help her find those she loves.

He drove slowly back to Curzon Street, ignoring the curses of other drivers in more of a hurry. I do not know that I could ever apologize enough , he thought as he rode along, hunched down in the seat, the reins loose in his hands. And if I were to try, I would probably be treading on her dignity yet again.

He arrived in time for dinner, or so Lasker informed him as he came into the main hall, feeling as though he had just climbed one hundred steps instead of ten.

“I am certain Lady Ragsdale and Miss Claridge will understand if you do not dress, my lord,” Lasker offered as he took Lord Ragsdale’s overcoat.

He paused then and took a serious look at Lasker. “Did you ever think how silly that expression sounds?” he asked his surprised butler. “I mean, ‘dressing for dinner.’ I am already dressed. And who cares whether I address a roast of beef in proper attire?”

“My lord?” Lasker inquired.

“Nothing, Lasker,” he said, waving his hand wearily. “I am just amazed at myself and people like me.”

“Very well, then, my lord, but are you coming to dinner?” the butler asked, persistent to the end.

“I’m not hungry, Lasker, and I am not going to Almack’s, or the opera, or any other blasted nonsense selected for me tonight.” He wanted to say more, to remind his butler that there were people on the streets of London who were hungry, and cold, and who needed help, while people like him dressed for dinner and put their rumps in chairs at the opera. “I’m not going out tonight, Lasker,” he said instead.

“Very well, my lord,” Lasker replied, his face wooden.

Lord Ragsdale looked at his butler and took a deep breath. “I will be in the book room. I want you to send Emma Costello there immediately. We are not to be disturbed.”

He turned on his heel and left his dumbfounded butler standing in the hall, holding his overcoat. He stood for a long moment in the book room doorway, acutely aware that this was no place to prod at someone’s wounds until they bled again, but he could think of no other place. He closed the door behind him and lit a fire, noting with some surprise that his hands were shaking.

He was seated at the desk, looking at nothing, when Emma knocked on the door.

“Come in,” he said, wishing that his voice did not sound so wintry. It was not her fault that he and his countrymen were weighed every day in the balance and found wanting. “Please,” he added.

Emma came into the room and stood before him at the desk. He looked up at her, noting her red eyes and the defeat evident in the way she held herself. He pulled up a chair beside his at the desk. “Sit down, Emma.”

She sat, leaning ever so slightly away from him, as though she feared the look on his face. He sighed and began to rub his forehead. He took off his eye patch and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Emma, I’ve just come from the Office of Criminal Business.”

He heard her little gasp but spared her his scrutiny. “The porter there assured me that you would never get in to see Mr. Capper because you are Irish. I will have his job in the morning, my dear, and I promise you we will see Mr. Capper. ”

She began to cry then, a helpless sound more painful to his ears than any he could remember, including his own agony at the death of his father. She bowed her head and wept, and he could only sit there and watch her. In a moment, he handed her his handkerchief, and she hid her face in it, sobbing the deep, wracking tears of someone in the worst kind of misery. He let her cry in peace, wondering what to say. I think I shall be wise and keep my mouth shut , he decided finally.

Emma stopped crying and blew her nose vigorously. She dabbed at her eyes and glanced in his direction. “I am so sorry, my lord.”

“No, it is I who am sorry. I want you to tell me everything. Don’t leave out a detail. How can I help you if I do not know?”

She stared at him then, her face red, her eyes swollen. “You would help me?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.

“Oh, Emma,” was all he could say.

She took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair. “My father was a landowner in County Wicklow. He was a Presbyterian, and his family had been in Ireland for generations. Mama was Catholic, but he loved her and married her anyway. There were four of us, two older brothers, me, and a younger brother.”

She paused then, as though even that much was difficult. “I remember you told me once that your father went to Magdalen College,” he said, trying to keep his tone conversational, hoping to relax her.

She nodded and gave him the ghost of a smile. It vanished almost before he was sure he had seen it. “Eamon was headed there in the fall.” She shook her head and began to wail this time. The hair rose on the back of his neck as he remembered that keen from his days of trouble in Ireland. He wanted to leap from his chair, but he forced himself to stay where he was. He took her hand, and she squeezed it so tight that he almost winced.

“What happened, Emma?” he asked, feeling like a brute in the face of her torment. “Why didn’t Eamon go to Oxford?”

“Because he was dead by fall, or I think he was. Oh, John, I don’t know! I have spent over five years not knowing, and it is killing me.” Her words came out in a rush, as though they had been dammed up years ago.

She loosened her grip on his hand but did not let go. He put his other hand over hers too.

“Then tell me, Emma.”

She nodded. “We never involved ourselves in Irish troubles, my lord,” she said. “Da always said it was not our fight. After the ’98, he severed any connections any of us had to the Society of the United Irish. Some of our neighbors belonged, but Da said to leave it alone, and we did.”

“Are you Catholic, Emma?” he asked.

“Aye, me and two of my brothers. Eamon and Da were Presbyterian.” She released his hand then and wiped her eyes again with the soaking handkerchief. He looked in his drawer for another and handed it to her. She accepted it with a brief smile.

“I suppose he thought we could rub along and not get involved,” she continued, and her voice took on an edge. “And we would have, except that I blundered. What happened then is all my fault.”

She bowed her head, as though the weight of her pain was too great. He moved closer and touched her hair, his hand going to the back of her neck and then her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against his hand for a moment, as if seeking strength. Strength from me , he thought in wonder. Emma, this does reveal the measure of your desperation.

“Tell me,” he urged.

She straightened up then but would not look at him. He could sense the shame in her, the godly sorrow that went beyond bone deep, and it touched him as nothing ever had. “Emma,” he said.

“Timothy—my younger brother—was ill with a cold. Da, Eamon, and Sam were away on estate business. I was in charge because Mama was asleep from tending Tim all night. Oh, John, I can’t,” she said. “Don’t make me.”

“You have to, Emma,” he insisted, feeling like a churl.

She rose and went to the window, looking out for the longest time. He turned to watch her profile, and he knew that the view she saw was not the one he was familiar with out that same window.

“He came walking to the house at dusk. I remember the time, because I had just lit the lamps and told the cook to wait dinner until Da and my brothers returned.”

“Who, Emma?” he asked.

She turned to look at him then. “Robert Emmet, my lord.”

Suddenly he remembered. “Castle Hill,” he said.

Emma nodded. “He told me his carriage had broken down on the road from Cash and asked if he could stay the night. I ... I let him in.”

She turned back to the window and raised her fist as though to strike the glass. He leaped to his feet and grabbed her hand before she did herself an injury. She began to weep again, and he pulled her onto his lap, holding her so tight that he could almost feel her sobs before they came. He listened to her sorrow and began to understand. He kissed her hair and kept her close.

“Of course you did, Emma. I am sure your mother always taught you to help those in trouble. But you didn’t have any idea who he was, did you?”

She shook her head. “No. It was just a name to me then. I told him he could stay and be welcome too. He said it would only be for the night.”

He searched his mind, trying to recall the Castle Hill revolt just outside of Dublin and Robert Emmet’s attempt to stage a rising. If he remembered right, it had fizzled and come to nothing.

“How old were you?” he asked, marking time and trying to help her calm down .

“I was nineteen, my lord. My little brother, Tim, was five.” She was silent a moment more, and he could feel her relax slightly. He loosened his grip on her but kept his arm about her waist.

“When your father returned. . .,” he prompted.

“Oh, he and my brothers welcomed him too, and they sat a long time over port when dinner was done.” She laughed bitterly. “Papa told me later they talked about hunting and fishing and Mr. Emmet’s fiancée who lived close by. He said he was on his way there when his carriage broke down. Of course, Papa never saw a broken carriage on the Cash road, but he didn’t think of it at the time.”

She realized then that she was sitting on his lap and put her hands to her cheeks. “I am sorry, my lord. Please forgive me for being so forward!”

He smiled at her. “I put you there, Emma, and I believe I will keep you there.”

He thought she would leap off his lap then, but she did not. She settled herself against him like a puppy seeking warmth. “He stayed the night, and then he was gone by morning light.” She stared straight ahead then. “He was arrested by government troops at the entrance to our estate. I think they must have watched us all night.” She shook her head and made an impotent gesture with her hand.

It was so clear to him what had happened then that his own mind recoiled from speech. How could they? he thought. If the sins of nations must be atoned for at some distant judgment bar, England will pay for this one.

“And they arrested your family for complicity,” he whispered, when he could speak. “Oh, Emma.”

She spoke then in a monotone voice, so low and chilling that he was reminded of tales of zombies his Caribbean nursemaid told in the nursery years and years ago. “They yanked Tim out of his sickbed and ordered me to carry him. Da, Eamon, and Sam were bound together. Mama and I carried Tim ten miles that day toward Dublin.” She paused then, and her voice became wistful. “I remember that it was raining, and I lost a shoe in the mud.”

“You walked all the way to Dublin?”

“Aye. Tim died on the way.” She made another odd gesture with her hand, as though to wipe away the memory. “At least, I am sure he did. He was burning with fever, and the captain of the guard forced us to leave him in Diggtown with a family named Holladay.” She burrowed closer to him. “His eyes were sinking back in his head, and there was a fearsome gurgle in his throat.”

He chewed that over, letting her sit in silence until the coals settled in the fireplace, and she sat up, startled. He pulled her back against his chest again.

“The rest of you made it to Dublin?”

“Aye. Mama and I were taken to the Marlborough Street Riding School, where they were holding women involved in Castle Hill. The others went to Prevot Prison.” She shuddered, and he understood why. He had been to Prevot himself in 1798, when he had escorted prisoners there from Cork before his own injury.

“Were they tortured?” he asked as gently as he could.

She nodded. “But they wouldn’t say anything.” She looked at him, her eyes huge. “What could they say? They knew nothing!” She pounded on his chest in her rage, then threw her arms around him and wept.

He held her close, murmuring softly to her, devastated at the depth of her sorrow and understanding her deep shame. And you think you brought it on them all, my dear. This is too big a burden to bear alone. “This is tragic, my dear, but hardly your fault.”

“I am not through,” she interrupted, her voice cold. “When they would not speak, the English took me from Marlborough to Prevot and tortured me in front of them.”

“Oh, please no!” he exclaimed, feeling such a measure of horror and revulsion that his stomach writhed. “No, Emma!” he declared, as though his words could take it away .

She held up her left hand to him, holding it with her right to steady it. “You’ve noticed my fingers, my lord?” she asked, her eyes glittering with a fierce anger that burned into his body almost.

“Yes,” he whispered. “They pulled out your fingernails, didn’t they?”

“Aye.” She looked at her hand, the fingernails grown back, but with bumpy ridges. “I tried not to scream, but I couldn’t help myself. I even bit through my lip.”

“Emma, don’t,” he pleaded.

“You wanted to know,” she said calmly. “Well, now you will know. They told my father they were going to rape me right there. That was when Eamon confessed.”

“But . . .”

“Confessed to crimes he never committed, to spare me.” She stood up, and there was a dignity and majesty about her. “Now you begin to understand something of what drives me, my lord. It is not pretty, is it?”