Part 1 (1/2)

Reforming Lord Ragsdale.

by Carla Kelly.

To my sisters, Karen Deo and Lynn Turner- Family isn't just anything; it's the only thing.

Keep my counsel lest thou slip.

If love or hate men offer thee, Hide thy heart and h.o.a.rd thy lip.

Wed no man. Remember me.

-from the Irish, seventeenth century.

Chapter 1.

I wonder why it is that my mistress is so ignorant, Lord Ragsdale thought as he took a sip of morning brandy and gazed at the heavily scented letter spread out before him on the breakfast tray. Could it be that no one ever taught her the difference between ”there” and ”their”-and what on earth is this word?

He held up the paper closer to his good eye. ”H'mmm, it appears that I am either thoughtless, thankless, reckless, or f.e.c.kless, and I don't think Fae knows that word.”

He felt a tiny headache beginning from all that scent, so he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it across the room toward the wastebasket by his desk, which was overflowing with other correspondence. As usual, he was wide of the mark. ”Fae. why so much musk on one letter? Do you think I am an otter?” he asked her miniature, which resided, smirking, on his night table.

He took another sip, then slid down to a more comfortable level in the bed. Of course, you didn't take on Fae in the first place because she was a grammarian, he reminded himself. You acquired her services because of her other splendid talents. Fae Moulle might not be able to string a coherent sentence across a page, but she knows her way across a mattress.

It was a thought that only a week ago might have propelled him from his own bed on Curzon Street and into hers only a brisk walk away. As he closed his eye, he asked himself what had changed in so brief an interval. Perhaps it was the rain. That was it; too much rain always made him restless and dissatisfied, even with the prospect of making love.

Making love. Now there is an odd phrase, he thought as he opened his eye and stared at the ceiling. ”Fae Moulle, I do not love you,” he told the plaster swirls overhead. ”You provide a pleasant jolt to my body, but so would another. No, Fae, I do not love you.”

Lord Ragsdale sighed and jerked the pillow out from behind his head. He lay flat on the bed and almost returned to sleep again. The room was cool and silent, but some maggot was burrowing about in his brain now and wouldn't let him doze. Of course, it was well past noon, too.

Perhaps it was time to send a letter to Fae, severing all connections. He could sweeten her disappointment with a tidy sum, and offer to provide excellent references. The thought made him grin, in spite of his vague discomfort. Any woman who could perform such magic between sheets ought to have no trouble snaring another marquess or earl. Lord knows England is full of dilettantes, he thought, and we recognize what we like.

He thought back to Fae's letter, and the one the day before, teasing him for a new wardrobe to peac.o.c.k about town in. While he liked the way she looked when she strolled about town with him, her hand resting lightly-but so possessively-on his arm, he was already dreading the mornings that would be taken up with modistes and models. Fae would not buy anything he did not approve of, so he would have to accompany her to the salons. She would coo and simper over each dress trotted out on display, then look at him with her big blue eyes. ”Whatever you want, my dear,” she would ask.

”Whatever you want, my dear,” he mimicked. She even said that when they were in bed. d.a.m.n, Fae, don't you possess a single stray thought of your own? What do you like? Do you know?

He sat up then and left his bed, thoroughly disgusted with himself. He glared into the mirror and pointed a finger at his night-s.h.i.+rted facsimile. ”Johnny Staples, you are a spoiled son of a b.i.t.c.h,” he told himself. ”You pay Fae's bills, and she must jump through your hoops. You should be ashamed.”

He regarded himself another moment, then looked about for his eye patch. No sense in disturbing the maid, who was due in here any moment with his shaving water. He found it and grinned to himself again, wondering how loud she would scream if she came into the room and found him leering at her with his patch over his good eye.

Too bad it was the Season now. He would have happily traded it all for a week or two on a friend's estate, if he had any friends left. He could take off that stupid patch and let the cold winds blow across his dead eye, too, as he rode the land. But this was London, and really, his eye didn't look too appealing, all milky white, perpetually half-open, and with that nasty scar. I could scare myself if I were drunk enough, he observed, as he pulled his robe about his shoulders and gave the coals in the fireplace a little stir.

He grunted when the maid knocked, and she entered with his hot water. When she left, he sat at his desk, staring glumly at all the correspondence before him. This was the overflow from the book room, too, he considered, wondering again why he had fired his secretary last month. He ruffled through the letters, many of them invitations that should have been answered weeks ago. ”Well, Johnny, maybe it was because your secretary was robbing you blind,” he reminded himself. Which was true, but Lord, the man could keep up with my business and knew how to write letters that sounded just like I had written them. What a pity the wretched cove could also duplicate my signature.

Ah, well, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d was cooling his heels in Newgate now, waiting transportation. Maybe if he survived the seven months in the reeking hold of a convict s.h.i.+p, he could find someone to bamboozle in Botany Bay. Lord Ragsdale sighed and looked at his frazzled desk. I suppose now if I want to cancel my liaison with Fae through the penny post, I'll have to write my own letter.

Nope, no letters to Fae, he reminded himself as he took off the patch again and lathered up. She thinks I'm thoughtless, thankless, reckless, or f.e.c.kless. And besides that, it's too much exertion. I suppose a new wardrobe won't kill me. It's a d.a.m.ned sight easier than explaining to Fae that I'm tired of her.

Lord Ragsdale was not in a pleasant frame of mind when his mother knocked on the door. He knew her knock; it was just hesitant enough to remind him that he paid her bills, too. He tucked in his s.h.i.+rttails and b.u.t.toned up his pants, wondering at his foul mood. Maybe I should pay Fae a quick visit, he thought. I'd at least leave her house in a more relaxed frame of mind.

”Come in, Mother,” he said, trying not to sound sour. It wasn't his mother's fault that he was rich and she was bound to him by his late father's stupid will. I really should settle a private income on her, he thought as he reached for his waistcoat. I wonder why Father didn't? He never did anything wrong. Lord Ragsdale sighed. And death came too suddenly for him to say, ”Oh, wait, I am not ready.”

As his mother came into his room on light feet, he felt his mood lifting slightly. How dainty she was, and how utterly unlike him. She didn't look old enough to have a thirty-year-old son, he thought as he inclined his head so she could kiss his cheek. True to form, she patted his neck cloth and tugged it to the left a little.

”Am I off center again, madam?” he inquired. ”Funny how one eye gone puts me off, even after . ..” He paused a moment. ”Let's see, is it ten years now?”

”Eleven, I think, my dear,” she replied. ”Oh, well. Two eyes gone would be worse.”

He nodded, wondering at her ability to cheer him up. She was so matter-of-fact. Why couldn't he have inherited that tendency, instead of his father's leaning toward melancholy?

”I suppose,” he agreed as he allowed her to help him into his coat. ”d.a.m.n the Irish, anyway.”

She frowned at him, and he took her hand.

”Yes, Mama. That was rude of me,” he said before she could. ”Didn't you teach me not to kick dogs? For so they are. I apologize.”

He kissed his mother, and she smiled at him. ”Accepted. Now, hurry up and put on your shoes. They are belowstairs.”

He looked at her, then rummaged for his shoes. ”Mama, who are you talking about?”

She sighed loud enough for him to pause in his exertions. ”What did I forget this time?” he asked.

”Your American cousins, John. They have arrived.”

He paused a moment in thought, embarra.s.sed to have forgotten something that obviously had meaning for his mother. ”My cousins,” he repeated.

”John, you are the dearest blockhead,” she said, and took his arm, pulling him toward the door. ”My sister's children from Virginia! Don't you remember?”

He did now. In fact, he remembered a winter's worth of bills to refurbish the ballroom and downstairs sitting rooms. And wasn't there something about Oxford? ”Let's see if I remember now, Mama,” he teased. ”Someone is going to Oxford, and someone else is attempting a come out under your redoubtable aegis.”

”Excellent!” she commended him. ”Sometimes you are the soul of efficiency.”

”Not often, m'dear,” he murmured as they descended the stairs. ”Will you begin reminding me on a regular basis that I must engage a secretary, and soon?”

”I have been,” she said patiently. ”And I've been reminding you about a valet, too, and while we're at it, a wife.”

He laughed out loud at the seriousness of her expression. ”Which of the three do I need worse, madam?” he quizzed as she steered him toward the gold saloon, reserved for unpleasant events, formal occasions, and, apparently, little-known relatives.

”A wife,” she replied promptly as she allowed Lasker to open the door for her. ”Ah, my dears! Heavens, are you drooping? Let me introduce your cousin, John Staples, Lord Ragsdale. John, here are Robert and Sally Claridge, your cousins from Richmond, Virginia. Come forward, my dears. He won't bite.”

Of course I will not bite, he thought as he came forward to shake cousin Robert's hand. He thought he might kiss Sally's cheek, but she was staring at his eye patch as though she expected him suddenly to brandish a cutla.s.s and edge her toward a plank. He nodded to her instead. ”Delighted to meet you,” he murmured automatically, wondering how soon he could escape to White's and bury his face in a pint of the finest.

He had to admit that they were a handsome pair, as he stepped back and allowed his mother's conversation to fill in any awkward gaps before they had the chance to develop. Sally Claridge had his own mother's ash blond good looks. If the expression in her blue eyes was a trifle vacant, perhaps a good night's rest on a pillow that did not pitch and yaw with an ocean under it would make the difference.