Part 7 (1/2)
”Looking up relatives?” the marquess asked. ”Close relatives, I would imagine.”
He was teasing her; she could tell. ”Of course, my lord,” she, responded promptly. He could think what he chose.
Lord Ragsdale nodded to his tiger, who unblanketed his horse. They started out in silence. It was almost dark now, and Newgate was only a hulking shadow. She s.h.i.+vered, hoping that she would not dream tonight.
”I trust we needn't repeat a visit to my late secretary.”
”No, my lord,” she said. ”Tomorrow, though, we need to visit your banker, and find out what bills remain to be paid. Breedlow tells me that your banker has his ledgers.”
”It can wait, Emma,” he grumbled.
”It cannot, my lord. The sooner your finances are organized, the less I will bother you.”
”Thank G.o.d,” he replied fervently. ”In that case, I am yours this evening, too.”
Silence filled the s.p.a.ce between them. They might have been miles from each other, instead of touching shoulders. She knew she should be silent, but Breedlow's face was still so vivid in her mind.
”My lord, did you ever ask Mr. Breedlow why he stole the money?”
”No. I don't care why.”
The marquess spoke with such finality that Emma knew she did not dare to continue. But she did, as though some demon pushed her onto an empty stage, daring her to perform for a hostile audience.
”His sister's husband died, and that twenty pounds was to cover funeral expenses and a year's rent for her.”
She could tell he had turned to look at her, but it was dark and she could not see his face.
”I told you I did not care. Thievery's thievery, Emma.”
She looked straight ahead and plunged on, driven by some imp that she did not recognize. ”When I straightened out your desk this morning, I noticed that you wagered seventy-five pounds that Lord Lander could not push a peanut with his nose down St. James Street during the evening rush of traffic.”
His reply was quiet, and she knew she should not prod him any farther. ”It's my money, Emma,” he said.
”Yes, it is, isn't it?”
”Emma, you are aggravating!” he said, his voice low but intense. ”When we get home, I am going to find that stupid paper I signed and tear it up, and you can spend the next five years cleaning out my kitchen! To h.e.l.l with my reformation.”
Well, that is that, she thought to herself as she pulled as far away from him as she could, and stared into the gathering dusk. Oh, why can I not learn patience? I have ruined everything.
When they arrived at the house, Lord Ragsdale flung himself out of the curricle, snapped his orders at the tiger, and took the front steps in two bounds. Emma followed more slowly, drawing her cloak about her again. She sniffed at the fabric. Lord Ragsdale was right; the odor of Newgate had permeated the material.
He slammed the door behind him, not quite in her face, but almost. She opened it and forced herself to go inside. I wonder if Lady Ragsdale found me a place to sleep, she thought. I cannot bear another night on the stairs.
Lady Ragsdale and Sally Claridge, dressed in evening wear, stood in the front hallway conversing with Lord Ragsdale. The older woman nodded to Emma, and then made a face as Emma slowly removed her cloak.
”I was telling my son how much Sally and I were looking forward to his escort tonight and during this Season, and what does he tell me but you have commanded his appearance in the book room this evening?”
Surprised, Emma glanced at Lord Ragsdale, who stood slightly behind his mother. He stared at her, and gave a slow wink. She understood perfectly, and resisted the urge to cheer as she sighed and then shook her head at Lady Ragsdale.
”That is how we must get on, my lady,” she said, striving ft that perfect blend of regret and determination. ”Until your son's business affairs are regulated, I must claim his attention. I am sure that later in the Season he will be delighted to accompany the two of you.”
To her relief, Lady Ragsdale nodded her head. ”I am sure understand, Emma. Come, Sally. I don't believe Lord and Lady Tennant were expecting my son anyway.”
Lord Ragsdale kissed his mother's cheek and managed a look of rue so counterfeit to Emma that she had to turn away to maintain her countenance. I never met a more complicated man, she thought as Lord Ragsdale expressed his profound sorrow at miss-' ing an evening with London's finest, and closed the door behind his mother and cousin. He turned back to her, and she held her breath.
”To the book room, Emma,” he said, handing his coat to Lasker, who frowned and held it at arm's length. ”Burn it, Lasker,” he ordered as he started down the hall. ”Come along, come along! I suppose that right now, you are the lesser of two evils. I would rather suffer an hour or two in the book room with; you than spend even fifteen minutes in the home of London's most prosing windbags. If some latter-day Guy Fawkes were to blow up Lord and Lady Tennant, he would have the thanks of a grateful nation.”
”Thank you, I think,” she replied dubiously.
”You have your uses, Emma,” he murmured as he held open the book room door. ”Now I suppose you want me to go to my' room and gather up all the bills on that desk and bring them to you, as well.”
”Precisely, my lord,” she said as she seated herself behind the desk and reached for the inkwell. ”We will sort them, and tie them in bales and contract a carter to haul them to Fotherby and Sons tomorrow morning.”
”Emma, you are trying me,” he replied, his hand on the door-k.n.o.b.
She returned his stare with one of her own. ”Of course, if you hurry, I am sure you can arrive at the Tennants' in time for a fulfilling evening, my lord.”
”And deprive you of my company, Emma? Never that. By G.o.d, you are a cheeky bit of Irish baggage,” Lord Ragsdale murmured as he closed the door quietly behind him. To her amazement, he was whistling as he headed for the stairs.
He is a lunatic, she thought as she put more coal on the fire. If only I didn't owe him so much money. She seated herself again and folded her hands on the desk, thinking of Mr. Breedlow. If he survives the journey, perhaps he will remember the letter. And if he does, perhaps it will get to my father, or my brother. And if they read it, perhaps they will be allowed to write to me. She looked down at the distorted fingernails on her left hand. But I will not hope, she thought. For all I know, they are buried in a lime pit in Dublin.
But I will not think of that, she told herself a few minutes later as she rested her head on the desk and closed her eyes. She raised her head a moment later as the doork.n.o.b turned.
”Caught you, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale murmured as he dumped an armful of bills on the desk. ”Which reminds me. Lasker, in his condescension, has permitted you to sleep with the scullery maid. Top floor, second door on the right.” He sat down next to her. ”All right, Emma. I dare you to organize me.”
The clock in the hall was chiming midnight when Lord Ragsdale stood up and stretched. He looked at the neat piles of bills festooning the room, and wondered all over again how he ever found the time for such profligacy. Emma Costello still bent diligently over the tablet, recording each bill in her rather fine handwriting. Every now and then she rubbed her eyes and seemed to sag a bit, but she kept at the work with no complaints.
They had indulged in several lively arguments throughout the interminable evening, and rather than resenting it, he found himself enjoying the spirited exchanges. As much as he disliked the Irish, he had to admit that Emma's native wit kept him on his toes. He came away bruised from at least one sharp encounter, but invigorated by the intensity. He realized how few witty people he knew. His mother was charm itself, but her conversation had developed a predictability that made him yawn. And Fae Moulle? He glanced at Emma, writing and trying to stay awake. Fae wouldn't recognize a clever turn of phrase if it bit her on the bottom.
Their worst argument of the evening had come about because of Fae. After having sorted out a sizable collection of bills from modistes, chocolatiers, and glove makers, Emma had finally stared at him and waved the invoices in his face.
”My lord, are you aware that Miss Moulle must have enough gloves to outfit a small army?” she burst out, as though each glove paraded across the desk. ”And what can she possibly do with all this perfume?”
”I hardly think that my mistress is any of your business,” he snapped, perching on the edge of the desk. He thought he had spoken in the tone that usually quelled servants, but what with the late hour, he must have been mistaken. Emma rode right over his comment as if he had remained silent.
”Actually, I believe she is my business, if reformation is our topic, my lord,” Emma replied. ”What are you, sir? Twenty-nine? Thirty?”
”I am thirty,” he replied, wondering down what path she was leading him. ”Your age, at least,” he added to goad her.
She only grinned at him as though he did not know how to argue. Since it was the first time she had smiled, he overlooked the familiarity of it.
”Good try, my lord,” she said. ”You are thirty, then?”
He nodded, making sure that he did not smile, even though he wanted to.
”Would you agree with your mother that it is high time you set up your nursery?”
He nodded again, less eager. ”So she tells me.”
Emma folded her hands in her lap. ”You stand a better chance of attracting someone proper if you discard your mistress. Just personally speaking, I would never marry someone with a mistress. It smacks of the grossest hypocrisy.”