Carla Kelly (37 page)

I refuse to flog myself because I allowed Lord Ragsdale to kiss me,
Emma told herself at least one hundred times before noon, laying on the mental lashes as she busied herself with his instructions. That the experience was pleasant beyond all reason only added to her logic that she was getting old now—almost twenty-five—and more susceptible to such things. She considered the matter and resolved that, when this matter of her father and brother was settled one way or the other, she should give some thought to marriage and a family of her own.

Not that her future husband would be anything like Lord Ragsdale, she told herself, suppressing a small shudder. She allowed herself a smile, wondering what he would say if she told him that he had become her measuring stick of what not to look for in a husband.

She frowned, aware of the fiction of that statement. While it may have been true several months ago, it was not true today. Lord Ragsdale showed great potential now. Emma picked up the quill again and dipped it in the ink.
Miss Clarissa,
she thought grimly,
I hope you appreciate the paragon—well, the improved person—that I have helped to fashion. I hope you will have the wit to scold him where he needs it and give him plenty of headroom in matters where he shines.
She sighed.
I should write a manual for the care and upkeep of Lord Ragsdale and give it to you, Miss Clarissa. Why am I afraid that you won't know what to do with him?

The thought dogged her for several days, but she eventually put it aside as she and the footman made several more trips to Deptford Hard and the shipping offices. No one had ever heard of the
Minerva
or the
Hercules
, not even when she attempted bribery. When she explained it to him, Robert Claridge took her task to heart, and traveled to Portsmouth, seeking news of the missing ships. There was no news, not even any scraps of information in the dusty boxes at the Home Office, which she returned to during the remaining days of the week.

“I begin to wonder if they ever existed,” she told Robert as he sat in Sally's room, watching her pack.

“You could return to Virginia with us,” he offered. “I do not think Lord Ragsdale would mind, and didn't you say he is probably engaged by now?”

She nodded, and began to fold the chemise in her hands smaller and smaller. “I am sure you are right.” She looked down at the garment in her hands and shook it out to begin again. “Perhaps Lord Ragsdale will have thought of something else. I should wait.”

And so she did, although it gave her a pang to stand with Lady Ragsdale and wave good-bye as the Claridges departed for Portsmouth and a ship to America. Robert had kindly left her enough passage money to see her to Virginia, “When you decide you've looked enough,” he had told her the night before.

To take Lady Ragsdale's mind off the melancholy of farewell, Emma saw to it that they traveled to Norfolk to look in on the progress of construction and renovation. She took notes on the improvements, pleased to see how well Manwaring and Larch worked together. The sheepherders had already moved into their new quarters, and work would begin on the crofters’ cottages as soon as the planting was finished.

“Lady Ragsdale, you can tell your lordship that he has a good instinct where people are concerned,” Mrs. Larch told her as they walked around the newly dug foundations on her last evening in Norfolk.

“Mrs. Larch, I am not married to Lord Ragsdale,” she said quickly, before she lost her nerve. “I serve him as his secretary. I do not know why he didn't correct you during that first visit, and then I was too embarrassed to say anything.”

Mrs. Larch stared at her in amazement. “I never would have believed it!” She looked at her husband, who was chatting with the bailiff. “And didn't my David remark to me that you two looked like you had been married years and years?”

Oh, my,
Emma thought to herself.
This is worse than I thought.

“It was just Lord Ragsdale and his rather demented sense of humor, Mrs. Larch,” she apologized. “I trust you will excuse him.”

Mrs. Larch allowed as she could. “Well, you may say all that, but I think you would have made a grand Lady Ragsdale.”

“Why, thank you,” Emma replied.
How curious,
she thought.
A few months ago, I would have pokered up and protested at such a statement. Perhaps I am learning something of toleration.

And something of patience,
she told herself early the next week as she shook her head at Lasker's offer of hackney fare and started walking to the bank for the monthly audit of Lord Ragsdale's accounts.
I will certainly need it if I am to say more than three or four sentences in my life to Clarissa Partridge.

That morning's interview with Clarissa called for a brisk walk, she decided. They had returned from Norfolk to a letter from Clarissa. Lady Ragsdale read it, then held it out to Emma, a broad smile on her face. “Well, it is about time,” she commented.

Emma read the brief note, marveling that Clarissa could write as she spoke, in breathless sentences, little wispy fragments that managed to convey her delight at Lord Ragsdale's proposal, and then ping off half a dozen other topics in the brief space of half a page. She looked on the back, but there was nothing more.

And then only days later, the fiancée herself sat drinking tea in Lady Ragsdale's private sitting room, all blonde and lovely and wearing a diamond that Emma thought vulgar. When Lady Ragsdale inquired where her son was, if he had not returned with her, Clarissa only shrugged her shoulders.

“He bolted out of Bath after only three days,” she said, her expression somewhere between a pout and a simper. “He said something about business that would not wait. Yes, thank you,” she said, selecting a macaroon from the tray that Emma held out to her. “I will have to speak to him about such precipitate behavior.”

“He does his best work on impulse, I think,” Emma noted.

“Well, it won't do, and so I will tell him,” Clarissa concluded, speaking with finality. She took a long look at Emma. “And I will also tell him that once he is married, he can find himself a regular male secretary, like all his friends.”

Oh, I like that,
Emma thought as she quickened her pace to the bank. Of course, as soon as the wedding—and maybe sooner, if today's conversation were any indication—she would find herself an independent woman.
There will be nothing for me here in England. There is nothing in Ireland. I suppose I will return to America.

The banker's audit was the usual ponderous process of reconciling ledgers and figures, with occasional reminders this time for her to pay attention. “Emma, this is not like you,” the senior clerk scolded.

I suppose it is not,
she considered as she turned her attention from a perusal of the paneling to the ledger before her. She accepted the Bath receipts, her eyes widening at the cost of the diamond ring that Lord Ragsdale had lavished on his bride-to-be.
He must be dead in love, or monstrously vulgar,
she thought as she added the sum to her entries.

She looked up from the next receipt. “Mary Roney in Market Quavers?” she asked.

The clerk leaned over the ledger, his spectacles far down on his nose. “He has decided to award an annuity to the widowed sister of David Breedlow,” he announced, then fixed her with that dry look that clerks reserve for the foolish wealthy.

You dear man,
she thought as she finished her accounting and put the ledger under her arm again.
Only marry now, and I will consider your redemption complete.
She started the long walk home, then reconsidered. “No. I will celebrate,” she told herself as she stepped into the street to hail a hackney.

“Kensington, if you please,” she instructed the jarvey, and settled back with a sigh.
I will wander among those paintings I was too frightened to look at, when he took me to the gallery. Of course, it would be better if Lord Ragsdale were here, because then he could explain them
to me.

She paid the small entrance fee from the few coins she allowed herself from Robert Claridge's passage to Virginia, and strolled slowly through the gallery. The peace of the place made her sleepy, and she found a comfortable bench.
I will sit here and think about my future
, she told herself as her eyes closed.

She couldn't have put her finger on what woke her, except that the sun was slanting across the gallery floor and telling her it was time to go home. She sat up and looked right into Lord Ragsdale's eye. She gasped and let the ledger drop.

“I wondered how long I would have to stare at you before you woke up,” he said to her from his seat across the gallery. “And I have only one eye.”

Her face red with embarrassment, she fumbled for the ledger and started to rise. He held up a hand to stop her and started across the gallery.

“Stay where you are, my dear. I have such news, and I'd rather you were sitting down.”

“Well, did you keep things running smoothly while I was away?” he asked as he reached inside his overcoat.

“Of course,” she replied promptly. “Probably better than you would have, my lord,” she teased. Her smile deepened as he pulled out a small packet and dropped it in her lap.

“From me to you, Emma. It was easy to find where I've been,” he explained.

She unwrapped the package and held up a rosary. “Oh, thank you!”

“You're so welcome, Emma.” He reached into his overcoat again. “Here's something else.”

The smile left her face when he dropped a bundle of papers in her lap.

He tried to keep his voice casual and offhand, but through his obvious exhaustion, she could almost feel his excitement.

“Emma, you can correct me if I'm wrong, but you might find some familiar names here.”

She looked down at the lists in her lap, afraid to touch them. “My dear, it's silly of me, but I must insist that you breathe in and out,” she heard Lord Ragsdale saying from what seemed like a great distance. “I found the
Minerva
and the
Hercules
!”

MPULSIVELY, SHE TOOK HIS FACE IN HER HANDS and touched her forehead to his. “Somehow, I knew you would,” she murmured, and she meant it. Lord Ragsdale picked up one of the lists and placed it in her hand. “They were on the
Hercules
,”he said, unfolding the papers. “Wouldn't you know I would go through the
Minerva's
list first.”He scanned the second page and then ran his finger in practiced fashion down the second column. “There.”

She looked where he pointed, read the name, and allowed herself to breathe again. “David Upton Costello,” she read out loud. “My lord, that is my father.”

“I thought as much. And look here,”he said, pointing farther down the list. “There were several Costellos. Samuel—I cannot make out the middle name, but it starts with an A.”

“Ainsworth,”she said, touching the name. She folded the paper carefully, tenderly, then leaned against Lord Ragsdale's shoulder and closed her eyes, unable to say anything.