Carla Kelly (6 page)

The gambler shrugged. “I can take your money as well as his,” he offered.

“I don't have any,” Lord Ragsdale said.

“Well, then, we play for the wench,” said the gambler. “You can go back to bed.”

I could
, he thought.
She is not my chattel.
He looked at Robert.
And you are not my problem.
He started to get up when he heard the smallest sound from the servant. He may even have imagined it, but suddenly he knew he could not leave her there to the mercy of these men, no matter how much he disliked her. He sat back down again.

“I have something better than that testy Irish wench.” He leaned forward again, his voice conspiratorial. “Two horses out in the stable. One a chestnut and the other a bay. The chestnut won at Newport last season. That cuts the debt, and Emma goes back upstairs where she belongs.”

I am giving away the best two horses a man ever owned for an Irish bog-trotter who can't stand the sight of me
, he thought as he glared at the other men around the table.

The men looked at each other. The hostler by the bar spoke up. “I curried them two bits of bone and blood this afternoon, and he's right, lads.” He stopped then and looked around, filled with the pride that comes from being the expert.

Lord Ragsdale stood up, ignoring his cousin, who still sat on the floor where he had pushed him. “Does that clear my cousin's debt, then? Two of the best horses in London, and I take back this paper.”

The men nodded. “We'll call it even,” the dealer said.

Even, my dead eye
, Lord Ragsdale thought as he watched his cousin get to his feet, sway a moment, and then reach for the paper.

Lord Ragsdale was quicker. He snatched the document from Robert so fast that his cousin leaped back in surprise and toppled onto the floor again. “Robert, the only way you can get this paper back is to pay me the two thousand pounds you now owe me.”

Emma gasped. Lord Ragsdale looked around in amazement of his own.
I just bought a woman
, he thought as he took her hand and pulled her from the taproom,
an Irish woman I don't like too well, and who doesn't like me at all.

She sank to her knees in the hall and covered her face with her hands. His first instinct was to leave her there and just go back to bed. He started up the stairs and then returned to kneel beside her in the passageway.

“Don't cry, Emma,” he said.

“I'm not crying,” she murmured, even as the tears streamed down her cheeks and she savagely wiped them away.

“Thank goodness for that,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “’Pon my word, Emma, I hope you are worth two thousand pounds.”

WONDER WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THE simplicity of a good night's sleep
, Lord Ragsdale thought to himself as he fumed in his bed and watched morning gradually overtake the Norman and Saxon. Sleep was out of the question; the more he thought about the disaster of the night, the more put-upon he imagined himself.

Never mind that Robert Claridge lay on the floor of the room, noisily sleeping off a prodigious amount of rum. John Staples rose up on his elbow to give his cousin a particularly malevolent glare. The effort was wasted. Robert slumbered on, wrapped in peaceful sleep that he, Lord Ragsdale, could only wish for.

The nerve of his aunt and uncle Claridge to foist such a problem off onto an English relative they had never met. Lord Ragsdale punched his pillow savagely, trying to find a spot without a lump, and considered that the whole affair must be yet another way for Americans to wreak vengeance on their late antagonists.
I have done nothing to deserve this cousin
, he reflected.

He thought of Emma Costello, standing so quiet as Robert prepared to sell her on the drawing of a card. He groaned and stuffed his pillow over his face, as if to shut out her calm face that seemed to stare at him still. He had never seen anyone so totally without hope and yet so brave in the face of it. He removed the pillow and sat up so he could stare daggers at his sleeping cousin.

“One thing is certain, Robert,” he said, making no effort to lower his voice. “Only a truly wicked master would try what you tried. And I don't care if she
is
Irish. It was a low blow.”

Beyond the smacking of his lips and a rude noise, Robert made no comment. Lord Ragsdale sighed and looked away toward the window, urging dawn to forget that it was February and appear sooner.

By seven o'clock he was dressed and pacing the floor, stepping over Robert on each trip across the room and resisting the urge, each time, to kick him. Finally, his baser instincts triumphed. He kicked Robert in the ribs with enough force to waken his cousin.

Or perhaps at that moment, Robert had decided to wake up on his own accord. He sat up, making no comment on ill-treatment, and regarded his cousin beatifically. “Ah, Cousin John,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

Cousin John could only stare in amazement at his relative and open his mouth once or twice like a fish hooked and tossed onto the shore. Lord Ragsdale looked down at Robert, certain in his heart of hearts that if he murdered his cousin on the spot that no jury of twelve men just and true would ever convict him. He sat down on the bed and glared at his relative.

“Don't you remember anything of last night?” he began and then stopped. The conversation sounded familiar to his ears, and he almost smiled in spite of himself. That hoary question, probably asked since caveman days, was the preamble to many a morning's argument when his father was still alive.
This will never do
, he thought as he stared hard at his cousin. “Robert, you are a certifiable scoundrel,” he stated firmly. “You have been through your money and my money. You nearly sold your servant to a man I wouldn't trust a saint with and forced me to give up two thousand pounds worth of horse to redeem her and to keep you from a knife in the ribs and a trip to the river, I don't doubt.”

Robert burped, winced, and sat up. “All that happened last night?” he said as he clutched his head with both hands.

“It did. We happen to be dead broke now, and if my mother doesn't have any yellow dogs on her person, we will be making beds and cleaning the
pissoir
to pay for our lodging!” Lord Ragsdale gave an unpleasant laugh. “Or rather, you will be doing that and we will watch!”

He regarded his cousin a moment more and then stood up. “Wash your face and come to the parlor. I think you and Sally owe the Staples branch of the family some enlightenment.”

He slammed the door behind him and was rewarded with a groan from Robert. Lord Ragsdale smiled in satisfaction and resisted the desire to slam the door again.
Life is suddenly full of exertions
, he thought as he rapped lightly on his mother's door.

The inmates were dressed already, and two out of three were regarding him with some anxiety. Sally Claridge was easily the more agitated of the two. She gave a start when he came in, and he wondered for a second if he had forgotten to put on his eye patch. No, it was carefully in place. As he watched, Sally's face turned bright red as she reached for her handkerchief and began to sob. The marquess groaned.

“Sally, it is much too early for tears,” he assured her. Sally sobbed louder into the already soaking scrap of lace in her hand. In desperation, he gestured to Emma. “Tell her that nothing was ever solved with tears,” he pleaded.

“I have always found tears to be singularly valueless,” she agreed and handed her mistress a more substantial rag. “Dry up, now, miss, or your eyes will swell and you will look quite twenty.”

Lord Ragsdale smiled in spite of himself, charmed—if against his will—by the lilt of Emma's brogue and her common sense. Lord Ragsdale was grateful. One woman in tears would suffice, especially before breakfast. He regarded his mother, who smiled back at him from her seat by the window.

“Troubles, John?” she asked, her voice hearty enough to make him suspect that she was enjoying this domestic tempest.

“You needn't appear so cheerful, Mama,” he insisted. “I think my cousins are a great lot of trouble.”

Sally burst into louder tears, edging on the hysterical. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his temper shorten perceptibly. He looked to Emma Costello for help, and to his amazement, she glared back at him.

“Must you make a situation more difficult, Lord Ragsdale?” she asked.

No servant had ever addressed him like that. Hot words rose to his lips, but to his further astonishment, he stopped them. She was absolutely right; there was no sense in tossing another log onto the blaze. He bit his tongue, glared back, and turned his attention to his mother again.

It may have been his imagination, but Lady Ragsdale seemed to be enjoying the whole affair. “You needn't take such pleasure in all this,” he snapped, coming as close to pouting as he cared to admit. “It may put some sand in your eye when I tell you that Beau Rascal in the other room gambled away all my money too. My dear, unless you have some pounds sterling tucked somewhere to pay the innkeeper, we're going to have a hard time avoiding the constable. Oh, Sally, cut line!” he ordered when his cousin increased the volume of her misery.

Lady Ragsdale blew a kiss to her sorely tried niece. “John, dear, you know I always travel with cash. I have enough to pay our receipt here.”

“Well, thank heavens for one piece of good news this morning … Now if you could only produce enough for me to reclaim my horses.”

“That I cannot do,” she said and gave her head a sorrowful wag.

He sighed, the martyr again. “Mama, they were prime goers,” he began and then stopped himself, because it sounded like he was whining.

“I'm sure they were, my dear,” she agreed as she reached out to clasp his hand. “But I want you to tell me something, son.”

“What?” he asked in irritation when she continued to look at him.

“Tell me if all this will matter in even a week or two.”

“Of course it will!” he shot back.

“Why?” she asked softly.

He had no answer. Of course it mattered, he wanted to shout, but for the life of him, he couldn't think why. He had plenty of money, and there would be other horses. He looked at Sally, who was hiccupping through her tears now, and then at Emma.
Why the deuce do I wonder what you are thinking?
he asked himself.

He was spared the pain of further analysis by the arrival of Robert. It was a soft tap on the door, as though sound was painful to his cousin.
I can appreciate that
, John thought grimly. He opened the door quickly, hoping that his cousin might be leaning on it to support himself.

“Robert!” he exclaimed, noting with a certain malicious pleasure that his cousin winced at his loud greeting. “Grand of you to join us. Sit down, please.”

Robert sat, after looking around at Sally as though for help. His sister was deep in a handkerchief and unlikely to be of any assistance. No one spoke. To Lord Ragsdale's supreme annoyance, everyone looked at him as though expecting leadership. He could have told them that was a waste of time, but since they seemed to expect him to take charge, he did.

Lord Ragsdale clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the window. He stood there a moment, rocking back and forth on his heels, and then regarded his cousins. “I would like one of you to tell me exactly what is going on.”