Carla Kelly (9 page)

He opened them a moment later. He was not alone on the stairs. Someone else sat nearby. He turned his head slowly, wondering what he would do if it was a sneak thief or cutpurse, come to rob and murder them all. Lord Ragsdale sighed philosophically and sat back to wait for the knife between his ribs. At least when they found his sprawled corpse at the foot of the stairs, the constable would think that he had died there defending his family.
It would be rather like Thermopylae
, he thought, and giggled.

“All right, do your worst,” he managed finally, looking around.

In another moment, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman sat near the top of the stairs, asleep and leaning against the railing. He looked closer and sighed again.
Heavens, it's Emma Costello
, he thought,
the plague of my life.
As he watched her, his mind began to clear and he wondered what she was doing there. Surely she was not waiting up for him.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she had no place to sleep. He remembered his mother mentioning something about hiring a proper lady's maid for Sally. The woman must have arrived and usurped Emma's place in the dressing room. He stared at Emma and wondered why his mother had not done anything about the situation, until he remembered her exhausted face as her own maid helped her from the carriage. Mama must have gone directly to bed, too tired for a thought about Emma.

And here she was now, at the mercy of his staff, and asleep on the stairs. He felt an unexpected twinge of remorse, remembering his own disparaging words about her to his butler. The staff knew how he felt about the Irish.

“Emma,” he called out softly, not wishing to startle her into a plunge down the stairs.

He called her name several times before she straightened up, moving her head slowly as though her neck hurt. She was silent a moment. “My lord?” she finally asked, not sure of her answer.

“The very same,” he replied. “Emma, what are you doing sleeping on my stairs?”

She was silent a long moment, and he wondered if she still slept. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said finally. “It seems that all I do is apologize to you. I don't have a place to sleep.”

He didn't say anything. After another small silence, she rose and shook out her skirts. “I'll go find the back stairs, my lord,” she mumbled. “I can sleep there.”

Without quite knowing why, he put out his hand to stop her.

“Just a moment, Emma,” he said. “Help me up, will you?”

She could have left him there, and by morning's light, he probably would have put the whole thing down to an imaginary alcoholic haze. Someone else would find him and help him to bed, and it wouldn't be the first time. Emma would sleep on the stairs for a few more nights until his mother got wind of the situation and straightened things out belowstairs. It didn't have to be his worry.

He was about to withdraw his hand when she clasped it firmly in her own and, with one swift movement, tugged him to his feet. He swayed on the stairs, and she quickly grasped him around the waist and commanded him to take up his bed and walk. It was a voice of command, resounding inside his head, crashing around from ear to ear until he wanted to whimper and crawl into a corner. Instead, he did as she ordered, putting one foot in front of the other until he was outside the door to his own room.

“I'll be all right now,” he gasped. “You can let go.”

Other servants had helped him to his room before. Practice told him that he could negotiate the distance from the door to his bed and throw himself down on it, not to rise until afternoon or the resurrection, whichever came first. He tried to turn her loose, but she would not budge. Suddenly he realized, in spite of his weakened state, that the rules had changed.

“I'll see you to your bed,” she insisted, her voice low but carrying into his brain where her earlier words still careened off his skull. “I'll not give you the satisfaction of telling someone tomorrow that your shanty Irish servant did you an injury, no matter how richly you deserve one,” she assured him.

She lowered him to his bed, and he flopped there. In another moment his shoes were off, and she was covering him with a blanket.

“That should hold you until morning,” she said.

His head throbbing beyond belief, he waited like a wounded animal for her to hurry up and leave. To his chagrin, she stared around his room until her vision rested on his untidy desk. He watched stupidly as she shook her head in amazement at the ruin of his life.

Then the whole thing made him giggle. He tried to raise up on one elbow, but he seemed to have misplaced his arm. He remained where he was, content to watch the two of her. “Reform me, Emma,” he said, and then hiccupped.

“You are disgusting, Lord Ragsdale,” she said at last, each word as distinct and penetrating as a bell. She shook her head. “I never saw a more worthless man, much less served one.” Her words boomed about in his skull some more. She went to his desk and rummaged about for a moment. He raised up his head to watch her sit down at his desk, clear off a spot, and put ink to paper.

She sat there quite awhile, crumpling two sheets of paper and then resting her elbows on the desk as she contemplated him lying helpless and drunk on his bed. In another moment, she dipped the quill in the inkwell again and wrote swiftly, pausing at last to read over what she had written in the dim light. She nodded, picked up the paper and the ink, and came back to the bed.

“Emma, would you get out of my room?” he insisted, wishing he did not sound so feeble.

“Not until you sign this,” she replied, sitting down next to him.

“Here.” She thrust the paper under his nose.

He tried to wave away the paper, but she would not relent.

“What is it?” he asked finally. “At least tell me that.”

“It has to do with what you just said, my lord,” she said. “You have given me such an idea. Now sign, and then I will leave you.”

Said? Said? What did I say?
he thought wildly.
I really must stop drinking so much.
He closed his eyes, but she rattled the paper at his ear.

As drunk as he was, Lord Ragsdale knew that he could leave the paper alone, roll over, and go to sleep. She would go away eventually, and he would be in peace. Nothing would change. By evening he would be at White's again and drunk, or at Fae's and miserable. He was on the verge of sleep when Emma Costello touched his hair. She smoothed it back from his sweaty face and rested her hand for a moment on his head. “Sign, my lord,” she ordered, her voice softer now, and held out the quill to him.

He grasped the pen and managed to scrawl out his name. He closed his eyes then and relaxed as she stood up. He reached for her hand. “Emma, please tell me that I have just released you from that unpleasant indenture. Then you can go away and I will be happy,” he said. It was his longest speech of the evening, and his head lolled to one side.

I should worry
, he thought when she started to laugh.
Have I signed away my fortune to this Irish harpy?
But she was speaking now, and he strained to listen.

“Lord Ragsdale, I owe you two thousand pounds, and I will pay this debt,” she was saying.

“How?” he managed at last, wondering at the effort it took to form the word.

“By reforming you, my lord, now that I have your written consent. It was your idea. Good night.”

MMA'S NECK WAS ACHING IN GOOD EARNEST by the time the scullery maid nearly tripped over her on the way down the back stairs to begin another long day in the kitchen. She grabbed onto the banister, scowled at Emma, and then snickered.

“Can't find a place to sleep, can we?” she mocked. “Find a peat bog.” The maid hurried on down the stairs, tying her apron as she went and laughing at her own cleverness.

Emma drew her knees up to her chin and watched the maid's progress. “No, but I will find a place someday,” she said, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Not that anyone was listening to her. As Emma sat on the back stairs, she heard the butler giving his orders. Soon the upstairs maids would be coming up the stairs, staggering under the weight of cans of hot water and then teapots.
Another day has come to the Ragsdale household,
she thought as she looked down at the paper still clutched in her hand. She spread it out on the landing and wondered for a moment at her audacity. She shook her head over the document containing Lord Ragsdale's shaky signature.
I must be crazy,
she thought.

She made herself small in the corner—something she was good at—as the first maid hurried upstairs with hot water. Five years ago—or was it six now?—she never would have done something that outrageous.
There was a time when I cared what happened to me,
she thought as she carefully folded the paper.
I wonder which room is Lady Ragsdale's?

The problem was solved for her as she quietly moved up the stairs in the wake of the upstairs maids. The first closed door she identified from last night. No one went in there, and she knew it would be hours before anyone stumbled out. Two doors down was Sally Claridge's room, if she remembered right. Ah, yes. The woman who opened the door was the dresser who had made herself quite at home in the little space Emma had carved out of the dressing room before the trip to Oxford. Robert had slept in the room next, but now the maid was tapping softly on the door beyond. The tall, thin woman with the sneer who opened the door was Lady Ragsdale's dresser.

Emma thought at first that she would wait until the maid left and then knock, but hurriedly discarded that idea. The dresser probably would not let her in. She took a deep breath and followed in after the maid, who looked around in surprise and glared at her.

“I am sure you do not belong in here,” the dresser said. The cold glint in her eyes told Emma that if Lady Ragsdale's servant had not been occupied with the tea tray, she would have thrown her out. As it was, the dresser could only sputter and protest as Emma hurried to the bed where Lady Ragsdale sat awaiting her first cup of the day.

“Emma, whatever are you doing in here? And for heaven's sake, why are you so rumpled?” Lady Ragsdale asked, staring at her unexpected morning visitor.

“I slept on the stairs because no one provided a room for me,” she explained. She spread out her hands in front of her. “I know that you would have, my lady, but you were so tired from yesterday's journey.” She flashed her most brilliant smile at the lady in the bed and was rewarded with a smile in return.

“Thank you, Acton,” Lady Ragsdale said to her dresser, who handed her a cup of tea and stood glowering at Emma. “That will be all for the moment. Sit down, Emma. And do excuse this ramshackle household. I will instruct Lasker to find you a place to sleep tonight.”

Emma perched herself on the edge of a chair close to Lady Ragsdale's bed. She sat in silence for a brief moment, willing her heart to stop jumping about in her chest, then held out the paper to Lady Ragsdale.

The other woman took it and read the few words on the page as Emma held her breath. To her vast relief, Lady Ragsdale began to laugh. She set down the teacup on her lap tray and leaned back against the pillows, indulging herself until she had to wipe her eyes with the corner of the sheet. “Emma, you are a shrewd one! Why on earth do you want to attempt this Promethean task?” she asked as she handed back the document.