Ransom Redeemed (12 page)

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Ransom galloped home, handed his horse off to the groom, dashed into his house and looked about anxiously to be sure the place had been tidied since he left it a few days ago. It had popped into his thoughts— at the last minute— that some female might still be there waiting for him, so he was glad to find the place quiet and mostly put back together after the last party.

The butler must have heard him clattering about in the hall and swearing at the wet mud he'd brought in on his own boots, for he appeared a few moments later to see whether the master of the house required anything.

Ransom spun around. "Ah, Smith. You did give that money to the young Indian woman as I requested? I left instructions with Mrs. Clay on Wednesday."

"Oh yes, sir. She seemed very grateful. Unlike the French lady, who caused rather more ruckus while she was here."

He cringed. "Yes, I'm sorry about that. I was not expecting Mademoiselle Saint Clair so early. Nothing broken, I hope."

"A Royal Doulton figurine, I believe, sir, came to a sad end when the fight broke out."

"I'm sorry."

The butler looked him up and down with weary eyes. "At least you survived unscathed, sir?"

"Mostly. And the other three ladies?"

"Enjoyed a hearty breakfast before departing the house in recuperated spirits."

"Excellent." Ransom took the candelabra from the hall table and carried it into the drawing room to see that the fire was lit, and the furniture back where it should be. "Any moment now, Smith, a young lady by the name of Miss Ashford will be at the door." He set the candelabra down and rubbed his hands together. "Look out for her, will you?"

"Is this a lady to be sent away or permitted entry, sir?"

"Permitted entry, Smith! Indeed, you are not to let her get away." He hadn't gone to all this trouble for nothing.

"Very good, sir. And I'll send a maid in to light the gas lamps in here?"

"No, no. Candles will do." He'd heard somewhere— couldn't think where— that candlelight was more likely to make a woman spill her secrets. Apparently it was more "romantic" than gaslight. Perhaps because it made them think of taking off their clothes. He gave a little snort of amusement at the thought of women and their foibles.

The butler retreated with his smooth, silent glide and Ransom went to the window, watching to see her mood when she approached his house. He had a feeling it would not be a merry one. She was not the sort to appreciate being abducted and interrogated, but he would damn well get to the bottom of this woman one way or another. Sending him books and apologies, pretending not to know him when she was, all the time, an old friend of his sister's and apparently known to his mother. Looking at him from his bedchamber wall with those cool grey eyes as if he was a boy in need of a spanking.

Trying to make him feel as if he ought to impress her by reading a blasted book.

As if he ought to kiss those sly lips. That might be the only way to be free of them.

Uh oh, here she came now.

Pulse uneven, he dropped to a seat by the fire, loosened his cravat slightly, ran a hand back through his hair and then tried to find an appropriate pose. Casual would be best, so that she didn't know he'd been waiting and watching for her. He grabbed a newspaper from the floor beside his chair, but when he realized it was several weeks out of date and that he had penned rabbit ears and a pirate eye-patch onto a sketch of the Prime Minister on the front page, he tossed it quickly aside again.

Eventually he propped one muddy heel up on the velvet covered fender, sank deeper into the old chair, lowered his eyelids to half mast and feigned sleep.

He couldn't think why he, a grown man, was in such a state again. This was absurd. She was hardly the first woman he'd had brought to his lair.

But as he heard her quick step crossing his hall tiles, he could have sworn the flames in his fire leapt taller, like long tongues lapping, curling and spitting through the fringe of his dark eyelashes.

Did she have any idea of the heat into which she was walking?

He rather felt as if there ought to be a grand organ playing to accompany her arrival, for he'd begun to think of her as his Nemesis, punisher of hubris, a winged goddess out for divine retribution and wielding a whip— her tongue, of course. She would be, he had suspected almost from the first glance over his shoulder, the agent of his downfall.

Here she came, his Nemesis in a Blue Bonnet.

Chapter Eleven

"Mr. Deverell, what can be the meaning of this? I am expected home shortly, and the alarm will be raised if I am not."

He jumped a little, as if she woke him. With one heel still up on the fender, he turned only his head to peer around the wing of his chair. "Miss Ashford. How good of you to allow me a moment of your time."

"Did I have a choice?" She stood just inside the door of the drawing room, holding the handle of her basket with both hands. "I must ask again, Mr. Deverell, why you had the Hansom cab bring me here? It is late and I—"

"Come around into the light, woman, so I can see you properly. I'm getting a crick in my neck while you skulk there by the door."

With an exasperated sigh, she moved forward and then stopped a few feet from his chair and the fire.

"You must be cold," he said, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth. "Won't you sit?"

"No. Thank you." Her gaze slid quickly around the room, as if she was almost afraid to look too closely. "I will not stay long, but you may as well explain yourself before I go. It must be something very important that caused you to have me brought here."

Ransom was still, watching her intently. Finally he spoke. "I want to know what you're up to with my mother." He still had not changed his lazy pose in the chair, but inside he was anything other than relaxed. How strange that she did this to him when many very beautiful women had failed to catch his attention for more than an hour or two. She'd had his for two full days, all while pretending it was accidental and she didn't want it at all.

A faint frown marked her brow. "Lady Charlotte seems in need of a companion once in a while. Since her daughter is now married and moved away—"

"You stepped in to take her place. And get what? Money and trinkets, I suppose. Take care, Miss Ashford, for whenever my mother gives anything there is always a string attached."

He saw her fingers tighten around the basket handle. Instincts warned he should prepare to duck. "Lady Charlotte does not pay me to visit her. I wouldn't accept payment if she tried." Her voice was tight and hoarse with anger.

"Then what do you get out of it?"

Her lips parted and then snapped shut.

"Well?" he demanded. "Don't try to tell me you have no motive for your own advantage. Women always have a cunning scheme in play, and nobody would spend time with my mother unless there was something in it for them. I'm waiting, Miss Ashford. You told me you never fib."

Head on one side now, she seemed puzzled, her anger fading. Already he had seen how her temper mounted quickly and dissipated in the same way. Almost as if she didn't think it was worth the trouble to be angry. "Mr. Deverell, is there anything about our brief acquaintance that makes you think me a woman capable of cunning schemes?"

"Yes," he snapped, pushing himself more upright and setting both booted feet on the carpet. "You tricked me into buying books, didn't you? Only the devil knows what you'll talk my mother into. My mother is...susceptible to influences."

He saw the tip of her tongue travel swiftly across her lower lip and she looked down at his feet. The corner of her mouth moved. Was she laughing at him? Inside, where he couldn't damn well see what was going on? She probably had many intricate, sly-moving parts.

"Did I say something amusing, Miss Ashford?"

"Mr. Deverell," she said softly, "your mother is not in any danger from me. I read to her, and sometimes we play cards. Very occasionally, in fair weather, we go out to a museum or an art gallery." He watched her fingers open and then close again around the woven basket handle. "We discuss fashion and other frivolous matters that please her and take her mind off her troubles for a while."

"What else?" He knew there had to be more.

"I tell her when a new bonnet makes her look youthful," she admitted.

"Ha! So you flatter her to get into her confidence. I knew it! Somebody sent you to spy on her and acquire gossip about our family." He glowered hard, but she met his gaze without flinching.

"Is it difficult to acquire gossip about your family? I thought everybody knew everything about the Deverells already. And what they don't know, they make up." She paused, looking down for a moment. "I am touched by your concern for Lady Charlotte, but you may rest assured that I know what it is to have a family wounded by scandal, and I would never contribute to vile gossip."

He hesitated to believe her and yet there was honest warmth in her voice. It curled around him like a blanket of light, soft down, not smothering by holding too tightly, but seeking to comfort. Careful and polite.

"And to answer your question— no, I do not flatter your mother," she added. "I only tell her the truth. If I have nothing good to say I remain silent."

Ransom fell back in his chair, knees spread and hands on his thighs. He laughed gruffly. "Yes, you
are
a cunning creature."

"It's called civility and diplomacy, Mr. Deverell. These characteristics, so Lady Charlotte tells me, are not much known in your family. I think she feels the value greatly now."

"I'm sure she finds much of worth in your company." It came out of his mouth before he could stop the words forming. "You're quite exceptional."

She looked surprised. As was he.

Again her fingers flexed around the basket handle. "I am neither difficult nor argumentative. But I do not prostrate myself timidly at her feet either."

"Good." He recovered the stern gruffness with which he'd meant to interrogate her. "Because if you're not careful, Miss Ashford, she will take over your life and have you at her beck and call. She tried to do that with my sister."

Her gaze had once more drifted away from him and gone off on a tour of the drawing room. Apparently he was less interesting to look at than the furnishings and the paintings on the wall.

He hitched to the edge of his seat. "She'll probably try to make you travel into Oxfordshire with her, since I refused."

"Yes, I know."

"And you also know better I hope."

She sighed. "I do."

"You'll let her down with that civility and diplomacy, will you?" He smirked. "Better than I did."

"Yes."

She said nothing more, but left the word there, as if it was all he needed, as if he should have no doubt that she knew exactly how to manage his mother. Her eyes now watched him with a calm confidence, an ease in her own skin. Unusual in a woman. Discomforting for a man who thought he knew all the ins and outs, all the ways around, over and under an obstacle.

"So you're a Baron's daughter. I should address you as The Honorable Miss Mary Ashford, should I?"

"Only when formally addressing a letter," she replied crisply. "It only means something on paper, and I wouldn't be in the least offended if you forgot it altogether."

"And how did you come to be living in a bookshop?"

"My father's estate could only be inherited along the male line. The Ashfords have always been a very proud family, and above all else it was important that the name never die out. Ironically, that same feudal sense of pride and duty caused us to lose everything when we simply ran out of men. An event inconceivable to my ancestors, no doubt."

He frowned. "Ah. But what about all those brothers you mentioned?"

"My brothers both died in the Afghan war. They defied my father to go off together. I had an uncle, but he never married. My father sold the estate to the railway to cover his debts, and so the Ashfords are no more. Women don't count in our family. You see now the futility of the Honorable."

Ransom nodded slowly. "How long have you known Raven?"

"Since I was fifteen."

All those years when they might have been better acquainted.

Her eyes narrowed as they returned to his boots and then, slowly, traveled upward. "This is why you had me delivered here like a basket of cabbages? To quiz me about my past and my connection to your family?"

"Why else? My mother and sister are notoriously careless about associations they form. Someone has to keep an eye on things."

"Who keeps an eye on you and the associations you form?"

He gave a slow grin. "Nobody. I'm quite unmanageable."

A quick huff escaped her pretty lips. "So I see."

"Well, when we met you did complain to me that nobody ever goes to great lengths to seek out your company. I thought you might be impressed if I did."

"Why on earth would you want to impress me?"

He was thoughtful, studying the elegant line of her neck and shoulders. She was very poised, very upright. A credit to her nanny, assuming she had one as a child. Today she wore a gown with a high, lace neck that was visible under the collar of her coat, and his eyes were constantly drawn there to the sensual curve were her slender neck met her shoulders. Whenever she swallowed a tiny flutter of lace was visible to his observant eye. "I really couldn't say why I felt the need to impress you," he growled. "It's not like me at all."

She almost smiled, or perhaps it was merely that her lips had a habit of pressing together tightly with impatience. "May I go now then? If you are done with me, of course."

"What makes you think I am done with you, my little basket of cabbages?"

"If my only sin was making you buy a book, Mr. Deverell, I cannot comprehend that you truly think I have any bad intentions in visiting Lady Charlotte. Are you afraid of what I might make her read too?"

"Undoubtedly. We can't have a bold wench like you putting thoughts into her head. Her mind is better left fallow with nothing more than the appearance of a grey hair to worry about."

"Why did you not question me like this in her presence? Why go to these lengths?"

"I couldn't very well ask you all this in my mother's parlor, could I?"

"Why ever not? What difference does it make where you question me?"

Because he didn't want his mother to see he had any interest in Mary Ashford. That would only cause trouble for both of them.

Interest? Was that what it was? He didn't know. Certainly he was curious to know how she came to be entombed among the cobwebs of that bookshop. And why she had pretended not to know who he was. Why she had teased him.

Leaning forward with his feet apart, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped together, he eyed her thoughtfully in the dancing reflection of candles and fire. The two sources of light seemed to fence with each other, thrusting and parrying with fluid, graceful skill. But Mary was the trophy for which they fought, a slender figure with dignified bearing and the stillness of self-possession.

"I wonder why my sister never introduced us."

"I daresay she thought I'd be a very wicked influence on you," she quipped.

He laughed. "Yes. Something like that."

A coal tumbled from the fire, making her start and look across at the hearth.

"Or she wanted to keep you to herself," he added. "She was always very selfish with her toys and possessions. Although it didn't stop her from wanting to play with mine too."

"I should be going, Mr. Deverell. As I said, I am expected home and —"

"Dine with me."

He had not planned that, but there it was. Just like the last time he asked, it sputtered out of him with no warning, no preamble. No possible good motive.

The woman gripped her basket as if someone might try and wrench it from her. "I told you the last time we met that it wouldn't be possible."

"Yet it's not out of fear for your reputation?"

"No. A reputation is as meaningless to me as the Honorable."

"Why is that?" He was genuinely curious, wanting to understand this woman. It had never been important to see beneath the surface before, but this was different. She was different. She talked to him naturally, easily and he felt a warmth in her company. As if nothing bad could ever happen if she was near.

He did not want to stop looking at her, or hearing her voice.

This was a startling discovery and somewhat worrisome.

"My family has fallen on hard times, Mr. Deverell," she said. "Unfortunately that is what happens when men are in charge. But now it is just me and my sister, and our misfortunes have helped me see life through clearer eyes. My Uncle Hugo used to say it is easier to see the larger picture when one stands outside the frame and is not part of the bright, rich, busy canvas. Now I know what he meant, for I am on the outside, no longer caught up in the rules and expectations of society. I see now what is important."

"Which is?"

"People. I have lost many people I loved and I wish...I wish I had helped them more while they were here, done more for them, that I had not been so selfishly caught up in myself and that world of the bright canvas. It is people that are important. Family." She looked away, her gaze wandering over a landscape painting above the fire. "We should look after each other."

Ransom put out his hands, palm up, and exclaimed impatiently, "What about you and I then?" He was a little annoyed, he realized, that she befriended his sister and his mother, but wanted nothing to do with him.

"Are you suggesting you could look after me?" She sounded amused.