Ransom Redeemed (3 page)

But he was only half way down the stairs, when a clattering of the front door bell halted all thoughts of breakfast. Tripping to a halt, he looked down through the window at the landing.

A Hansom cab waited in the street below and when he opened the window to peer farther out, he saw a young woman in a chartreuse silk coat and bonnet, waiting patiently at his door. Ah, it must be Wednesday.

He called out a hasty "Good morning", and his visitor glanced upward. At once he recognized the pretty, doe eyes and warm brown skin of the woman he should be expecting today for their standing appointment. Before he could complete his course to the front hall and let her in, however, a second Hansom cab rattled to a halt behind the other and amid a great deal of clucking and fussing yet another woman appeared— this one far less inclined to wait patiently at his door. She marched up the steps in an extremely large, extravagantly trimmed bonnet that could only belong to a woman with both a bold fashion sense and the greedy desire for attention.

Belle Saint Clair.

He had forgotten her return to England today. But why was she there so early?

Perhaps it was not as early as it felt.

Even while pulling on the bell rope, she embarked upon a screaming interrogation of the girl in chartreuse silk, but her efforts were wasted for the first young lady knew only a handful of English words and Belle, being French and in a temper, spoke a mixture of languages that would confuse anybody.

Barely waiting for the last ring to finish echoing through the house, she pulled on the bell cord again, before thumping hard with her knuckles and shouting his name at the door like a landlord looking for overdue rent.

Uh oh.

Ransom had never led her to believe he promised exclusivity, yet today he heard a tenor of possessiveness in her voice, and in the way she abused the poor girl on his steps, that suggested she might have formed dangerous expectations of their affair.

That wouldn't do at all.

Ransom swore softly and glanced upward to the ceiling, on the other side of which his lovely trio still slept peacefully. It was most unfortunate for Belle if she had assumed their relationship to be exclusive, but, should that be the case, the tableau upstairs would immediately assure her otherwise. Nothing he could say would persuade her that he had spent his night alone in a hipbath, but the last thing he needed anyway was a woman foolishly thinking he had any capacity, or desire, to be monogamous. Better she get that straight in her pretty head at once.

He heard the footman opening the front door, then her voice.

"Why do you take so long, imbecile? Where is 'e? Je vais ecraser ses noix!"

Something about his nuts.

For the past few weeks Belle had been away, performing in her home land, but today the delicate, darling flower of the music hall stage returned. She must have dashed to his house directly after arriving on the train from Southampton. And her ribald declarations of what she meant to do with his various body parts suggested that it was not a loving eagerness for his company that brought her there so swiftly.

Oh, yes, she had definitely formed the wrong expectations for their relationship, despite the fact that he thought he'd made himself clear. He'd assumed, in fact, that they both wanted the same thing from their affair and nothing more. She was as little suited to monogamy as he.

Ransom was in no fit state to confront her this morning without losing his own temper. Two people in a rage at the same time was never a good thing, as he had witnessed too often in youth when his parents fought. Indeed, the idea of facing Belle this morning was about as appetizing as a bowlful of Nanny Bond's dumplings and broth.

Alas, he had no choice. Her voice—usually so melodious, but today raucous enough to render cracks in the plaster— echoed through his walls.

"Deverell! Where are you? Sors du lit! Get up! 'Ere I come to find you, Monsieur Infidele!"

The sound of her little feet clip-clopping up the stairs quickly followed. If any servant tried to stop her, they would be unsuccessful. Belle might be small in stature, but she could be very forceful when in the mood. She was also remarkably inventive when it came to expressing her wrath, for which anything sharp would be put to use. That large hat she wore looked as if it required several pins to keep in place, and Ransom was not keen to discover how many.

Putting on his most cheerful, amiable expression, he met her on the small landing between flights. "Bonjour, my sweet. I wish I knew to expect you so early! You should have sent a message. As you see I was just on my way out."

"Donnez-moi un couteau. Je vais lui couper fier coq!"

Ah. Cockerel. Cut off. And knife.

That was plain enough.

He attempted to grip her by the arms and deliver a kiss to her cheek, but she was having none of it. Slapping his hands away and stamping on his booted foot, she started up the second flight of stairs toward his bedchamber.

"I know you 'ave a woman 'ere, you pig!"

"Belle, why don't you come down to breakfast and we'll discuss—"

"Non!"

He followed her. "Is it necessary to make such a fuss, my sweet?"

"Oui!

"But Belle, we did not promise exclusivity. I ought to warn you—"

She swung open his bedchamber door and marched in. The three women on the bed were in various stages of awakening at that point, and the state of the room— wreckage of last night's indulgences— looked much worse now that more daylight crept in.

Immediately Belle launched into a stream of French curses and tried to drag the women off his bed. They, however, fought back. His threesome of lusty beauties were capable of looking after themselves, full of vigorous cockney spirit and with lungs just as robust as those of Mademoiselle Saint Clair.

"Ladies, please!" he attempted to intervene while dodging a swinging pillow. "Belle! For pity's sake—" He received a sharp elbow to the stomach that left him momentarily winded. As he bent forward, wheezing, another pillow flung savagely at his head, split open to release a snowy cloud of goose-feathers.

And so his day had begun. Not that much different to any other, truth be told.

But he found himself detached from it all, as if he viewed the spinning feathers and flying limbs from a distance, like 'La Contessa' who watched complacently from the wall, waiting for him to figure it all out.

Just one more annoying bloody woman who couldn't say what she meant and expected him to understand her expression, he thought angrily.

Finally he gave up trying to make anybody listen to him. They seemed to have forgotten he was even there. In fact, he began to suspect they were all rather enjoying themselves.

Ducking a flying vase and brushing feathers from his shoulder, he left them to it and went down to the kitchen, where he hoped to find his groom at breakfast. But the staff had already eaten and gone about their business. Only the cook remained.

"Mr. Deverell, sir? Is anything amiss?"

"I'm afraid it's much the same as usual, Mrs. Clay. Where's Ben?"

"He took your horse to the smithy first thing, sir, to be fresh shod."

Damn. He'd have to go out on foot.

"Shouldn't Smith go upstairs, sir, and stop the fight?" his cook asked tentatively, turning her gaze upward as another loud crash shook the house.

"I wouldn't want him to put himself out...
or get stabbed in the arbor vitae by a hatpin. Let them get it out of their system, Mrs. Clay. Let them exhaust themselves. Far be it for me to try and speak sense into any woman."

"No, sir. I don't suppose you can speak sense."

He shot her a sideways glance, but she got on with her pastry, not looking at him."Ah, I almost forgot. There is a young, polite, probably very confused, Indian lady in the hall, Mrs. Clay. Please provide her with a cup of tea, and tell Smith he will find some coins within the inner pocket of my old, dark green cutaway, some bank notes under the Tantalus in the library and, I believe," he scratched his head, trying to remember, "there should be a small amount tucked behind the reclining nude with the ugly babies. If not, definitely a few notes inside the Wedgewood urn. Make sure Smith gives it all to the Indian lady. Her rent is due today."

"Yes, sir. I'll see to it."

This duty discharged, Ransom left via the tradesman's entrance behind the kitchen and leapt up the steps, into the street.

Above him, through that window he'd left open on the landing, the ruckus could still be heard, causing several passing pedestrians to glance upward in wonder.

Belle's face appeared, and she looked down.

"Deverell! Ou allez-vous?"

"I told you I was on my way out, my dainty flower. Simply can't stay, but lovely to see you as always."

"Reviens! T'es rien qu'un petit connard!"

Although tempted to shout back that he was, in fact, one of the few children sired by his father within wedlock and therefore legitimate— most definitely
not
a bastard— he thought this might not be the ideal time to worry about correcting her. Women could be completely unreasonable at moments like these. They simply didn't have a sense of humor. So he merely waved. "Au revoir, mon ami!"

"I will pluck out your eyes and feed them to your own donkey!"

Curious. He was quite sure he didn't own a donkey, so she had clearly got her English mixed up again.

Nevertheless, probably best not to hang about and find out what she meant.

He took off across the street on foot, seeking a narrow alley down which he might escape— somewhere Belle, in a Hansom cab, would not be able to follow. Unfortunately, Ransom had fewer navigational skills in sober daylight. Nothing seemed familiar.

But then, while hurrying along and looking back over his shoulder at the same time, he slipped on the wet pavement and collided, like a blundering idiot, with a gas lamp that stood beside an arched entrance in the wall. Beyond this there appeared to be a small, cobble-stone passage, leading to an arcade of shops and offices. He would not otherwise have noticed the alley, had he not cracked his head on the lantern and been forced to stop, but there it was, the sooty brick brightened by a painted advertisement for laundry soap.

So it was that Ransom Deverell discovered a new path, down which he'd never before ventured. Just when he thought there were none left.

Chapter Three

Mary stared at the hard, stale muffin, trying to reassure herself that the black dots really were raisins. Sometimes the mind could play tricks with the alternate possibilities and quite put a person off. Even a very hungry person.

She poked it with her finger and marveled at the cork-like texture. One thing was certain, if this muffin were thrown with force in a crowded place it would probably blacken an eye or two. Might have its uses after all, she thought wryly, if not the one for which it was made.

But what she really desired was a large, fluffy Parisian pastry, bursting with whipped cream and dripping with sweet chocolate glaze. Oh, what was it called?
Pain a la Duchesse
. Yes, that was it! She saw one once, some years ago at a very fine garden party, and now she bitterly regretted passing the cake platter, forfeiting her chance to experience that delicious confection. At the time she gave it up for two reasons— the fortitude of her corset laces and the puzzling problem of how to consume such a creation in public without making an unsightly mess. It was the sort of delight one could only enjoy to the fullest in private, and she could not very well sneak away with it concealed in her reticule.

Back then, of course, she couldn't have known that such gourmet opportunities would one day be nothing more than a memory and that she ought to make the most of it, regardless of who watched her eat the pastry. Let them be forever scarred by the sight of her wicked, unladylike greed and chocolate-stained cheeks. What did she care? Well, she'd know next time.

Alas, there was no
Pain a la Duchesse
on her horizon. Not for the foreseeable future.

"Mary, my dear! Dr. Woodley is here to collect his special order. Can you bring it from the back room?"

She hastily set the dry muffin back on her plate and looked for the book she'd been perusing all night. "Yes, Mr. Speedwell. Just a moment. I...I was making the tea."

But as she lifted the heavy book from a chair in which she'd earlier left it, Mary paused again, her fingertips tracing over the gilt letters on that thick leather spine. It was a very ancient manuscript with vellum pages, the text and pictures produced by monks in a scriptorium, probably overlooking a peaceful cloister, hundreds of years ago.

Her father used to keep books like these in his library. When he was alive and had a library in which to keep them. Illustrated books on botany were one of his favorites. Dear Papa. He might have been one of the most frustrating, narrow-minded, old-fashioned gentlemen she ever knew, but she loved him for all his faults. If only he had been able to do the same for others. If only he had been a little less inflexible in his opinions.

Ugh. What was wrong with her today that she should become so dreary and full of mopey-eyed nostalgia? Perhaps it was the grim weather, the skies being a dowdy shade of grey, heavy and low. And she missed her dear friend, Raven, who was spending the winter away in Oxfordshire. Without Raven she had no one of a like mind to share a devious chuckle. Although lately there had been very little at which to laugh, in any case. No doubt all this had combined to affect her spirits.

Shaking her head, Mary briskly pushed these mournful thoughts aside, along with the fantasy of a large French pastry. There was never anything to be achieved by dwelling on the past, or on what one didn't have. It was not a practical use of a person's energies, as she would remind her sister. One must look ahead, plow onward.

Now...books...

Mary was supposed to wrap this book in brown paper and string last night before she went to bed, but instead had become enthralled looking through the colorful pages, and eventually fell asleep in a chair by the parlor fire. As she often did. It was not the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements, and she invariably woke with a little cramp in her neck, but at least she did not have her sister's cold feet in her back, or a pointy elbow nudging her in the ribs when she turned over. Why fight over blankets and lumpy bits in the mattress upstairs, when she could have the peaceful hearth down here to herself? Mary was always up first anyway, to fetch milk from the dairy cart, make the tea, and open the shop. She also liked to run out, very early, and see what left-over delights from yesterday might be procured at half price from the bakery in the next street. Sometimes the mere smell of freshly baked bread was enough to sustain her for several hours. When there was nothing else to be scavenged, it had to suffice.

On the other hand her sister, Violet, waited until a call of nature forced her out from under the quilt, especially on a bitterly cold morning like this one. Mary often wondered where Violet thought their breakfast came from, for she never asked. Instead she chewed resentfully upon the food Mary managed to procure, and then, willfully defying the rigid boning of her corset, performed a remarkably good impression of a weeping willow. In fact, Mary had begun to suspect her sister of rebelling against corsets altogether, for nothing else could explain her spine's ability to curve so dejectedly.

A sudden gust of wind blew down the chimney and almost flattened the flames in the hearth.

She felt the cold draft around her ankles and even down the back of her neck. Her grandmother used to say that when the wind changed direction something new was coming with it. But Mary couldn't muster much enthusiasm for that idea, since whatever was coming would probably only make things worse. That was the way her luck went lately.
Lately
being the previous eight years of her life.

After one last, hasty glance over the book to be sure she'd left no dirty fingerprints, Mary carried it out to the counter.

A second blast of frosty air blew in from the front door of the shop, accompanied by a loud jangle of the bell above it. That chilly draft seemed to snake its way through the shelves and around the counter, just to find her. She shivered, looking up.

Another
customer already, and it was only Wednesday morning! Poor Mr. Speedwell must be beside himself at such a rush of potential buyers. He was always terribly bereft when any of his precious books left the premises in the hands of a customer.

But at that moment he was lost in deep conversation with Dr. Woodley — a friend and long-time patron of the bookshop — and paid no attention to the other arrival, who hovered in shadow by the door. Perhaps, thought Mary, only she had felt that draft. It did appear to have sought her out rather mischievously.

Dr. Woodley broke off their conversation rather abruptly and gave Mary one of his stiffly formal bows, which would have been better suited to the French court of King Louis XIV.

Good thing her sister had not yet emerged from bed, she mused, for Violet could seldom hide her amusement when Dr. Woodley made one of his bows. "
One of these days I expect the seat of his breeches to give way under the extreme strain as he breaks wind,"
she'd whispered once, causing Mary to laugh out loud, which was dreadfully rude and the fifth time it had happened in Dr. Woodley's presence. There were a limited number of times a person could break into unladylike snorts of helpless laughter in one man's company and still blame it on something they'd read earlier.

Besides, he was a well-meaning, learned gentleman and did not deserve ridicule from two silly girls. Well...one silly and one reformed.

As always, he asked after her health and then her sister's, before imparting his advice, which was plentiful. Today he appealed urgently for Mary to wear wool next to her skin, as often as possible, and to venture outdoors only when necessary.

"Sickness, my dear lady," he assured her, "is rife on the streets this season, and you must take care not to risk your health by coming into contact with the seeds of disease carried freely about town by rats and other wretched undesirables."

"I shall indeed take precautions, Dr. Woodley. I am, if nothing else, exceedingly circumspect." She sighed. "According to my sister, I am insufferably so."

"One can never be
too
careful," he continued with his grave warning. "On my way here today, I saw a feverish-looking hound of monstrous proportions, racing between carriages, salivating at the mouth and ready to bite an unprotected ankle. It is most distressing to think of a young lady like yourself, venturing out into the street here and being accosted by such a beast. You should carry a stout stick, Miss Ashford."

She smiled. "I fear it would not be wise for
me
to carry an instrument of destruction, for when the mood betakes me I might be tempted to wield it with excessive force against a few folk who have angered me in the past."

His greying brows lowered in earnest concern. "You have a temper, Miss Ashford? Oh, dear! It is not good for one's blood to let the temperature rise. Particularly in a lady. Too much excitement can cause an attack of the vapors or even an apoplexy. I once knew of a case—"

"It was a jest, Dr. Woodley." She really must stop doing that, for the poor man, quite lacked a sense of humor and had no understanding of being teased. With a sigh, she muttered, "I don't have to worry about the dangers of too much excitement these days. I am quite safe from that."

"I am very glad to hear it, my dear lady. Next time I come I shall bring you a packet of powders to be sure your blood is calm."

Mary was quite certain she didn't need any powders to keep her temper tranquil. She was the calmest person she knew. She couldn't be any more calm if she were dead. But to say so would only confuse the good doctor further. Instead, she thanked him for his concern. If it made the overly-solicitous fellow feel better to advise her, so be it. She supposed it was a problem inherent in his occupation, just as falling asleep over a book she shouldn't have opened was one of hers.

"I'll just wrap this for you, Dr. Woodley," she said, searching for paper under the counter.

The two men returned to their conversation, which consisted of Mr. Speedwell eagerly discussing new advancements in the art of medicine— things he'd read about in the pamphlets he collected— while Dr. Woodley promptly flattened all enthusiasm by maintaining that the old, tried and true methods could not be improved upon and were better left alone.

As her hands worked swiftly at the task of wrapping, Mary glanced around the doctor's shoulder, wondering about the other customer. There was little to be gleaned from his silhouette, other than the fact that he was tall and wore no hat. Peering out through the bow window in a furtive manner, he had his back to her now.

Without even looking down at her hands, she quickly and efficiently knotted the string, then slid the parcel across to Dr. Woodley.

"Thank you, Miss Ashford. What a very neat bow you tie and such crisp, tidy corners to your parcels!"

"Would you excuse me? I must tend to the other customer." Before he could begin offering her more health advice— because he always had more to give no matter how impatient her countenance became or how strained her manners— she moved out from behind the counter and made her way between the overflowing shelves, intent on distancing herself from the temptation of being brusque. The poor fellow's solicitous advice did not warrant one of her sharp replies and yet hunger often made her curt.

Meanwhile, apparently unaware of her approach, the unidentified gentleman ducked below the front window of the shop, then up again.

"May I help you, sir?" she asked politely.

No response.

"Sir? Is there some book in particular for which you search?"

Finally, he flicked his head around, eyes fiercely narrowed, as if he suspected her of trying to slip a hand into his pocket.

When she repeated her question, he turned the rest of his person toward her and Mary saw that the man wore no shirt of any kind beneath his evening jacket. His chest and the dark hair upon it was, to her astonishment, quite exposed to the cold winter's air. And her gaze.

At least he wore breeches, she mused, recovering slightly from the shock. One must be thankful for small mercies, as she was often telling her younger sister, Violet.

Although
small
mercies, in this case, did not seem an adequate phrase. There was nothing of reduced size about this man whatsoever. Mary wondered if she ought to have brought a weapon to defend herself, after all. Not that anything, she suspected, could have been much use in the circumstances. He didn't look the sort to be easily dented.

"What the deuce do you want?" he snapped. "A book? What damned book are you blithering on about?"

Slowly Mary returned her gaze from his bare chest to his face. Oddly enough there was something familiar about his dark, rumpled features. But how could there be? He had hardly looked at her with his cold, dark, disinterested eyes and then Mary was dismissed swiftly, the back of his shoulder turned to her again.

"This is a bookshop, sir. Perhaps you noticed the sign outside?
Beloved Books
. Since you entered these premises in some urgency I assumed your intention was to purchase one."

"Books?" he said again. Or rather, he snarled the word, while scratching his head and looking through the window.

"Yes, sir. We have all sorts here. New and second-hand. Novels and—"

"Who has time to read a damn novel?" No sooner had he got the words out than a deep burp sputtered forth, for which there was no apology offered.