Ransom Redeemed (8 page)

She returned to the table. "Do look on the bright side, sister. At least we are not in the workhouse. Thanks to this bookshop and Uncle Hugo's dear friend we have a home here."

Violet groaned, for in her oft-expressed opinion, living above Mr. Speedwell's shop was not much improvement on the workhouse. As for their Uncle Hugo— the black sheep of the Ashford family— Violet, who was only twelve when he died, had always been rather frightened of him. The rest of the family, except for Mary, had never approved of Uncle Hugo, seldom spoke of him, and considered his rebellious life as an artist on the outskirts of society a terrible embarrassment.

But Mary was always very fond of Uncle Hugo. She was the only one who had paid visits to him toward the end of his life, and very probably the only one who had prayed for him when he died in prison.

"I suppose that is from Raven Deverell," said Violet, nodding her head toward the letter that sat beside her sister's cup. "Nobody else ever writes to you."

"Yes. But you forget her name is no longer Deverell. She is Lady Southerton now."

"Will she come to London for the season?" A little glimmer of hope lightened Violet's eyes at the prospect.

"I'm afraid not. Her condition will confine her at home this spring."

"Oh." Her sister's shoulders sank again. "That is unfortunate. She was our only hope for a pleasant diversion. Now we shan't even have her company to look forward to in the new year, no excuse to go out, no one to invite us anywhere, and no hope of any entertainment!"

"Yet here we sit with our health and all our limbs intact, food on our table, candles to see by, and coal for our fire, so we are better off than the vast majority of folk in this town."

"It's all very well for you, Mary!" Violet bent mournfully over the meager fire and reached for the iron poker. "Candles and coal are all
you
need now that you are old. You have no wish for excitement. You had your chance, but my good years are being wasted. My beauty blooms unseen and unadmired in this dark, dank, dismal place."

Mary looked at her sister's pouting mouth, watched her prodding the coals about with more violence than effect, and replied solemnly. "I wouldn't fret, Violet. I'm quite sure that Prince Charming— if he's worth his salt— will find you soon, even hidden away in this bookshop. All the best fairytales begin thus, do they not? One must be downtrodden and ill-used, in order to feel the benefit of good fortune when it comes."

Having made as much mess as possible on the hearth that Mary had, moments ago, swept clean, her sister set the poker back on its hook and muttered, "I wish you would remember to call me Violette. You know how I hate
Violet
."

"Unfortunately it is your name, sister."

"It shall not be any longer. Henceforth I answer only to Violette." She tipped her chin high and smoothed both hands over her skirt as she sat down again at the table. "A girl has to have something alluring about herself, and a new name costs nothing so you cannot even complain about that."

"Indeed I cannot."

Her sister looked smug and picked up her tea cup, arching her little finger.

Mary added wryly, "I can only hope that ‘Violette’ will be more inclined to get up early and help around the shop. I would willingly call you Cleopatra, sister, if it would make your disposition sunnier."

Chapter Seven

...
And so I must rely upon you, brother, to keep our mother away from Greyledge until after the babe is born in the spring. I fear my otherwise patient husband might be driven to desperate measures should she decide to visit us again, unexpected and uninvited, for another lengthy spell. Do the best you can. I depend on you.

Your loving sister, Raven.

Ransom groaned and set the letter down. Since his sister's marriage, he had been left to manage their mother mostly single-handedly. Nobody else wanted the task, of course.

Now, apparently, Lady Charlotte had been making a nuisance of herself by traveling to Oxfordshire to see her daughter far more often than she was wanted, and Raven asked her brother to intervene. Usually his sister could be very direct herself, and never lacked courage when it came to handling their mother, but he suspected she amused herself by leaving this duty to him. In the past she had mentioned, more than once, that it would do both Ransom and Lady Charlotte some good to manage with each other.

As if he had nothing else to do.

Miggs stuck his head around the office door, looking apologetic."Your brother is below and asks to see you, sir."

He frowned. "Which brat is it this time? Not Rush again, I hope."

Only a few days ago he'd been obliged to meet with one of his younger brothers, Rush, about two habits the boy had acquired at university— gambling and brawling. Ransom had thought it best to address the issue with his brother, before their father heard about it and all hell broke loose. The quicker any matter, including a broken nose, could be resolved before True Deverell found out, the better it was for everybody.

Ransom tried his damndest to stay out of these family troubles, but somehow they kept dragging him in.

The visitor this evening was not Rush, however.

"'Tis the brother what works with them crooks, Stamp on 'em and Spit."

"Ah. Damon. I suppose I'd better see him. And I've told you before, Miggs, the name of the lawyer's office in which he works is Stempenham and Pitt."

"That were my polite version, sir. There is another word what rhymes with Pitt."

"Yes, thank you, Miggs. I had no idea of your poet's ear for a rhyme. Go and fetch my brother, if you please, and try to spare him your opinion of the legal profession."

"Very good, Mr. Deverell, sir."

Miggs lumbered off again, and Ransom lit a cigar. He stretched both arms over his head, releasing the stiffness of having sat at his desk too long.

For much of his life he'd had little fondness for his father's bastards, avoiding them as much as he could, despite True Deverell's insistence on raising all his children together. But in the last few years— against all intentions— he had formed a bond of sorts with Damon. Or rather Damon had formed it with him. Uninvited and unwelcomed at first, it had, over time, become almost comfortable.

Perhaps it had something to do with the other young man's strange habit of seeking his company so frequently and with no ulterior motive apparent. Ransom couldn't shake him off. It was almost as if the fool boy admired him somewhat. He couldn't think why.

In any case, he couldn't bring himself to turn his back on the boy, even though his mother would throw a fit if she found out that he had befriended one of her former husband's bastards. And that would be another raging female out for his blood.

Really, what did one more matter, in the larger scheme of things?

Women; nature's practical joke on man
, as his father would say.

He thought suddenly of Miss Ashford again. What was she doing tonight? Did she think of the strange man who had taken refuge between her bookshelves?

Long limbs restless, he leapt out of his chair, strode to the window and looked down on the rain washed street below. The streetlamps were just being lit, their warm glow coating the cobbled road with a glittering sheen as horses and carriages passed back and forth in a constant flow. London was putting on its evening clothes now, changing with the light. In daytime it was a bustling street, but at night a new mood took hold. There was less urgency, less industry. People moved through the light and shadow like specters reluctant to show their faces.

Mary Ashford's little bookshop across town would be closed now, the window shuttered, just as his club was waking up and his night beginning. He could picture her sitting in that little parlor. Did she invite other men to sit there with her, even though she refused him entry?

He hoped not.

But why would he care, damn her?

She would not be welcomed in
his
parlor either, he thought firmly. Nor would she be allowed here at Deverell's. No women were officially allowed to enter the club — not that it stopped a few of them trying.

Deverell's gentlemen's club was contained within the four floors of three adjoining, white-painted houses. Here, members could enjoy any number of discrete entertainments, hold informal meetings, or simply find a quiet corner to read a newspaper and have their shoes polished. Many gentlemen came to escape wives, mistresses, and daughters for an hour or two. In this glorious oasis they could be just as they were, without putting on a front to please women or worry about offending their delicate sensibilities.

But the primary business of the establishment was, of course, gambling. It might seem as if the wagers and games happened incidentally in these elegant, richly decorated rooms, where gentlemen came to eat, drink, and be pampered, but that was entirely the idea.

It was more than thirty years since True Deverell first purchased one of these buildings and set up a gambling club on the premises. Nobody knew where he'd come from or how he came by his money, and he let them all wonder. He merely sprouted up one day among the blue-bloods of London, like a strong weed that could not be eradicated, and he nurtured that sense of mystery about his past by never explaining himself and never apologizing for his actions— however scandalous. True Deverell had a certain finesse, a devil-may-care confidence in his own skin that few men could copy and all envied. In very little time his club became successful, but no matter how it expanded in size behind those white-painted walls, it retained its exclusivity and an aura of discreet wealth. The club's creator had always known that gentlemen would be far more willing to part with their money in an atmosphere of luxury and comfort, than in some seedy hall in a back alley.

"But how did you know that, father?" Ransom had asked him once.

"Instinct and observation. Where would you feel you'd got most moneys-worth? In a damp alley for sixpence, or in a bed with silk sheets and a bottle of champagne beside it?"

"The bed, of course."

"Precisely. And I hadn't even told you the cost."

True Deverell still oversaw the operation of his club from a distance, but as each year passed he handed off a little more of the reins to Ransom.

"As he should," Lady Charlotte would exclaim. "You are his eldest legitimate son, and you are entitled."

But his father didn't believe in the word "entitled". True Deverell thought a man should earn his fortune and his place in life— just as he had. And he didn't care about legitimacy. He treated all his children alike, whichever side of the bed they were born.

As a result, when it came to earning their father's approval it had often been a bit of a bloody free-for-all in the Deverell litter.

"You're looking a little worse for wear, brother. Should get more sleep."

Ransom laughed, turning to greet his half-brother. "Plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead. What brings you to visit?" He shook his half-brother's hand and gestured for him to sit, but Damon paced the room, glancing out of the window, unable to relax.

"I need money."

Ah. The boy did not beat around the bushes today. Ransom, not much for chit-chat himself, was grateful for it.

"Money?" He tapped his cigar against the crystal ashtray on his desk. "Does the law profession pay so badly?"

The younger man shrugged, his back to the room. "The law profession," he repeated flatly. "I hunch over my rickety little desk surrounded by rolls of parchment and the odor of dry rot. There is little chance for me to move up at present. The old fellows are going nowhere, and I get all the dull cases. Particularly all the paperwork. Before too long my spine will turn into an unsightly hump and I shall be invited nowhere because my coat always stinks of cheap tallow candles."

Ransom hid a smile. His half brother had a taste for the finer things in life and he was driven to achieve them, but nothing ever moved fast enough for the boy. "Be patient. You have not been there long. You are still young."

"I'm twenty-four!" Damon shook his head. "And I'm stuck, brother, like a horse in a box that is too small. They treat me as if I'm just another clerk. So I wondered if you might have a vacancy here. At the club." He turned to look at Ransom. "I want to earn the money, of course. And I don't want our father to know."

Returning to the chair behind his desk, Ransom leaned back and watched his brother warily. It was never a good idea to try keeping secrets from their father, and Damon ought to know that. "I cannot let you work here without father knowing," he said. "If you need financial assistance, I can give you something to tide you over, but you'd better learn to manage your budget better if you're consistently running short."

Damon was silent, frowning.

Ransom continued carefully, "Is the income of a young lawyer not enough to cover your bills in Town?" As far as he knew, his brother was not much of a gambler. When he came to the club it was usually to dine, or spend a quiet evening in the library. His university years had been full of righteous noise and havoc rendered with a merry group of drunken friends, but these days he kept to himself, his nose to the grindstone. At least, that was how it appeared.

Damon scratched his cheek and finally fell into the seat opposite, exhaling heavily. "The money is not for me. There's a certain lady friend of mine who finds herself... in an interesting condition."

Ransom groaned. "Damon!"

"Don't lecture me, brother. If I wanted a lecture, I'd go to father."

He supposed that was true and Ransom was in no position to lecture about women either, was he? But for all his enjoyment of the fairer sex he was always careful not to leave any little bastards behind. "There are things you can do to prevent the risk," he muttered.

"But not for certain. In any case," Damon shook his head, "it's too late for that now. Three months too late."

"What is the plan then? Marriage? Or do you mean to set her up in a house somewhere?

Damon cleared his throat. "I don't know yet...the circumstances are... awkward."

"Awkward?"

There was a short pause. "She's already married."

"Oh, Christ!"

A haughty expression sharpened his younger brother's features. "So you see my dilemma."

"Father would kill you if he knew."

"Hypocritical of him though, don't you think? Rather late for him to judge."

"It won't stop him ripping into you like a lion into raw meat. He's not greatly concerned with the example he set. He will tell you that he had more excuse, because he knew no better. He will say that we had every advantage he did not, and that he hoped you'd learn from his mistakes."

Damon gave a curt laugh. "Precisely why he can't know."

With a sigh, Ransom set his cigar on the ashtray and reached for the brandy decanter. He refilled his own glass and poured one for his brother. "If she's married, how do you know this child is yours?"

"Of course, it's mine." Damon grabbed his glass and drank the contents in one swig. "She and her husband have not shared a bed in years." He coughed, his eyes watering.

"That's what she tells you. I didn't think you were that gullible. You may not even be her only lover."

"When it comes to women you always expect the worst. But I believe it's my child. She would not lie or try to trick me. You don't know her as I do."

Ransom felt his insides shrivel slightly, for Damon sounded much like
him
when, ten years ago, he tried to defend the blackmailing Miss Pridemore to his father. Just after he shot True in the shoulder and watched him fall to the ground. "
She told me you seduced her. I believe her. You just couldn't keep it in your breeches, could you, father? You had to despoil the woman I love!
" But, of course, he soon discovered the fickle limits of Miss Flora Pridemore's "love" and learned of her many lies.

How long would it be before Damon had his awakening?

"Never believe a woman," he muttered, staring at the amber liquid in his glass as he lifted it to the light of the oil lamp on his desk. "Enjoy them, make the most of them, but never trust them to tell you the truth. It is best to assume that every time they open their mouths a lie will come out."

"Yes, yes," Damon was not listening, of course. "But can you give me a post here? Elizabeth will need money to separate from her husband. He will seek a divorce on the grounds of her adultery. So, as you can see, I need a steady second income, not a loan."

"Divorce?" This was getting worse by the second.

"Of course. I will take responsibility for my child, and Elizabeth cannot remain under her husband's roof."

"Damon, if you're named co-respondent in a divorce, there will be no hiding it from the papers or our father. But you must have realized that. You, after all, are the lawyer in the family." He must also know how furious their father would be if the son upon whom he pinned his greatest hopes for the future, should have let himself be distracted by a woman, a mistake True always warned his sons against.