Reforming Lord Ragsdale.

by Carla Kelly.

To my sisters, Karen Deo and Lynn Turner- Family isn't just anything; it's the only thing.

Keep my counsel lest thou slip.

If love or hate men offer thee, Hide thy heart and h.o.a.rd thy lip.

Wed no man. Remember me.

-from the Irish, seventeenth century.

Chapter 1.

I wonder why it is that my mistress is so ignorant, Lord Ragsdale thought as he took a sip of morning brandy and gazed at the heavily scented letter spread out before him on the breakfast tray. Could it be that no one ever taught her the difference between "there" and "their"-and what on earth is this word?

He held up the paper closer to his good eye. "H'mmm, it appears that I am either thoughtless, thankless, reckless, or f.e.c.kless, and I don't think Fae knows that word."

He felt a tiny headache beginning from all that scent, so he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it across the room toward the wastebasket by his desk, which was overflowing with other correspondence. As usual, he was wide of the mark. "Fae. why so much musk on one letter? Do you think I am an otter?" he asked her miniature, which resided, smirking, on his night table.

He took another sip, then slid down to a more comfortable level in the bed. Of course, you didn't take on Fae in the first place because she was a grammarian, he reminded himself. You acquired her services because of her other splendid talents. Fae Moulle might not be able to string a coherent sentence across a page, but she knows her way across a mattress.

It was a thought that only a week ago might have propelled him from his own bed on Curzon Street and into hers only a brisk walk away. As he closed his eye, he asked himself what had changed in so brief an interval. Perhaps it was the rain. That was it; too much rain always made him restless and dissatisfied, even with the prospect of making love.

Making love. Now there is an odd phrase, he thought as he opened his eye and stared at the ceiling. "Fae Moulle, I do not love you," he told the plaster swirls overhead. "You provide a pleasant jolt to my body, but so would another. No, Fae, I do not love you."

Lord Ragsdale sighed and jerked the pillow out from behind his head. He lay flat on the bed and almost returned to sleep again. The room was cool and silent, but some maggot was burrowing about in his brain now and wouldn't let him doze. Of course, it was well past noon, too.

Perhaps it was time to send a letter to Fae, severing all connections. He could sweeten her disappointment with a tidy sum, and offer to provide excellent references. The thought made him grin, in spite of his vague discomfort. Any woman who could perform such magic between sheets ought to have no trouble snaring another marquess or earl. Lord knows England is full of dilettantes, he thought, and we recognize what we like.

He thought back to Fae's letter, and the one the day before, teasing him for a new wardrobe to peac.o.c.k about town in. While he liked the way she looked when she strolled about town with him, her hand resting lightly-but so possessively-on his arm, he was already dreading the mornings that would be taken up with modistes and models. Fae would not buy anything he did not approve of, so he would have to accompany her to the salons. She would coo and simper over each dress trotted out on display, then look at him with her big blue eyes. "Whatever you want, my dear," she would ask.

"Whatever you want, my dear," he mimicked. She even said that when they were in bed. d.a.m.n, Fae, don't you possess a single stray thought of your own? What do you like? Do you know?

He sat up then and left his bed, thoroughly disgusted with himself. He glared into the mirror and pointed a finger at his night-shirted facsimile. "Johnny Staples, you are a spoiled son of a b.i.t.c.h," he told himself. "You pay Fae's bills, and she must jump through your hoops. You should be ashamed."

He regarded himself another moment, then looked about for his eye patch. No sense in disturbing the maid, who was due in here any moment with his shaving water. He found it and grinned to himself again, wondering how loud she would scream if she came into the room and found him leering at her with his patch over his good eye.

Too bad it was the Season now. He would have happily traded it all for a week or two on a friend's estate, if he had any friends left. He could take off that stupid patch and let the cold winds blow across his dead eye, too, as he rode the land. But this was London, and really, his eye didn't look too appealing, all milky white, perpetually half-open, and with that nasty scar. I could scare myself if I were drunk enough, he observed, as he pulled his robe about his shoulders and gave the coals in the fireplace a little stir.

He grunted when the maid knocked, and she entered with his hot water. When she left, he sat at his desk, staring glumly at all the correspondence before him. This was the overflow from the book room, too, he considered, wondering again why he had fired his secretary last month. He ruffled through the letters, many of them invitations that should have been answered weeks ago. "Well, Johnny, maybe it was because your secretary was robbing you blind," he reminded himself. Which was true, but Lord, the man could keep up with my business and knew how to write letters that sounded just like I had written them. What a pity the wretched cove could also duplicate my signature.

Ah, well, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d was cooling his heels in Newgate now, waiting transportation. Maybe if he survived the seven months in the reeking hold of a convict ship, he could find someone to bamboozle in Botany Bay. Lord Ragsdale sighed and looked at his frazzled desk. I suppose now if I want to cancel my liaison with Fae through the penny post, I'll have to write my own letter.

Nope, no letters to Fae, he reminded himself as he took off the patch again and lathered up. She thinks I'm thoughtless, thankless, reckless, or f.e.c.kless. And besides that, it's too much exertion. I suppose a new wardrobe won't kill me. It's a d.a.m.ned sight easier than explaining to Fae that I'm tired of her.

Lord Ragsdale was not in a pleasant frame of mind when his mother knocked on the door. He knew her knock; it was just hesitant enough to remind him that he paid her bills, too. He tucked in his shirttails and b.u.t.toned up his pants, wondering at his foul mood. Maybe I should pay Fae a quick visit, he thought. I'd at least leave her house in a more relaxed frame of mind.

"Come in, Mother," he said, trying not to sound sour. It wasn't his mother's fault that he was rich and she was bound to him by his late father's stupid will. I really should settle a private income on her, he thought as he reached for his waistcoat. I wonder why Father didn't? He never did anything wrong. Lord Ragsdale sighed. And death came too suddenly for him to say, "Oh, wait, I am not ready."

As his mother came into his room on light feet, he felt his mood lifting slightly. How dainty she was, and how utterly unlike him. She didn't look old enough to have a thirty-year-old son, he thought as he inclined his head so she could kiss his cheek. True to form, she patted his neck cloth and tugged it to the left a little.

"Am I off center again, madam?" he inquired. "Funny how one eye gone puts me off, even after . .." He paused a moment. "Let's see, is it ten years now?"

"Eleven, I think, my dear," she replied. "Oh, well. Two eyes gone would be worse."

He nodded, wondering at her ability to cheer him up. She was so matter-of-fact. Why couldn't he have inherited that tendency, instead of his father's leaning toward melancholy?

"I suppose," he agreed as he allowed her to help him into his coat. "d.a.m.n the Irish, anyway."

She frowned at him, and he took her hand.

"Yes, Mama. That was rude of me," he said before she could. "Didn't you teach me not to kick dogs? For so they are. I apologize."

He kissed his mother, and she smiled at him. "Accepted. Now, hurry up and put on your shoes. They are belowstairs."

He looked at her, then rummaged for his shoes. "Mama, who are you talking about?"

She sighed loud enough for him to pause in his exertions. "What did I forget this time?" he asked.

"Your American cousins, John. They have arrived."

He paused a moment in thought, embarra.s.sed to have forgotten something that obviously had meaning for his mother. "My cousins," he repeated.

"John, you are the dearest blockhead," she said, and took his arm, pulling him toward the door. "My sister's children from Virginia! Don't you remember?"

He did now. In fact, he remembered a winter's worth of bills to refurbish the ballroom and downstairs sitting rooms. And wasn't there something about Oxford? "Let's see if I remember now, Mama," he teased. "Someone is going to Oxford, and someone else is attempting a come out under your redoubtable aegis."

"Excellent!" she commended him. "Sometimes you are the soul of efficiency."

"Not often, m'dear," he murmured as they descended the stairs. "Will you begin reminding me on a regular basis that I must engage a secretary, and soon?"

"I have been," she said patiently. "And I've been reminding you about a valet, too, and while we're at it, a wife."

He laughed out loud at the seriousness of her expression. "Which of the three do I need worse, madam?" he quizzed as she steered him toward the gold saloon, reserved for unpleasant events, formal occasions, and, apparently, little-known relatives.

"A wife," she replied promptly as she allowed Lasker to open the door for her. "Ah, my dears! Heavens, are you drooping? Let me introduce your cousin, John Staples, Lord Ragsdale. John, here are Robert and Sally Claridge, your cousins from Richmond, Virginia. Come forward, my dears. He won't bite."

Of course I will not bite, he thought as he came forward to shake cousin Robert's hand. He thought he might kiss Sally's cheek, but she was staring at his eye patch as though she expected him suddenly to brandish a cutla.s.s and edge her toward a plank. He nodded to her instead. "Delighted to meet you," he murmured automatically, wondering how soon he could escape to White's and bury his face in a pint of the finest.

He had to admit that they were a handsome pair, as he stepped back and allowed his mother's conversation to fill in any awkward gaps before they had the chance to develop. Sally Claridge had his own mother's ash blond good looks. If the expression in her blue eyes was a trifle vacant, perhaps a good night's rest on a pillow that did not pitch and yaw with an ocean under it would make the difference.

On the other hand, Robert's dark eyes seemed to miss nothing as he gazed about the room, looking for all the world like a solicitor totaling up the sum of each knickknack and trifle. I certainly hope we measure up, Lord Ragsdale thought as he cast an amused glance in Robert's direction, indicated a seat on the sofa to Sally, then turned his attention to the fifth person in the room.

She should have taken up no more than a moment's flick of his eyes, because she could only be Sally Claridge's servant, but he found himself regarding her with some thoroughness, and his own interest surprised him.

Lord Ragsdale was an admitted breast man. It was the first feature he admired in all cla.s.ses of women, and this female before him was no exception to his time-honored tradition. She was still covered with a rather shabby cloak, but the slope of it told him that she was nicely, if not excessively, endowed. Ordinarily, his glance would have lingered there as he contemplated her suspected amplitude, but his attention was drawn to her regal posture. She stood straight and tall, her chin back, her head up, as poised a lady as ever favored the gold saloon. Her air fascinated him.

He knew she must be tired. Sally Claridge had sunk herself onto the sofa with the appearance of one destined never to rise again, while Robert leaned heavily on a chair back. The servant before him made no such concession to exhaustion. She bore herself like a queen, and he was intrigued in spite of himself.

"And you are ..." he began.

Robert threw himself into one of the dainty chairs, and he heard his mother suck in her breath as it creaked. "That's Emma, Sally's waiting woman. Emma, I wish you'd take my cloak. And see here, there's Sally's, too. I don't know why we need to remind you."

Without a word, the woman came forward and took the cloaks. They were both much heavier than the one she still wore, but she draped them gracefully over her arm and retreated into the background again, her back as straight as a d.u.c.h.ess.

Lord Ragsdale looked around at his butler, who stood in the doorway. "Lasker, take the cloaks. Yours, too . .. Emma, is it?"

She nodded and showed the barest dimple in his direction.

"Lord, Emma, you are such a dunce! Can you not at least say, 'Thank you, my lord,'?" Robert burst out.

"Thank you, my lord," the woman whispered, her cheeks aflame with color.

"That wasn't necessary," Lord Ragsdale replied mildly to his cousin.

There was an awkward pause, which his mother filled adroitly, as he knew she would.

"Robert, Sally, tell me how my sister does. I know you are both tired, but I must know."

With a shy look in Lord Ragsdale's direction, Sally murmured a response to his mother, and Robert rummaged in his waistcoat for a letter. Lord Ragsdale clasped his hands behind his back and took another look at the waiting woman, as Robert called her.

It was a quaint expression, one he had not heard before, but it fit her exactly. She stood patient and still as his mother forged ahead with conversation, looking like someone used to waiting. He thought her eyes were green, and her expression told him that her mind was miles distant. For a brief moment, he wondered what she was thinking, and then he laughed inwardly. Really, Johnny, who cares what a servant thinks? he told himself. I am sure you do not.

"Well, son, is it agreed?"

Startled, he glanced at his mother, who was observing him with that combination of exasperation and fondness he was familiar with.

"I'm sorry, m'dear, but I was not attending. Say on, please. Tell me what it is I am about to agree to."

It was the merest jest. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that fleeting dimple again. Sally registered nothing on her face, and Robert just looked bored.

"John, sometimes I think you are certifiable."

Sally goggled at that. "Aunt Staples, he is a marquess!" she gasped.

"A t.i.tle never gave anyone brains," his mother remarked, her words crisp. "Bear that in mind, Sally, as you begin your own adventure here this Season." She looked at him again. "My dear, I was merely suggesting that we all drive down to Oxford to install Robert. It will give your cousins the opportunity of seeing their Grandmama Whiteacre, whom they have never met."

"Then brace yourselves," he murmured, wondering what the waiting woman was making of this family talk. "I think it an excellent idea. Once you have met the family Gorgon, you will only be too grateful for Charon to row you across the River Styx and into the quad of Brasenose."

The blank stare that Robert returned made Lord Ragsdale sigh inwardly and long for the comforts of his liquor cabinet. Obviously his alma mater would be suffering one more fool gladly.

"Provided Mr. Claridge can find the coin necessary for the boat ride."

It was said in such a low tone that he doubted Emma's words carried much beyond his own ears. He grinned appreciatively. " 'A hit, a palpable hit,' " he whispered back, and was rewarded with that fleeting dimple again. What have we here? he asked himself. A servant who knows her Greek mythology and Shakespeare, too?

But there was something else about her softly voiced reply that set off a bell in the back of his brain. He knew the lilt in her voice.

"Emma, where are you from?" he asked suddenly, his voice too loud in the quiet room.

He knew his question was inappropriate, and a rude interruption to his mother, who was saying something to Sally about Grandmama Whiteacre. Besides that, he could not think of a time when he had ever asked a servant anything that personal. And here he was at his most strident, demanding an answer.

She was as startled as he was. The dimple disappeared, and she looked in dismay from Robert to Sally, as though waiting for a reprimand.

"Come now. It's an easy question," he said, egged on by some demon that seemed to be amplifying his voice until he sounded almost like he commanded troops again. He could see his mother coming toward him, alarm on her face. He held up a hand to stop her. "I want to know where you are from and what is your name."

The servant's face had drained of all color now. She swallowed several times, thea, if anything, her carriage became even more regal. She looked him right in the eye, something he had never seen before in a servant, and spoke quite distinctly.

"My name is Emma Costello, sir, and I am from County Wick-low."

"Well, d.a.m.n you, then, you and all your bog-trotting relatives," he said, turned on his heel, and left the room. In another moment he slammed out of the house, ignoring his mother, and hurried down the sidewalk. He was too upset for Fae. It would be White's and a bottle of brandy. Maybe two.

Chapter 2.

Even the relative serenity of White's in mid-afternoon could not a.s.sauge Lord Ragsdale's curious combination of vast ill-. usage and shame of the dreariest sort. After a brief appearance in the main hallway, where the billiards players lounged between games and laid outrageous wagers on the evening's activities, he eased himself into the reading room. He sank with a sigh into his favorite old leather chair (wondering all over again why ordinary homes didn't have such simple pleasures), snapped open The Times, and burrowed behind it.

There were several articles that should have interested him. Napoleon had left the French Army under the tender mercies of Marshal Soult in Spain, and Soult had cat-and-moused General John Moore all the way to La Coruna in swift retreat.

"Bother it!" John Staples growled as he turned the page. And here was Napoleon in Paris again, enduring another diplomatic minuet by the lame but adroit Talleyrand. "d.a.m.n all Frenchmen!" the marquess muttered, and buried his face in the announcements of weddings and engagements. Yes, d.a.m.n the French, he thought as he perused the closely written lines to read of friends about to succ.u.mb to one stage or another of matrimony. If the French had not nosed about the Irish in the last century and given them cause to revolt, he would still be looking at the paper with two eyes, instead of one. And he might still have an army career.

He folded the paper and rested it on his chest, allowing reason- or a close cousin to it-to reclaim him. John, you idiot, you have made a scene in front of a servant, he chided himself. He winced at the memory of the shock on his mother's face, and Robert's frank stare. Like all good butlers, Lasker had developed sudden amnesia, irreversible until the evening meal belowstairs in the servants' dining room, Lord Ragsdale was sure.

Lord Ragsdale knew that once Lasker spread the word belowstairs about the master's rudeness (probably with raised eyebrows and then the sorrowful p.r.o.nouncement that the late Lord Ragsdale would never have exhibited such rag manners), he would suffer several days from a slowdown in domestic efficiency. Until the staff recovered from this attack on one of their own, the maid who delivered the morning coal while he still slept would rattle it a little louder in the scuttle; his shaving water would be only lukewarm; there would be scorch marks on his neck cloths; and the bearnaise sauce would be soupy. Such were the subtle punishments handed out by powerless people.

He had only managed the barest glance at Emma Costello when he flung himself out of the gold saloon, and was rewarded with a look of bewilderment. If he had suddenly struck her with his fists instead of his words, she could not have looked more surprised. He thought about Emma Costello and County Wicklow, and doubly d.a.m.ned himself for being a fool. He had spent his lifetime upstairs and far from servant gossip, but he knew enough about the hierarchy belowstairs to a.s.sure himself that Emma would not be treated well there, either. No one liked the Irish. He should never have shouted at her.

He sighed again and rubbed his forehead above his dead eye. It seldom pained him now, but he ma.s.saged the spot out of habit. When his eye was still a raw wound, some imp-was it too much laudanum?-twitted his agonized brain until he began to think that if he rubbed hard enough, his sight would return. It never happened, of course; when the pain lessened, he could only wonder at his foolishness.

So much self-flogging made him restless. With an oath, he got up, listened to the leather chair sigh for him, and moved to the fireplace, where he stood staring down at the flames. Rain scoured the windows again and matched his melancholy.

As soon as the rain let up, he would return to Curzon Street and apologize to his mother and Robert Claridge. An apology to Robert's sister probably wasn't necessary. Sally had watched his brief explosion with the wide-eyed stare of someone destined always to be a fraction late with the news. One didn't have to apologize to servants, of course, so he needn't say anything to Emma.