Lasker hovered outside the door, obviously sent by Lady Rags-dale to tell him to hurry up, but also obviously reluctant to tell him anything. "It's all right, Lasker, I'll go peacefully," he said, pleased with himself to earn one of the butler's rare smiles. "And you take these to wherever it is Lady Ragsdale gets her shoes made. I want one pair of st.u.r.dy brown shoes." He started down the hall, then turned back, grinning broadly. "And another pair of red Morocco dancing slippers. Good night, Lasker. You needn't wait up," he added, knowing that the butler would be sitting ramrod straight in one of the entryway chairs until the last t.i.tled member of the household was indoors and abed. It was their little fiction.

Truly enough, there was Lasker waiting for them when they returned in that late hour just before the dark yielded to the blandishments of another day, careering in from the east. He handed his mother and cousin their candles, wished them both good night, and went to the book room, hoping that Emma might still be up. He wanted to tell her about the diamond of the first water-a daughter of Sir Edmund Partridge's-who had flirted with him mildly, and who appeared, when he worked up the nerve to converse with her, to have at least some wit. He wanted to tell Emma that he and Clarissa Partridge were destined to witness a balloon ascension-he whipped out his pocket watch- in eight hours.

But the book room was dark. He held his own candle over the desk, where Emma had arranged the letter she had composed for him to Sir Augustus Barney, and the other to his bailiff. He picked up the letter to his bailiff and read it, noting that she had changed some of his dictated wording, and added other pa.s.sages. He read it again, and had to admit that her changes were salutary. "Really, Emma," he said out loud as he left the room, "you were supposed to be here so I could tell you about Clarissa Partridge. Do I have to do everything in this courting venture?"

Well, it would keep for the morning, he decided as he mounted the stairs. He stopped halfway up. Emma was taking her day off tomorrow, and he would not see her until the evening. Perhaps I was a little hasty with this day off, he thought. He continued up the stairs, putting Emma from his mind and wondering what one wore to a balloon ascension.

While the day could not have been deemed an unqualified success, at least Emma Costello ought to have the decency to hurry back from her day off so he could tell her about it, Lord Ragsdale decided the following evening as he paced back and forth in front of the sitting-room window.

He had decided that he would begin by painting a word picture of Miss Partridge for Emma, describing her delicate features, her big brown eyes that reminded him of a favorite spaniel, long dead but still remembered, and her little trill of a laugh. Of course, by the time the balloonists had taken themselves up into the atmosphere, he did have the smallest headache, but he couldn't attribute that to Clarissa's endless stream of questions. He just wasn't accustomed to having someone so small and lovely who smelled of rose water hanging on his every word and looking at him with those spaniel eyes.

"By G.o.d, you are certainly taking your time with this day off," he muttered under his breath. He was beginning to feel that when Emma finally opened the door, a scold was in order. He would remind her that London was far from safe after dark, and that nasty customers liked to prey on unescorted women, especially if they were pretty.

There wasn't anything else he could scold her about. When he had wakened in the morning, his correspondence was ready for his attention on the smaller table in his bedroom. He had signed the letters, initialed the morning's bills, and noted with approval a newspaper article about Norfolk that she had circled to catch his attention. A man never had a better secretary than Emma Costello.

But where the deuce was she now? He clapped his hands together in frustration, imagining her conked on the head and being delivered unconscious to a white slaving ship anch.o.r.ed at Dept-ford Hard, even as he wore a path from window to window. One would think she would have more consideration for his feelings. That was the trouble with the Irish.

And then he saw her coming up the street, moving slowly, as though she dreaded the house and its occupants. As he watched, she stopped several times, as though steeling herself for the ordeal of entering into one of London's finest establishments.

"The nerve of you," he grumbled from his view by the partially screening curtain. "When I think of the legions of servants who would love to have half so fine a household as this one ..."

Perhaps I am being unfair, he thought as he kept his eyes on her slow progress. She trudged as though filled with a great exhaustion, discouragement evident in the way she held herself. He thought she dabbed at her eyes several times, but he could not be sure. He waited for her knock, which did not come. You idiot, he realized finally, she has gone around to the alley and come in from the belowstairs entrance. He rang for Lasker.

"Tell Emma Costello that I would like a word with her," he told the butler.

"I was not aware that a day off meant a night off, too," he found himself telling Emma several minutes later when she knocked on the sitting-room door and he opened it.

She mumbled something about being sorry, and it was a longer walk from the city than she realized.

She looked so discouraged from her day off that he felt like a heel for chiding her. Her eyes were filled with pain that shocked him. He wondered briefly if her feet in those dreadful shoes were hurting her, and then he understood that the look in her eyes was another matter. He stood in front of her, hand behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels, feeling like a gouty old boyar chastising his serfs.

"I trust this won't happen on your next day off," he ventured, wishing suddenly with all his heart that she would tell him what was the matter.

If he was expecting a soft agreement from her, he was doomed to disappointment. At his sniping words, Emma seemed to visibly gather herself together, digging deep into some well of resource and strength that he knew he did not possess.

"It will probably happen again and again, my lord," she replied, each word distinct, her brogue more p.r.o.nounced than usual. "Unlike some of us in this room, I do not succ.u.mb easily to misfortune."

"By G.o.d, you are impertinent!" he shouted, wondering even as his voice carried throughout the room why he was yelling at someone who did his work so well, and who looked so defeated. Miserable and furious in turns, he waited for her to speak.

She took her time, and it occurred to him that she was as surprised as he was by his outburst. The wariness returned to her eyes, and he knew that he had erased whatever meager credit he had accrued in the last day or two. I am British and you are Irish, and that is it, he thought as he stared at her.

When she spoke, her voice was soft, and he felt even worse. "I am sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you, my lord."

He could think of none, other than the fact that she had not been there to hear his account of his day with Clarissa Partridge. Had he been a small boy, he would have squirmed.

"Is that all, my lord?" she asked.

Unable to think of anything, he nodded and she went to the door. She stood there a moment, clutching the handle. "If I were not impertinent, Lord Ragsdale, I would have died five years ago. < iood="" night,="">

She was gone, the door closed quietly behind her. Filled with that familiar self-loathing that he had hoped was behind him, Lord Ragsdale resumed his pacing at the window. I have heard this conversation before, he thought, summoning up images of standing before his father when he returned late, and enduring the familiar scold that his mama a.s.sured him only meant that his father cared enough to worry about him.

He stopped walking and looked at the door again, wishing that Emma would walk back into the room so he could apologize. Someday when I have sons and daughters, pray G.o.d I will remember how I feel right now, he thought as he leaned against the window frame. Somehow he must make amends to his servant, even though he knew there was nothing he could do.

I would like to help you, Emma, he thought. How can I convince you that I mean it? He shook his head, and smiled ruefully. My G.o.d, this whole thing begins to smack of profound exertion. I think I am going to be wonderfully ill-used during your tenure here, Emma Costello, d.a.m.n your Irish hide. I had better find a wife quickly so I can release you from your indenture and be miserable in private.

He went to the window again, wishing that spring would come. I need a change right now, he thought, something that will sweeten my life. He considered Clarissa again and smiled into his reflection in the windowpane. "Madam, you are a peach," he said out loud, rejoicing in the fact that he had only yawned a few times during their hours together at the balloon ascension. Tonight he was escorting his mother and cousin to Covent Garden Theatre. With scarcely any effort at all, he could train his gla.s.ses on the Partridge box and watch her from a distance.

He resolved to make the Norfolk stay a short one. The place only held ghosts and leaky crofters' cottages anyway. He would point his secretary toward his bailiff and let them do the wrangling. He would pay a brief visit to Sir Augustus Barney, then prop his feet up in front of a comfortable fire and think about Clarissa Partridge. That ought to make everybody happy, he thought. Even Emma will approve, he told himself, provided she is speaking to me. My G.o.d. I may even be forced to apologize. How unlike me.

Chapter 12.

I think I will murder Lord Ragsdale, Emma thought to herself as she took off her dress and crawled into bed. She shivered in the cold, wishing for once to be still sharing a bed with the scullery maid. She may have snored, but she at least provided a warm spot. As it was, Emma could only lie there and warm herself with

vast ill-usage.

She knew she should be tired. It had been a long, discouraging day, spent standing in the cold entry of the Office of Criminal Business, wondering when it would finally be her turn to speak to Mr. John Henry Capper, Senior Clerk. She sighed again and thumped her pillow soundly, trying to find a soft spot in the old thing. The first problem would be getting past that b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a porter. Thinking of that dreadful little excuse of a man, she thumped the pillow again.

She thought she had approached his desk with the proper amount of deference that the English seemed to require from the Irish. Her inquiry had been innocent enough; she just wanted a brief interview with Mr. Capper. One of her fellow servants in Virginia had told her that the ill.u.s.trious John Henry was the man to see, and she had clung to that sc.r.a.p of information through her own indenture, a dreary return sea voyage, and now incarceration in the household of Lord Ragsdale.

Something in the porter's eye should have warned her that he would stall and stall. Her inquiry had only earned her an elaborate stare, when the porter finally bothered to look up from shuffling the papers in front of him. When he gazed around and saw that no one else was with her, his stare turned into a smirk. " 'Ave a seat," he said. "Ye'll 'ave to wait your turn, like everybody else."

And so she had waited all day in the cheerless anteroom, watching others go in before her to complete their business with Mr. John Henry Capper. She sat and fumed for the morning, and then in the afternoon, despair set in. As the shadows lengthened in the room and the cold deepened, she realized that there would be no audience with Mr. Capper that day. Her chances of ever getting past the porter shrank with every minute that pa.s.sed, and every man who secured an appointment before her.

She only left the building because the porter shooed her out and told her he was locking up. Swallowing her pride, Emma managed her broadest smile-the one Papa declared would melt marble-and asked when she might have an audience with Mr. Capper. The porter had looked at her in elaborate surprise, as though he were not aware that she had been the only inhabitant of the anteroom for the last two hours.

"Oh, miss, you're still here? What a pity Mr. Capper could not see you today."

She forced down the angry words that she wanted to shower on him, and winked back the tears. "Do you think I could see him next week, sir?" she asked, knowing his answer even before he looked up from his desk many minutes later.

"I am sure you can try," he had replied, and favored her with a mocking, superior smile.

By all the saints, she thought, in his better days, her own father would have had that porter whipped for insolence. And in my better days? she considered ruefully. I would never be here alone and unprotected, without my brothers around me. I would be home with Mama, and there would be suitors, and I would marry one of them, and life would continue the pattern of centuries. She sat up in bed and hugged the pillow to her, thinking of change and turmoil and wishing with all her heart that she knew-really knew- where her brothers and father were.

She lay down again, bunching herself into a little ball to defeat the cold. If all her searching led to a certain knowledge of their deaths, at least she would be sure. She could return to Virginia when this pesky indenture was up, and with Mr. Claridge's blessings probably find some kind of employment in Richmond. Experience had taught her that she could eventually wear down the sorrow until it was a manageable pain.

And if they were alive? She would spare no effort to join them, even if the cold trail, years old, led to a prison in Van Dieman's Land, or dismal servitude in Australia. "Perhaps Australia is not as bad as everyone says," she told herself, relaxing gradually as the moon peered through her window, then moved on. At least it would be warmer than here.

Warmer in many ways. Lord Ragsdale's scold this evening was almost a fitting culmination to a dreadful day, Emma allowed," wondering at the coldness of her reception. She prodded her tired brain, trying to make sense out of his surprising tirade, but gave up as sleep finally overtook her.

Morning brought with it the guilty realization that she had overslept, and a summons to Lady Ragsdale's chamber. Emma dressed hurriedly, hoping that Lord Ragsdale was still in bed and not looking about for his mail. She hurried, breathless, down the stairs, hoping to s.n.a.t.c.h up the mail from the table by the door and sort it upstairs after she endured whatever scold Lady Ragsdale had in mind. She scooped up the mail and was hurrying fast for the stairs again when Lord Ragsdale stepped from the breakfast room. He flattened himself in mock surprise against the wall as she hurried past.

"If there is a fire somewhere, Emma, perhaps you should let me in on the secret?" he commented.

She stopped, gritting her teeth and wondering if he was angry still. She looked at him, and to her amazement, he winked. Without even thinking, she smiled back and held out the mail to him.

He took it from her, and stayed where he was, leaning against the wall. "I'm sorry I was so beastly yesterday evening, Emma," he said simply. "I was worried about you. The streets are dark, and London's full of ugly customers."

With that he nodded to her as she stared at him in wonder, and started down the hall, opening a letter as he went. Before she could collect herself, he laughed out loud and turned back to her. " This is too good to keep to myself," he said. "It's from Fae Moulle. She expresses her-it's either grat.i.tude or att.i.tude, or possibly lat.i.tude-and declares that when I marry, she will trim a bonnet for the new Lady Ragsdale! I defy anyone to come up with a better offer from a mistress, Emma. What do you think?"

I think I am full of grat.i.tude or att.i.tude myself, she thought, dimpling at the idea of Fae Moulle presenting Lord Ragsdale's bride with a bonnet and sharing bedroom confidences.

"I think you will have to be extremely diplomatic, should this eventuality arise, my lord," she replied, feeling a slight twinge at her own deception with Fae. "Perhaps it would be best if Fae remained your little secret."

"My thought precisely." He paused then and a slight wariness crept into his eye. "Emma, you won't be needing me today, I trust."

"Well, we did need to look over your estate receipts before we leave for Norfolk tomorrow, my lord," she reminded him gently, not wishing to disturb the moment.

"Tonight, then, Emma. I am off to Tatt's to buy another horse," he told her. "When that arduous endeavor is completed, I will toddle over to Whitcomb Street and pay a morning call on Clarissa Partridge."

"Very good, my lord," she interrupted, raising her eyebrows.

"And then, with or without your permission, I will descend on White's for lunch, a brief snooze in the reading room, and then a gentlemanly gla.s.s of port. Only one, mind you," he a.s.sured her as he continued his progress to the book room. "I intend to become a pattern card of respectability."

She watched him go, shaking her head and wondering why men were so strange. He must be in love, she concluded as Lord Ragsdale took his correspondence into the book room and closed the door behind him. This isn't the same tight-lipped man who greeted me with such a scold last night. Something wonderful must have happened at the theatre, Emma decided as she climbed the stairs on light feet. If this romance with Clarissa prospers, perhaps I will be sprung from this indenture faster than I had hoped.

And why not love? she mused as she walked down the hall to Lady Ragsdale's room. He said he was thirty, high time for any man to be thinking seriously about marriage and a family. She knocked on the door, hugely pleased.

Lady Ragsdale was still in bed. She looked up over the newspaper and smiled at Emma. "Ah, my dear. Over there are the dresses John ordered for you. They came yesterday with Sally's things, and we didn't notice it until the afternoon."

"For me?" Emma asked as she approached the dresses draped over the chair.

"For you, Emma. And don't look so dumbfounded! John has a very kind streak, once someone calls his attention to a necessity," Lady Ragsdale stated.

"But I never said anything," Emma insisted, picking up the dress on top and admiring the softness of the deep green wool. There were lace collars and cuffs on the chair, too, and a petticoat far better than the ragged thing she wore.

"No? Well, perhaps neither of us gives John credit for the good he does."

"I am certain you are right, my lady," Emma said. The other dress was black, and experience told her how good it would look as a background to her auburn hair and pale complexion. "Oh, please tell him thank you for me."

"Tell him yourself," Lady Ragsdale said with a smile. "And Emma, I have a paisley shawl inside my dressing room that I never wear. It's hanging on the closest peg to the door."

In a haze of pleasure, Emma went into the dressing room and was brought quickly back to earth by Lady Ragsdale's dresser, who obviously had been listening at the door. Acton thrust the shawl into her hands and hissed, "Don't think you'll get any more from my lady."

"I learned long ago not to expect anything," Emma whispered back. "I'm certain you'll be quick to tell me if I overstep my place here, Acton."

The shawl looked especially fine with the green dress. Emma remembered to drop a quick curtsy to Lady Ragsdale and another breathless "Thank you" before closing the door quietly behind her. She was down the stairs in a moment, and knocking on the book-room door.

"Emma, you needn't knock" came Lord Ragsdale's voice from within. "I'm not ingesting opium or fondling the upper chambermaid. At least not presently."

You are so outrageous, she thought with a grin. It almost amounts to Irish wit. She opened the door and came into the room, suddenly shy. "I just wanted to thank you for the dresses," she said.

He looked up from the desk where he was going over her neatly entered account books. "I hope they fit."

Some sense told her that they would be a perfect fit. "I am sure they will, my lord." When he continued looking at her, she hesitated. Why do I dislike being under obligation to this man? she considered as she watched him lean back and continue his perusal of the ledgers. "Sir, you didn't need to go to such expense for me."

He closed the book and indicated the chair next to the desk.

"Emma, I may have many faults, but dressing poorly is not among them. I like the people whom I employ to look at least half as grand as I do."

She laughed out loud, and he joined in her laughter. "Well, I don't expect you to match my incomparable high looks, Emma, but you must agree that if we are to do business together, I have certain standards."

"Yes, my lord," she agreed, a twinkle in her eyes. "I have standards, too. Does this mean that if I do not approve of your waistcoat or pantaloons, you will change them to oblige me?"

It was the closest she had ever come to a joke with an Englishman, and he seemed to know. He laughed again, reached out and touched her arm. "By all means, by all means. I have it on unimpeachable authority that a good wardrobe covers a mult.i.tude of character flaws. You are welcome to correct me."

She watched him a moment more, struck by a sudden and wholly unexpected wave of pity. You are so convinced of your own flaws, she thought, and how sad this is for you. And how strange that I am feeling sorry for an Englishman.

"Emma, you must have something quite serious on your mind," Lord Ragsdale was saying, when she paid attention to him again. "Can it be that my flaws cannot even be covered by a good tailor and boots from Hobie?"

I am going to be impertinent, she thought as she sat there. "You have far fewer flaws than you think, my lord," she said, her words coming out in a rush, as though she feared she would not be able to say them if she gave them thoughtful consideration. "And ... and thank you for being concerned enough last night to give me the scold I deserved. I promise not to be out past dark in the future on my day off."

There, she told herself, think what you will. I mean every word of it. As she sat there in embarra.s.sment, it was as though a great stone rolled off her heart. She could not have explained the feeling to anyone, because it was new to her. All she suspected was that it might not be such an onerous ch.o.r.e to serve this man until her indenture was up.

He regarded her as seriously as she knew she was looking at him. "Why, thank you, Emma," he said finally. "I believe you mean every word of that."

"I do," she said promptly as she stood up. "Now, tell me what you want me to do today while you are out, and I will get at it."

He considered her another moment, a half smile on his face, then set her some tasks that would keep her soundly busy until it was time to leave tomorrow for his Norfolk estate. "When I return this afternoon, I'll expect you to join me in the stables for a look at my new purchase," he finished, making room for her at the desk and going to the door. "I warn you it will be expensive, so if you want to prune up now, make faces, and act like a secretary and fiscal adviser, be at liberty."

She smiled. "I have no qualms about what you spend your money on, my lord," she a.s.sured him, "as long as it will lead to prompt double entries, your continuing reformation, and eventual marriage. You know the terms."

"Indeed, yes," he agreed, opening the door and leaning against it. "Do wear the green dress first, will you?"

She blushed and busied herself at the desk, murmuring something in reply.

"Don't mumble, Emma," he said. "It's a bad habit."

"Very well, my lord," she said distinctly. "By the way, I meant to ask: Did you have an especially nice time at the theatre last night?"

"You mean, why am I so pleasant this morning?" he asked in turn, leaving her to wonder at his prescience. "Actually, I admired Clarissa's charms with my opera gla.s.ses from the safety of my own box, and spent the rest of the time trying to figure out how to apologize to you. Good day, Emma."

She sat at the desk and stared at the door. He opened it again. "And Emma," he continued, "if you should ever feel the urge to (rust me enough with your own problems, I might even be able to surprise you with useful solutions."

I wonder if he truly means that, she thought several times that morning as she worked in the book room. This reflection was followed by the fact that no Englishman had ever kept his word to her or her family. She dismissed his offer, but noted, to her annoyance, that his words kept popping into her mind as she answered his correspondence.

Such a plethora of invitations, she considered as she looked them over and sent regrets or acceptances, according to his instructions. Now, I would prefer a picnic al fresco to a dinner at the home of some stuffy, gouty duke, she thought. Perhaps Lord Ragsdale prefers old cigar smoke to ants. She wondered what would happen if she arrived at one of these events in his place, chuckling to herself at the imagined expressions on the face of her surprised host. Papa had always a.s.sured her-especially on those days when her brothers were more trying than usual-that she had the poise and ability to move in any social circle. Of course, I would have to lose my accent and study the trivial, so I could be sufficiently vacuous.

Her thoughts drifted to Clarissa Partridge. "I hope you are intelligent enough to realize what you might have," she murmured. "Lord Ragsdale is certainly potter's clay for the molding, if you are suitably managing. He could even amount to something, with the proper guidance."