She laughed then, and he felt a momentary relief. So this is a safe topic, he told himself and waited for her to speak.

"I suppose I fell in love two years ago in Richmond," she said finally.

"And?" he prompted.

"He was another of the Claridges' indentured servants," she said, her voice soft with remembrance. "A Scot, my lord, a cobbler by trade." She patted her horse, not looking at him.

"What made you think you were in love?" he persisted.

She flashed her eyes at him then, and it was a look that made his stomach tingle a little. My G.o.d, Emma, those eyes are a dangerous weapon, he thought as he felt the sweat p.r.i.c.kle his back. Take a care on whom you use them.

"If you must know-and I think you are nosy past all bearing-I felt comfortable around him, at peace, and not at all afraid that anything would ever hurt me." She returned her gaze to the flowers by the road's edge. "Things were always more fun when he was around."

He considered Clarissa Partridge, and sighed. "I suppose it must be a different feeling for men, then. Ah, well, I was curious."

"You don't feel that way around Miss Partridge?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Well, it's still early days with you and her, isn't it?" Emma asked.

"I suppose." He looked behind him. They had been riding slower and slower, and the carriage would have to slow down. He picked up the pace of their travel, and they cantered ahead for a good distance.

"Well, what happened?" he asked finally when they slowed the pace again, and Emma still did not say anything. "I mean, between you and the Scot."

"Oh, well," she said, "it came to nothing. His indenture ended three years before mine would have."

"And?" he prompted. "Emma, you are so tight with information sometimes that I find you singularly exasperating!"

"It might not be your business," she responded tartly, then repented. "He was going beyond the mountains to take up some land in the Carolinas. He needed a wife then, so he married one of the other servants who was not under an indenture."

"The cad," Lord Ragsdale said with some feeling.

Emma laughed. "I was probably well out of that, my lord. If he could be so expedient, then he probably wouldn't have been too concerned about my welfare."

"I suppose not," Lord Ragsdale agreed. "I mean, he might have shot you, if you had broken your leg, or something."

And so they were on good terms again as they rode into London. If I keep a light touch, and do not poke and prod about her family, we seem to rub along all right, he considered as they entered the house on Curzon Street again. But dash it, that gets me no closer to finding out anything, and I still don't know if I love Clarissa Partridge.

He paid Clarissa a morning visit the next day, armed with a pot of violets because Emma a.s.sured him that ladies loved violets, his eye patch on straight, and his clothes as orderly as Hanley could make them. He was not disappointed in his reception.

Clarissa cooed over the violets, just teetering, to his mind, on the edge of excess, then redeeming herself by sitting close to him on the sofa. Their knees touched once or twice, and he realized that it had been a long time since he had made love to a woman. Well, a long time for him. He dragged his mind along more appropriate lines then, and thought he faked an impressive interest in her needlework. It was good, he had to admit, when she rose to put it away, affording him a particularly fine glimpse of her shapely hips and delicate walk.

I am being diddled, he thought and grinned to himself. By G.o.d, it is fine.

"Clarissa-may I call you Clarissa?"

Blush, blush. t.i.tter. "Why certainly, my lord." She had a breathless voice, and he wondered if her corsets were too tight.

"You may call me John," he offered.

Another t.i.tter. Another blush. "Very well.. . John."

Take a deep breath, my dear, he thought, or you may have to summon your dresser to loosen your stays. Of course, if you like to sit so close, I might want to do that myself. "Clarissa, if I may be so bold, would you care to tour Hampton Court with me tomorrow?"

She cared to, and he left happily, feeling pleasantly randy and wishing that Fae Moulle had not moved to Bath to set up her millinery establishment. Emma would not approve, he thought. I will take a brisk walk home and behave myself.

She was busy in the book room, catching up on his correspondence, when he returned and stood lounging in the doorway. "Yes, my lord?" she asked, her eyes still on the paper before her.

"Congratulate me, Miss Costello," he said as he came in and flopped into a chair. "We are Clarissa and John now, and she will go riding to Hampton Court with me tomorrow."

Emma put down the pen and clasped her hands in front of her. "Bravo, my lord!" She twinkled her eyes at him then, and his stomach did another tingle. "I think Manwaring will not be finished with that addition on your manor a moment too soon."

He nodded, not altogether satisfied with her reply and wondering why not. He also wished she would not waste those fine eyes on him. You should get out more, Emma, he wanted to tell her, and meet some young men. He regarded her a moment more, reminded himself that she couldn't because she was in his indenture, and felt vaguely silly.

She appeared not to notice, but cleared her throat. "My lord, tomorrow is my day off..." she began.

He made an expansive gesture, grateful to cover his stupid thoughts. "Of course, of course. Just don't come home so late this time, and I will not scold you."

"I won't." She was brief, to the point, withdrawn again, and looking at the correspondence in front of her. He eased himself out of the room, hoping that she would return in a better mood this time from her day off.

She was gone in the morning before he left, leaving neat piles of his correspondence in the book room, with directions on what to sign, and what to tell Lasker to set out for the post. He initialed the little receipt for yesterday's violets, and on impulse, added a note for another pot and directed it to the florist. This one's for you, Emma, he thought as he tucked that receipt with the others in the envelope for his banker, and folded the note to the florist.

The weather was fine so he drove his curricle, leaving his tiger behind this time to fret. Since traffic was light, he turned toward the city first, thinking to drop off the note to the florist himself. Emma would probably enjoy a little surprise when she returned that evening.

He hurried through his errand and was moving into traffic again when he noticed Emma, her eyes straight ahead, moving swiftly along the sidewalk not fifty feet in front of him. He almost hailed her, thinking to invite her to ride with him to her destination, then thought better of it. I will follow her instead, he considered.

It was an easy matter to travel behind her, moving slowly with the traffic, always keeping her in sight, but not d.o.g.g.i.ng her heels, either. She had no notion she was being followed, but hurried along with that purposeful, swinging gait of hers that he had admired on occasion. She walked like someone used to walking, someone who was going somewhere. It was a healthy walk, and one that stirred him, somehow.

She led him deep into the City to a row of government buildings not far from the Admiralty. The traffic was thinning out now, so he drove to the curb and left his horse and curricle under the watchful eye of a street urchin and his little sister. "Mind that nothing happens, and you will have a crown," he admonished as he tied the reins and continued after Emma on foot.

He recognized the Home Office and waited on the sidewalk until she was inside. He sprinted across the road then, determined not to lose her in the building, and remembering it, from a visit years ago, as a regular rabbit warren of offices and cubbyholes.

There she was, walking slower now, almost reluctantly, as she had during their visit to Newgate. She appeared to hesitate before an open door. As he watched, she squared her shoulders, appeared to take a deep breath, and held her head up as she walked into the room. The gallant gesture went right to his heart.

He knew he dared not follow any farther, some instinct telling him that she would be unhappy to see him there. She appeared to be in a lobby or antechamber, and there were others standing and waiting. He turned to go, and collided with a clerk, his sleeves rolled up, his expression harried, carrying stacks of papers that flew out of his hands and slid across the cold marble floor.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the clerk gasped, going down on all fours to retrieve his papers.

"Oh, my fault, my fault," Lord Ragsdale insisted, and dropped to his knees to help. They gathered up papers in silence for a moment, then he sat back on his heels. "Tell me, what is that office?" he asked, gesturing toward the door where Emma had disappeared.

The clerk, his face red from exertion, took the doc.u.ments from him. "It's the Office of Criminal Business," he said. "Mr. John Henry Capper is chief clerk, sir."

Lord Ragsdale thanked him, got to his feet, and brushed off his trousers. He strolled toward the entrance, his mind in a ferment. Emma, what is your business with that band of thieves?

He stood outside the building a moment, wondering what Emma would do if he joined her in the anteroom. This is none of my business, he argued with himself. If she wanted to tell me, she would. I have given her plenty of openings. He thought again of Sir Augustus's advice. Do I dare poke at your wounds, Emma? You prodded mine, but then, I agreed to it. I have no right to do the same to you.

And Clarissa was waiting. "d.a.m.n!" he said out loud, and started running toward his curricle. He looked back once at the building, then tried to put it out of his mind.

Chapter 16.

Lord Ragsdale had always liked Hampton Court, even from his earliest days, when his mother and father took him walking there on one of their infrequent trips to London. He loved the sound that a pair of firm footsteps could make in the great hall, and never objected, no matter what the weather, to a perambulation about the whole building to gaze at the medallions on the walls and wonder about the arrogance of kings. As he grew older, he occasionally thought how nice it would be to bring a lady to Hampton Court. He couldn't imagine a better place for a little serious wooing.

But not today, not even with one of the Season's loveliest diamonds hanging on his arm and looking at him with those crystal blue eyes. On another day, perhaps he could have appreciated the way her bosom brushed his arm, and the way she had of running her tongue along her lips that had probably reduced other peers to blancmange. As it was, he entertained as best he could with tales 1 of headless ghosts, thinking of Emma in that anteroom of the Office of Criminal Business.

By G.o.d, criminal business. But Clarissa was tugging at his sleeve and pouting her prettiest pout, one that surely should have earned her a quick kiss at least. He swallowed, fighting down. words of irritation that he knew he would regret, and resisted the urge to brush her off.

"You're not listening to a thing I am saying, John," she said.

She was right. He hadn't heard one word in ten of her babble. What was she carrying on about? Could it be even half as important as what Emma was doing, even now as he dawdled through a musty old hall with England's prettiest woman on his arm. There were other tourists about, and he looked up occasionally from his contemplation of the parquet flooring to notice the envious glances other men were giving him. I am a fool, he thought, and the idea cheered him immensely. But I was already a fool, so this j is nothing to repine about.

"I'm sorry, my dear Clarissa," he said, hoping he sounded contrite. He stopped and faced her, taking both her hands in his. "I do have a little business on my mind." He kissed her nose. "Let me resolve to forget it."

But he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried to devote his whole attention to the beauty he squired about. His head was beginning to ache. His scalp began to itch where the ties to his eye patch knotted at the back of his head. He found himself walking taster, as though trying to hurry up the afternoon so he could return to the Home Office. He could not fathom why he had ever considered Hampton Court such a favorite of his.

Clarissa, Clarissa, what the h.e.l.l am I going to do with you, he asked himself. You are beautiful, and it could very well be that I love you, but right now, I wish we were anywhere but here. He thought a moment, considering his options, and then decided that only the honorable thing would do; he would lie.

"Clarissa, I do have some pressing business in the City," he confessed. "It involves some ... some charitable work I am doing at Newgate." Lord, what a corker that is, he thought. The Lord may strike me dead. Why couldn't I have mentioned orphans at St. Paul's or the deserving poor under some bridge?

"Newgate?" she echoed, her voice reaching a distinctly unpleasant pitch. "You?"

"Well, yes," he said, piqued that his reputation was so lackl.u.s.ter that she considered philanthropy out of the question, and then ashamed of himself for the lie. "They are wretched creatures."

That was no prevarication. He could testify to their wretchedness. He took her hand and strolled along, resisting the urge to whip out his pocket watch and begrudge each second that crawled by. "I have a transaction I must perform on their behalf at the Of-fice of Criminal Business, and I really should not put it off." He placed his hand on his chest. "They need me."

He tried not to wince, waiting for Almighty G.o.d to smite him dead. Nothing happened, except that Clarissa clung to his hand even more tightly, and gazed up into his face with an expression closely resembling adoration.

"What a wonderful man you are," she breathed, and again he wondered about the stress to her corset strings. "I am sure I never knew anyone as considerate as you."

Her statement was so ludicrous that only by force of will did he keep from laughter. He lowered his head and bit his lip, and managed somehow to appear so modest that Clarissa rested her glorious blond hair against his arm for a long moment.

"You must tell Papa all about your philanthropic work among the felons when we see him in Bath in three days."

My G.o.d, what have I promised? he asked himself wildly. When did I ever say I would go to Bath? Could that have been when I was admiring her bosom during the interval at the opera and nodded? He quickened his pace toward the entrance.

"I don't precisely remember Bath," he began cautiously as he directed the porter to bring his curricle. He staved off the beginnings of a pout by a quick kiss on her forehead, wondering what else he had promised Clarissa Partridge. "Perhaps you could refresh my memory."

"Silly boy," she began, generous in her scold. "I'm sure you have so much more on your mind than little me."

You can't imagine, he thought and kissed her hand. "Oh, you are a dear one," he mumbled. It made no sense, but Clarissa would never know.

"Papa is in Bath because of his gout, and you promised Mama and me that you would accompany us there on Thursday," she reminded him.

Did I? He slapped his forehead. "Oh, of course, my love," said. "Silly me."

She dimpled prettily and let him help her into the curricle. "You said you wanted to talk to Papa about something." She blushed and fluttered her eyelashes at him. "I can't imagine what..."

Oh, G.o.d, I am to be married, he thought wildly. It was a cool day, but he could feel sweat forming on his spinal column. He took his time going around to the other side of the curricle. Calm, calm, John, he told himself. You know this is what you want.

"Oh, I am certain Sir Cecil and I will think of something to say to one another," he teased, feeling as though someone else was speaking through his mouth and he was standing outside his skin watching. "My dear, if it chances that my business should take another day, would Friday be amenable to your plans?"

"I am sure Mama and I would be only too happy to delay our departure and give you one more day to do good. Oh, John, you cannot imagine how I feel."

Nor I, he agreed, starting his horse off at a sedate pace, when he really longed to snap the whip and leap hedgerows. I know this is what I want, and I will make Emma ever so proud. Why are my hands shaking?

He was able to convince her to come to the Home Office with him, a.s.suring her that he would only be a minute. He left her standing in the entrance and sprinted toward the Office of Criminal Business. He would go to the porter and ask for an appointment with Mr. Capper on the morrow; perhaps he could learn Emma's business that way.

He hurried to the anteroom door and stopped. Emma stood there alone in the room, her back to the door. He looked around in surprise. No one else was there except the porter, who was busying himself with papers on his desk. How strange, he thought; surely Emma arrived early enough this morning for an audience. He tiptoed quietly away from the office and met Clarissa at the main lobby.

"This is a dreadful place," she whispered to him as she grabbed his arm. "I have never seen so many sinister-looking fellows."

"And those are just the solicitors," he joked. She looked at him blankly, and he knew then that his future would involve explaining witticisms to his wife. "Well, never mind, my dear. Let me drive you home now."

He resisted her invitation to dinner, a.s.suring her that he would not faint from hunger between Whitcomb and Curzon Streets, and promising her that he would take her driving tomorrow afternoon. 'We will discuss this delightful expedition to Bath, my dear," he said as he blew a kiss in her general vicinity, leaped into his curricle as soon as the door closed, and sprang his horse back to the city.

Emma was not in the anteroom when he returned, out of breath from running through emptying corridors. The porter was gathering up his papers and climbing down from his stool by the inner door.

"We're closed now, sir," he said, nodding to Lord Ragsdale. "Come again in the morning."

"I am sure that won't be necessary now," he said as he approached the porter. "That pretty woman who was here a moment ago .. . did she finally get in to see Mr. Capper?"

The porter laughed and shook his head. "Oh, Gawd, but I love to diddle the Irish!" He winked at Lord Ragsdale. "She can keep coming back week after week until she wears out, and she'll never get through that door."

Lord Ragsdale stared at him. "What are you saying?"

The porter grinned back. "I'm saying that I have no use for the Irish. I think they should all be transported, and not just a select lew."

And so I thought, too, he considered, pausing to catch his breath. I hated them all, but now I just worry. He tried again. "Was she asking for information about someone transported to Australia?"

"Well, laddie, America's out now. Where else do we send them felons?"

"I'm Lord Ragsdale to you," he snapped, suddenly furious, and fighting down the strong inclination to grab the man by his neck cloth and do him damage. "Give me a straight answer, or it's your job tomorrow."

The porter obviously believed him. His eyes widened, and he hurried to straighten his coat and run a hand through his thinning hair. "I means no disrespect, my lord," he gasped. "She ... she said something about wanting to know the whereabouts of some prisoners transported after the Castle Hill Revolt in 1803."

Lord Ragsdale nodded. Castle Hill. He remembered reading about it in the London papers over his morning brandy. There were hangings, which only pleased him at the time, and a man who declared that no one would write his epitaph until Ireland took her rightful place among the nations. He remembered laughing over that bit of high Irish drama.

"And you won't let her in to see Mr. Capper?" he asked quietly, turning his attention back to the porter. "What gives you that right? You are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and I don't mind telling you."

"Y . .. y-yes, my lord," the porter stuttered, retreating behind his desk again.