His Grandmama Whiteacre kindly loaned him a horse and saddle for the return to London, so it was not necessary to stifle himself inside the family carriage this time. The day was no warmer than before, but at least it did not snow. His horse, serviceable if somewhat elderly, plodded sedately alongside the carriage, where Mama read, Sally slept, and Emma continued her everlasting stare out the window. He watched her and resolved to turn her over to his butler. Emma Costello could polish silver, or clean out drains, for all he cared.

London was already foggy with the light of many street lamps when the carriage turned onto Curzon Street and released its grateful occupants. Lord Ragsdale remained on his horse. "Mama, 1 am off to White's," he told her. Lady Ragsdale, shaky and pale from a day's travel, nodded to him as Emma helped her from the carriage. The front door opened then, and Lasker stood there, with the footman behind him and Mama's dresser, too.

He left them without another qualm, praying that traffic would not be so terrible on St. James that he would be kept long from the brandy he had been thinking about all day. He would sink into his favorite leather chair, a full bottle near his hand, and p.r.o.nounce himself liberated from all further exertions. Fae would be glad enough to see him later, he was sure. In her own practiced fashion, she would remove any rough edges that remained from the day. That was what he paid her for.

As he was dismounting in front of White's, he was struck by the thought that this was what he had done the day before yesterday, and the day before that. Barring any unforeseen eventualities, he would do it all again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. The thought dug him in the stomach, and he clutched the reins tighter, ignoring the porter who stood by to receive them.

Something of his unexpected agony must have crossed his face. In a moment, he heard the porter asking, "My lord, my lord, are you all right?"

He looked down at the little man, and after another long moment, handed him the reins. "I am fine," he said, fully aware for the first time that he was lying. He had never been worse. As he went slowly up the steps and into the main hall, he realized that he would probably never be better, either. This was his life. Oh, G.o.d, he thought to himself, oh, G.o.d.

The milkmen were already making their rounds when he returned to Curzon Street. His head was large as usual. He had drunk too much brandy at White's, and then compounded the felony at Fae's by attempting exercise far beyond his capacity. The results had left him embarra.s.sed and Fae irritated, muttering something she refused to repeat.

The house was dark and silent. In another hour or so, the kitchen staff, with yawns and eye rubs, would gird itself for another day of cooking, and the upstairs maids would answer tugs on the bellpulls with tea and hot water. Lord Ragsdale listed slowly down the hall toward the stairs, which loomed, insurmountable, before him. I think I will sit down here until they shrink, he thought as he grasped the banister to keep it from leaping about, and started to lower himself to the second tread. To his relief, it did not disappear. He sank down gratefully, leaned against the railing, and closed his eyes.

He opened them a moment later. He was not alone on the stairs. Someone else sat nearby. He turned his head slowly, wondering what he would do if it was a sneak thief or cut purse, come to rob and murder them all. Lord Ragsdale sighed philosophically, and sat back to wait for the knife between his ribs. At least when they found his sprawled corpse at the foot of the stairs, the constable would think that he had died there defending his family. It would be rather like Thermopylae, he thought, and giggled.

"All right, do your worst," he managed finally, looking around.

In another moment, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A woman sat near the top of the stairs, asleep and leaning against the railing. He looked closer and sighed again. My G.o.d, it is Emma Costello, he thought, the plague of my life. As he watched her, his mind began to clear and he wondered what she was doing there. Surely she was not waiting up for him.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she had no place to sleep. He remembered his mother mentioning something about hiring a proper lady's maid for Sally. The woman must have arrived and usurped Emma's place in the dressing room. He stared at Emma and wondered why his mother had not done anything about the situation, until he remembered her exhausted face as her own maid helped her from the carriage. Mama must have gone directly to bed, too tired for a thought about Emma.

And here she was now, at the mercy of his staff, and asleep on the stairs. He felt an unexpected twinge of remorse, remembering his own disparaging words about her to his butler. The staff knew how he felt about the Irish.

"Emma," he called out softly, not wishing to startle her into a plunge down the stairs.

He called her name several times before she straightened up, moving her head slowly as though her neck hurt. She was silent a moment, and then, "My lord?" she asked, not sure of her answer.

"The very same," he replied. "Emma, what are you doing sleeping on my stairs?"

She was silent a long moment, and he wondered if she still slept. "I am sorry, my lord," she said finally. "It seems that all I do is apologize to you. I don't have a place to sleep."

He didn't say anything. After another small silence, she rose and shook out her skirts. "I'll go find the back stairs, my lord," she mumbled.

Without quite knowing why, he put out his hand to stop her. "Just a moment, Emma," he said. "Help me up, will you?"

She could have left him there, and by morning's light, he probably would have put the whole thing down to an imaginary alcoholic haze. Someone else would find him and help him to bed, and it wouldn't be the first time. Emma would sleep on the stairs for a few more nights until his mother got wind of the situation and straightened things out belowstairs. It didn't have to be his worry.

He was about to withdraw his hand when she clasped it firmly in her own and with one swift movement, tugged him to his feet. He swayed on the stairs, and she quickly grasped him around the waist and commanded him to take up his bed and walk. It was a voice of command, resounding inside his head, crashing around from ear to ear until he wanted to whimper and crawl into a corner. Instead, he did as she ordered, putting one foot in front of the other until he was outside the door to his own room.

"I'll be all right now," he gasped. "You can let go."

Other servants had helped him to his room before. Practice told him that he could negotiate the distance from the door to his bed, and throw himself down on it, not to rise until afternoon or the resurrection, whichever came first. He tried to turn her loose, but she would not budge. Suddenly he realized, in spite of his weakened state, that the rules had changed.

"I'll see you to your bed," she insisted, her voice low but carrying into his brain, where her earlier words still careened off his skull. "I'll not give you the satisfaction of telling someone tomorrow that your shanty Irish servant did you an injury, no matter how richly you deserve one," she a.s.sured him.

She lowered him to his bed, and he flopped there. In another moment his shoes were off, and she was covering him with a blanket.

"That should hold you until morning," she said.

His head throbbing beyond belief, he waited like a wounded animal for her to hurry up and leave. To his chagrin, she stared around his room until her vision rested on his untidy desk. He watched stupidly as she shook her head in amazement at the ruin of his life.

Then the whole thing made him giggle. He tried to raise up on one elbow, but he seemed to have misplaced his arm. He remained where he was, content to watch the two of her. "Reform me, Emma," he said, and then hiccupped.

"You are disgusting, Lord Ragsdale," she said at last, each word as distinct and penetrating as a bell. She shook her head. "I never saw a more worthless man, much less served one." Her words boomed about in his skull some more. She went to his desk and rummaged about for a moment. He raised up his head to watch her sit down at his desk, clear off a spot, and put ink to paper.

She sat there quite awhile, crumpling two sheets of paper, then resting her elbows on the desk as she contemplated him lying helpless and drunk on his bed. In another moment, she dipped the quill in the inkwell again and wrote swiftly, pausing at last to read over what she had written in the dim light. She nodded, picked up the paper and the ink, and came back to the bed.

"My G.o.d, Emma, would you get out of my room?" he insisted, wishing he did not sound so feeble.

"Not until you sign this," she replied, sitting down next to him. "Here." She thrust the paper under his nose.

He tried to wave away the paper, but she would not relent. "What is it?" he asked finally. "At least tell me that."

"It has to do with what you just said, my lord," she said. "You have given me such an idea. Now, sign, and then I will leave you."

Said? Said? What did I say? he thought wildly. I really must stop drinking so much. He closed his eyes, but she rattled the paper at his ear.

As drunk as he was, Lord Ragsdale knew that he could leave the paper alone, roll over, and go to sleep. She would go away eventually, and he would be in peace. Nothing would change; by evening he would be at White's again, and drunk, or at Fae's and miserable. He was on the verge of sleep when Emma Costello touched his hair. She smoothed it back from his sweaty face and rested her hand for a moment on his head. "Sign, my lord," she ordered, her voice softer now, and held out the quill to him.

He grasped the pen and managed to scrawl out his name. He closed his eyes then and relaxed as she stood up. He reached for her hand. "Emma, please tell me that I have just released you from that d.a.m.nable indenture. Then you can go away, and I will be happy," he said. It was his longest speech of the evening, and his head lolled to one side.

I should worry, he thought when she started to laugh. My G.o.d, have I signed away my fortune to this Irish harpy? But she was speaking now, and he strained to listen.

"Lord Ragsdale, I owe you five thousand pounds, and I will pay this debt," she was saying.

"How?" he managed at last, wondering at the effort it took to form the word.

"By reforming you, my lord, now that I have your written consent. It was your idea. Good night."

Chapter 6.

Emma's neck was aching in good earnest by the time the scullery maid nearly tripped over her on the way down the back stairs to begin another long day in the kitchen. She grabbed onto the banister, scowled at Emma, and then snickered.

"Can't find a place to sleep, can we?" she mocked. "Find a peat bog." The maid hurried on down the stairs, tying her ap.r.o.n as she went and laughing at her own cleverness.

Emma drew her knees up to her chin and watched the maid's progress. "No, but I will find a place someday," she said, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Not that anyone was listening to her. As Emma sat on the back stairs, she heard the butler giving his orders. Soon the upstairs maids would be coming up the stairs, staggering under the weight of cans of hot water, and then teapots. Another day has come to the Ragsdale household, she thought as she looked down at the paper still clutched in her hand. She spread it out on the landing and wondered for a moment at her audacity. She shook her head over the doc.u.ment containing Lord Ragsdale's shaky signature. I must be crazy, she thought.

She made herself small in the corner-something she was good at -as the first maid hurried upstairs with hot water. Five years ago -or is it six now?-she never would have done something that outrageous. There was a time when I cared what happened to me, she thought as she carefully folded the paper. I wonder which room is Lady Ragsdale's?

The problem was solved for her as she quietly moved up the stairs in the wake of the upstairs maids. The first closed door she identified from last night. No one went in there; she knew it would be hours before anyone stumbled out. Two doors down was Sally Claridge's room, if she remembered right. Ah, yes. The woman who opened the door was the dresser who had made herself quite at home in the little s.p.a.ce that Emma had carved out of the dressing room before the trip to Oxford. Robert had slept in the room next, but now the maid was tapping softly on the door beyond. The tall, thin woman with the sneer who opened the door was Lady Ragsdale's dresser.

Emma thought at first that she would wait until the maid left and then knock, but hurriedly discarded that idea. The dresser probably would not let her in. She took a deep breath and followed in after the maid, who looked around in surprise and glared at her.

"I am sure you do not belong in here," the dresser said. The cold glint in her eyes told Emma that if Lady Ragsdale's servant had not been occupied with the tea tray, she would have thrown her out. As it was, the dresser could only sputter and protest as Emma hurried to the bed where Lady Ragsdale sat awaiting her first cup of the day.

"Emma, whatever are you doing in here? And for heaven's sake, why are you so rumpled?" Lady Ragsdale asked, staring at her unexpected morning visitor.

"I slept on the stairs because no one provided a room for me," she explained. She spread out her hands in front of her. "I know that you would have, my lady, but you were so tired from yesterday's journey." She flashed her most brilliant smile at the lady in the bed, and was rewarded with a smile in return.

"Thank you, Acton," Lady Ragsdale said to her dresser, who handed her a cup of tea and stood glowering at Emma. "That will be all for the moment. Sit down, Emma. And do excuse this ramshackle household. I will instruct Lasker to find you a place to sleep tonight."

Emma perched herself on the edge of a chair close to Lady Ragsdale's bed. She sat in silence for a brief moment, willing her heart to stop jumping about in her chest, then held out the paper to Lady Ragsdale.

The other woman took it and read the few words on the page as Emma held her breath. To her vast relief, Lady Ragsdale began to laugh. She set down the teacup on her lap tray and leaned back against the pillows, indulging herself until she had to wipe her eyes with the corner of the sheet. "Emma, you are a shrewd one! Why on earth do you want to attempt this Promethean task?" she asked as she handed back the doc.u.ment.

Emma chose her words carefully. "I owe your son a hefty debt and mean to pay him back. It was his idea, by the way."

To her chagrin, Lady Ragsdale regarded her in silence. Emma returned her stare, pleading in silence for the woman before her to understand. I must have an ally, or this will not work, she thought. Oh, please, Lady Ragsdale.

She leaned forward, testing the waters. "Lady Ragsdale, doesn't it bother you that he is frittering away his life?"

"It bothers me," the widow replied quietly, after another substantial pause. She took a sip of tea. "John is a stubborn man. I cannot control him alone. Since his father's death . . ." She paused again, then visibly gathered herself together. "I'm afraid my guidance is not to his liking." She sighed. "He's bitter about the loss of his eye, and he can't seem to settle down. What he needs is a good wife, and so I have told him." She took another sip. "Naturally, he does not listen to his mother."

Emma settled back a little in the chair. "What I propose is this, Lady Ragsdale. Since he told me last night to reform him, I intend to do just that. When he is organized, dried out, and hopefully married, I think he will agree to ending my indenture. I will feel the debt is paid."

"If he will go along with any of this," Lady Ragsdale warned. "John sober is different from John drunk. What will you do if he denies all knowledge of this pledge of his and refuses to listen to you?"

Emma looked Lady Ragsdale right in the eye. "Then I will plague his life until he does."

How, she did not know. She knew as well as John Staples's mother that there was nothing she could do, if Lord Ragsdale decided to ignore her. But Lady Ragsdale was looking at her with something close to hope in her face, and she knew she had an ally. She took a deep breath.

"The first thing I want to do is lock up the liquor supply in this house."

Lady Ragsdale opened her eyes wide. "I do believe you are serious."

Emma stood up and went to the window. The rain thundered down. It was perfect weather for reformation, she decided. "I have never been more serious. I truly intend to tidy up your son, and receive my release papers from him in exchange." She hesitated, then plunged on. "I have business of my own in London, and now that I am here, I need the liberty to carry it out."

The two women regarded each other for a long moment, then Lady Ragsdale held out her hand. After another slight pause, Emma extended her own and they shook hands. Lady Ragsdale smiled and called for Acton, who came out of the dressing room so fast that Emma knew she had been listening at the door.

"Acton, I want Lasker up here right away. We have a matter of a lock and key to discuss."

When the dresser left the room, Emma returned to the chair. "It is perfectly obvious that for some reason, Lord Ragsdale cannot stand the sight of me," she said. "Why? I never did anything to him."

Lady Ragsdale indicated that she remove the tea tray, and she did. The widow settled more comfortably in bed as the storm raged outside. "It is not you, my dear, but the Irish that he loathes."

"Why?"

It was a simple question, but it seemed to hang on the air. Emma watched as Lady Ragsdale's face grew as bleak as the morning outside. I have to know, she thought, as Lady Ragsdale touched the corner of the sheet to her eyes again. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at Emma again.

"My husband commanded a regiment of East Anglia Foot-our family seat is located near Medford. He was sent to Ireland in 1798, to serve under Lord Cornwallis." She paused and looked at Emma. "Do you remember the '98?" she asked.

It was Emma's turn to look away. Oh, how I remember it, she thought. "Yes, I remember," she said, her voice low.

Lady Ragsdale looked at her, a question in her eyes, and Emma was grateful for once to be a servant. The woman in the bed knew better than to bother with the affairs of a servant, so she did not ask.

"John had finished his second year at Oxford, or nearly so. His father purchased him a captaincy in the regiment, and they were posted together in County Wexford. They were very close, Emma."

Lady Ragsdale was silent then. Emma sat back in her chair. And somehow I know what follows, she thought. "Did your husband die at Vinegar Hill, my lady?" she asked, her voice soft.

Lady Ragsdale nodded, and then waited a long moment to collect herself. "He was captured by that rabble and piked to death. John watched."

Oh, merciful Mary, this is worse than I thought, Emma told herself. "And John was injured," she said, when Lady Ragsdale could not continue.

The widow nodded, her eyes staring into the paisley pattern of her bedcovers. "His men managed to drag him away before they killed him, too, but he lost an eye. And my husband. . ." Her voice trailed away, and she began to weep. "Emma, they never found enough of him to bury."

Emma sat in silence as Lady Ragsdale sobbed into the sheet. "My husband was dead, and John was so gravely injured," she managed to say at last. "I despaired of his living, and then when he finally recovered, I knew that my son was gone, too, to some private h.e.l.l I cannot reach."

"Lady Ragsdale, I am so sorry to have asked you," Emma said, her own eyes filling with tears.

To her surprise, the widow reached out again and grasped Emma by the arm, her grip strong. "You needed to know. John has never allowed an Irish servant into this house. He is moody, and bitter, and drinks too much for his own good. He engages in frivolous pursuits, and cares for no one. He uses people." She released her grip on Emma. "He may say some terrible things to you."

I am sure it will be nothing I have not heard before from the English, Emma thought, and I doubt he will resort to torture. "Words, my lady, only words. Will you help me, then?"

"Most emphatically," Lady Ragsdale said as she dabbed at her eyes and looked up as the door opened. "Ah, Lasker. How good of you to come to me. We have some work to do. Tell me, can we lock up the wine cellar?"

Well, thought Emma, as she stood outside Lord Ragsdale's door, this certainly can't be any worse than other indignities I have suffered at the hands of the British, d.a.m.n them. She crossed herself, said a little prayer, and opened the door. She took a step back as the odor of stale liquor a.s.saulted her nostrils. Courage, Emma, she thought as she entered the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

The room was still shaded into darkness, so she hurried to the windows and pulled back the draperies. To her relief, the rain had stopped. Letting out her breath, she threw open the windows and the cold air blew in like a declaration. Emma looked back at the bed where Lord Ragsdale lay sprawled on top of the covers, in much the same pose as she had left him.

"Johnny boy, you are a disaster," she whispered as she tiptoed closer. She looked down at him, his face pale, his eyelid flickering now as the light streamed across the bed. His dead eye was half-open, staring whitely at her. He groaned and then belched, and Emma stepped back again. His breath was foul with stale liquor. At some point during the night, he had been sick all over himself.

She shook her head. By all the saints, I am going to earn this release from my indenture, she thought grimly as she squeezed out a washcloth in the warm water she had brought with her. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and wiped his face, brushing the hair back from his forehead as he tried to pull away from her.

"Not so fast, my lord," she muttered, pinning him down until his face was wiped clean. "I wish you would open your eye. It's morning." She smiled, in spite of her extreme revulsion. "Morning is probably a phenomenon you have not experienced in some years, my lord."

She did not expect an answer, and she did not receive one. She refreshed the cloth and continued to wipe his face and neck until the evidence of his evening of excess was gone. Emma watched him, grateful right down to her shoes that none of the men in her family were drinkers beyond an evening sherry or an eggnog at Christmas. "It is a vile business, Lord Ragsdale."

To her amazement, he opened his eye. "Yes, ain't it?" he agreed. He lay there watching her, as if trying to rally those parts of his brain necessary for rational thought. The attempt was unsuccessful, because he burped and closed his eye again.

She should have been revolted; he was a disgusting sight. As she sat looking at him, he sighed and rested his head against her leg, and she found herself resting her hand on his shoulder. In an-other moment she brushed at his hair again. "So you are an ogre who uses people?" she whispered. "Well, I am an ogre, too, and I intend to use you, sir."

Her thoughts were interrupted by a scratch on the door. "Do come in," she said, and the door opened on the footman and several housemaids, who carried buckets of water. The footman went into the dressing room and pulled out a washtub, setting it in front of the fireplace. Emma nodded to the maids, who stood on the threshold, appalled at the messy room. "Pour it in there. Is it good and hot, Hanley?"

The footman nodded, and then grinned in spite of himself. "I disremember when he ever got up before noon."

Emma smiled back, grateful there was one person in the household who didn't regard her with indifference or disdain. She looked at the maids. "We'll need more water."