"Looking up relatives?" the marquess asked. "Close relatives, I would imagine."

He was teasing her; she could tell. "Of course, my lord," she, responded promptly. He could think what he chose.

Lord Ragsdale nodded to his tiger, who unblanketed his horse. They started out in silence. It was almost dark now, and Newgate was only a hulking shadow. She shivered, hoping that she would not dream tonight.

"I trust we needn't repeat a visit to my late secretary."

"No, my lord," she said. "Tomorrow, though, we need to visit your banker, and find out what bills remain to be paid. Breedlow tells me that your banker has his ledgers."

"It can wait, Emma," he grumbled.

"It cannot, my lord. The sooner your finances are organized, the less I will bother you."

"Thank G.o.d," he replied fervently. "In that case, I am yours this evening, too."

Silence filled the s.p.a.ce between them. They might have been miles from each other, instead of touching shoulders. She knew she should be silent, but Breedlow's face was still so vivid in her mind.

"My lord, did you ever ask Mr. Breedlow why he stole the money?"

"No. I don't care why."

The marquess spoke with such finality that Emma knew she did not dare to continue. But she did, as though some demon pushed her onto an empty stage, daring her to perform for a hostile audience.

"His sister's husband died, and that twenty pounds was to cover funeral expenses and a year's rent for her."

She could tell he had turned to look at her, but it was dark and she could not see his face.

"I told you I did not care. Thievery's thievery, Emma."

She looked straight ahead and plunged on, driven by some imp that she did not recognize. "When I straightened out your desk this morning, I noticed that you wagered seventy-five pounds that Lord Lander could not push a peanut with his nose down St. James Street during the evening rush of traffic."

His reply was quiet, and she knew she should not prod him any farther. "It's my money, Emma," he said.

"Yes, it is, isn't it?"

"Emma, you are aggravating!" he said, his voice low but intense. "When we get home, I am going to find that stupid paper I signed and tear it up, and you can spend the next five years cleaning out my kitchen! To h.e.l.l with my reformation."

Well, that is that, she thought to herself as she pulled as far away from him as she could, and stared into the gathering dusk. Oh, why can I not learn patience? I have ruined everything.

When they arrived at the house, Lord Ragsdale flung himself out of the curricle, snapped his orders at the tiger, and took the front steps in two bounds. Emma followed more slowly, drawing her cloak about her again. She sniffed at the fabric. Lord Ragsdale was right; the odor of Newgate had permeated the material.

He slammed the door behind him, not quite in her face, but almost. She opened it and forced herself to go inside. I wonder if Lady Ragsdale found me a place to sleep, she thought. I cannot bear another night on the stairs.

Lady Ragsdale and Sally Claridge, dressed in evening wear, stood in the front hallway conversing with Lord Ragsdale. The older woman nodded to Emma, and then made a face as Emma slowly removed her cloak.

"I was telling my son how much Sally and I were looking forward to his escort tonight and during this Season, and what does he tell me but you have commanded his appearance in the book room this evening?"

Surprised, Emma glanced at Lord Ragsdale, who stood slightly behind his mother. He stared at her, and gave a slow wink. She understood perfectly, and resisted the urge to cheer as she sighed and then shook her head at Lady Ragsdale.

"That is how we must get on, my lady," she said, striving ft that perfect blend of regret and determination. "Until your son's business affairs are regulated, I must claim his attention. I am sure that later in the Season he will be delighted to accompany the two of you."

To her relief, Lady Ragsdale nodded her head. "I am sure understand, Emma. Come, Sally. I don't believe Lord and Lady Tennant were expecting my son anyway."

Lord Ragsdale kissed his mother's cheek and managed a look of rue so counterfeit to Emma that she had to turn away to maintain her countenance. I never met a more complicated man, she thought as Lord Ragsdale expressed his profound sorrow at miss-' ing an evening with London's finest, and closed the door behind his mother and cousin. He turned back to her, and she held her breath.

"To the book room, Emma," he said, handing his coat to Lasker, who frowned and held it at arm's length. "Burn it, Lasker," he ordered as he started down the hall. "Come along, come along! I suppose that right now, you are the lesser of two evils. I would rather suffer an hour or two in the book room with; you than spend even fifteen minutes in the home of London's most prosing windbags. If some latter-day Guy Fawkes were to blow up Lord and Lady Tennant, he would have the thanks of a grateful nation."

"Thank you, I think," she replied dubiously.

"You have your uses, Emma," he murmured as he held open the book room door. "Now I suppose you want me to go to my' room and gather up all the bills on that desk and bring them to you, as well."

"Precisely, my lord," she said as she seated herself behind the desk and reached for the inkwell. "We will sort them, and tie them in bales and contract a carter to haul them to Fotherby and Sons tomorrow morning."

"Emma, you are trying me," he replied, his hand on the door-k.n.o.b.

She returned his stare with one of her own. "Of course, if you hurry, I am sure you can arrive at the Tennants' in time for a fulfilling evening, my lord."

"And deprive you of my company, Emma? Never that. By G.o.d, you are a cheeky bit of Irish baggage," Lord Ragsdale murmured as he closed the door quietly behind him. To her amazement, he was whistling as he headed for the stairs.

He is a lunatic, she thought as she put more coal on the fire. If only I didn't owe him so much money. She seated herself again and folded her hands on the desk, thinking of Mr. Breedlow. If he survives the journey, perhaps he will remember the letter. And if he does, perhaps it will get to my father, or my brother. And if they read it, perhaps they will be allowed to write to me. She looked down at the distorted fingernails on her left hand. But I will not hope, she thought. For all I know, they are buried in a lime pit in Dublin.

But I will not think of that, she told herself a few minutes later as she rested her head on the desk and closed her eyes. She raised her head a moment later as the doork.n.o.b turned.

"Caught you, Emma," Lord Ragsdale murmured as he dumped an armful of bills on the desk. "Which reminds me. Lasker, in his condescension, has permitted you to sleep with the scullery maid. Top floor, second door on the right." He sat down next to her. "All right, Emma. I dare you to organize me."

The clock in the hall was chiming midnight when Lord Ragsdale stood up and stretched. He looked at the neat piles of bills festooning the room, and wondered all over again how he ever found the time for such profligacy. Emma Costello still bent diligently over the tablet, recording each bill in her rather fine handwriting. Every now and then she rubbed her eyes and seemed to sag a bit, but she kept at the work with no complaints.

They had indulged in several lively arguments throughout the interminable evening, and rather than resenting it, he found himself enjoying the spirited exchanges. As much as he disliked the Irish, he had to admit that Emma's native wit kept him on his toes. He came away bruised from at least one sharp encounter, but invigorated by the intensity. He realized how few witty people he knew. His mother was charm itself, but her conversation had developed a predictability that made him yawn. And Fae Moulle? He glanced at Emma, writing and trying to stay awake. Fae wouldn't recognize a clever turn of phrase if it bit her on the bottom.

Their worst argument of the evening had come about because of Fae. After having sorted out a sizable collection of bills from modistes, chocolatiers, and glove makers, Emma had finally stared at him and waved the invoices in his face.

"My lord, are you aware that Miss Moulle must have enough gloves to outfit a small army?" she burst out, as though each glove paraded across the desk. "And what can she possibly do with all this perfume?"

"I hardly think that my mistress is any of your business," he snapped, perching on the edge of the desk. He thought he had spoken in the tone that usually quelled servants, but what with the late hour, he must have been mistaken. Emma rode right over his comment as if he had remained silent.

"Actually, I believe she is my business, if reformation is our topic, my lord," Emma replied. "What are you, sir? Twenty-nine? Thirty?"

"I am thirty," he replied, wondering down what path she was leading him. "Your age, at least," he added to goad her.

She only grinned at him as though he did not know how to argue. Since it was the first time she had smiled, he overlooked the familiarity of it.

"Good try, my lord," she said. "You are thirty, then?"

He nodded, making sure that he did not smile, even though he wanted to.

"Would you agree with your mother that it is high time you set up your nursery?"

He nodded again, less eager. "So she tells me."

Emma folded her hands in her lap. "You stand a better chance of attracting someone proper if you discard your mistress. Just personally speaking, I would never marry someone with a mistress. It smacks of the grossest hypocrisy."

"My wife wouldn't have to know," he hedged, thinking about Fae and those charms that she had perfected to a fine art. Of course, it had been some time, really, since he had truly enjoyed them. Of late, he had started to find her boring, but there was no need for Emma to know that. "I would keep Fae a secret."

"Then you must be planning to marry someone really stupid, Lord Ragsdale," Emma murmured. "And who's to say your children will have any intelligence whatsoever, if there aren't brains on at least one side of your family?"

"d.a.m.n your impertinence, Emma!" he shouted. "Does reform mation mean I must give up everything that is fun?"

Emma was silent for a moment, contemplating him. He almost made the mistake of taking her silence for acquiescence, but decided that might be premature. Now what, you baggage? he thought.

"I am sure you will correct me if I am wrong, my lord, but I don't really think you are having any fun."

If his Irish servant had been a barrister in a wig and gown, she could not have trussed him up more neatly. He stared at her, then down at the bills in his hand, at a total loss for words. In a moment, she returned her attention to the list in front of her and continued with the entries, unconscious of the fact that he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

He watched her, noting how her rich auburn hair was coming loose from the knot she wore it in, and how her eyes closed occasionally. You slept on the stairs last night, he thought, and I was glad. That was a bit churlish of me, no matter how pointed my dislike. And yes, yes, you are quite right, although I will never tell you. I'm not having much fun these days.

"You think I should give up Fae?" he asked, keeping his voice offhand.

Emma nodded and rubbed her eyes.

"I'll consider it," he said. "Go to bed, Emma. You're about nine-tenths worthless right now."

She left the room without another comment. He sat down in the chair she had vacated and looked at her neat list, and the column of money owed. He totted it up in his head, going from page to page, all the while thinking of David Breedlow, chained to the wall in Newgate. I could have loaned him twenty pounds, he thought. I could have concerned myself with his family's trials. I could have behaved as my father would have behaved. Why didn't I?

He yanked off his eye patch and threw it on the desk, rubbing his forehead. "d.a.m.n the Irish," he said, remembering his last view of his father before he stumbled, fell back, and disappeared in a clatter of pikes and swords. "And d.a.m.n you, Emma Costello, you and all your murderous Irish relations."

Lord Ragsdale went to bed, longing for at least a gla.s.s of sherry, and determined to throw a boot at Emma if she tried to bother him before noon. To his dismay, he woke up at nine, alert, hungry, and ready to go another round with Emma Costello. Han-ley, who seemed to have appointed himself valet, brought him tea and stayed to help him shave and dress. He smelled ham and bacon and followed his nose to the breakfast room, where his mother and cousin were just finishing.

Lady Ragsdale looked at him in amazement, then took out her little pocket watch and tapped it. "Are you just coming in, John?" she asked finally as he filled a plate from the sideboard.

Lord Ragsdale had the good grace to laugh. "Mama, you know I am not! I think everyone ought to eat breakfast occasionally." He peered at the scrambled eggs and found that they did not disgust him. "So chickens still lay eggs?"

Lady Ragsdale laughed. "How clever of them!" She glanced at Sally. "My dear, perhaps we can importune your cousin into escorting us to the modiste for a male opinion as we attempt a wardrobe for you."

Oh, G.o.d, not that, he thought as he took a bite of scrambled eggs. He wanted to chew awhile and give himself time to think up an excuse, but eggs did not require that sort of exertion. To his relief, Emma came to his rescue yet again. He swallowed and smiled at his mother.

"My dear, you will think me a dreadful put-off, but Emma and I must visit the bank today. You should see how neatly she has the bills organized."

To his relief, his mother did not press the matter. "Very well, son, we will excuse you again." She looked at her niece. "Come, Sally, let us see what damage we can do by ourselves. Our bills will be yours, son, so if you wish an opinion on how we spend your money, this is your last chance."

Lord Ragsdale finished his eggs and waved his hand in a generous gesture. "Just give the bills to Emma when they come in. I'm sure she will have a file for everything." He took a sip of tea as his mother rose from the table. "Mama, you can do something for me at the modiste's."

His mother turned wary eyes in his direction, and he thought again about Emma's advice that he discard his mistress. "Could you order a warm cloak for Emma? Make it dark brown and serviceable. No telling when spring will actually arrive this year."

"A fur collar? Silk frogs?" his mama teased.

Mama, if you had seen her shivering in Newgate, you wouldn't quiz me, he considered thoughtfully. "Oh, no. The key word is serviceable. Now that I think of it, perhaps a wool dress, too. Something with a lace collar." He glanced at Sally, who was regarding him with astonishment. "She's about your size, isn't she, my dear?"

Sally nodded, too surprised at his unexpected generosity to speak.

"Well, there's your template, Mama. Cousin, if you don't mind the observation, she's a bit thinner in the waist and shorter by an inch or two. Make that two dresses, Mama. A secretary ought to have a change of clothing."

He was still smiling as his mother left the room. I should have asked her to pick out a bonnet, too, he thought. Careless of me. I wonder if Fae could be induced to part with some of those gloves I have been buying for her. I mean, a body only has two hands. He got up for another cinnamon bun and stood eating it by the sideboard. No, no. Too much at once might make Emma think I had declared a truce or something. She can do without gloves and bonnet.

Feeling pleasantly full, Lord Ragsdale strolled to the book room, where Emma was gathering the bound bills into a satchel. She looked up and smiled at him.

"Good morning, sir," she said, and continued her business. "If we get these to the bank and straighten out your affairs, I promise not to bother you for the rest of the day."

He raised his eyebrows at her and helped pack the bills. "Emma, why the magnanimity? Can it be that you have a heart?"

"Of course I do," she replied promptly. "I also intend to retrieve your balance books from the banker and spend the afternoon making entries." She closed the satchel.

"I have a better idea," he said, taking the satchel from her. "I want you to visit Fae Moulle and see how the wind blows."

"My lord!" she exclaimed, unable to hide her dismay.

Aha, he thought, I surprised you. He waited a moment until he was sure he would not smile, then continued. "I have been thinking about what you said. Perhaps it is time she and I ended our arrangement. I want you to see what terms would be agreeable. It is your duty as my secretary," he added, when that now-familiar obstinate expression settled on her face.

"Very well, my lord," Emma said, and the doubt in her voice made him want to shout, "Got you!" He did not. Just the knowledge that he had ruffled her equanimity was pleasure enough for the moment.

"I will probably spend this evening at Almack's with my mother and cousin," he said as they drove to Fotherby and Sons in his curricle. "I should be an occasional escort, and besides, I must contemplate this Season's beauties." He nudged her in the side. "Tell me, Emma, how can I pick out a smart one?"

To his delight, she laughed out loud. She had a hearty laugh, and it startled him at first, because it was something he was not used to. It was no drawing-room t.i.tter, no giggle behind a fan, but a full, rich sound as genuine as it was infectious. He laughed, too.

"I have it, Emma," he said. "I will begin reciting a Pythagorean theorem and see if she can complete it."

She laughed again. "Then a canto from La Divina Commedia, my lord."

He reined his horse to a stop in front of his banking establishment. "Emma, there's obviously more to you than meets the eye."

He wished he had not said that. He might have slapped her, for all the gaiety left her eyes and that invisible curtain dropped between them again. She looked again like a woman devoid of all hope, the Emma of the taproom, waiting for her future to be decided by the turn of a card. It was a transformation as curious as her good humor only moments ago.

She said nothing more, but stared straight ahead between his horse's ears. As he watched her, she drew her cloak tighter around her, sighed, and then reached for the satchel at her feet. He took it from her.

You could talk to me, Emma, he thought as he followed her into the building and then led the way down the hall to Amos Fotherby's office. While it is a well-doc.u.mented fact that I have no love for the Irish, you interest me. And while it is also certain that there is less to me than meets the eye, that is not the truth, in your case.

Fotherby quickly recovered from his initial surprise when he introduced Emma, and the banker realized that she knew her way around a double-entry ledger. The banker's reserve melted further when Emma pulled up her chair, pushed up her sleeves in businesslike fashion, and pulled out the bills and her list. Fotherby hardly glanced up as Lord Ragsdale backed out of the room.

"I'll be in the vault, Emma," he said. "Join me there when you're done, as I need an opinion."

She nodded, as preoccupied as the banker. Lord Ragsdale smiled to himself, thanking a generous G.o.d that there were people on the earth who actually cared about a.s.sets, debits, and accountings. He watched her a moment more, wishing he had asked his mother to get Emma a deep green cloak instead of a brown one, then sauntered down the hall to the vault.

Emma joined him there an hour later, her glorious auburn hair untidy. He noted that it was coming loose again, and chuckled.

"Emma, do you realize that when you concentrate, you tug at your hair?"

She blushed and tucked the stray tendrils under the knot again. "Your accounts were such a mess, my lord. Some tradesmen have applied to Mr. Fotherby for payment, and we had to go through the whole lot, so as not to pay anyone twice."

"I trust you have me in order now?"