Carla Kelly (11 page)

“Never!”

Emma returned to the bed and started on his pants. “If I have to serve an indenture with you, my lord, one of us is going to change. It's not going to be me.”

“I,” he corrected automatically. “Don't you shanty Irish know anything?”

Emma resisted the urge to smile. “Well, sir, do you continue with your trousers, or must I?”

“Dare you, Emma,” he said as he stood up again, clutching his half-unbuttoned pants with one hand and the bedpost with the other.

Emma sighed, reminded of her little brother. “Lord Ragsdale, you are the worst kind of whiner. Hold still.” She unbuttoned his trousers and held them down until he had no choice but to stagger out of them.

“Very good, my lord,” she said as he leaned against the bedpost, clad only in his small clothes. “I am sure that Hanley can carry on from here.”

Lord Ragsdale shook his head and then clutched it with an oath.

“Oh, no, Emma Costello,” he said, and there was a little bite to his voice this time. “You started it, you finish it. I like my back scrubbed first.”

She watched in surprise and then amusement as he stepped out of his small clothes, made a rude gesture to her, and staggered toward the tub.

He turned to look at her, injury all over his face. “You could at least close the windows,” he said. “I have goose bumps all over.”

“I'm sure that it will not prove fatal, my lord,” she said, wishing she could rush into the hall and laugh herself into a coma.

He stared at her a moment longer and then had the delicacy to cover his parts with the washcloth. “Emma, you're no lady,” he said. “Shouldn't you be fainting or something?”

“And you are most certainly no gentleman,” she said. “I wouldn't dream of fainting and miss all this high drama.”

He sat down slowly as the steam rose from the water. “If I drown, you're to blame,” he said, his voice virtuous.

“It won't come to that, I'm sure,” she told him as she picked up the scrub brush and bar of soap. “Now bend forward.” She lathered up his back and scrubbed away, ignoring his protests of harsh ill-treatment. When she finished, she took a washcloth to his face, making sure there was plenty of soap on the cloth.

“Goodness, did I get soap in your eye?” she asked when he began to squirm and tried to grab her wrist. “How careless of me. Perhaps you'd rather do this yourself after all, my lord. Here, push your head down in the water. That should help.”

She shoved his head under the water and held it there as long as she dared. When he came up sputtering and swearing, Hanley had to stuff the end of the towel in his mouth to contain himself.

“I'll see you in Newgate Prison!” Lord Ragsdale roared, quite sober now.

Emma leaped to her feet and moved quickly away from Lord Ragsdale's reach. “Excellent, my lord. I was planning to go there myself this afternoon,” she said as Hanley gave up and roared with laughter. “Really, Hanley! Your mother tells me that your secretary is incarcerated there, and I mean to ask his advice.”

“You can't be serious,” Lord Ragsdale said, standing up and reaching for a towel.

“Oh, I am so serious, my lord. If I am to be your secretary too, I had better learn the business from a master.” She smiled back at Lord Ragsdale as he stared hard at her and wrapped the towel around his waist. “Only I promise not to cheat you. I think it will be much more diverting to reform you. After luncheon, then, Lord Ragsdale?”

“I wouldn't follow you across the street, you presumptuous parcel of Irish baggage.”

“Oooh, sticks and stones, my lord,” she replied. “Then I'll go by myself. If you want anything before this afternoon, I'll be in your book room, sorting out your bills.”

“You can't do this!” he shouted, shaking his finger at her.

“Watch me.”

MMA SPENT THE REST OF THE MORNING IN the book room, sorting through the clutter of bills, many of them unopened, that resided in dusty piles on the desk. As she arranged them chronologically, oldest first, she found herself wondering how Lord Ragsdale had managed to keep
himself
out of Newgate.
Does this man ever pay a bill?
she thought as she frowned over requests for payment from liquor wholesalers, procurers of livestock feed, and mantua makers.

Mantua makers?
She scrutinized the bill at arm's length and then remembered that Lady Whiteacre in Oxford had mentioned a mistress.
Well, at least she's stylish,
Emma thought as she created a separate pile for bills from modistes, milliners, cobblers, and sellers of silk stockings and perfumes.
I had a pair of silk stockings once,
she thought as she picked up the bill.
I will not think about that.

But she did think about it, leaning back in the chair as she sniffed at the faintly scented paper.
I wonder who is living in our house now,
she thought.
I hope they have not made too many changes. Mama had such exquisite taste.

“Now, Emma, you know you cannot think about her,” she said out loud and put down the paper. She knew she had to think of something else, so she concentrated on the house again. The china was gone, of course. The last sound she remembered as they were dragged from the front door was the crash and tinkle of china as the soldiers rampaged through.

Ah, well, the view is still the same
, she reminded herself.
Even British soldiers cannot move the Wicklow Mountains.
She closed her eyes, thinking of the green loveliness of it all and knowing that she would never see her home again. True, Virginia had been a reasonable substitute, and she knew that she could return there with some peace of mind when this onerous indenture was fulfilled. Emma rested her chin on her hand. Springs could be soft there, with redbud, flowering dogwood, and azalea, but she knew in her heart that there would never be the shades of green from home, no matter how hard Virginia tried.

And so I must forget
, she thought and picked up another stack of bills.
There is an Englishman here who should keep me sufficiently occupied. He is utterly without merit and ought to occupy my mind to such a degree that I do not have time to remember.

“Seriously, Hanley, how
does
Lord Ragsdale keep himself from debtor's prison?” she asked the footman, who stuck his head in the room an hour later to see how she did. She indicated the neat piles on the desk and in her lap. “He hasn't paid a bill in at least three months. I can't find any posting books with accounts. Do you know where they would be kept?”

The footman looked around at the order she was creating out of catastrophe, his eyes appreciative. “Gor, miss, there's wood on that desk after all!” he joked.

Emma smiled and indicated a chair beside the desk. “What is his secret, Hanley?”

“Simple, miss. He's richer than Croesus, and all these trades-people know that he will pay eventually. If they get tired of waiting, they petition his banker.”

“I call that a pretty ramshackle way to live,” Emma grumbled.

The footman shrugged. “If you or I were to forget a bill, now that would not be a pretty sight.”

Emma nodded in agreement. “Too true.” She placed her hands down on the desk. “Hanley, how did you manage with Lord Ragsdale?”

“Oh, he cleaned up pretty well after you left, miss.” The footman laughed. “I think he's not your best friend, though.”

Emma shook her head. “And he never will be! I suppose that radical reformation must always exact its own price.” She changed the subject. “Hanley, do you know how to get to Newgate Prison from here?”

“Gor, miss, you can't be thinking of going there on
purpose
?” the footman demanded. “I won't tell you!”

She was about to reply when she noticed he was staring at her left hand. She put her hand in her lap, coloring slightly. “I have to, Hanley,” she explained, hoping he would not ask any questions. “David Breedlow—I believe that is his name—is imprisoned there awaiting transportation, and I need to know something about Lord Ragsdale's account books, if I am to acquit myself as his secretary.”

Hanley's eyes opened wide at that piece of information.

“
You're
going to be the master's new secretary? I never heard of such a thing!”

Emma blushed again. “It's part of my indenture agreement, and you needn't frown about it. Do you know who Lord Ragsdale banks with, or the name and direction of his solicitor? I need to speak to someone about his accounts.”

The footman stood up, tugging at his waistcoat. “I wouldn't know, miss.”

Emma sighed and deposited the papers from her lap onto the desk. “Perhaps I had better ask Lord Ragsdale, though I would almost rather ingest ground glass than do that.”

The footman laughed out loud. “I don't think he'll cooperate with you today.” He went to the door and peered out, obviously on the alert. “He told me to tell you that pigs would fly before he lifted another finger on your behalf.”

“Oh, he did?” she said as she looked about for a pencil and tablet. “Well, then, this mountain will obviously have to go to Muhammad.”

“Miss?”

“If the Almighty upstairs is in a twit, I will just have to visit his former secretary, won't I? Please tell me how to get to Newgate,” she asked again.

The footman stared at her and shook his head. “Miss, didn't you hear me? You can't go there!”

Silently, she agreed with him.
I have had my fill of prisons
, she thought.
I hope the walls are thicker at Newgate than they were at Prevot. I don't want to hear anything.
“Of course I have to go,” she said out loud. “How else am I going to find out how to straighten out His Excellency's books?”

“I don't know, miss,” said the footman, his voice doubtful.

She could have left it at that, admitted defeat, and returned to pushing around papers into neater piles. It was on the tip of her tongue to say so, but as she regarded the footman, she knew she had to go ahead. If Lord Ragsdale knew he had the upper hand by refusing to help her, she would never be able to reform him.
And I will not stay in this indenture one more moment than I have to
, she thought grimly.

“Well, then, Hanley, if you won't help me, I'll just start out walking and ask the first person I meet.”

The footman blanched. “You can't do that, either. Oh, very well.”

Armed with Hanley's directions, she left the house on Curzon Street before the noon hour. The footman had suggested that she ride the distance into the City, but she had no money.
I've walked farther
, she thought as she tugged her cloak tighter about her and set off at a brisk pace.
I've walked from County Wicklow to Dublin, most of the time carrying my little brother. This will be a stroll.

The day was cold, and she kept her head down, wishing for the luxury of a warmer cloak and a muffler for her neck. Pedestrians all around her were dressed for the weather, with fur-trimmed cloaks, muffs, and stout shoes. She hurried along, knowing how out of place she must appear in that elegant neighborhood, and hoping that her shabbiness would not attract the attention of a constable. Well-groomed horses minced by on dainty hooves, pulling curricles and phaetons of the latest fashion. She wanted to admire the bonnets of the ladies who passed, but she kept her eyes before her on the pavement, looking up at each curb to make sure she was following the footman's directions.