Carla Kelly (15 page)

“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-documented 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 Lord Ragsdale 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. I need an opinion.”

She nodded, as preoccupied as the banker. Lord Ragsdale smiled to himself, thanking a generous God that there were people on the earth who actually cared about assets, 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, and 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 he 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?”

“Oh, yes. From now on, you give all the bills to me, and I forward them to Mr. Fotherby for payment. I cannot get power of attorney to pay your bills myself because I am a woman, Catholic, and Irish.” She ticked off the items on her fingers.

“I call that downright prejudiced,” he joked.

“Well, at least it is more misdemeanors than the law allows,” she agreed. “I am not sure which of the three is the least palatable.”

There was no regret in her voice but only that businesslike tone that gave him the distinct impression that he had cast himself into capable hands. She had a relaxed air about her, as though she had just come from a hot bath or an entertaining party.
I suppose it is given to some to bask in the toils of finance
, he thought. He indicated a chair.

“Be seated, Emma, and tell me which necklace I should give to Fae,” he ordered. “I thought a peace offering would be in order when you visit her.” He looked away and coughed. “A bauble might make her not suffer so much when I cut the connection.”

He held out several necklaces and placed them in her lap. She scrutinized them with the same intensity she had tackled his bills, and then picked up a simple chain with an emerald. “This one, by all means,” she said, her eyes shining with more animation than he had seen before.

As Emma held it up to catch the vault's fitful light, he was struck by how elegant it would look around her neck. The stone winked at him as he took it from her hand and replaced it in the velvet-lined box.

“No, Emma, that one will never do. Think in terms of greed and avarice, and then choose between these three,” he said, struck by the knowledge that he was about to come to the end of five years of Fae Moullé’s demands.
Greed and avarice? Now, why did I never see that before
, he asked himself as Emma frowned and picked up a particularly gaudy chain with diamonds and rubies alternating.

“Excellent!” He put the rest back in the box and returned them to the teller, who hovered at his elbow. He slid the necklace into a velvet pouch and handed it to Emma. “Take this to Fae with my compliments and see if you can figure out how the deuce to get her to let go of my purse strings.” He sighed. “I know she is attached to me, but as you say, it is time to reform.”

“Very well, my lord,” Emma said. As the teller was replacing the jewels, she picked up a plain gold chain. “Is this valuable to you, Lord Ragsdale?” she asked.

“No. Do you want it, Emma?” he teased.

She shook her head, blushed, and took a deep breath. “If you were to send this to the governor at Newgate, he would make David Breedlow's life almost pleasant.” She looked at him, as if gauging his mood. “Or you could send it to his sister. He told me her name is Mary Roney, and she lives in Market Quavers.”

He snatched the necklace from her and replaced it in the box, wondering at her nerve. “No, and that is final! You have stretched my philanthropy far enough for one day. “Now, just go home and reconcile my books,” he ordered. “You can see Fae in the morning.”

She left hurriedly, as though afraid he would turn her impulsive effort into a humiliation. When she was gone, he took out the necklace again, and another one, which he handed to the teller. “Make up two packages. Address this one to the governor of Newgate and this to Mary Roney,” he said. “I will write a note for both in Fotherby's office.”

So there, Emma
, he thought.
I really am a fine fellow. I only hope Fae does not repine too long over the news you bring.

F ANYTHING, IT WAS COLDER THE NEXT morning when Emma left the house on Curzon Street. Where is spring? she wondered as the wind whipped around her dress and exposed her ankles, much to the noisy appreciation of a road crew replacing some curbing. She tugged her cloak tighter, grateful at least that the stench of Newgate was fading from the fabric. Even the scullery maid, no stickler for cleanliness, had insisted that she leave it outside the room the two of them grudgingly shared.

Emma hurried along, convinced that her earlier visit to Newgate was a pleasant excursion compared to this task before her. “Lord Ragsdale, you should have been drowned at birth to have foisted this assignment on me,” she muttered. It was one thing to go to prison for him; it was quite another to initiate his dirty work in sloughing off a mistress.
Duties of a secretary, indeed,
she thought.
What it really smacks of is the most monumental bit of laziness imaginable, and so I should tell you to your face, Lord Ragsdale.

She felt in her reticule for the necklace, wondering at the bad taste of someone to wear such a bauble. Satisfied that no leprechaun had spirited away the necklace, she kept her head down and turned into the wind on Fortnam Street.
No, I shall not scold you, Lord Ragsdale, although you richly deserve it,
she thought.
Not now, at least, when we seem to have declared a truce of sorts.

Last evening spent with Lord Ragsdale in the book room was more pleasant than she had any hope to expect. To begin, when he had requested that Lasker bring him dinner on a tray, the marquess did not eat in front of her but shared his meal. It had been so long since she had eaten food of that quality that she could hardly force it down at first. Not until Lord Ragsdale looked at her and remarked, “Really, Emma, if you're thinking about smuggling this rather remarkable loin of beef to my miserable former secretary in Newgate, I don't think you could get it past the matron.”

I suppose I was thinking about Mr. Breedlow
, she reflected as she blushed and took some food on her plate. She chewed the tenderloin thoughtfully, amazed that Lord Ragsdale cared even the slightest what she was thinking.

He had been silent then, his long legs propped up on the desk, the plate resting on his stomach, concentrating on his dinner.
Actually,
Emma considered as she watched him,
you should dress in a toga and recline.
His profile was strong, and while his nose was not Roman, there was something patrician about the whole effect that impressed her. She smiled to herself and looked away, thinking,
If I can be impressed by Lord Ragsdale, when I have seen him bare and blasted by an evening's liquor, I suppose anything is possible.

“Do I amuse you, Emma?” he had asked.

She looked up, startled at first and then relieved to notice something approaching a twinkle in his eye.
Only candor will do
, she thought as he waited for her reply.

“In a way, I suppose you do, my lord,” she replied, crossing her fingers and hoping that her own assessment of his character was not misplaced. “Only think how far you have come from yesterday morning, my lord. Reformation agrees with you.”

There, now, make something of that,
she dared and took another bite.

“Perhaps it does,” he agreed, setting his plate aside but not moving from his relaxed position at the desk. “I have, only this day, forsaken liquor and my club. I have advanced some coins to feed my worthless secretary and plan to discard my mistress tomorrow. Next you will tell me that I must go to church, stop gambling, give up the occasional cigar, and take in stray dogs.”

Emma laughed. “All of the above, my lord.”

He pulled out his watch and stared at it. “And this time next week, we will go to Hyde Park, and you can watch me walk on water! Come, Emma, to the books. I want to get to bed early so I can be fresh enough in the morning to find more ways to torment you.”

And so you have,
Emma thought as she hurried along the street.
I am to go to your mistress and find a way to diplomatically ease your useless carcass out of her life. Oh, dear, I hope there isn't a scene. How does one do this?

She looked at the direction Lord Ragsdale had written down for her, and to her dismay, the narrow house—one of a row of elegant houses—was precisely where he said it would be.
Did you think it would blow away?
she scolded herself as she took one last look at the address, then raised her hand to the knocker.

The woman who opened the door was obviously the maid. She started to curtsy to Emma, then stopped when she took a good look at her shabby cloak and broken shoes.

“Servant's entrance is through the alley behind,” she said and started to close the door.

Emma stuck her foot in the door. “I come from Lord Ragsdale,” she said, leaning into the crack that still remained open. “I have something for Fae Moullé.”

“Miss Moullé to you,” snapped the maid. She left the door and returned in a moment. Standing behind her was an overblown woman with hair of a shade not precisely found in nature. She had large blue eyes and lips of a color that the homely word “red” would not do justice to.