Page 1 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
Chapter 1
Iwonder why it isthat my mistress is so ignorant,Lord Ragsdale thought as he took a sip of morning brandy and gazed at the heavily scented letter spread out before him on the breakfast tray.Could it be that no one ever taught her the difference between “there” and “their”—and what on earth is this word?
He held up the paper closer to his good eye. “Hmm, it appears that I am either thoughtless, thankless, reckless, or feckless, and I don’t think Fae knows that word.”
He felt a tiny headache beginning from all that scent, so he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it across the room toward the wastebasket by his desk, which was over-flowing with other correspondence. As usual, he was wide of the mark. “Fae, why so much musk on one letter? Do you think I am an otter?” he asked her miniature, which resided, smirking, on his night table.
He took another sip and then slid down to a more comfortable level in the bed.Of course, you didn’t take on Fae in the first place because she was a grammarian, he reminded himself.You acquired her services because of her other splendid talents. Fae Moullé might not be able to string a coherent sentence across a page, but she knows her way to a man’s heart.
It was a thought that only a week ago might have propelled him from his house on Curzon Street to her littlelove nest (paid by him), only a brisk walk away. As he closed his eye, he asked himself what had changed in so brief an interval. Perhaps it was the rain. That was it; too much rain always made him restless and dissatisfied.
He opened his eye and stared at the ceiling. “Fae Moullé, I do not love you,” he told the plaster swirls overhead. “No, Fae, I do not love you.”
Lord Ragsdale sighed and jerked the pillow out from behind his head. He lay flat on the bed and almost returned to sleep again. The room was cool and silent, but some maggot was burrowing about in his brain now and wouldn’t let him doze. Of course, it was well past noon too.
Perhaps it was time to send a letter to Fae, severing all connections. He could sweeten her disappointment with a tidy sum and offer to provide excellent references. The thought made him grin, in spite of his vague discomfort. A woman like Fae Moullé ought to have no trouble snaring another marquess or earl.England is full of dilettantes, he thought,and we recognize what we like.
He thought back to Fae’s letter, and the one the day before, teasing him for a new wardrobe to peacock about town in. While he liked the way she looked when she strolled about town with him, her hand resting lightly—but so possessively—on his arm, he was already dreading the mornings that would be taken up with modistes and models. Fae would not buy anything he did not approve of, so he would have to accompany her to the salons. She would coo and simper over each dress trotted out on display and then look at him with her big blue eyes. “Whatever you want, my dear,” she would say.
“Whatever you want, my dear,” he mimicked.Honestly, Fae, don’t you possess a single stray thought of your own? What do you like? Do you know?
He sat up then and left his bed, thoroughly disgusted with himself. He glared into the mirror and pointed a finger at his nightshirted facsimile. “Johnny Staples, you are aspoiled one,” he told himself. “You pay Fae’s bills, and she must jump through your hoops. You should be ashamed.”
He regarded himself another moment and then looked about for his eye patch. No sense in disturbing the maid, who was due any moment with his shaving water. He found it and grinned to himself again, wondering how loud she would scream if she came into the room and found him leering at her with his patch over his good eye.
Too bad it was the Season now. He would have happily traded it all for a week or two on a friend’s estate, if he had any friends left. He could take off that stupid patch and let the cold winds blow across his dead eye too as he rode the land. But this was London, and really, his eye didn’t look too appealing, all milky white, perpetually half-open, and with that nasty scar.I could scare myself if I were drunk enough, he observed as he pulled his robe about his shoulders and gave the coals in the fireplace a stir.
He grunted when the maid knocked, and she entered with his hot water. When she left, he sat at his desk, staring glumly at all the correspondence before him. This was the overflow from the book room too, and he wondered again why he had fired his secretary last month. He ruffled through the letters, many of them invitations that should have been answered weeks ago. “Well, Johnny, maybe it was because your secretary was robbing you blind,” he reminded himself. “Which is true, but the man could keep up with my business and knew how to write letters that sounded just like I had written them. What a pity the wretched cove could also duplicate my signature.”
Ah, well, the little toad was cooling his heels in Newgate now, awaiting transportation. Maybe if he survived the seven months in the reeking hold of a convict ship, he could find someone to bamboozle in Botany Bay. Lord Ragsdale sighed and looked at his frazzled desk.I suppose now if I want to cancel my liaison with Fae through the penny post, I’ll have to write my own letter.
Nope, no letters to Fae, he reminded himself as he took off the patch again and lathered up.She thinks I’m thoughtless, thankless, reckless, or feckless. And besides that, it’s too much exertion. I suppose a new wardrobe won’t kill me. It’s a lot easier than explaining to Fae that I’m tired of her.
Lord Ragsdale was not in a pleasant frame of mind when his mother knocked on the door. He knew her knock; it was just hesitant enough to remind him that he paid her bills too. He tucked in his shirttails and buttoned up his pants, wondering at his foul mood.Maybe I should pay Fae a quick visit, he thought.
“Come in, Mother,” he said, trying not to sound sour. It wasn’t his mother’s fault that he was rich and she was bound to him by his late father’s stupid will.I really should settle a private income on her, he thought as he reached for his waistcoat.I wonder why Father didn’t? He never did anything wrong.Lord Ragsdale sighed.And death came too suddenly for him to say, “Oh, wait, I am not ready.”
As his mother came into his room on light feet, he felt his mood lifting slightly. How dainty she was, and how utterly unlike him.She doesn’t look old enough to have a thirty-year-old son, he thought as he inclined his head so she could kiss his cheek. True to form, she patted his neckcloth and tugged it to the left a little.
“Am I off-center again, madam?” he inquired. “Funny how one eye gone puts me off, even after. . .” He paused a moment. “Let’s see, is it ten years now?”
“Eleven, I think, my dear,” she replied. “Oh, well. Two eyes gone would be worse.”
He nodded, wondering at her ability to cheer him up. She was so matter-of-fact. Why couldn’t he have inherited that tendency instead of his father’s leaning toward melancholy?
“I suppose,” he agreed as he allowed her to help him into his coat. “Curse the Irish, anyway.”
She frowned at him, and he took her hand.
“Yes, Mama. That was rude of me,” he said before shecould. “Didn’t you teach me not to kick dogs? For so they are. I apologize.”
He kissed his mother, and she smiled at him. “Accepted. Now, hurry up and put on your shoes. They are belowstairs.”
He looked at her and then rummaged for his shoes. “Mama, who are you talking about?” She sighed loud enough for him to pause in his exertions.
“What did I forget this time?” he asked.
“Your American cousins, John. They have arrived.”
