Page 25 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
“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 latterday 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 doorknob.
She returned his stare with one of her own. “Of course, if you hurry, I am sure you can still arrive at the Tennants’ in time for a fulfilling evening, my lord.”
“And deprive you of my company, Emma? Never that. By all that’s holy, 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 doorknob 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.”
1
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 Moullé? 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 Moullé 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 reformationis 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 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?”
“Your impertinence knows no bounds, Emma!” he shouted. “Does reformation mean I must give upeverythingthat 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 staredat her and then down at the bills in his hand. He was 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.
