Page 70 of Reforming Lord Ragsdale
She looked up from the next receipt. “Mary Roney in Market Quavers?” she asked.
The clerk leaned over the ledger, his spectacles far down on his nose. “He has decided to award an annuity to the widowed sister of David Breedlow,” he announced, then fixed her with that dry look that clerks reserve for the foolish wealthy.
You dear man, she thought as she finished her accounting and put the ledger under her arm again.Only marry now, and I will consider your redemption complete.She started the long walk home, then reconsidered. “No. I will celebrate,” she told herself as she stepped into the street to hail a hackney.
“Kensington, if you please,” she instructed the jarvey and settled back with a sigh.I will wander among those paintings I was too frightened to look at when he took me to the gallery. Of course, it would be better if Lord Ragsdale were here, because then he could explain them to me.
She paid the small entrance fee from the few coins she allowed herself from Robert Claridge’s passage to Virginia and strolled slowly through the gallery. The peace of the place madeher sleepy, and she found a comfortable bench.I will sit here and think about my future, she told herself as her eyes closed.
She couldn’t have put her finger on what woke her, except that the sun was slanting across the gallery floor and telling her it was time to go home. She sat up and looked right into Lord Ragsdale’s eye. She gasped and let the ledger drop.
“I wondered how long I would have to stare at you before you woke up,” he said to her from his seat across the gallery. “And I have only one eye.”
Her face red with embarrassment, she fumbled for the ledger and started to rise. He held up a hand to stop her and started across the gallery.
“Stay where you are, my dear. I have such news, and I’d rather you were sitting down.
“Well, did you keep things running smoothly while I was away?” he asked as he reached inside his overcoat.
“Of course,” she replied promptly. “Probably better than you would have, my lord,” she teased. Her smile deepened as he pulled out a small packet and dropped it in her lap.
“From me to you, Emma. It was easy to find where I’ve been,” he explained.
She unwrapped the package and held up a rosary. “Oh, thank you!”
“You’re so welcome, Emma.” He reached into his overcoat again. “Here’s something else.”
The smile left her face when he dropped a bundle of papers in her lap.
He tried to keep his voice casual and offhand, but through his obvious exhaustion, she could almost feel his excitement.
“Emma, you can correct me if I’m wrong, but you might find some familiar names here.”
She looked down at the lists in her lap, afraid to touch them. “My dear, it’s silly of me, but I must insist that you breathe in and out,” she heard Lord Ragsdale saying from what seemed like a great distance. “I found theMinervaand theHercules!”
Chapter 20
Impulsively, she took hisface in her hands and touched her forehead to his. “Somehow, I knew you would,” she murmured, and she meant it.
Lord Ragsdale picked up one of the lists and placed it in her hand. “They were on theHercules,” he said, unfolding the papers. “Wouldn’t you know I would go through theMinerva’s list first.” He scanned the second page and then ran his finger in practiced fashion down the second column. “There.”
She looked where he pointed, read the name, and allowed herself to breathe again. “David Upton Costello,” she read out loud. “My lord, that is my father.”
“I thought as much. And look here,” he said, pointing farther down the list. “There were several Costellos. Samuel—I cannot make out the middle name, but it starts with an A.”
“Ainsworth,” she said, touching the name. She folded the paper carefully, tenderly, then leaned against Lord Ragsdale’s shoulder and closed her eyes, unable to say anything.
“They sailed in April of 1804,” Lord Ragsdale said as he put his arm around her shoulder. “Now you know, Emma.”
She opened her eyes then and sat up, her mind suddenly full of questions. “But where? How? What magic is this?”
He laughed at her and raised his hands as though to fend her off. “For two people who think themselves at least moreintelligent than dahlias, we were remarkably thickheaded on this one, Emma.”
“Tell me!” she demanded, ready to pluck at his sleeve like a child.
“During my third night in Bath when I was tossing and turning—oh, by the way, you may congratulate me on my forthcoming nuptials,” he said, interrupting himself.
“And I do congratulate you,” she replied, then looked at him shrewdly. “And why, pray tell me, if you are so happily engaged, were you ‘tossing and turning’?”
