Chapter 8

T he hour passed quickly. She took notes rapidly and trusted her memory for the rest of Breedlow’s information about how to manage Lord Ragsdale’s affairs. “I am certain he will ask you to write his letters for him,” Breedlow continued as the guard by the inner door blew a little brass whistle. “He’s not that difficult to please.” He paused and looked toward the guard. “I only wish he had not been so lazy. Perhaps then I would not have been tempted. . .” His voice trailed away as the women on the benches started to rise.

“How long before you are transported?” Emma asked, wishing there was something she could do for the man.

“Very soon, I fear,” he replied. He took a last dab at his eyes and then started to hand back Lord Ragsdale’s handkerchief. He hesitated. “May I keep this?”

Mystified, she nodded. “Why would you want to?”

Breedlow bowed his head, and she could tell that her question had humiliated him further. “I can sell it for food.” He raised his eyes to hers. “You can’t imagine how hungry I am.”

“Oh, I can,” she said softly as the guard blew the whistle again. “Keep it, by all means. I wish I had some money to give you.”

He shook his head and managed a ragged smile. “Actually, I have enjoyed your company. You are my first visitor. My sister lives too far away to visit.” Again he stopped and looked away as the tears came to his eyes. “And now I will never see her again, and it was all for twenty pounds.”

They were both silent. Emma leaned forward then and reached into her reticule. “Please, Mr. Breedlow, can you do me a favor?”

He stared at her blankly. “How could I possibly do you a favor?”

“I want to hand you a letter. Please take it to Australia. See if you can deliver it for me.” She kept her voice low as the guards began to herd the women together at the other end of the narrow room.

He shook his head. “You daren’t hand me anything. The guards will only tear it up and beat me later.”

“It was just a thought,” she said then and withdrew her hand from the reticule. “Mr. Breedlow, good luck.”

He started to reply, when one of the women near the door screamed and fainted. As the other women clustered around, jabbering and gesturing, the guards hurried to that end of the room.

“Quickly now.” It was Breedlow, holding his hand out to her. She grabbed the letter again and thrust it at him, grateful for the unexpected diversion. It disappeared as soon as she handed it over.

Order returned quickly, and a guard gestured her toward the door and thrust his key in the lock that chained Breedlow to the wall.

“Good luck, Mr. Breedlow,” she called again as he was led away. “Please don’t lose that letter,” she said softly as the other women, more of them crying now, hurried from the room. She watched the former secretary until the door clanged behind him and then sighed and stepped into the hall again.

Lord Ragsdale waited for her. He snapped open his pocket watch. “I trust you learned all you need to know, and I hope you don’t have anyone else to visit at Newgate. As it is, I am certain I will never get the stench of this place out of my coat.”

“No, my lord, I have no one else to visit,” she replied as he started back down the hall. “But I do want you to stop in the governor’s office for a moment.”

“Not if my life depended on it,” he assured her and hurried faster.

“I want you to give the governor some money to keep Mr. Breedlow from starving,” she said and then held her breath and waited for the storm to break.

She was not disappointed. He stopped, took her by the arm, and gave her a shake. “Emma, he robbed me!” Lord Ragsdale shouted.

Why am I doing this? she thought as she nerved herself to look into his eye and stand her ground, even though he was taller than she by a foot at least, and seemed enormously large in that many-caped coat he wore.

“And Mr. Breedlow is going to a lifetime in a penal colony for stealing a paltry twenty pounds from you,” she continued, surprised at her own temerity. I am not afraid of you , she thought, and to her amazement, she meant it.

“So he is,” Lord Ragsdale said, calm again. He let go of her arm and hurried her along the endless passage, past cells crammed with wretched people, prisoners for whom all time was suspended into a continuous, dismal present that she understood very well.

Emma did not really expect Lord Ragsdale to stop at the governor’s office again, but he did. The governor ushered them into the office that still smelled of elderly mutton.

“This is for David Breedlow’s upkeep,” the marquess said as he slapped a handful of coins down on the desk and then scowled at Emma.

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied and edged closer to the row of ledgers as the governor searched around on his messy desk for a receipt book. In another moment she was looking through the newest ledger, running her finger down the row of names of prisoners incarcerated in the last five years. There were so many, and the governor’s scribe had such poor handwriting. This will take me an hour at least, and I do not have an hour , she thought as the governor scratched out a receipt and handed it to her employer.

“Come, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale said. He stood next to her, and she jumped at the sudden intrusion on her rapid scramble through the ledger. “We have come to the end of this day’s philanthropy, I trust.”

She closed the book reluctantly.

“Looking up relatives?” the marquess asked. “Close relatives, I would imagine.”

He was teasing her, she could tell. “Of course, my lord,” she responded promptly. He could think what he chose.

Blessedly outside the prison, Lord Ragsdale nodded to his tiger, who unblanketed his horse.

They started out in silence. It was almost dark now, and Newgate was only a hulking shadow. She shivered, hoping that she would not dream tonight.

“I trust we needn’t repeat a visit to my late secretary.”

“No, my lord,” she said. “Tomorrow, though, we need to visit your banker and find out what bills remain to be paid. Breedlow tells me that your banker has his ledgers.”

“It can wait, Emma,” he grumbled.

“It cannot, my lord. The sooner your finances are organized, the less I will bother you.”

“Thank heavens,” he replied fervently. “In that case, I am yours this evening too.”

Silence filled the space between them. They might have been miles from each other instead of touching shoulders. She knew she should be silent, but Breedlow’s face was still so vivid in her mind.

“My lord, did you ever ask Mr. Breedlow why he stole the money?”

“No. I don’t care why. ”

The marquess spoke with such finality that Emma knew she did not dare to continue. But she did, as though some demon pushed her onto an empty stage, daring her to perform for a hostile audience.

“His sister’s husband died, and that twenty pounds was to cover funeral expenses and a year’s rent for her.”

She could tell he had turned to look at her, but it was dark and she could not see his face. “I told you I did not care. Thievery is thievery, Emma.”

She looked straight ahead and plunged on, driven by some imp that she did not recognize. “When I straightened out your desk this morning, I noticed that you wagered seventy-five pounds that Lord Lander could not push a peanut with his nose down St. James Street during the evening rush of traffic.”

His reply was quiet, and she knew she should not prod him any farther. “It’s my money, Emma,” he said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“Emma, you are aggravating!” he said, his voice low but intense. “When we get home, I am going to find that stupid paper I signed and tear it up, and you can spend the next five years cleaning out my kitchen! To perdition with my reformation.”

Well, that is that , she thought to herself as she pulled as far away from him as she could and stared into the gathering dusk. Oh, why can I not learn patience? I have ruined everything.

When they arrived at the house, Lord Ragsdale flung himself out of the curricle, snapped his orders at the tiger, and took the front steps in two bounds. Emma followed more slowly, drawing her cloak about her again. She sniffed at the fabric. Lord Ragsdale was right; the odor of Newgate had permeated the material.

He slammed the door behind him, not quite in her face, but almost. She opened it and forced herself to go inside. I wonder if Lady Ragsdale found me a place to sleep , she thought. I cannot bear another night on the stairs .

Lady Ragsdale and Sally Claridge, dressed in evening wear, stood in the front hallway conversing with Lord Ragsdale. The older woman nodded to Emma and then made a face as Emma slowly removed her cloak.

“I was telling my son how much Sally and I were looking forward to his escort tonight and during this Season, and what does he tell me but you have commanded his appearance in the book room this evening?”

Surprised, Emma glanced at Lord Ragsdale, who stood slightly behind his mother. He stared at her and gave her a slow wink. She understood perfectly and resisted the urge to cheer as she sighed and then shook her head at Lady Ragsdale.

“That is how we must get on, my lady,” she said, striving for that perfect blend of regret and determination. “Until your son’s business affairs are regulated, I must claim his attention. I am sure that later in the Season he will be delighted to accompany the two of you.”

To her relief, Lady Ragsdale nodded. “I am sure we understand, Emma. Come, Sally. I don’t believe Lord and Lady Tennant were expecting my son anyway.”

Lord Ragsdale kissed his mother’s cheek and managed a look of rue so counterfeit to Emma that she had to turn away to maintain her countenance. I never met a more complicated man , she thought as Lord Ragsdale expressed his profound sorrow at missing an evening with London’s finest and closed the door behind his mother and cousin. He turned back to her, and she held her breath.

“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 reformation is 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 up everything that 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 stared at 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.

He watched her, noting how her rich auburn hair was coming loose from the knot she wore it in, and how her eyes closed occasionally. You slept on the stairs last night , he thought, and I was glad. That was a bit churlish of me, no matter how pointed my dislike. And yes, yes, you are quite right, although I will never tell you. I’m not having much fun these days.

“You think I should give up Fae?” he asked, keeping his voice offhand.

Emma nodded and rubbed her eyes.

“I’ll consider it,” he said. “Go to bed, Emma. You’re about nine-tenths worthless right now.”

She left the room without another comment. He sat down in the chair she had vacated and looked at her neat list and the column of money owed. He totaled it up in his head, going from page to page, all the while thinking of David Breedlow, chained to the wall in Newgate. I could have loaned him twenty pounds , he thought. I could have concerned myself with his family’s trials. I could have behaved as my father would have behaved. Why didn’t I?

He yanked off his eye patch and threw it on the desk, rubbing his forehead. “Blast the Irish,” he said, remembering his last view of his father before he stumbled, fell back, and disappeared in a clatter of pikes and swords. “And blast you, Emma Costello, you and all your murderous Irish relations.”

Lord Ragsdale went to bed, longing for at least a glass of sherry, and determined to throw a boot at Emma if she tried to bother him before noon. To his dismay, he woke up at nine, alert, hungry, and ready to go another round with Emma Costello. Hanley, who seemed to have appointed himself valet, brought him tea and stayed to help him shave and dress. He smelled ham and bacon and followed his nose to the breakfast room, where his mother and cousin were just finishing.

Lady Ragsdale looked at him in amazement and then took out her little pocket watch and tapped it. “Are you just coming in, John?” she asked finally as he filled a plate from the sideboard.

Lord Ragsdale had the good grace to laugh. “Mama, you know I am not! I think everyone ought to eat breakfast occasionally.” He peered at the scrambled eggs and found that they did not disgust him. “So chickens still lay eggs?”

Lady Ragsdale laughed. “How clever of them!” She glanced at Sally. “My dear, perhaps we can importune your cousin into escorting us to the modiste for a male opinion as we attempt a wardrobe for you.”

Oh, please, not that , he thought as he took a bite of scrambled eggs. He wanted to chew awhile and give himself time to think up an excuse, but eggs did not require that sort of exertion. To his relief, Emma came to his rescue yet again. He swallowed and smiled at his mother.

“My dear, you will think me a dreadful put-off, but Emma and I must visit the bank today. You should see how neatly she has the bills organized.”

To his relief, his mother did not press the matter. “Very well, son, we will excuse you again.” She looked at her niece. “Come, Sally, let us see what damage we can do by ourselves. Our bills will be yours, John, so if you wish an opinion on how we spend your money, this is your last chance.”

Lord Ragsdale finished his eggs and waved his hand in a generous gesture. “Just give the bills to Emma when they come in. I’m sure she will have a file for everything.” He took a sip of tea as his mother rose from the table. “Mama, you can do something for me at the modiste’s.”

His mother turned wary eyes in his direction, and he thought again about Emma’s advice that he discard his mistress. “Could you order a warm cloak for Emma? Make it dark brown and serviceable. No telling when spring will actually arrive this year.”

“A fur collar? Silk frogs?” his mama teased.

Mama, if you had seen her shivering in Newgate, you wouldn’t quiz me , he considered thoughtfully. “Oh, no. The key word is serviceable. Now that I think of it, perhaps a wool dress too. Something with a lace collar.” He glanced at Sally, who was regarding him with astonishment. “She’s about your size, isn’t she, my dear?”

Sally nodded, too surprised at his unexpected generosity to speak.

“Well, there’s your template, Mama. Cousin, if you don’t mind the observation, she’s a bit thinner in the waist and shorter by an inch or two. Make that two dresses, Mama. A secretary ought to have a change of clothing.”

He was still smiling as his mother left the room. I should have asked her to pick out a bonnet too , he thought. Careless of me. I wonder if Fae could be induced to part with some of those gloves I have been buying for her. I mean, a body only has two hands. He got up for another cinnamon bun and stood eating it by the sideboard. No, no. Too much at once might make Emma think I had declared a truce or something. She can do without gloves and bonnet.

Feeling pleasantly full, Lord Ragsdale strolled to the book room, where Emma was gathering the bound bills into a satchel.

She looked up and smiled at him.

“Good morning, sir,” she said and continued her business. “If we get these to the bank and straighten out your affairs, I promise not to bother you for the rest of the day.”

He raised his eyebrows at her and helped pack the bills.

“Emma, why the magnanimity? Can it be that you have a heart?”

“Of course I do,” she replied promptly. “I also intend to retrieve your balance books from the banker and spend the afternoon making entries.” She closed the satchel .

“I have a better idea,” he said, taking the satchel from her. “I want you to visit Fae Moullé and see how the wind blows.”

“My lord!” she exclaimed, unable to hide her dismay.

Aha , he thought, I surprised you. He waited a moment until he was sure he would not smile and then continued. “I have been thinking about what you said. Perhaps it is time she and I ended our arrangement. I want you to see what terms would be agreeable. It is your duty as my secretary,” he added, when that now-familiar obstinate expression settled on her face.

“Very well, my lord,” Emma said, and the doubt in her voice made him want to shout, “Got you!” He did not. Just the knowledge that he had ruffled her equanimity was pleasure enough for the moment.

“I will probably spend this evening at Almack’s with my mother and cousin,” he said as they drove to Fotherby and Sons in his curricle. “I should be an occasional escort, and besides, I must contemplate this Season’s beauties.” He nudged her in the side. “Tell me, Emma, how can I pick out a smart one?”

To his delight, she laughed out loud. She had a hearty laugh, and it startled him at first, because it was something he was not used to. It was no drawing room titter, no giggle behind a fan, but a full, rich sound as genuine as it was infectious. He laughed too.

“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.