Ransom Redeemed

by Jayne Fresina

  His mother, of course, had no capacity for reading another person's posture or their expression. "I cannot think why Raven never told me of this dire situation."

  "Because I asked her not to, madam. I prefer to keep such matters private. I'm sure you understand."

  But, of course, Ransom knew his mother would not understand that either. Very little about her own life was private. Discretion had never been hers in great commodity and when she married True Deverell she lost any chance she might have had for a quiet life. Not, Ransom suspected, that she had ever wanted one. Lady Charlotte thrived on drama and if nobody was interested in her comings and goings anymore she would very probably shrivel away and die. In the meantime, however, she complained at every opportunity about the society matrons who gave her the cut, and the vile gossips who, she was certain, were merely jealous of her continued good looks.

  He watched as Miss Ashford bent over the magazine and continued reading aloud. There had been just the hint of a blush— suggestive of a mounting temper— but it was gone now already.

  A few days ago in that dusty little shop he had asked her, "What keeps you so busy then?"

  To which she'd replied, "The sheer effort it takes for a small, unimportant woman to survive. Not everybody has the liberty of running away from their problems."

  So apparently Miss Mary Ashford had nobody to go to with her troubles. That balding, bespectacled fellow with his nose in a book and buttery finger marks on the skewed knot of his cravat, was not likely to provide much guidance. In fact, he did not seem to be aware of much at all going on around him. Clearly she was left alone to manage her sister.

  Ransom's thoughts turned to his own siblings— full and half-blood— and their many trials and tribulations, which had all, lately, been laid at his door.

  He and Miss Ashford had something in common after all. Would she not be surprised to know it?

  Studying her profile, he tried to understand what it was about her that drew his attention and held it. Her hair was smooth, straight and dark brown, tied back in a knot of some sort. There was no hint of a curl, no ringlets like those favored by some young women. Her nose was slender with a gentle, aquiline slope; her skin had a slightly olive tone and that, in addition to her solemn face and graceful composure gave her the look of a Renaissance Madonna in an oil painting.

  And that was it! Now he knew what it was that had fascinated him.

  La Contessa.

  But how could that be?

  He didn't realize he'd been tapping his fingers on his hat, until she shot him a cross scowl. At once he stopped and curled his fingers into a fist.

  "Ransom, stop fidgeting and distracting Miss Ashford," his mother exclaimed. "You take after your father with that tiresome, vulgar inability to sit still. You disrupt the serenity of a room simply by being in it."

  Abruptly he got up.

  Both women looked at him expectantly.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered stiffly. "I just remembered some business I must take care of today. Excuse me." With that he left the room hurriedly, this time taking his hat and gloves with him.

  * * * *

  Well, she thought, with a strange mixture of relief and disappointment, that was over with.

  "Now you see what I mean, Mary. He comes and goes quite without warning, whenever the mood betakes him."

  "Yes. I see."

  "So very rude and shamefully ill-bred. His father's influence. I was never allowed to interfere in the raising of my own children. I was shut out of their lives. Just another of his cruel strikes against me."

  Mary had managed not to look at Ransom too much, to keep her mind on the article she read for Lady Charlotte, but his presence had a fairly calamitous affect on her senses. It made his every slightest move echo in her ears, so that she found herself talking louder to drown it out. Even now that he'd left she remained distracted.

  On this occasion he was dressed properly and decently. Very elegantly, in fact. Richly. But he wore those fine clothes with a casual, understated carelessness. He was a tall, dark, broad-shouldered shape in her peripheral vision. A menacing shape she could not ignore.

  After he left, his mother could not return her attention to the fashions of Paris. She seemed unduly perturbed by the idea of Mary living above a shop, although it was unclear which part of this discovery she found most dreadful. Perhaps she saw it as affecting her own circumstances in some way. But if her son hadn't raised the subject she would never have known about those living arrangements, for Mary did not like to talk about herself and Lady Charlotte seldom liked to talk about anything but her own problems. Mary had hoped to maintain some last little vestige of dignity for the remains of her family for as long as possible. Now, thanks to Ransom Deverell's imprudent mouth, the sad facts were exposed to the least discreet person she knew.

  For the past few years, since her father's death, Mary had kept up appearances as best she could. Whenever she went out she made sure to dress neatly, so that if she met anyone she knew they would be none the wiser. Most people were aware that the Ashfords had lost their estate, many knew about Uncle Hugo, but they did not need to know all the details of how Mary and her sister lived now. When she encountered old acquaintances in the street, Mary was quick to inquire into their health, carefully remembering the names of their children and spouses, even their dogs, rapidly leading the conversation so that they had slim chance of quizzing her in return. It was always her hope that they would walk on thinking how well she looked and how happy she seemed. Even if that thought was promptly followed by the modifier, "all things considered".

  But these visits to Lady Charlotte gave Mary the opportunity to converse with someone who had no idea about that cramped, lumpy bed she shared with her sister, or of the holes in her stockings and the hunger pains in her stomach— a lady who was blissfully ignorant of most things Mary had to face every day. For that short time in Lady Charlotte's presence, where a hangnail was often the most pressing problem, she could forget it all herself and be immersed in the respite of silly nothingness.

  Now all that was spoiled. In one sentence, Ransom Deverell had pulled down the curtain behind which she hid her true circumstances and exposed her pitiful plight.

  Lady Charlotte "concerned", Mary now learned, was much worse than Lady Charlotte unaware or detached from reality. Raven had often told her that, but then her friend said a lot of things about her mother— particularly when in a temper— and Mary had not understood exactly what she meant. After all, Mary had been without a mother for many years and secretly thought Raven complained more than she should about her own.

  But she was about to find herself the target of what Raven termed Lady Charlotte's "clucking".

  "To think of you abandoned to the life of a shopkeeper, Mary! I wonder at my daughter leaving you behind when she went off to Oxfordshire. Some friend she has been."

  "Madam, your daughter has remained a true friend to me through some very challenging times, and when many others were less than kind. For that I will always be grateful."

  "Now she has deserted you, just as she deserted me. We are abandoned as she goes on with her life away from us."

  Mary smiled. "We have her letters to entertain us, Lady Charlotte."

  "Hmph. My daughter is a sadly infrequent correspondent, and she has a lazy penmanship that causes me to squint. And I have more than enough lines about my eyes already." The lady sighed deeply, sinking against the rolled arm of the chaise. "Raven has always said she prefers living her life, rather than wasting time writing about it. Now, of course, she has so much life to live while you and I have none."

  "Then, until she is able to return to London for a visit, we must take consolation in the company of each other, Lady Charlotte."

  This did not seem to be much compensation. "Now my son refuses to take me to Greyledge this winter. It is ridiculous that I am trapped here and cannot be there for my daughter in her time of need."

  "But travel is most unreliable this time of y
ear. I suppose he thinks of your comfort, Lady Charlotte."

  "My comfort, indeed! Ransom thinks only of himself. Just like his father, he has no time for me. None of my children care what becomes of me as I sit here all alone with nothing and nobody of any consequence to help fill my days."

  Mary might have been insulted, if she was not so relieved that her ladyship had, for the time being, forgotten about the bookshop. Now, thankfully, Mary was back in her small role at the side of somebody else's stage, and Lady Charlotte embarked upon one of her favorite complaints about uncaring offspring, her hateful former husband, her deceased father, and anybody else that had ever slighted her.

  Then, suddenly, she said, "You shall travel with me to Greyledge, Mary. We'll go together and surprise Raven. I shall not mind the journey if I have a companion."

  "Oh, Lady Charlotte, I do not think that is a good idea. Your son does not think you should—"

  "Pah! What does he know? Men know nothing of childbirth."

  But Mary had no intention of going where she was not invited. She could well imagine Raven's expression if they turned up at Greyledge unexpected, and the last letter from her friend had hinted at great hopes for a very quiet, calm, peaceful Yuletide season at the estate.

  Besides, Mary had travelled into Oxfordshire with Lady Charlotte once three years ago and still had not fully recovered from the embarrassment caused by listening to the lady berate servants, coachmen, toll-keepers, grooms and innkeepers' wives— whom she found "slovenly, bacon-faced and ill-kempt"— along their route.

  Mary looked down at the magazine in her lap, searching desperately for a distraction. "Goodness what a lovely pattern for a ball gown. Princess-line with the bodice and skirt in one piece. I have never seen such a dress. I wonder if it might suit my sister, but I suppose it would require a great many yards of material."

  Lady Charlotte demanded to see the picture so that she could give her own opinion— even though she had never met Violet.

  This was Mary's chance to divert her ladyship's attention and her "clucking". Violet, at least, could benefit from it, while Mary would only chafe under the attention. She would much rather be left to the quiet enjoyment of a good novel.

  So she told Lady Charlotte all about her idea to give Violet an outing into society and her hopes of finding her sister a good match. Nobody enjoyed the prospect of meddling, matchmaking and a fashionable foray, quite so much as Lady Charlotte, and she was soon in a much better humor, quite forgetting her sore head.

  When Mary left Mivart's Hotel a little over half an hour later, she found a Hansom cab waiting in the street. The driver leapt forward to greet her just as she took the last step down to the wet pavement.

  "Are you Miss Ashford?"

  She halted, gripping her basket before her. "I am."

  "Ah, good!" He tipped his hat to her. "A gentleman sent me here to wait for you, Miss. He said you would be the young lady in the blue bonnet, and he paid the fee for your journey in advance."

  She was so startled she didn't know what to say for a moment. "This gentleman..." she managed finally, "did he give his name?"

  "He said he was the King of Siam, miss. I don't reckon that was entirely honest, but since he paid me double the fee, I didn't think it right to argue."

  Mary looked up at the grim sky and blinked against the rain which had just begun again. "It is so very damp out, I shall accept his generosity." She knew when to be practical, put her emotions aside— and ignore her pride a little. After all, it wasn't as if anybody would see her accepting the favor. The sky was already getting dark and she did not relish the thought of walking all the way home.

  "Very good, miss. I'm glad you are agreeable, for he said he would chase me down if I didn't succeed in my mission of transporting you safely."

  "Did he indeed?" Stepping up into the seat, she just happened to glance out through the side window and, in the soft glow of a street lamp, observed a man on horseback turning away down a side street. She didn't have to see his face to know it was Ransom Deverell. He must have been waiting around all this time in the rain, instead of dashing off to that important business he supposedly remembered.

  How very odd. Even stranger that he didn't wait a moment longer to let her thank him. If she had not accepted the offer of a Hansom cab, would he have ridden after her?

  But she soon had something else to worry about, when she realized that wherever the driver was taking her, it was not to Trinity Place and Beloved Books. She leaned out, looking back to shout. Alas, the driver, sitting high up behind the cab, was whistling too loudly to hear, and had his collar up against the rain. Mary got the sense that he would not have heard her even if he could.

  * * * *

  Ransom galloped home, handed his horse off to the groom, dashed into his house and looked about anxiously to be sure the place had been tidied since he left it a few days ago. It had popped into his thoughts— at the last minute— that some female might still be there waiting for him, so he was glad to find the place quiet and mostly put back together after the last party.

  The butler must have heard him clattering about in the hall and swearing at the wet mud he'd brought in on his own boots, for he appeared a few moments later to see whether the master of the house required anything.

  Ransom spun around. "Ah, Smith. You did give that money to the young Indian woman as I requested? I left instructions with Mrs. Clay on Wednesday."

  "Oh yes, sir. She seemed very grateful. Unlike the French lady, who caused rather more ruckus while she was here."

  He cringed. "Yes, I'm sorry about that. I was not expecting Mademoiselle Saint Clair so early. Nothing broken, I hope."

  "A Royal Doulton figurine, I believe, sir, came to a sad end when the fight broke out."

  "I'm sorry."

  The butler looked him up and down with weary eyes. "At least you survived unscathed, sir?"

  "Mostly. And the other three ladies?"

  "Enjoyed a hearty breakfast before departing the house in recuperated spirits."

  "Excellent." Ransom took the candelabra from the hall table and carried it into the drawing room to see that the fire was lit, and the furniture back where it should be. "Any moment now, Smith, a young lady by the name of Miss Ashford will be at the door." He set the candelabra down and rubbed his hands together. "Look out for her, will you?"

  "Is this a lady to be sent away or permitted entry, sir?"

  "Permitted entry, Smith! Indeed, you are not to let her get away." He hadn't gone to all this trouble for nothing.

  "Very good, sir. And I'll send a maid in to light the gas lamps in here?"

  "No, no. Candles will do." He'd heard somewhere— couldn't think where— that candlelight was more likely to make a woman spill her secrets. Apparently it was more "romantic" than gaslight. Perhaps because it made them think of taking off their clothes. He gave a little snort of amusement at the thought of women and their foibles.

  The butler retreated with his smooth, silent glide and Ransom went to the window, watching to see her mood when she approached his house. He had a feeling it would not be a merry one. She was not the sort to appreciate being abducted and interrogated, but he would damn well get to the bottom of this woman one way or another. Sending him books and apologies, pretending not to know him when she was, all the time, an old friend of his sister's and apparently known to his mother. Looking at him from his bedchamber wall with those cool grey eyes as if he was a boy in need of a spanking.

  Trying to make him feel as if he ought to impress her by reading a blasted book.

  As if he ought to kiss those sly lips. That might be the only way to be free of them.

  Uh oh, here she came now.

  Pulse uneven, he dropped to a seat by the fire, loosened his cravat slightly, ran a hand back through his hair and then tried to find an appropriate pose. Casual would be best, so that she didn't know he'd been waiting and watching for her. He grabbed a newspaper from the floor beside his chair, but when he realized
it was several weeks out of date and that he had penned rabbit ears and a pirate eye-patch onto a sketch of the Prime Minister on the front page, he tossed it quickly aside again.

  Eventually he propped one muddy heel up on the velvet covered fender, sank deeper into the old chair, lowered his eyelids to half mast and feigned sleep.

  He couldn't think why he, a grown man, was in such a state again. This was absurd. She was hardly the first woman he'd had brought to his lair.

  But as he heard her quick step crossing his hall tiles, he could have sworn the flames in his fire leapt taller, like long tongues lapping, curling and spitting through the fringe of his dark eyelashes.

  Did she have any idea of the heat into which she was walking?

  He rather felt as if there ought to be a grand organ playing to accompany her arrival, for he'd begun to think of her as his Nemesis, punisher of hubris, a winged goddess out for divine retribution and wielding a whip— her tongue, of course. She would be, he had suspected almost from the first glance over his shoulder, the agent of his downfall.

  Here she came, his Nemesis in a Blue Bonnet.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Mr. Deverell, what can be the meaning of this? I am expected home shortly, and the alarm will be raised if I am not."

  He jumped a little, as if she woke him. With one heel still up on the fender, he turned only his head to peer around the wing of his chair. "Miss Ashford. How good of you to allow me a moment of your time."

  "Did I have a choice?" She stood just inside the door of the drawing room, holding the handle of her basket with both hands. "I must ask again, Mr. Deverell, why you had the Hansom cab bring me here? It is late and I—"

  "Come around into the light, woman, so I can see you properly. I'm getting a crick in my neck while you skulk there by the door."