Ransom Redeemed (14 page)

"Excellent. You ought to be." She calmly reached into the potted palm beside the door. "Do return this to the lady who misplaced it here, amongst other items she lost in this house no doubt." She held out a lady's slipper that must have been overlooked during the house cleaning after the party. "I don't believe it's one of yours. It looks a little too dainty for your feet."

Frowning, he snatched it from her hand, and since he had removed both arms now from the doorway, she was able to escape through the gap, into the hall.

"If you ever get around to reading that book I sent you, Mr. Deverell, then we might have something to talk about. But don't think you can summon me, or have me brought here to amuse you on a whim. I've encountered handsome and arrogant before, and my shelves are thoroughly full up with men who think I need their advice. If you truly want to impress me, you'll have to employ a little more than
the usual
effort and one sorry candelabra." She laughed again. "Do not look so crestfallen. You'll soon decide it's not worth the struggle, I'm sure. Good evening. Oh, and there is a matching shoe to that one under the red sofa. The practical side of my nature shudders to think how the lady got home, unshod, in this weather." Her little speech delivered smugly, she curtseyed and turned to leave.

A footman was opening the front door already.

"Have it your way, Miss Stubborn," he grumbled as he strode after her, "but I already have you in my bedchamber in any case so it matters not to me."

Lips parted, she looked at him in astonishment, cheeks blushing pink.

"I can show you if you don't believe me," he said, glowering.

The footman holding the door open did his best attempt to pretend he hadn't heard. But a new arrival, standing on the top step with her hand on the bell pull, wearing a hooded, fur-lined cloak and waiting to come in, definitely had heard.

Both his departing guest and the new one froze and stared at each other.

"I know you, don't I?" said the second woman.

Mary Ashford shook her head and hurried away down the steps to the waiting horse and cab. Ransom signaled to let the driver know that he would pay for this trip too, and then he watched her leave. She did not look back.

Meanwhile the other woman was waiting, her frown deepening with irritation, which suggested she didn't wait very often for anybody. "I am Lady Elizabeth Stanbury. Your brother said you were expecting me."

Oh, lord. He'd completely forgotten about Damon's problem. He scratched his head with the slipper and winced. "Ah, yes. I suppose you'd better come in and get it over with. Smith, please take Lady Stanbury through to my father's study." His lips were feeling a little odd. As if they were stung. But surprisingly they still worked, despite being savaged by that "meek little bookseller".

"There is no fire in the study, sir," the butler intoned gravely. "Should I have one lit?"

"No. No. Lady Stanbury won't be here long, and my father's study is more suitable." He always referred to it as his "father's study", because he still thought of the house as belonging to True Deverell. Ransom was merely a cuckoo who probably didn't deserve such a grand house. That was the way he had felt since he first moved in and the sensation had not decreased over time. Touches of his father were everywhere— in the art and treasure that he'd purchased to decorate the place. Even the staff were chosen and hired by True. Ransom had no inclination to change anything. Why bother? Everything in life was temporary and one should never get attached. People inevitably let one down.

"Sir, is that blood on your lip?"

"Ah." He wiped his lip again and managed a sheepish smile. "A slight mishap, Smith. Nothing to worry about."

The butler swept Lady Stanbury away, while also relieving Ransom of the discarded lady's shoe.

So Miss Ashford— his reluctant savior from irate Frenchwomen— was gone, carried away into the darkening night by a stout horse and a creaking chariot. Well, he might have known he couldn't persuade her to stay. It had been a rather clumsy attempt, not up to his usual seductive standards. Truth was, he did not know how to win this one over. As she'd said, it required more effort than he was accustomed to making when it came to women.

What did he think he was doing with her anyway? Where could such an interest possibly lead? He really did not want a Daisy Do-good under his feet, casting her disapproving eyes all over him, as if he didn't already know how very wicked he was.

"Shut the door, Thomas," he growled to the footman. "We failed to keep that one, I'm afraid. We must release her into the wild."

"She seemed rather different to the usual ladies, sir."

"Different? In what way, Thomas?" Had she bitten his footman too? She'd only been in the man's presence with her damnable lips for a moment.

"Careworn, sir. But kindly. Was she collecting for charity, sir?"

He smirked. "No. Unfortunately. She might have been a bit more obliging then, if she wanted money out of me."

Hmmm. That was a point. Why hadn't she taken advantage of the fact that he had money and she had none? Most women would get what they could from him if they managed to catch his eye— drunk or sober. As his father would say, nothing made its way faster to a woman's heart than money. But apparently she didn't want any of his.

All she wanted was for him to read a book.

Chapter Twelve

As the horse took her away from Deverell's house, hooves sloshing wearily through puddles, Mary's insides tumbled through a gamut of emotions. None of which she wanted to identify. She let her body bounce and sway carelessly with every bump, her basket in her lap, her gaze fixed to the cobbled road ahead.

Elizabeth Grosvenor.

Now Lady Elizabeth Stanbury, of course. Wife of George Stanbury— the man once engaged to marry Mary.

In that other lifetime.

It was several years since Mary had seen Elizabeth, but there was a time when they moved in the same social circles, attended the same balls and parties. She would have recognized her anywhere, although Elizabeth had not known who
she
was, only that there was something familiar. Well, she supposed time had changed her appearance and not for the better. Worries and responsibilities did that to a person, Mary thought grimly, fingers tightening around her basket.

In comparison Elizabeth had looked very well standing on Ransom Deverell's steps. She was older than Mary, but very well preserved, positively glowing with health and contentment. A woman who glided smoothly through life. A woman for whom nothing ever went wrong. A woman who would trample her own grandmother to get a foot up the social ladder.

"I know you, don't I?"
spoken in that clipped, cut-glass, aristocratic voice.

Mary was surprised the woman dared admit they had ever known each other.

Blowing out a hefty sigh, she turned her head to watch the light of the street lamps slipping by. There were fewer lights here, of course, for the horses were taking her farther away from the affluent part of town. The stripes of darkness became broader and longer, briefly lit faces sucked away into shadow, until she might as well be the only one out on the road.

Did George know his wife paid visits to Ransom Deverell under cover of darkness?

She imagined Violet's voice then, "
Serve him right, the blackguard
!"

But it was years since Mary had felt any real anger against George. As she'd said to her sister, she could hardly fault the man for wanting to secure his father's estate and keep his home. Besides, he had forgotten her so easily, set her aside with so little apparent qualm, did that not suggest he could have done the same even if they married?

During their courtship, Mary had never pried too far beneath George Stanbury's fine surface. He was charming and lively, but they had never been alone together, of course. There were always other people there, chaperones and friends to keep them from the "temptation of improper intimacies". The knowledge they had of each other, however many times they were in company, could have been noted on a card no larger than four inches square.

But when her father and brothers encouraged the match, Mary had found herself swept up in the merriment. She agreed to marry him, aware that their engagement must be of some lengthy duration. His father was very ill and George did not think it right to plan a wedding until his health had improved. Mary understood. The delay, she'd thought, would give them time to know each other better, hopefully in less formal settings.

Alas, his father never rallied and then there was a period of mourning to be observed. Once again Mary waited with patience, for George's time was greatly taken up with responsibilities when he inherited his father's title.

It was not long before she had her own grief to manage when her brothers— who had always done everything together, including defy their father to join the 3rd Light Dragoons— were killed at the Battle of Kabul. Silence and an awful stillness descended upon their world. A dark rain cloud covered them as if it would never be summer again. Uncle Hugo was then the last male heir for the Ashford estate, but at the age of fifty-five he had no wife and no children, nor did he possess the slightest inclination to get any. He preferred to travel and paint, to live an unconventional life, unfettered by the responsibility of a great estate and not beholden to society's rules. Mary couldn't blame him, for what had the estate and his family ever done for him except turn their backs on his way of life and try to pretend he did not exist?

But her father never forgave Hugo for that refusal to conform. He believed that his brother had failed to do his duty for the estate by not marrying and producing sons. It was that simple, and he did not care whether marriage might have been against Hugo's nature. He did not care whether his brother would have been miserable leading a false life. "Your Uncle Hugo is an embarrassment to the Ashford name," he said once to Mary. It was one of the few times she ever heard him speak of his brother, and one of the last that actually referred to him by name.

So Mary's father, buried in debt and without male heirs, was obliged to sell everything.

"We shall need that wedding now, Mary, my girl, to lift our spirits," her father had said, his eyes heavy with sorrow. "The sooner the better. What can be keeping that young man of yours from our door?"

But of course, it would not be proper to rush the proceedings, no matter how urgent one party felt in the matter. "Father, we cannot have a wedding while we're in mourning." Nor would she lower
her
Ashford Pride to push George into action.

So the delay stretched on.

When her father moved his daughters permanently to London, Mary still had hopes of a marriage occurring in the not too distant future, despite the growing infrequency of George's letters and visits. The Ashfords— what remained of them— kept up appearances as long as possible.

Always she found excuses for her absent fiancé: he must be busy; must still be in the country at a shooting party; or his family obligations kept him dashing about Town— the fashionable part, of course, not the area where they now lived. He would visit when he could. She must be patient and understanding.

Then, finally, she read the announcement of his wedding one morning in the newspaper.

Mary vividly remembered the life draining out of her as she sat at the breakfast table and stared at the printed words, reading them five times before they fully sunk in.

She never saw or heard from him again. Not even a letter attempting to explain.

Her father, trying to remain optimistic, had promised there would be other chances and other gentlemen, but unlike George she could not simply adjust her plans to new circumstances and replace one face with another. Men had turned out to be much less trustworthy than expected. Her naiveté, innocence, and a certain amount of self-confidence, was lost along with hope.

As she had remarked to Ransom Deverell, people had a habit of leaving her life, one by one, whether intentionally or by death.

Not long after George's surprise marriage, Uncle Hugo was arrested and so the storm over their heads grew even darker, until there seemed no chance of a break in it.

Poor, dear Hugo, who had only ever wanted to be happy on his own terms.

Some of it was kept out of the papers. What was put in alluded to his "crime" in the vague terms used so as not to offend anybody's moral sensibilities. It was still enough to make her father go white as a lily when he read about it. He'd known about his brother's love life for a long time, of course. How could he not? But seeing it in print, put out for public consumption, was another matter.

"I suppose Lord Stanbury congratulates himself now at narrowly escaping such an association," was the only comment he made to Mary on the matter. And that came out as if he momentarily forgot where he was and who she was.

She was not supposed to understand the details, of course. Being a well-raised, maidenly creature, she should not be aware of such things. Sex and anything related to it was never talked of in frank terms and if she was ever to know anything about it, she would be told on her wedding night, by her husband. But Mary was far from stupid, and she was not blind or deaf. She knew of her uncle's preferences and how they were forbidden, considered a criminal offense. She also understood that his long relationship with Thaddeus Speedwell was something more than two confirmed bachelors living under the same roof, even though it was never talked of.

At first she had found it difficult to understand. She adored her uncle, but Mary would have loved the companionship of an aunt, especially after the death of her mother. For a long time, she wished he could simply follow the established path and not be stubborn. But she came to see what a selfish thought that was. She also understood that when one was lucky enough to find true love— like a glorious, chocolate-covered, French cream pastry— one must never let it out of one's sight.

Love was a precious rarity and not everybody would be fortunate enough to find it, so why should Uncle Hugo be forced to give up his treasure and his happiness?

And so Young Mary had come to a tentative acceptance that secretly grew stronger over time. Her love for her uncle was too deep at the root to be disturbed. As her father had said— and as Violet had recently reminded her— when Mary loved she did so with her whole being.

Thaddeus Speedwell was a very gentle, reserved gentleman who never raised his voice, but Hugo had an effervescent character that could not be tamed or quieted. He was outspoken in his rebellion, his own sense of pride and determination just as strong as that of any Ashford. And he possessed three other things that were sure to get him into trouble— a quickly roused temper, an acutely felt abhorrence for injustice, and an extreme aversion to letting anybody else tell him how to live. Or die.

But this unapologetic flouting of convention made him few friends in high society and one day he crossed the wrong person for the last time. Hugo's enemies had him arrested for "acts of indecency", and he was sent to prison where he contracted pneumonia and died.

In typical Uncle Hugo form, as he lay dying, he dictated a long confession to several crimes that he could not possibly have committed, including the murder of an art critic— a gory, unsolved crime that had plagued authorities on both sides of the English Channel for months.

"Weep not for me, Mary my kitten," he'd written to her. "They would have preferred to put a noose around my neck, because I am not like them and refuse to be so. They are angry that I shall die now, before they can have that opportunity. But I shall go out with style and take responsibility for something I would dearly love to have done. Better that than to have the last report of me be that I died of so insipid and pedestrian a sickness."

Thus he told a very lurid tale of stabbing an art critic— who had given his latest exhibition a very bad review— through the forehead with an oyster fork, outside a Paris restaurant. It was all very garish, overwrought and macabre.

"Much like my work on canvas, according to the blackguard's review," he'd said.

When her father read an account of this deathbed "confession" in the newspaper, he was silently furious, veins bulging from his neck.

Some thought Hugo Ashford was mad, unhinged. Kinder folk called it eccentric. Mary suspected it was much simpler than that. She came to believe that her Uncle Hugo confessed to murder because he thought, in some odd way, that a killer in the family might be less shameful to his brother than the truth of why he was really imprisoned in the first place.

In actual fact, to her deep sadness, he was right. The Ashford pride was so deeply ingrained in her father that his brother's "unnatural love" for another man was far worse than murder.

Her father died not long after Hugo and so, in the space of a few years, she went from being a young debutante with everything in her future— quite content to pass up a French cream pastry, certain there would be many others— to a perennially hungry spinster, struggling to manage her sister.

One by one all the people she loved had left her. Now all she had was Violet. And even Violet wanted to vanish and become 'Violette'.

Perhaps, one of these days, Mary thought morosely, staring at the streaks of muddy puddle water that stained the hem of her skirt, she would be the one who got to escape reality. She could call herself Marietta and take up fortune-telling.

She pressed a hand to her heart and closed her eyes. If only she hadn't laid eyes on Elizabeth Grosvenor Stanbury tonight she would not have been forced to feel all of this misery again. All the loss and the frustration at not being able to stop any of it from happening. Wasted feelings that did nobody any good. Revisiting the past was only for people who liked to dwell on painful memories and wallow in self-pity. How many times had she said that to her sister? She should heed her own damned advice. But the sudden sight of Elizabeth had acted like a door opening on that past, taking her back there.

The last time she saw Elizabeth— before tonight— was the morning of her uncle's confession in the newspaper. Mary, trying to keep up appearances that day, was in Mayfair on her way to visit Raven, when she passed Elizabeth in the street.

No acknowledgement was made on Elizabeth's side, although Mary stopped, prepared to greet her politely. Instead Lady Elizabeth Stanbury passed her without stopping, commenting loudly to her companion, "I'm surprised she can show her face in public. I should have died of shame."

It hadn't helped that the painting above Ransom Deverell's mantle tonight happened to be one of Uncle Hugo's early works, jolting memories of him too. Of happier times, when he laughed a great deal, and used to let her daub paint on an old canvas beside his while he worked. Those were the days when he was funny and light-hearted, before he became louder, angrier and more obstreperous in old age. Before he started telling fanciful tales and believing them.