Carla Kelly by Reforming Lord Ragsdale

eats in my office, I do.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Do ye know, I was cited by the Lord Mayor himself last year. He called me a model of efficiency, he did.”
    “I am sure you are,” Lord Ragsdale murmured, shaking his head when the governor offered him a chair. “We won't disturb you much longer. Show us to David Breedlow, please.”
    The governor looked longingly at the mutton again and then laughed. “I'll have to find the bleeder first, won't I?”
    “I'm sure he can't have gone far,” Lord Ragsdale said, more to Emma than to the governor, who busied himself with a row of books that looked old enough to have been in William the Conqueror's library, if that notable had been literate. He opened the newest-looking ledger on the row and thumbed through it, muttering, “Breed-low, Breedlow.”
    In another moment he stuck his head out into the antechamber and called to the porter. They conversed a moment while Emma stayed close to Lord Ragsdale, who was looking about him in real distaste. Finally, the governor turned back to them, bowed to the marquess, and indicated the door again.
    “Follow this bloke. He'll have Breedlow taken to an assembly room.”
    “Come, Emma,” Lord Ragsdale said. “Let's see what delights this charming place has for us.”
    The governor laughed out loud and then winked at the marquess. “Come back anytime, my lord, anytime.”
    “Not if I can possibly help it,” Lord Ragsdale replied as they followed the porter down a narrow hallway, lit, almost as an afterthought it seemed, by candles here and there. “Emma, what did I do to deserve this?”
    She thought a moment and then smiled in spite of herself as she hurried to keep up. “Well, you will own, my lord, that you have probably not thought about a drink lately.”
    He laughed out loud, and the porter stopped and looked back, startled. The marquess only gazed at him serenely. “That was laughter—a natural eruption of good humor that occurs when people are amused. Do lead on, man. If we stand here much longer, we will use up all the air in this part of this fine old institution, I am sure.”
    They continued deeper into the building, winding around in narrow passages that made Emma pray that the porter would not abandon them. We would never find our way out , she thought. They passed several gang cells, filled to bursting with men and women jumbled in together. Somewhere she heard a child cry, and her heart sank. She must have sucked in her breath or said something, because the marquess reached behind him and took hold of her hand. She clung to it gratefully.
    They stopped finally before another oak door bound with iron, one of many they had passed through. For all I know, we are back at the entrance , Emma thought, her sense of direction confused by the gloom and the halls. The porter selected a key from the many that dangled at his waist and opened the door.
    “In here,” he said as he swung the door wider. “Breedlow, you have visitors.”
    Emma squinted in the gloom as she looked around. There were several other women there, sitting on benches facing a row of prisoners who were chained to the wall by one hand. Most of the men sat on the straw-covered floor, their one chained arm raised over their head as though they had a question.
    “That's Breedlow, my lord, standing there on the end.”
    “I know him,” the marquess said.
    Emma looked at Lord Ragsdale, surprised at the uncertainty in his voice. She glanced at Breedlow, rail thin and pale as parchment, who gradually sank to the floor as though he had not strength to remain upright. His eyes were on the marquess, and in another instant, he started to sob.
    The suddenness of the sound stopped all the low-voiced conversations in the assembly room for a moment. When Breedlow continued to cry, the talking began again, like water washing around a boulder in a stream. All this misery, and no one has any pity , Emma thought to herself as she watched Lord Ragsdale's