An Angel for the Earl
Page 3
* * *
Manton’s shooting gallery was thin of custom so early in the morning, but there were enough sportsmen practicing their aim to offer a bit of competition.
“Shall we make a little wager on the results, gentlemen?” The earl was priming his father’s silver-sided pistols.
“With what, Stanford? I’m still waiting on that monkey you owe me from last week at Crockford’s.” Lord Thurston curled his lip.
“The end of the month, dear fellow, the end of the month. No, I meant a friendly little bet, just to keep the practice session interesting. I say, that’s a pretty little trinket you have in your neckcloth. Not an heirloom or anything, is it? No? Then care to chance it against my diamond?”
The earl couldn’t lose, not today, not with his father’s perfectly balanced pistols, a clear eye, and that lucky gold piece in his pocket. Soon he had a collection of stickpins, snuffboxes, and silver shoe buckles, a magpie’s horde indeed. Kerry whistled all the way to Reyerson’s, one of the lesser Bond Street jewelers.
* * *
Lucinda, meanwhile, was at the lending library doing research. Two matrons vowed to take their trade elsewhere, and one purple-turbaned dowager had to have feathers burnt under her nose, so bad was the smell. A rat must have died in the wainscoting, one of the harried clerks suggested as he reshelved books no one admitted to taking down. Paradise Lost and Dante’s Inferno were not the usual fare for the ladies who came to Hookham’s for the latest Minerva Press offerings.
* * *
Reyerson’s was not as distinguished as Rundell and Bridges, but it was more discreet, catering to the bucks and bloods of the ton, rather than the beaus. The losers at Manton’s would know where to go if they wished to ransom their trifles; that was the accepted thing, and Reyerson was accommodating. A fellow didn’t run so much a chance of meeting his mother’s correspondents while he redeemed his watch there, either.
Kerry had his watch, his diamond stickpin, and a purse that jingled cheerfully when he turned to leave the premises.
“By Jupiter, it’s Stanford! Just the chap I was hoping to see!”
“You were? That is, delighted to see you, too, Fortnam. Been out of town, have you?” The earl’s mind worked frantically, trying to recall his old friend’s name on any of the betting slips he owed. “The end of the month—”
“Just in town for a day or two, don’t you know, never believed I’d run into you like this. Congratulate me, man, I’m married.”
Fortnam could have demanded the deed to Stanford Abbey and Kerry would have been less surprised. “Leg-shackled, you? I never thought I’d see the day!”
“Yes, I know, more’s the pity. I can’t believe I waited so long. Kerry, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
They shook hands again. “Thrilled for you, Fortnam. Who’s the lucky lady? Do I know her?”
“No, and you never shall if I have my way, not with your reputation with married women. She’s from the provinces, never even had a come-out, never wants one, she says.”
“A gem beyond price.” The earl stared pointedly at the gaudy bracelet in his friend’s hand. Fortnam’s ruddy cheeks got redder.
“Not at all the thing for Frederica, of course. It’s a parting gift for Mimi.”
“What, never say you are giving up the delightful Mimi, and for a mere wife?”
Fortnam laughed. “Just you wait, my boy. It’ll happen to you someday. But that reminds me why I was so glad to see you. Here.” And he took out his checkbook and wrote a draft on his bank for a hundred pounds. “Remember that old wager we had over who would turn benedict first? I’m more than happy to pay up. No, don’t argue. I know you’re going to say to keep the money for a wedding gift, but I really want to settle up the best bet I ever lost.”
Kerry was just staring at the note in his hand. A hundred pounds? “I don’t know what to say. I—”
“That’s all right, Stanford, I know you can’t believe it’s me touting parson’s mousetrap, but you really ought to try it. Of course, my Frederica is divine. You ought to find an angel for yourself, man.”
A hundred pounds? “I believe I may have met one just last night.”
* * *
The stickpin money went to purchasing a pretty tea service for the newlyweds; half the hundred pounds went to Demby, for safekeeping.
“And I don’t care what the blasted chimney sweep said, something’s wrong with this fireplace that’s stinking up the room. Call in another if you have to.”
When he shut the window—demned waste, letting his coal heat all of London—that woman was there again. Her gown didn’t seem quite as sheer, or quite so skimpy. Perhaps it was a trick of the daylight, for she certainly hadn’t lost any of her allure. “My, you are persistent,” he said, thinking of the fifty pounds in his pocket. He really needed it for the card game later, but…“What is the price, anyway?”
“To keep your soul from eternal damnation? They wouldn’t give me specifics, so I’ve been trying to find out.”
Kerry ran his fingers through his carefully arranged brown curls. “Persistence be damned. Not that moralizing tripe again, I pray you. Just name a figure.”
“It’s too bad you are not a Papist,” Lucinda went on as if he had not spoken. “You could simply confess your sins, sincerely repenting them, of course, and be spared the hellfires.”
The earl lit a cigarillo, a sure sign of his frustration, that he might smoke in front of a lady—no, a female, even—without asking permission. “Ma’am, you are sin personified, and I confess I am already burning for you. The only thing I might repent beyond the cost is having to listen to any more of this claptrap. Sincerely.”
Lucinda stamped her foot. “Oh, how am I going to make you pay attention?”
Kerry inhaled deeply on the cigarillo. “I assure you, chérie, you have my complete and total attention.” Then he watched as the lightskirt bit her lip in concentration, muttering words he thought sounded like rattle-pated rake and bone-headed bounder. This dasher was certainly adding new dimensions to the oldest profession.
He exhaled in a perfect ring. Lucinda’s scowl turned into a smile as she waved her arm through the smoke without disturbing the circle. Kerry blinked. “Excellent, ma’am, although I did have more in mind than parlor tricks.”
“Oh, you must have buckram wadding where your brain is supposed to be! I know, touch me.”
“At last.”
Now, a gentleman would have reached out in a gentle caress along her cheek, or a soft stroke on her bare upper arm. Stanford was well past the stage for gallantry. He reached to wrap his hand around one of those enticingly round, milk-white globes that were barely concealed by the bodice of her gown. And touched nothing. His fingers tingled, but there was nothing in them. Nothing.
Lucinda gasped and swung her arm back. Kerry didn’t duck; he knew he deserved the slap. Her hand came around and he felt the air whoosh by, and that same tingle, but no contact. Nothing. Silently Kerry reached out again, this time gingerly, respectfully. He tried to touch her arm, tried to feel one of those silky red curls, even the fabric of her gown. Lucinda let him, standing still, and even reached toward him, as if to smooth away the frown lines between Kerry’s eyes. The hair on the back of his neck rose, the way it did when he was out in a lightning storm, then he felt light-headed, as if he were about to faint. He sat down in a hurry.
“My God, I didn’t know my imagination was that good!” was all he could say when he could speak again.
Lucinda nearly ground her teeth in aggravation. “It’s not, you clunch. I am not a product of your muddled mind, not even a night dream. I found the diamond stickpin for you, remember?”
“Then you’re a…ghost?”
“I told you, I’m not dead yet. I’m just between positions right now, somewhat like an unemployed governess.”
“Not an angel?”
“And never like to be if you don’t show a little more cooperation, my lord.”
Kerry got up and poured himself a brandy. His hands were shaking worse than Demby’s. Still, he managed to get most of the liquid down his throat before sinking back into his chair at the desk. Lucinda was sitting atop the cherrywood surface, swinging her bare feet.
“So you’re a minion of the devil,” he asked, “here to save my soul? I thought it was the other way round.”
“Heaven knows the devil doesn’t need any more souls. And I am not quite consigned to hell yet either, so they gave me the opportunity to save both of us.”
“Uh, are you so sure I’m destined for Hades?”
“My lord, do lust, gluttony, vanity, and sloth mean anything to you?”
“I think you have just described the Prince Regent.”
“Gambling? Gossiping?”
He was glad he’d thought to bring the bottle with him so he didn’t have to get up again. He didn’t bother pouring into a glass either. “And every other gentleman of fashion in London. It’s not so bad.”
“It’s not so good. Can’t you see, the tonnish life is leading you to perdition.”
“Dash it, if I’m so wicked, then why did they even bother sending you? Assuming, of course, that any of this is real.”
“They sent me because they thought there might be hope for you. Someone spoke on your behalf.”
“Must be Uncle Nigel. He speaks to everyone. Well, I hope you can help with this mess.” His hand indicated the bills and such still in neat piles on the desk in front of him.
“That’s nothing compared to the mess your immortal soul is in.”
The drink was taking effect. The earl flashed Lucinda a sweet smile. “Then one more sin won’t matter. What did you say your name was?”
She sat up straighter and stopped swinging her legs. “Miss Lucinda Faire, my lord.”
“I’ll never accept you as a prim and proper Miss Lucinda Faire. Why, if St. Peter ever got a glimpse of those ankles, he’d never let you out of the Pearly Gates.”
Lucinda thought she blushed, but without a mirror, of course, she couldn’t be sure. “I have already been taken in by two silver-tongued devils: the one who got me into this fix in the first place, and the one who set me the impossible task of reforming a confirmed hellraker. So don’t waste the effort of turning me up sweet, my lord. You may call me Lucinda, Lord Stanford, since we are to be such close companions.”
“And I am Kerry to my friends and fellow fiends, Lucinda. No, Lucy, that’s better. Ah, Lucy Faire, how clever. Let’s have another drink to toast the partnership.”
* * *
“Demby, do you believe in ghosts? Angels, devils, any of those spirit things?”
The earl’s loyal servant removed the decanter from Lord Stanford’s limp fingers without spilling more than a drop, so low was the level of brandy remaining. “No, my lord,” Demby grumbled on his way to fetch a pot of coffee, “but I do believe in the demon in the bottle.”
Chapter Four
“I’ll never touch another drop of liquor,” Kerry swore, clutching his throbbing temples. Demby’s hands, all four of them, were shaking worse than usual as he held out a tray with some noxious brew guaranteed to cure the earl, if it didn’t kill him first. The motion of the tray was making Kerry seasick, and the rattling of the cup was hammering stakes through his eyeballs. “God, I need a drink,” he groaned.
“No, my lord, you need a clear head for tonight. Remember?”
His lordship couldn’t remember his name right then, only a recurring nightmare about the most beautiful woman who never existed. He shook his head, a definite mistake. When the walls stopped revolving, he grabbed for the cup before Demby sloshed the entire contents onto the carpet. “Tonight. Right, the game. I still have fifty pounds, don’t I? And my lucky gold piece? Don’t worry, Demby, we’ll come around.”
“We’d better, my lord.”
* * *
A few recuperative hours later, Lord Stanford was on his way to hell. Gillespie’s gaming hell, to be exact. He eschewed Whites and his other clubs, where too many members held his vouchers, and the exclusive gambling dens where the stakes were too high for his present circumstances. Gillespie’s was perfect: respectable enough that he’d find enough gentlemen mixed in with the cardsharps and ivory-tuners, not so refined that every player was already a creditor.
The rooms were dingy, dark, and overheated. The smell of stale wine and stale bodies hung over the tables, mingling with clouds of smoke. Fevered eyes and feral smiles greeted the earl as he passed by the roulette wheels, the dicing tables. He wouldn’t want to spend eternity here, Kerry thought with a grin, but for tonight Gillespie’s was ideal.
He played at vingt-et-un for half an hour or so, winning some, losing less. He did better at the hazard table, steadily increasing his rolls of house markers, wagering conservatively, and moving on as soon as his luck shifted. The roulette tables never interested him before, but this evening he placed a rouleau on red. And won, doubling his bet. He left both wager and winnings on red, and won again. And a third time.
The other gamesters were quiet, waiting to see what he did. The croupier was watching with raised eyebrows. Kerry started to move his stacks of markers over to the black box, when he chanced to look up. “Lucy?”
“Milord?” the dealer was ready to spin. Lucy was shaking her head. He left the chips where they were.
“Lucky, I meant to say. Red has been lucky for me.”
“Number twenty-seven, odd, red.”
Dazed, Lord Stanford gathered his considerable take onto a tray a waiter provided and followed Lucy into the shadows. She was in that same carmine gown that could have been painted on her. For some reason he found himself standing in front of her, shielding the view from the sight of the hardened libertines at the tables.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
“You could at least mind your tongue in front of a lady,” she replied, not even looking at him but gazing over his shoulder around the room in wide-eyed innocence.
“This is no place for a lady!”
“Nor a gentleman with hopes of salvation,” she reminded him.
“My only hope is to win a fortune, which I cannot do with you here to distract me.”
“Are they really enjoying themselves?” She waved one hand at the scowling gamblers hunched over the hazard table. Kerry refused to see that her hand passed through his shoulder, leaving a slight vibration.
“Yes, and I would be, too, if you’d just go spread the gospel to some other poor soul.” He turned his back and purposefully strode into Gillespie’s second parlor, where smaller groups of men were gathered at card tables. Kerry sat at the faro table, determined to ignore what he didn’t like. His concentration was off though, and he lost. Faro was too much a game of chance anyway. He stood and looked around and, right on time, spotted Lord Malverne, his quarry.
Malverne was well-to-pass, a heavy gambler, and none too needle-witted, by all accounts, although he won with enough frequency to keep him coming back. Sitting with him were two younger men, green but eager to lose the tidy bundles in front of them. No need to worry about taking vowels at this table. Kerry asked if he could sit in, and the youngest of the players, Wilson-Todd’s cub, Kerry thought, nodded eagerly.
The other youngster dropped out shortly, the stakes quickly growing too high for his resources, and his seat was taken by a cit with mended cuffs. He did not last long, nor the sideburned lieutenant who went down heavily for three hands, nor the grinning sot who wagered his whole roll on one hand, and lost. Young Wilson-Todd, Chas he called himself, was holding his own, while Kerry and Malverne were steady winners. Bystanders started to gather in a circle around the table, making side bets, some of which Kerry covered, extending his own winnings.
At a pause for a new player to take his seat and a fresh deck to be opened, Kerry took a sip of the excellent sherry at his elbow. He choked on it. Across from him, right behind Malverne, stood the flame-haired Lucy.
The tulip about to take up his hand rose in his seat. “I say, if you feel that way—”
“I told you, women do not belong here!”
The foppish gentleman in his yellow cossack trousers started to sputter. “I say, are you insultin’ my manhood, sir?”
Kerry noticed him for the first time. “Who in tarnation is talking to you? Sit down and mind your own business!”
The dandy gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing, but he stayed in his seat as directed. Malverne looked to Wilson-Todd, shrugged, and commenced the deal.
No one was staring at Lucy. Kerry couldn’t believe it. He watched all the faces, those checking their cards, those making bets behind the chairs. Not a single slobbering smile was fixed on her half-naked chest, not one ogling eyeball was admiring her silk-draped legs.
“Your bet, Stanford.”
They didn’t see her, ergo she didn’t exist. Kerry dragged his eyes away from the creamy white skin of her shoulders and concentrated on his cards. He didn’t see her, therefore she didn’t exist. Then why was the tobacco smoke taking on a burning pitch odor?
He lost that hand badly, and the next, trying not to consider the odds of red coming up four times in a row on a roulette wheel. Tarnation, he had to get himself in hand. He couldn’t afford to lose from lack of concentration. By all that was holy, he couldn’t afford to lose, period.
The next rounds went better as the deal progressed around the table, other players taking hands in the game, the bets getting larger, the pots in the center growing. Chatter died down as the ante rose. Wilson-Todd mopped the sweat beading on his forehead, another chap turned his jacket inside out for better luck, and a third player believed that serious gaming demanded serious drinking. He was seeking inspiration in a bottle of Blue Ruin. Malverne kept fussing with the lace at his collar, nervously picking at the picot at his shirtsleeves. ’Twas his deal and his call. “Match.”