An Angel for the Earl

by Barbara Metzger

  “What kind of peahen looks for honor in a book?”

  “Perhaps one who hasn’t found it in the gentlemen of her acquaintance. Could you explain it to me?”

  Kerry leaned against a bookcase long since emptied of anything but racing journals and old newspapers. He thought a moment. “Well, a gentleman keeps his word. That’s the most important thing, so you can trust a chap if he makes you a promise. Like an I.O.U. That’s play and pay, debts of honor when you put your name to them. And you can’t cheat, of course.”

  “Is the whole thing concerned with gambling, then? They won’t be happy about that.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course not. There are lots of finer points to it, like always being dressed appropriately to the occasion.”

  Lucinda’s lip curled. “I’m sure they’ll be impressed with that.”

  “And the things fathers teach their sons at an early age: never pick on anyone smaller than you; don’t foul your nest.”

  “Don’t…?”

  Kerry picked a bit of dirt off the sleeve of his coat. “Don’t bring loose women home to your mother. In later years, don’t introduce your wife and your mistress.”

  “My, those are finer points.”

  “Never strike a woman,” he went on with gritted teeth, “no matter the provocation.”

  “That’s it?” Lucinda asked in amazement. “You cannot cheat at cards, but it’s all right if you cheat on your wife as long as you’re dressed correctly and she’s not looking? Oh, and if she complains, you mustn’t hit her. No wonder there are so few of your type in heaven!”

  “That’s not all of it,” he practically shouted. “Ladies must be shown respect at all times, even if they are shrewish, nagging fiends from hell.”

  “Ladies, as opposed to serving girls or opera dancers?”

  “All females deserve a gentleman’s courtesy, some just more than others.”

  “And virgins?” she asked curiously.

  “Virgins are to be avoided like the plague. Their virtue’s such a fragile thing, a gentleman can find himself honor-bound to make an offer if he sneezes in their direction. Like being here alone with you. If you were a real girl, which you’re not, thank goodness, your reputation would be so tarnished after being with a libertine like me, I’d have to marry you. That would be the only honorable thing to do.”

  “Is that why you never married? You never compromised a lady?”

  “I stay out of parson’s mousetrap out of choice, not because I haven’t been forced into it. Blast, you are sounding like my mother. I thought we were talking of honor, not marriage.”

  “Oh, I thought you mentioned something about fathers and sons. I don’t suppose honor has anything to do with carrying on the family lines and all that.”

  Kerry looked away. “A gentleman is expected to perpetuate his name, yes. But not until he’s damned ready!”

  A pencil appeared in Lucy’s hand. She licked the point before setting it to paper. “Now, let me see. You did give your word not to smoke.”

  “We shook hands on it, yes.”

  “And wagering?”

  “I’m not gudgeon enough to bet when I can’t win. It’s only for two weeks or so anyway, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think that’s the spirit of the thing. I’ll mark that one with a question. Drinking?”

  “To excess? I can’t afford to. Besides, I got deathly ill last time.”

  “And you will next time, too.” She left a blank and went on. “Cursing?”

  “Damn—dash it, I’ll try if it will end your nattering on about it.”

  “So I have your word on that?”

  “To try, yes. I can’t swear to minding my tongue every blo—blessed minute, but I’ll try.”

  “And women.” She made a big check next to that entry.

  “Now, hold line, Lucy. You’re the one who laid down the law there. I never promised any such thing. I mean, a female devil breathing smoke down a fellow’s back can put paid to his desire. And if you’re going to pop up anytime I feel randy and find myself a willing partner, well, that can limit my raking, all right. But I ain’t turning monkish for you, by Go—by George. Not you nor the apostles altogether could keep me from lusting after a pretty girl.” He turned away. “It might help if you stopped swinging your legs like that, though.”

  “Oh, dear.” Lucinda stood up and smoothed out her skirts. “It’s hard to remember sometimes. The freedom can be quite intoxicating, it seems. Of course no lady…but then, our particular situation…the familiarity and all. You must admit the circumstance is unique.”

  “To say the least,” he concurred, grinning now at her efforts to look the proper female, when she wore no gloves, had no hairpins to bring order to her tumbled curls, and possessed no fichu to stuff in the low neckline of her gown.

  Lucinda made her hands stop fluttering and simply stood erect, recalling days with a backboard. “So what have you decided to do about the fire damage, my lord?”

  “Actually I was hoping you could wave your magic wand and restore Stanford House to its former glory, from crystal chandeliers to priceless carpets.”

  “I think you are confusing me with a fairy godmother or a genie in a bottle. They don’t exist, you know,” she told him as if imparting a great truth.

  “But angels and devils and miscellaneous in-between sorts do?”

  “Of course. I thought we’d covered all that before. Oh, you were just teasing, weren’t you? No one has ever…Anyway, my assignment is to help make you a better person, not improve your living conditions. So where will you start?”

  The earl ran a hand through his hair. “Hang it, I haven’t the foggiest. I’m tempted to shut the place up and take lodgings. Be cheaper in the long run, rather than sinking everything I own into this barracks. Foolish for just one man. My mother hates London; she’ll never come.”

  “Why don’t you sell it if you care so little?”

  He laughed without humor. “Don’t you think my father would have sold it ages ago if it weren’t part of the entail? Besides, who said I don’t care about the old wreck? I simply cannot afford it. Were I to start restorations, just paying for the materials would strain my finances so that I couldn’t afford a place to sleep in the meantime. I’d be back in the stables. I don’t care what you have to say about mangers and such, I am not spending another night with my horses.”

  “But if Stanford House were in good repair, you could rent it out for the season at some exorbitant fee that would cover the cost of refurbishing the mansion. Grosvenor Square is the prime location to launch debutantes, you know. A few years of that and everything would be paid for.”

  “Fine, and what am I supposed to do during those few years, hire myself as majordomo in my own house?”

  “You could go home.”

  “I am home, or what’s left of it.”

  “The Abbey. Wiltshire. You could leave while repairs are being made here, go see about your estates, make something of them. I know you can if you only try.”

  Kerry looked at her through narrowed eyes. “That’s what you wanted from the first, isn’t it, to get me away from the temptations of the city? You think I’ll turn into a dutiful son if I’m out of the fleshpot, that I’ll take tea with the vicar and his wife, marry some bran-faced squire’s daughter, and raise a parcel of God-fearing, law-abiding, frugal farmers. I begin to think this whole fire business suits you to a cow’s thumb.”

  “I wasn’t the one who fell asleep with a lit cigar in my hand,” she retorted.

  He still looked suspicious, but said, “It makes no never mind. I cannot bring this place up to any kind of standard, and I cannot hope to do anything at all for the Abbey. If you knew anything about mortgages and such, you’d know that every shilling the place earns has to go to the bank just to pay the interest on the loans. I was hoping to put it off for my mother’s lifetime, but sooner or later I am going to have to petition to break the entailment so I can sell the blasted
place, just to meet the obligations.”

  “You’d sell your son’s birthright?”

  “The devil take it, I don’t have any son!”

  “And aren’t likely to at this rate,” she muttered, then: “Hmm. What’s this, do you think?” She was staring at a water-stained picture that had peeled back in its frame.

  “Just one of my father’s hunting prints, nothing even remotely valuable. He cut them out of magazines, just to fill the wall space once the paintings were gone.”

  “No, not the print. The painting under it.”

  Kerry came over. “What painting? Let me see.” He scraped off the rest of the hunting print. “By George, there really is a painting under there. I can see why the governor covered the thing up. Deuced offputting, all that blood and gore.”

  “He seems familiar,” Lucinda said, standing so close to Kerry she could have touched him, if she could have touched him.

  “Who, the poor martyr chap on the cross? Did you ever get to meet…?”

  “No, the artist’s name. Cannoli, is it?”

  Kerry grabbed the picture down off the wall, frame and all, and rushed over to the window. “My God, it is! Lucy, this is the missing masterpiece from the Italian school. Cannoli taught Leonardo! Why, if this is genuine, it’s worth a fortune! My father must have covered it up to hide it from his creditors, then forgot to tell anyone.”

  “Is it part of the entailment?” Lucinda called to him as he raced around the room, ripping scenes of horses and hounds out of frames. He brought two more oil paintings over to the window, though neither was as distinguished as the Cannoli.

  “None of the furnishings were ever mentioned in the legal papers; that’s how my father managed to dispose of so many antiques. I wonder why he kept these.”

  “For you, I suppose.”

  “Lucy, do you know what this means? I’ll have to have them appraised, of course, but, my word, the missing masterpiece! Lucy, I could kiss you!”

  And he forgot that there really wasn’t any body there, and did. And felt something. It wasn’t flesh and blood, but it was warm and it sent shivers through him. Lucy must have felt something, too, for she blushed like any pure maiden. Then she disappeared, like any phantasm.

  Chapter Nine

  The solicitor was nearly as excited as the earl. “My lord, I cannot tell you how pleased I am. Why, the firm of Stenross and Stenross has been serving the Somerfields since our inception. I cannot express my sorrow over the recent situation. You have received my communications, haven’t you?”

  Kerry studied his fingernails.

  “About the bank and the Abbey home woods? How they are demanding the trees be cut down and sold to pay something toward the debts? The wood being the last unentailed asset, they are growing quite insistent.”

  The deer and the quail, the yule logs and the tree houses—the debts. “That will no longer be necessary.”

  “Indeed, indeed.” The elderly man polished his spectacles. “The paintings will have to be authenticated, of course, but I believe we might expect in excess of five thousand pounds. I think I have a buyer for the Cannoli among my own clients, a very well-respected collector, don’t you know, so we might avoid public auction and all the notoriety that entails.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of everything, Mr. Stenross. I have always found your company to be most efficient and discreet.”

  The solicitor preened. “Too kind, my lord. The profit from the sale of the Cannoli is to satisfy some of the outstanding interest on the Abbey mortgage, then?” If Mr. Stenross sounded hesitant, he was all too aware of the Stanford flaw, a fatal tendency to gamble away any income.

  “Yes, and this other piece”—another massacred saint, this one sprouting arrows like a hedgehog—“should bring in enough to complete the repairs to the Grosvenor Square house. I’ll leave it with you, if you don’t mind, along with what funds I can spare now, and ask you to look over the bills as they come due.”

  Mr. Stenross rubbed his hands. “Of course, of course, my lord. I can have my son oversee the whole project if you wish. He gets restless in these stuffy offices, don’t you know.”

  “That will be excellent. Thank you again.”

  “We are always happy to serve.” Especially when the serving involved saving one of the noble houses, both the structure and the succession. Mr. Stenross was one of those who still believed that the aristocracy was one of England’s treasures, to be preserved for future generations like any other decrepit landmark. “And the third painting, my lord? I do not recognize the name, but the style is very popular right now. It should bring in enough to make some of those needful repairs at the Abbey.” He was hopeful; things had been going so well, the earl being so reasonable, so responsible, so unlike himself.

  His lordship shook his head.

  “Then may I suggest the Consols?” Stenross put forward. “A bit of steady income here and there never comes amiss.” That was optimism indeed.

  The earl was still studying the third picture. A saint—he had a gold halo—was on the ground amid some shrubbery and flowers. He was asleep this time, Kerry thought, for there was no blood, and the figure wore a contented smile. A cherub with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls floated overhead, like a guardian angel watching out for bandits or wolves or Romans. Something about the cherub reminded the earl of Lucy; perhaps it was the innocence around the eyes. “No,” he heard himself saying, “I do not want to put this one on the block unless I have to. Lock it away somewhere, will you, until Stanford House is ready for it. If it’s possible, I’d like to save this one…for my son.” There, that should at least earn Lucy a hairpin. He felt good, until the other man started beaming.

  “Oh, my lord, that’s the finest news I could have heard. I never believed—that is, let me extend my heartiest congratulations and wish you every—”

  “Not yet, Stenross,” the earl interrupted the other’s effusions. “I meant someday. And if I find myself up the River Tick before then, well, the painting will have to go. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, of course, but let us pray for the best, shall we? Now, my lord, where might I send information regarding the sale of the other two, and questions that might arise about the work at Stanford House? Have you found lodgings yet, or shall you be staying with friends?”

  The earl cleared his throat. “You may, ah, send all communications to me at Stanford Abbey, Wiltshire. I’ll stop there awhile and look into the mess. Only for the duration of the hammering and painting in Grosvenor Square, you understand.”

  Not only did Lucy appear with her hair tamed from its wanton look—to the earl’s mixed feelings—but now she had a bonnet. A tiny, saucy hat with a cherry bow at her cheek, it was just the thing for a curricle ride out of town.

  “And you won’t be cold? I could have bricks…” She just laughed.

  The earl had spent a busy morning after conferring with Mr. Stenross’s son about the repairs. He hired the contracting firm young Mr. Stenross had recommended, and called at one or two furniture warehouses. He visited his tailor, who welcomed him with delight, having received payment in full just the day before. Stanford was promised at least three sets of clothes, for evening, riding, and daytime, within the week. He also purchased ready-made shirts for the first time in his life, and a supply of cravats, handkerchiefs, and smallclothes. Locke luckily had a beaver hat that suited him, and the glovers had two pairs that fit almost perfectly. Demby would just have to do his best with the earl’s sooty shoes and boots; there wasn’t time to be fitted for new ones.

  Demby would follow later in a hired carriage with the new clothes and whatever was reclaimable of the earl’s smoke-permeated wardrobe; Kerry was eager to be off, now that he had made the decision.

  He planned to make the trip in easy stages, not caring to leave his champion matched bays in indifferent hands, not wanting to arrive with job horses.

  Lucy joined him outside of London, after the bays had run the fidgets out. Thank goodness, for t
he earl’s hands jerked at the reins when she suddenly appeared by his side on the curricle’s narrow seat. After bringing the high-bred cattle back under control, Kerry was able to appreciate his companion’s glowing smile. This wasn’t such a bad idea after all, stopping in at the Abbey, if it ended all that nagging and brought the chit so much pleasure. He supposed he’d wake up from this bizarre dream someday, but for now he could just enjoy her excitement.

  “You see, I’ve never driven in a curricle before. How I used to envy those lucky girls out for rides with their dashing beaus, to be sitting so high and going so fast. And the fortunate men, to have control of such exquisite horses. None were as fine as yours, of course.”

  For a moment Kerry was tempted to offer her the reins, which was astounding since he had never let a female touch the ribbons of his carriage yet. What was even more astounding was that he forgot she wasn’t really there. She was in Derby, waiting for Gabriel to blow his horn. He shook his head.

  “You didn’t have any beaus to take you driving? I cannot believe all the men of Derby are want-wits.”

  She giggled. “Oh, I do not believe I was very attractive to the gentlemen, being plump and pale and dowdy. But that wouldn’t have mattered. Papa did not believe in fast horses, you see, or in dashing young men. He thought they were all fortune hunters. He also believed that fancy dresses and jewels encouraged a miss to put on airs, and that dancing encouraged young people in licentiousness. So I was never permitted to attend the local assemblies and such, where I could have met those whips.”

  “Deuce take it, no wonder you ran off with a loose screw like Anders.”

  “I do hope I would have made a wiser choice had I more experience, but I think I would have run away with anyone, rather than marry Lord Halbersham. He was old and mean, with hair in his nose, and had buried three wives before.”

  “Good grief, why would your father accept his offer? You were—you are—young enough to wait for others. And with a decent dowry, even plain girls find better partis than that.”