An Angel for the Earl

by Barbara Metzger

  “His title was higher than ours.”

  “Begging your pardon, but your father sounds a curst rum touch.”

  “Oh, no, he is a good man. Everyone says so. He supports the local foundling hospital and gives money to the church for new pews. His tenants are treated fairly and the servants always have enough to eat. Father is a great believer in noblesse oblige, the responsibilities of the privileged class to look after those who depend on them.”

  “I have heard the term, ma’am,” Kerry said with a distinct chill in his voice.

  “Oh? Then of course you have schools for your tenants’ children. My father did not believe in education for the lower orders; no matter how I tried to convince him otherwise, he held that it gave them ideas above their station.”

  The horses suddenly pulled at their bits. Kerry forced himself to relax. “Demmed cow-handed driving,” he muttered. “That’s what comes of having a woman aboard.” When the horses were in stride again, he continued: “My tenants are in the care of my bailiff, Wilmott. I am sure he sees to their needs.”

  “Then I am sure there is a school. And a doctor, of course.”

  “Wilmott manages as he sees fit. Competent fellow, been with me for years.”

  “If he is so competent, how come your rents have been declining for those same years and tenants keep moving on?”

  “Damn—dash it, the whole nation’s been in a decline, haven’t you heard? It’s not my fault farm prices are down. And I don’t have the funds to do anything about the other stuff, roofs and floods and outdated equipment. You’ve seen the way I live. Hell, my tenants are most likely living better than I do.”

  “Then I take it there is no school,” Lucinda commented softly, which was the last conversation for a while.

  Late in the afternoon, when Kerry was thinking of seeking accommodations for the night, Lucinda told him to take a farm track off to the right.

  “What, is there an inn there? I prefer one on the main road that’s more used to dealing with fine horseflesh.”

  “Just turn here, do.”

  “Oh, you need to use the necessary. Why didn’t you say so? I could have pulled over anytime these last miles. Strange, I wouldn’t have thought a ghost or whatever would have to—”

  “Just drive!” she ordered, blushing furiously.

  He turned, but kept teasing. “After all, you don’t eat or drink, do you?”

  She wasn’t listening. That is, she was listening, but not to him. Then he could hear the noise, too, screams coming from a short distance away.

  “What…?”

  Lucy told him to keep going; the shouting sounded closer. He pulled the horses to a walk, and felt for the pistol in his pocket. When they rounded a bend in the narrow road he could see a group of boys gathered around a smallish pond. The place looked to be the perfect swimming hole—if it were summer and if the boys knew how to swim. Apparently they didn’t, for they were shouting on the bank while one of their number bobbed up and down in the water.

  “Hell and damnation!” Kerry swore while Lucy urged him to hurry. He jumped out of the curricle, leaving the bays to stand alone—thank goodness they were tired—and ran toward the scene. The boys on land fled into the surrounding woods, likely afraid of being caught playing too near the water, Kerry supposed. The figure in the pond was barely struggling. “Hang on,” the earl shouted, looking for a long branch or something to hold out to the boy.

  “You’ll have to go in after him,” Lucy yelled.

  “Dammit, you’re the supernatural one of us,” Kerry yelled back, throwing his greatcoat to the ground, “why can’t you part the waters or something?”

  He jumped in, boots and all, and swam the short distance to the center of the pond. He couldn’t see the child anywhere.

  “He’s gone down, just ahead of you,” Lucy called from shore.

  The earl dove, came up for air, and dove again. This time his hands touched something, so he hung on and kicked upward. He got to the surface, raised the dead weight in his arms, and started to turn the air blue with his curses.

  “You promised!” Lucy screamed, holding her hands over her ears.

  “It’s a bloody dog!” Kerry roared back. “I ruined my only set of clothes and my Hessians for a dog!” And he prepared to throw the animal back into the depths.

  Lucy shrieked, “Don’t! It’s one of God’s creatures, you heartless libertine!”

  Kerry was already wet, and he already had the animal in his arms, so he swam closer to the bank and then waded ashore, dropping the small hound-mix at Lucy’s feet. “Here.” He even untied the rock from around the pup’s neck before returning to the curricle to check on his bays and dry himself off with the lap robe. He was pulling on one of the new ready-made shirts from his valise, when Lucy called to him.

  “Kerry, he’s not breathing!” Her eyes were huge, imploring.

  “That’s your department, angel. I did what I could.”

  “Kerry, please.” A tear was starting to trickle down one cheek, leaving a path through the rouge.

  “What do you expect me to—Oh, no, not the kiss-of-life bit again. Demby was bad enough, Lucy, but a dog? Never!”

  The dog was whiskery and wet and smelled of swamp. Worse, when Kerry was done, the mutt crawled over and licked Lucy’s hand.

  “Of all the ungrateful—How come he can see you and no one else can?”

  “He can see me only now, while he’s so close to death. He’ll forget in a minute and won’t notice me at all.”

  Sure enough, the dog, no more than a puppy really, soon whimpered to Kerry, wagging his tail.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” the earl commanded. “You go find a softer touch. Go on home now, sir.”

  “He hasn’t got a home. He’s been living in the woods, close to starvation. If he goes near that farm again, those boys will only try to drown him again, or the farmer will shoot him for bothering the chickens.”

  “Damn and blast, woman, what do you expect me to do about it?”

  So the dog sat between them on the curricle’s seat while the earl carefully backed the horses and returned them to the main road.

  “He’s cold.”

  Kerry looked down, and the dog was indeed shivering. “With all the heat at your command, can’t you…? No, I suppose not. That would be too easy.” Soon the puppy was nestled next to the earl’s second-to-last clean shirt, buttoned under his greatcoat. No respectable hostelry would take him in like this, the earl considered, so he’d be bedding down in a stable somewhere with his horses after all. But the rouge was gone entirely from Lucy’s creamy cheeks, and her lips were now a natural pink color, spread in a happy grin. Kerry felt warm, despite the weather, his wet boots, and the damp dog.

  “And it’s only a few days until Demby gets here with the rest of my things anyway,” the earl conceded.

  “Demby’s not coming, my lord. He’ll send your clothes and belongings when he gets a chance, I suppose.”

  “Not coming? What gammon is this? Of course Demby is coming.”

  Lucy bit her lip. “Uh, remember that lottery ticket you gave him?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Just look at you! Is this any way to enter a lady’s drawing room? And without telling us you were coming!”

  “Hello, Mother. I am delighted to see you, too,” Kerry said, lightly kissing the powdered cheek Lady Margaret Stanford reluctantly offered.

  Her nose wrinkled. “What’s that odor? And what is that creature with you?”

  “It’s my new valet. Shall we set a style, do you think? His name is Lucky.”

  “Oh, you’re still a tease.” Aunt Clara chuckled, opening her arms for a hug, then thinking better of it. She shrugged and permitted the embrace, so she could whisper in his ear: “Nigel says you’ll need your sense of humor around this place.”

  “I see that everything is the same here.” The same overheated drawing room, the same caustic tongue, and the same superfluity of servants, with one coming to ta
ke the dog to the kitchen, one to fetch tea, one to notify the housekeeper to see to the master’s bedroom. Even the same Aunt Clara, still all draped in mourning crepe for Uncle Nigel after twenty years.

  “Nothing is the same, which you would know if you read my letters,” the dowager Lady Stanford announced. “We have had to close the east wing due to dampness, cancel the annual open house because the grounds are in such deplorable condition, and I am ashamed to show my face in church after the vicar was nearly killed by a falling roof tile. I have been suffering from an agitation of the nerves for weeks now.”

  Kerry was suffering from days in an open carriage, nights in various barns, and an incipient head cold. He spoke a little more sharply than he intended: “It’s a wonder you don’t choose to reside in the dower house, then, if this one distresses you so.”

  “What, that pawky place? I could hardly entertain. Besides, think of the expense of operating two houses.”

  Kerry thought of his mother supporting herself on her own widow’s pension and leaving this pile with a mere caretaking staff. Talk of pipe dreams! The only abode suitable for the Countess of Stanford, according to the Countess of Stanford, was Stanford Abbey, every moldy corner of it. Then again, if the dowager chose to use her annuity to keep the Abbey in appearances, how could he argue? Of course, he hadn’t seen much evidence of her contributions. The drive was so pitted he had to get down and lead his pair through the ruts, for fear of damaging the curricle’s wheels. His first view of the Abbey itself, with its hodgepodge of styles and additions, also showed boarded windows, ropes across areas presumably in danger from flying tiles, and shrubbery gone wild. Doors were hanging loose on the stable, and the large indoor staff was in shabby livery.

  “Everything will be fine now that you are home, Kieren. We shall open the ballroom and the conservatory, of course. Rehire the gardeners, order new draperies for the public rooms, and—”

  “Hold, Mother. If you wish to apply your widow’s pension to the improvements, I’ll be forever in your debt, for I haven’t resources for any of those things.”

  Lady Stanford did not offer a penny more of her substantial income. “Of course you do. We heard all about your winning at the races.”

  Kerry wondered how they could have heard so quickly. He glanced at Aunt Clara’s nodding gray head. Did she really hear from Uncle Nigel? He’d have to ask Lucy about that.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mother, but I had some necessary expenses of my own. And you cannot have heard of the fire at Stanford House.” Or the paintings, he hoped. “My finances are already strained.”

  “Then why did you come home?” his loving mother asked ungraciously. “I’m already at the edge of ruin, trying to hold house for you while you live the high life in London.”

  Where Kerry wished he’d stayed. “I know, Mother, and I truly appreciate your generosity. I fully intend to repay you, though I cannot see how at this moment. I came as you requested, to see if there is anything to be done to make the properties more profitable.”

  “I am sure Wilmott is wringing every shilling out of the place already,” Lady Stanford told him angrily.

  “Nigel says he’s cheating you, Kerry,” Aunt Clara put in, earning her a scowl from the dowager.

  “That’s neither here nor there, Kieren. You’ll not make a go of farming. Your father never managed to. You’ll just have to marry a rich female. Even your father managed that.” She spoke with more than her usual degree of bitterness, then cracked her lined face into a smile. “At least you’re better favored than the old windbag was. The local girls will be tripping over themselves for an introduction. Naturally I’ll make sure you meet only the ones with generous portions. With your looks and the title and my careful attention to those details of dowries, we’ll have Stanford Abbey in prime twig in no time.”

  “Mother, I have no inten—” Kerry began to object.

  “Don’t think I mean to hang on your coattails either. When I know you are secure, and my accounts have been settled, I’ll take a little place in Bath. After a year or two, of course. Your new countess will need me here to show her how to go on before that.”

  “Mother—”

  “Now, let me see, there’s Westcott’s girl. They were hoping to bring that duke up to scratch, but nothing came of it. And Lady Prudlow’s granddaughters will be visiting her for the holidays. We’ll have to hold a ball, I think. Yes, that should do it, rather than waiting for invitations.” Suddenly the dowager’s lined face crumpled in mid-strategy. “My jewels! How can I entertain all those well-dowered females without my jewels? I’ll look no-account to Lady Prudlow and that shrewish Isabella Westcott. Oh, how can I ever show my face in the neighborhood without a tiara?” she sobbed.

  Clara shook her head but went for the vinaigrette. Kerry took his mother’s hand—ringless, he noted with remorse—and swore to make things right. He very carefully did not swear to marry an heiress, but he did vow to do his utmost to recover the jewels his mother had so selflessly sacrificed on his behalf. “Right after dinner I’ll start going over Wilmott’s books and see—”

  “Dinner!” the dowager shrieked. “We’re having company for dinner. Look at the time, and I’m not dressed. You must be tired from your journey, Kieren, so I’ll have the housekeeper send a tray to your room.”

  Aunt Clara loudly whispered, “Goldy Flint is coming, the smuggler. I told you so.”

  “Mr. Gideon Flint is a retired wine merchant, I’ll have you know. But if you do not wish to sit to table with us tonight, I shall make your excuses. No place has been laid for you anyway,” she sniped, “since you did not see fit to notify us of your visit.”

  “I am sure a place can be laid for the head of the household, Mother. I’ll leave you to dress, then, and see what I can do about repairing my wardrobe. I wouldn’t want to embarrass your company by appearing in all my dirt.”

  * * *

  Kerry needn’t have worried; his odd ensemble fit right in. Aunt Clara was in her unrelieved black, looking like a plump little crow. Lady Stanford wore feathers and flounces, ribbons and ruffles, any number of gewgaws designed to camouflage her lack of jewels. Mr. Flint, whose sobriquet actually came from a gold tooth, not the amazing amount of fobs and pendants he had dangling from his expansive chest, was likewise overdressed in white satin knee breeches. The breeches looked like sausage casings, with the prosperous Mr. Flint stuffed and ready for the pan. His waistcoat was cerise with, naturally, gold embroidery, and his coat was pale blue satin. He resembled nothing so much as a masquerade-goer dressed as a hot-air balloon.

  Kerry would have traded. His own outfit, hastily assembled by one of the ubiquitous footmen pressed into valet duty, was culled from the attic trunks. The brocaded lemon and scarlet frock coat was his father’s, so it pulled across his shoulders and gaped across his waist. He would have left it unbuttoned except the only waistcoat the doltish footman could find in a hurry was the butler’s Sunday best, complete with gravy stains. The peach satin smallclothes were Uncle Nigel’s, twenty years in mothballs, and smelling like thirty. Kerry’s shoes were a pair he’d outgrown in his university days, so pinched unmercifully. At least the shirt and stockings were new.

  The earl was tempted to wonder if Mr. Flint’s wardrobe had been lost in a fire, too, except his style of speech seemed to match his style of dress. Without so much as a by-your-leave, the nabob—he could be a pirate, for all Kerry knew—joined the dowager in a discussion of the local debutantes.

  “I was wondering your opinion of this wine,” Kerry interrupted, to put paid to this conversation, especially in front of the waiting footmen. He also wanted to see if the old rasher of wind knew anything about vintages at all.

  “Don’t worry about the wine, my boy. I made sure your mother has only the best. You put your mind to finding a wealthy gel, eh?” Goldy crammed another forkful of stuffed prawns into his mouth before turning back to the dowager. “I think your best bet is Westcott’s chit, Margie. Five thousand a yea
r, and more if that aunt names her beneficiary.”

  Margie? No one had ever called Margaret, Countess Stanford, anything but My Lady in Kerry’s lifetime. Not even his father. Now some fat old free trader was calling her by diminutives? Aunt Clara was right, by George. His mother was so lonely, so desperate for company, she was taking up with a wine merchant. And a deuced good one, to judge by the Madeira. Meantime, the mushroom was discussing his, the Earl of Stanford’s, marriage prospects!

  “Wedding a female for her money is a caddish thing to do,” he stated in a pause of their conversation. “Degrading for both parties. I do not believe in marriages of convenience.” How could he, after knowing Lucy’s story?

  Aunt Clara was silently applauding, but his mother was astounded. “Don’t be a jackanapes. It’s the way of the world. And how else can you hope to bring this place about? It’s not as though you’ve gone and thrown your heart over the windmill like some ninnyhammer either.” She pointedly ignored her sister-in-law. “So you might as well marry a rich girl.”

  “Your mother’s in the right of it, lad,” Mr. Flint put in. “Fellow’s got to think with his head, not just his ba—heart. No one said all heiresses have to be antidotes. Leave it to your mother to find you a pretty one. ’Sides, there’s not a girl on this earth so platter-faced she wouldn’t look bonny in a countess’s tiara.”

  The dowager’s fork clattered onto her plate and her lip started to tremble.

  “Aunt Clara,” Kerry said loudly, “I know you believe in ghosts, but do you believe there is a heaven and hell?” That was the first topic that came to mind, being on his own mind often these days.

  “I do not know about hell,” Aunt Clara answered after a moment’s reflection. “I have never known anyone that bad. But of course there is heaven, dear. Uncle Nigel is only waiting to go until I join him there.”

  The dowager was over her lapse and glaring. Not only had Kerry exposed Mr. Flint to Clara’s dottiness, but religion was not a proper subject for the dinner table. Kerry raised his wineglass to her. “And you, Mother, what think you of the afterlife?”