An Angel for the Earl

by Barbara Metzger

  * * *

  He’d be late for the interview with the dowager. Kerry was sure she wouldn’t mind. He’d also be late for lunch by a few hours, so he bought himself a meat pasty to eat as he walked from paddock to paddock of the horse fair. In Farley at last, the earl vowed to walk home if he couldn’t find a suitable mount. It would be quicker.

  He needed a horse, but he needed money for hogs. Therefore he bypassed the front lines of horses on display, those he might have considered at Tattersalls. He also once considered a thousand pounds a reasonable price for a colt with potential. Those days were gone, so he tried not to look at the blooded cattle, the prime bits all curried and braided and prancing through their paces. The next ranks of horses were bound to suit his purse better, if not his taste. Meat pasties and someone’s breakdowns, he reflected. How the mighty were fallen. Except he didn’t feel diminished in the least; he felt more carefree than in years, almost boyish, dripping juice down his chin and planning to bargain like a rug merchant.

  The problem was he couldn’t find a horse worth considering. If the price didn’t start too high, the horse was too old, too flashy, or too light for his weight. That one might be pretty in the park, but would tire under constant hard riding. This one was too excitable to be trustworthy anywhere outside a ring. One was a cribber, another was weak-chested, a third had a bad hitch.

  Kerry did ask several grooms to put their horses through their paces, but none showed well. One rider even confessed his horse couldn’t jump, when Kerry asked the lad to set him at a fence. Fine mount that one would be to get around land with fallen trees, streams, and hedges.

  One horse did catch his eye, a chestnut mare with a white blaze. She had an intelligent look to her, and a nicely compact but graceful body. She just wasn’t big enough for him. The mare would make a fine lady’s mount, he judged. Too bad he wasn’t in the market for one. Lucy would like how the mare came right over to have her ears scratched.

  “Lookin’ fer a nice ride fer yer wife, gov?” the eager horse coper asked, noting his interest. T’mare’s trained to sidesaddle, she is.”

  “Sorry, I’m not married.”

  “Yer sweetheart, then. Fine gent like you has to have a sweetheart. Yer lady friend would look an angel on this pretty horse.”

  Kerry answered, “My lady friend already is an angel,” and walked on.

  “That was lovely,” Lucy told him, putting her arm through his.

  The earl realized that patting an arm no one else could see must look ridiculous, but he did it anyway, hoping for the warm shiver her touch usually brought. “It was the truth.”

  “The angel part isn’t, and you know it, but I meant how nice that you consider me a friend.”

  A comrade wasn’t at all what the horse dealer had meant by lady friend, but Kerry didn’t tell her so. He only repeated that of course they were friends.

  Lucinda knew exactly what the trader meant; she simply chose to ignore it and be pleased by the earl’s words. Smiling, she told him, “I am so glad. I have never had a friend before.”

  “What, never? Not in the village or at school?”

  “My father did not consider the village children fit company for me, and he believed that too much education is bad for a woman, so I was taught at home. You are my first friend.”

  “Gads,” he said, jaw clenched, “I’d like to give you back what you’ve missed, show you some of the world.”

  Lucinda only laughed. “I’ve seen more of the world in your company these past few days than any gently reared female sees in a lifetime! Gaming hells, bachelor quarters, taverns, bordellos, horse fairs. That’s the real world, not balls and Venetian breakfasts.” She waved her hand around. “This is the real adventure and, look, there are no other women.”

  That served only to remind him that she didn’t belong in a rough place like this with men shouting who-knew-what back and forth across the aisles between makeshift stalls. Thank heaven none of the louts could see how charming she looked this morning, with a wide-brimmed bonnet trimmed with artificial cherries. There was even a lace overskirt to her gown, which was ridiculously out of place here amid the piles of manure.

  The sooner he found a suitable mount, the sooner they could leave. Kerry approached the next row of horses with a less critical eye. He’d have to be blind to buy any of those, however.

  Lucy must have wandered off while he studied a dappled gray that appeared passable, for she was back and trying desperately to get his attention over the surrounding noise while a groom led the gray around on a lead.

  “Over here. Come on.” She urged him on to the corner of the next row, where high fences had been put up around a grassy area. Men were sitting on the fence or leaning against it, yelling encouragement or derision to whatever was going on inside. When they got closer, Kerry could see that a door, brass knob and all, was propped against the fence. Rudely lettered on the door was the legend: STALLION FOR FREE IF YOU RIDE IT. 20S. A TRY.

  “You can’t mean me to wager on this swindle, Lucy. They find a horse that’s unrideable, then make a fortune at these country fairs off the cabbageheads who are vain enough to try. Next day they move on to the next gathering of gullible gape-seeds. Half the fence-sitters are in on the hoax, making side bets about how long the rider stayed aboard, how many bones were broken. They even keep the door handy to carry away the casualties.”

  “Come closer, he’s a real beauty.”

  The huge black stallion was magnificent except for the mud and blood on his sides, the sweating, heaving flanks, rolling eyes, laid-back ears, and flaring nostrils.

  Kerry stepped back from his position along the fence. “Lucy, he looks like the meanest brute in creation. No one is going to ride that bonebreaker. It’s a waste of coin to try.”

  “You could.”

  He laughed. “I thought we were friends. Thank you for the vote of confidence, but this time I’ll pass.” Kerry looked around at the crowd of men along the fence. “I see a lot of gamecocks cork-brained enough to try, but not one I’d lay my brass on.”

  “I don’t want you to bet against the horse. I want you to buy him!”

  “Perhaps you didn’t understand the sign. You pay just to try. No one gets the horse, because no one rides him.”

  “Stop being so patronizing. Just because I cannot pick up a rock and throw it at you doesn’t mean I cannot understand the King’s English. You can ride the horse, therefore you can own the horse.”

  “Lucy, that is the most foul-tempered animal I have ever seen. Why would I want to own him in the first place? I wouldn’t wish that widow-maker on Gideon Flint. In the second place, I thought you wanted to keep me around for a few more days.”

  “He’s mean only because the owner beats him. The poor thing is frightened half to death.”

  “Is that supposed to make me more eager to get in the ring with him? It doesn’t.”

  “But when the owner can’t find anyone else to try riding him, he’ll kill the poor thing.”

  Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. He looked away. “That’s what they do with man-hating horses, Lucy. It’s the only solution.”

  “But he’s one of God’s creatures.”

  “So am I, and I don’t want you shedding any tears over me, so I’ll just keep looking for a nice horse that doesn’t kill people for a living. Besides, this is gambling.”

  “Not if it’s a sure thing, it isn’t.”

  A sure thing, eh? Kerry walked around until he spotted the scurvy cur who seemed to be in charge.

  “Had many take your challenge today?”

  The man spat off to one side and jerked his head toward a bucket on the other. The bucket was almost filled with coins, most silver, some gold.

  “That many fools, eh? And you still own the horse?”

  The fellow spat again.

  Kerry reached for his purse, then put his hand in his other pocket, the one with his lucky coin. “Do I get this back if I win?”

  A tobacc
o-juice-dribbling nod was his reply.

  “Then count in one more fool.” Kerry tossed his coin into the bucket and asked, “What’s the bastard’s name anyway?”

  “Hellraker.”

  “It figures.”

  When Kerry turned from draping his greatcoat over the fence, Lucy was in the pen with the great hulking beast, stroking his nose and whispering in his ear. The stallion seemed to be soothed somewhat, to his lordship’s amazement.

  “He can hear you and see you?” Kerry asked without fear of being overheard by the screaming gallery of oddsmakers and wagerers.

  “I told you, he’s frightened nearly to death, that’s why. Now, go on, get up.”

  Kerry did, with the stallion’s quivering acceptance. “Nice Hellraker, good Hellraker. Listen to Lucy, boy. We all do.”

  The black let Kerry walk him forward a few paces, Lucy’s hand on the bridle.

  “You gots to trot ’im twict ’round the ring, they’s the rules,” someone called from astride the fence.

  Lucy started running, her hand still touching the horse. He trotted, at her speed, then faster, until her hand was just touching his rump. They all made one lap of the ring.

  By then, however, under Lucy’s tender influence, the stallion wasn’t quite so scared of Kerry, not nearly frightened to death. So he didn’t see Lucy floating along beside, or hear her soft voice whispering kindnesses into his ear.

  “Oh, dear,” she called as the stallion suddenly reared up on his back legs. “I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “God damn you to h—” Kerry yelled as the back of Hellraker’s neck collided with his nose at great force. The crowd thought he meant the horse. Lucy knew better. She disappeared. Kerry didn’t notice, through the pain and the blood and the necessity to hang on to this monster with every ounce of strength he had. If he fell off, no doubt the beast would trample him and then he wouldn’t live long enough to wring Lucy’s neck. So what if she were already dead? He’d—

  Out of the clear blue sky thunder suddenly rolled, a huge peal that meant a lightning storm was almost upon them. It wasn’t as loud as the sound of Kerry’s nose breaking, but it was a clap of thunder loud enough to put the fear of God into man…or scare a horse half to death.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The dowager fainted when she saw her son. Kerry was not in prime twig for that confrontation but, oh, if he could get his hands on that harbinger of hell, Miss Lucinda Faire.

  After the thunder she calmed the wild stallion enough for Kerry to complete the required circuits, get down, collect his gold piece and his greatcoat, and get back up. If he didn’t remount then, Kerry knew, the beast would never let him, and he’d never have his mind so muddled that he’d try again. So he owned an incorrigible, unmanageable mountain of a horse. Now all he had to do was get it home. With Lucy gone, of course.

  After tossing some coins to a lad to see the mare got back to the Abbey safely, he gestured to the disgruntled thimble-rigger to open the gate. The poltroon did, with a parting stream of tobacco juice for Kerry’s boot and a farewell slash of his whip for the stallion.

  Well, the earl didn’t have to worry about the black taking fences or leaping fallen trees. The beast jumped gates, carts, and pedestrians, anything that got in his way. All Kerry had to concern himself with was wiping away the blood that still streamed down his face, keeping the horse pointed in the right direction, and staying in the saddle. And ridding his world—and afterworld—of the devil’s handmaiden.

  “‘Vengeance is mine,’ sayeth the Lord,” she quoted, for it did not take a mind reader to know his thoughts.

  Unfortunately, Kerry was in his bath at the time, in the guest chamber. The butler swore the fireplace in the master chamber was being serviced that very afternoon, but the earl could not wait. He was lying back in the tub, trying to soak the aches and pains away, with a cold towel on his nose. That’s what the physician had recommended, after realigning the bones. That agony Kerry also laid at Lucy’s door.

  Unhappily for his resentment’s sake, she was looking adorably contrite. Her hair was up in loose curls threaded through with ribbon, and her decolletage was enhanced by a scrap of pink lace that still allowed the shadow of cleavage to show through. Her cheeks were rosy without paint, her eyes downcast.

  “Oh” was all she said, for it definitely didn’t take a mind reader to know Kerry’s thoughts this time either.

  “Blast!” He grabbed the iced towel and applied it where it could do the most good. “What in blazes do you mean by coming upon a gentleman in his bath? Get out of here!” he raged, sending the two footmen and their cans of fresh hot water back to the kitchen.

  “It’s not as if I’m a flesh-and-blood female, you know,” she started to say when he interrupted with, “Well, I am. Flesh and blood, that is, and I’ll pray you to remember it next time you think of entering my bedchamber or entering my name in the lists for mortal combat.” He grabbed up a nearby towel and used it as a shield while he struggled into his dressing gown, then headed barefoot down the hall to his own chamber and wardrobe. “And a real lady would look away,” Kerry grumbled, forgetting all about his earlier goal of broadening the misplaced innocent’s horizons.

  Lucinda had no intention of missing a glimpse of a magnificent male body—heaven knew when she’d get another chance—but she did regret the bruises starting to discolor along his ribs. “I am sorry, you know, about Hellraker. Can you not ‘forgive, that ye be forgiven’?”

  “Only if you stop spouting chapter and verse at me. Hellraker is a superb animal,” the earl added magnanimously, reaching for his brush and comb. “And the thunder was a splendid trick.”

  “Thunder? What thund—”

  Then they heard the moaning. A soft, lowing sound seemed to echo in the room around them. “Ooo, ooo.”

  “What the—?” Kerry tightened the belt of his robe and picked up the fireplace poker. “My word, it must be Uncle Nigel.”

  Lucy ran after him as he circled the large chamber, looking for the ghost. “Kerry, Uncle Nigel isn’t dead.”

  The noise seemed to be loudest near the hearth. The earl scraped his knee on the andiron, he spun around so fast. “Isn’t dead?”

  That’s when the ball of soot fell through the chimney and landed on Kerry’s bare toes.

  When the dust and ashes settled, the ball was revealed as a small boy, blackened, scraped, burned, and bloody. And sobbing loudly.

  Having as much experience with crying children as he had with flying carpets, Lord Stanford cursed. “Bloody hell.” Then he opened the door to the corridor and shouted for help, loudly.

  Three footmen, Cobb the butler, Sidwell, and two other soot-covered individuals, one large, one small, entered the earl’s bedroom. The large one doffed his top hat and made a bow. “Sorry, milord. They didn’t say as ’ow the room was occupied, just to rush. An’ Dickie here, ’e’s new. Don’t know ’is way ’round a chimbley is all. We be almost done now.”

  He reached out an ash-encrusted hand for the boy, but Dickie darted away, between the butler’s legs and out of the reach of the two footmen. He headed straight for the earl and threw his filthy arms around Lord Stanford’s bare knees.

  “Here now, none of that,” said Cobb, gone pale under his powdered wig at the affront to his employer’s dignity. He did not, however, reach to pry the grimy child loose. The master sweep did, but Dickie ran to the earl’s other side and latched on there.

  He looked up with tear-streaked cheeks and drenched blue eyes, and whimpered, “Help me, please, mister.”

  Oh, hell, Kerry thought, another one of God’s—and Lucy’s—creatures. Dickie even smelled like her, right through the earl’s swollen nose. Kerry bent down to the child’s level. “Help you do what, Dickie?”

  “Help me get away from Sniddon, please, sir. I don’t want to go back up there. It’s hot and dark and scary. I want to go home to my mama.” He buried his head in Kerry’s robe and started sobbing again.

 
; Sniddon, the sweep, made another grab for the boy, but Lord Stanford stopped him with a raised eyebrow. “The child seems to be burned and bleeding. Why is that?”

  “It’s ’cause ’e ain’t learned ’is trade yet, my lord. I told you ’e was new. You don’t see Lem ’ere”—the other cinder-dark bundle of rags—“cryin’ for ’is ma.”

  Lem was shaking his head vehemently. “Lem seems a bit older, perhaps readier for such work.”

  “An’ perhaps ’e’s gettin’ too big for the job. We needs the little tykes, we does, if you swells want your chimbleys done right. Now, I’ll just be takin’ the lad, my lord, an’ gettin’ on with the work you ’ired me to do.”

  The butler was nodding, the footmen were nodding, and Lem stared at his bare, scarred feet. The earl made no move to detach the clinging arms.

  “’Ere now, my lord, gimme the boy. You got no call interferin’ in my business. I got papers, all right an’ tight, to say I bought ’im proper.”

  “It’s illegal to buy children, Sniddon.”

  “’Is services, I meant to say. Apprenticeship is legal, ain’t it, my lord? Paid ten shillings for ’im, I did, to use ’im till ’e’s growed.”

  “No, he didn’t, mister,” the little boy wailed. “I was stole by Gypsies and he bought me from them.”

  “Gammon. ’Is ma sold ’im to buy gin, is what.”

  “My mama would never do that! You’re a liar! I want to go home!”

  Kerry believed the child. He did not believe all the bruises on Dickie’s bare arms and legs came from climbing chimneys. Even if they were, the boy was little more than a babe, five or six at most. With a deep sigh and the thought that this deed should get Lucy a lot closer to heaven, Kerry reached toward his dresser for a coin. His lucky coin. He tossed it to Sniddon, who bit down to check the gold content. “It’s real, and worth twenty-one shillings. Now, take it and get out without another word or I’ll call in the magistrate to investigate your so-called papers of apprenticeship.”