An Angel for the Earl

by Barbara Metzger

  “I doubt Miss Westcott has two thoughts to rub together beyond her clothes and her entertainments,” he noted, holding his still-full glass of cognac toward the fire, watching the colors change. “Oh, and her horses.”

  Lucinda tilted her head to one side, studying his face. The only change she could see was the swollen nose and a healthier color. “But that’s all you were interested in just a few days ago.”

  “Was it just this week? I feel I’ve known you forever.” He laughed. “And is this effort to promote a match with Miss Westcott another thread in your fabric of my reformation? I thought we were doing well enough with saving fallen sparrows. Must you aim for leg shackles, too?”

  “I wish to see you a better man, yes. But I like you, Kieren Somerfield. I also want to see you happy.”

  “Thank you. That means more to me than a hundred flirtatious simpers or batted eyelashes from the likes of Felicia Westcott. I like you, too, Miss Lucinda Faire.”

  They sat in comfortable silence broken only by the hiss of the dying fire, each deep in his or her own thoughts. Then Lord Stanford cleared his throat. “Ah, Lucy, if Uncle Nigel is alive in France, who the devil is Aunt Clara talking to?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dawn was not the best time for exercising horses—unless you wanted to make sure no one saw you make a cake of yourself falling off. Then again, it might be hours before anyone thought to look for his bruised and bloodied body. Kerry rather preferred it that way.

  He’d prefer not to face Hellraker at all. His body was not in shape for another explosive battle of wills, and might never be. The horse would only grow more unmanageable left unridden, though, standing in a stall all day. It was better to school him again now, while he remembered yesterday’s lessons.

  Hellraker remembered, all right. He laid his ears back and ripped off a piece of the earl’s jacket. He kicked and bucked and reared, but he got ridden to the point of exhaustion. The stallion learned—for the day at least—that he couldn’t loosen Kerry from his back no matter what tricks he used. He also learned he wasn’t getting whipped or raked with rowels at every turn. There was no blind obedience yet, but a little respect.

  The respect went both ways. Lord Stanford came to appreciate the black’s strength and stamina, and his courage, too. There was no hedge so high the stallion wouldn’t take it flying, no stream so wide he didn’t soar over. With a little more practice, the brute could make a fortune at every steeplechasing event in the county, if Kerry were a betting man, of course. He wasn’t, not right now. Those crosscountry events took a high toll on horses anyway, he consoled himself. ’Twould be a shame to have such a superior animal lamed.

  Or maybe not, Kerry thought as he lost the rest of his sleeve rubbing the beast down. The real shame was that he’d let go all those stablehands. His head groom was too old to dodge the flying hoofs, and the younger lads were far too green. The only one the stallion seemed to tolerate, aside from his lordship, was the fool dog Lucky.

  “Just make sure Diccon doesn’t get too close,” the earl instructed. Lud, what would happen if the boy followed the pup into Hellraker’s stall? Had he ordered enough servants to watch out for the boy’s welfare? Aunt Clara said she’d have breakfast with Diccon in the nursery, but what then? Gads, a child was a headache. If the Brownes weren’t located soon, Kerry supposed he’d have to hire a nursemaid, then a governess, tutors. After that would come a school or a trade. In the meantime were clothes and books and toys and food. Enough food for a growing boy’s appetite could bankrupt him. Zeus, when he remembered his own schooldays, he wondered if even the new pigs would be safe.

  Which reminded him that he was going to need a boar soon, if he wished to stay in the hog business. All this worrying about money made him feel crass, mercenary. Dash it, things were easier in the old days, when fortunes were won or lost on the turn of a card.

  Johnny Norris was back from Welford’s farm with good news about the pig deal. They were ready to be fetched as soon as Stanford Abbey was ready for them. Unless they were to be lodged in the east wing, where the roof still leaked, the home woods had to go.

  “But not the whole of it,” Johnny contended. “I never thought much of that clear-cutting. We could just take what we need in the old growth, let the young trees get more sun. That way you keep the rabbits and quail and deer, and have more timber to cut in a few years’ time.”

  “That sounds too reasonable. Why doesn’t everyone else do it that way instead of clearing the whole stand and planting over it?”

  “It’s harder,” Johnny admitted. “Takes more manpower, and you get less yield all at once. But long-range…”

  So Kerry lined up all those useless footmen, everyone but Simpson, who had a knack with neckcloths, Jeffers, who had Diccon riding on his shoulders, and Derek, who lisped.

  “I don’t need my silver polished to a fare-thee-well, nor my rugs beaten to a pulp,” he told the assembled servants. “I need pens and troughs and sheds, and fields ready to be planted come spring in pig fodder. I need drainage ditches dug, roof tiles replaced, roads graded. I’ll understand if you wish to stay as footmen in your warm jobs and clean livery, but you can’t stay here. I cannot support you, not with all the additional men I’ll need. You’ll get references and your pay. If you decide to stay on, there will be a rotating schedule of housework and field jobs, and I promise a return to your usual positions as soon as circumstances permit.”

  Most of the footmen accepted, knowing how few jobs there were these days, and so did the young grooms, the tenants who were behind in the rents, and whatever out-of-work villagers Johnny could find. With a few experienced lumbermen hired on from Farley, the Earl of Stanford and his crew sallied forth.

  In no time at all, fence posts were being cut, and fingers. Shed poles were being raised, and blisters. Shovels, axes, and saws were being employed, and muscles long unused to such hard physical labor. The Earl of Stanford was right there with the men, digging holes and splitting wood or loading fallen trees onto wagons for the lumber mill.

  Sweaty and sore, his clothes in muddy tatters, his only pair of boots scored and scraped, the once-fastidious earl was thinking that an heiress mightn’t be such a bad thing. Which was a good thing, for Sidwell came out to tell him that Lady Prudlow and her granddaughters had arrived for tea.

  * * *

  He tried, he really did. He made polite conversation, he made insincere compliments. With a Prudlow sister on either arm, he made a tour of the portrait gallery. They giggled and tittered; he shut his ears. For all his attempts to kindle a spark of interest in his own breast, the earl kept wishing he was back in the fields with the men. For all his sipping catlap and nibbling macaroons, he couldn’t even tell which Prudlow chit was Priscilla, which Patricia. At least Miss Westcott had a bit of presence.

  Just as he was wishing the sisters and their garrulous grandmother to Jericho, Cobb the butler came into the drawing room, his wig askew. It seemed there was a commotion of some sort in the hallway, and without the legions of footmen, he was forced to handle things himself. Could his lordship be so kind as to step outside a moment?

  Kerry went, followed by his curious female relatives and their even more rudely inquisitive guests. Derek, the footman who lisped, was trying to deal with box after box being unloaded from a hired carriage that was drawn up at the front door. Diccon was underfoot, for his temporary nanny, Jeffers, was outside doing the unloading, and Lucky was barking. Simpson, the footman elevated to valet just that morning, had taken one look at the names on the boxes—Weston, Stultz, Hobbes—and had gone to join the men in the fields.

  “What the—?” Kerry recognized the formal tailcoat he’d ordered before leaving town, but these carefully folded shirts, waistcoats, and breeches couldn’t be the clothes Demby was to have cleaned and sent on if the smell of smoke came out. Kerry’s whole wardrobe could have been contained in a small trunk, not this mountain of apparel in boxes bearing the names of London’s best outfitters.


  “There is a letter, my lord.” Cobb held out a silver salver.

  “Will you excuse me, ladies?” Kerry asked, hinting the women back into the drawing room to continue their tea. “Perhaps Diccon could have a raspberry tart, Aunt Clara?” No one left, and Diccon continued chasing Lucky through the piles of parcels, trying to get a brand-new York tan glove out of the pup’s mouth. The Prudlow sisters giggled while their grandmother surveyed the scene through her pince-nez. Aunt Clara was admiring one particularly fancy waistcoat embroidered with forget-me-nots, and Lady Stanford was fuming.

  “You can’t afford a few piddling gaming debts, eh?” she hissed in his ear, punctuating her remarks with a jab to his midsection. “A ball is too expensive, eh?” Another jab. “You can’t finance an adequate household staff, what? But you can rig yourself out like a caper merchant, is that it?”

  Kerry stepped aside before she punctured his abdomen. “I swear I had nothing to do with this. If I may be permitted to read the note?”

  She didn’t give permission; he withdrew to the steps and read anyway.

  Demby—for the note was indeed from the earl’s former valet, groom, et cetera—wrote about winning the firemen’s benevolent raffle lottery, which Kerry already knew. He was sorry, but he would not be returning to the earl’s service, which Kerry also knew. Demby was buying a partnership in a small foundry, where he hoped to set up a studio and shop, to work on his sculpture. This was not very surprising, considering the man’s revelations on the night of the fire. What was amazing to his lordship was Demby’s next line, that he wished to share some of his windfall with his former employer. Not only had Lord Stanford given him the winning ticket, Demby wrote, and saved his life to boot, but the earl had also given him employment where he was free to practice his art. (No mention was made of Demby’s feigned tremors, nor the fact that the job was practically a volunteer position in recent times.)

  In return, Demby wished to show his appreciation. But how? He knew his lordship’s casual attitude toward money, that the earl would lose whatever Demby sent before the ink was dry on the check. He was taking the liberty, therefore, of sending along those recently ordered replacement items for Lord Stanford’s wardrobe, and a few additions.

  Kerry looked around. Those few additions included enough satin knee breeches to clothe an Almack’s gathering, enough lace and linen cravats to strangle the House of Lords, and enough beaver hats to cause extinction of the species. Nightshirts, stockings, dancing slippers, nothing was overlooked—except sturdy boots, woolen shirts, heavy fustian trousers, and a frieze coat for carrying hogmash.

  Sitting down on the marble steps amid all that splendor, Kerry threw his head back and laughed. The roof was literally falling down around his head, he hardly had a pot to put his pigs in, debts were piled atop obligations, and he’d be dressed better than Beau Brummell. He laughed even harder when Diccon and Lucky knocked over a box containing a stack of silk drawers. He held one pair aloft, sending all three Prudlow ladies scurrying for the door, and gasped, “And they said you couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s earl!”

  When he finished wiping his eyes, the hallway was empty of everyone but Lucy, who was shaking her finger reprovingly. “That was not well done of your lordship.” But her lips twitched. “If there was anyone in the neighborhood who hadn’t heard you had a draft in the rafters, they’ll be informed by nightfall. And those were nice girls you just chased away!”

  “They were ninnyhammers, and you know it. Why, marriage to a peahen like that would send me hieing back to London and one expensive mistress after another, so where would be the benefit? Not in morals, not in the pocketbook. Be content for now, I’ll be the best-dressed pig farmer in Wiltshire.”

  “Just don’t go getting puffed up with your own conceit again,” she warned. “Your nose hasn’t healed yet.”

  * * *

  The earl went to bed early that night, throwing out his new valet, lisp and all, before Derek was through the unpacking. Kerry’d been up since dawn at hard physical labor, and had to face Lord Westcott, his hunt, and Hellraker in the morning. Mostly, though, he was hoping Lucy would come again. He was eager to see if his hard day’s work met with her approval, if there’d been any change in her appearance to match his blisters and scrapes.

  He laughed at himself, inventing excuses to look at Lucy. Why, he hardly took his eyes off her when she was in the room. She fascinated him, he admitted, all innocence and passion combined. He’d never known a woman like her, and not just because she was a specter. If he had to choose a wife, that was the type of woman he wanted, halfway between devil and angel, not some milk-and-water miss like the Prudlow girls. They could never hold a candle to Lucy anyway. A man wouldn’t get bored with a female like Lucinda Faire, with her challenging mind and caring nature. And honesty. Why, no woman had ever said she liked him before. There was flattery aplenty, and protestations of undying love, especially outside the jewelry shops, but never simple, honest liking. A man could even trust a female like that, as opposed to a Miss Westcott, whose motives must ever be suspect.

  Lucy was a real woman. No, blast it, she wasn’t a real woman at all. If he tried to touch her, his hands would go right through. If he tried to hold her, call her, keep her, she just danced through his dreams the way she drifted through his life, turning everything upside down.

  And he needed a woman, especially after thinking of Lucy, even if he did not need a wife. Celibacy was not Kerry’s strong point, nor a virtue he saw much point in pursuing, except that she was sure to appear then, and not now, when he wanted her company. Lucy would be steaming mad, singeing him—if not his privates—with her scorn.

  The thought did much toward cooling his ardor. Perhaps he could live without a woman’s services for a while after all, especially if he had Lucy’s lively conversation and luscious form to admire.

  She never came.

  Kerry rolled over and went to sleep, thinking the hell with her. And dreamed of her anyway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  If clothes made the man, Kieren Somerfield was the warlord of Wiltshire, the hero of the hunt. His scarlet jacket was a marvel of tailoring, allowing supple movement while defining his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The doeskin breeches fit like a second skin, and the white high-topped boots gleamed with a champagne polish. Demby had outdone himself, with Derek’s help. The earl was splendid, except for the vivid colors around his nose that rivaled the scarlet jacket in brilliance.

  If the mount made the rider, however, Kieren Somerfield belonged on the wooden rocking horse in the nursery. Hellraker did not appreciate the yowling hounds, the blaring trumpet, or standing around in Westcott Hall’s carriage drive, waiting for the rest of the hunt to assemble. In ten minutes Kerry’s cravat was disordered, his hair was disheveled, and his hat was missing altogether.

  Going on the hunt had not been a good idea. Polite and politic, but not clever. Hellraker was untested, not ready for public exhibition. The men at the Abbey would get less accomplished without the earl, despite Johnny’s supervision. Diccon kept crying, sure the Gypsies would come snatch him away while his idol was off riding. And the grapevine had it that Goldy Flint had returned from whatever nefarious mission he’d gone on.

  Mostly, however, Kerry’s attendance at the hunt was a poor notion because of Lucy. He should have known the fox would be one of those of God’s creatures requiring Miss Faire’s attentions. He kicked himself for not thinking, saving Hellraker the effort.

  By George, chickens were God’s creatures, too, and He didn’t seem too concerned about losing a few of those to Reynard. And why the deuce couldn’t God just save the mangy beast Himself, Kerry wondered, without involving him? A good drenching rain would hide the scent and cancel the hunt. For that matter, why didn’t the earth open up and swallow the blasted vermin, saving them all the effort? Most likely, he reasoned, because Lucy wanted him to get the dubious credit. Of course she didn’t care what his neighbors thought, as long a
s he looked good to the Weird Sisters who would seal his fate.

  So there was Lucy, two rises over, on hands and knees, trying to unstop the burrow so the fox could go to ground. Tarnation! Kerry was already having enough trouble keeping Hellraker well back from the leading riders so he did not outrun the hounds. Miss Westcott had stayed behind to check his condition, making polite conversation and keen observations on his handling of the obstreperous stallion. He waved her on, indicating a need to check his saddle girth.

  When the last rider ambled by, Kerry directed Hellraker toward the hill where Lucy was still trying her best to make dirt move. The flurry of dust indicated her frenzy. She wasn’t getting very far very fast.

  He got down, holding tightly to Hellraker’s bridle. “The hunt is well away in the other direction, Lucy. The fox mightn’t come back this way at all.”

  She gave him a look of scorn. “And Demby’s lottery ticket might have lost, too. Now, are you going to help?”

  There went his beautiful new riding gloves, and a piece of his breeches—and backside—that Hellraker made a swipe at. And all for naught, for sure enough, Kerry could see the fox come streaking across the field in their direction too soon. The hunt was still out of sight, but the hounds would be on the scent.

  “Do something!” Lucy demanded.

  “Like what?” he shouted back.

  “Pick him up and take him away!”

  Pick up a fox? Take him away? She was daft, besides dead. Yet there she was, lifting the small red creature and handing him over, with a beseeching look.

  “He has only ten minutes to live, that’s how he came to me.”

  The fox knew damned well that Kerry wasn’t any angel or anything, and struggled. “Take him!” Lucy cried, just ahead of the first baying of hounds.

  Kerry took the wriggling beast. He opened his lovely scarlet coat and buttoned the fox inside, then remounted. Just as the hunt master came into view, Kerry made Hellraker rear to show he was having trouble with his mount, explaining why he was riding off in the opposite direction. It was an easy enough trick, getting the stallion to act like an unbroken colt, but it also caused the fox to do what many a young, frightened animal will do.