Kerry vowed he’d kill that female if it was the last thing he did. Hell couldn’t be worse than this, the dampness seeping right through his waistcoat to his lawn shirt and down his breeches, his neck-or-nothing neighbors laughing at him, and a pack of slavering hounds hot on his heels. Whatever he did, he couldn’t stay here.
Thinking quickly, Kerry circled around and raced back toward the end of the field of riders, where the last stragglers, the vicar and a few boys too young to be at the hunt were dawdling along. He figured the hounds would lose the scent with the prey above their heads. He and Hellraker must be carrying so much eau de fox, though, that soon the pack was turning, chasing its own tail as it were. So much for that plan.
Kerry left the vicar’s company when they reached a stream. The overweight cleric’s slug of a horse rightfully refused to exert himself enough to get them both over the water, which Hellraker cleared without a splash. Too bad the hounds wouldn’t be confused by the broken trail. They’d pick up the fox on the other side in minutes, the stream being so narrow. The stream was quite long, however.
Unfortunately Hellraker disagreed with the new strategy of wading upstream far enough that the hounds would be thrown off the scent. In addition to being ridden, it appeared, Hellraker also had an aversion to getting his feet wet. There was nothing to do but for Kerry to dismount, still holding the quivering fox against his chest, and lead—drag—Hellraker over the rocks and rivulets.
Leaving the stream when his own toes were turning numb from the cold water getting into his boots, Kerry started to unbutton his coat.
“Don’t put him down!” Lucy shrieked. “They decided to end the hunt, so they are going home this way!”
“Blast it, what am I supposed to do? Bad enough they’ll think I took a header into the stream, but riding back to nuncheon with a fox in my pocket? Lucy, it’s only a—”
“Put him up a tree. They don’t have the scent yet. If he’s high enough, the dogs won’t pick up his smell.” She wrinkled her nose. “Likely they’ll follow you again anyway.”
“Foxes can’t climb trees, Lucy!”
“But you can. Please?”
“And how will he get down again after I lead the hunt away, or haven’t you thought of that, Mistress Mayhem?”
“Why, you’ll come back and put him down later, of course, while they’re having lunch.”
Climbing a tree with one hand, in wet boots, with a ghostly female shouting encouragement, did nothing for Kerry’s temper. Neither did the scrapes along his cheeks from the tree bark, the scratches on his hands from the ungrateful fox, the flapping fabric on his breeches, or the disdainful look on Miss Westcott’s face as she rode by him, not a hair out of place, not a speck of mud on her velvet riding habit. Missing luncheon with the arrogant chit was the only ray of sunshine on a gray, gray day.
* * *
In a new suit of clothes but the same frame of mind, Lord Stanford set out for Mr. Gideon Flint’s house that afternoon. The same starched-up butler informed the earl that he would have passed Mr. Flint on the road if he hadn’t come cross-country, a reference to the muddy bite-marks on Kerry’s boots and the limpness of his cravat. Hellraker’s mood hadn’t improved either. Mr. Flint, the butler deigned to disclose, was out paying afternoon calls. Stanford Abbey was certain to be on his itinerary. It usually was.
Curses! Kerry had forgotten to leave instructions barring the door to Mr. Flint. He could be at the Abbey that very moment, chousing the dowager out of the pictures in the portrait gallery, or the sterling silver tea set. Conversely, Kerry still needed to talk to the old makebait to find out his price for the rubies, not that he needed the betrothal ring in any hurry, although Miss Westcott had managed to show some sympathy at the end of the hunt. Everybody had their good days and their bad days, she’d commiserated, and today was the fox’s good day. She’d never know. Meanwhile Kerry watched her blue eyes shift over his various stains and spatters, mentally counting to herself how many times he and Hellraker must have parted company. Still, she was polite about his refusal to lunch, poised in the face of his dishabille, and a bruising rider. He could do worse, like one of the Prudlow twits.
Flint had come and gone at the Abbey by the time Kerry checked on the progress of the hog pens. The dowager was resting and had her maid refuse the earl entry—and a chance to relieve his ire. Not till dinner did he get the opportunity to discuss Free-trader Flint, and that in front of Aunt Clara, Johnny Norris, and Sidwell. Therefore, Kerry could not exactly express himself in the terms he might have chosen, terms like gallows-bait and over my dead body. Instead, he was forced to inquire when Mr. Flint might next honor them with his presence.
“Oh, you’ll see him at the assembly two nights hence,” the dowager replied. “Over at Farley. Since we will not be holding a ball, I decided we should attend so that you’ll meet the neighbors. Miss Westcott and the Prudlows will be expecting you to dance with them.”
Kerry attacked his turbot in oyster sauce with unnecessary vigor. “They will be disappointed.”
“Don’t be churlish, Kieren. Of course you are going. I accepted for all of us.” She glared around the table as if daring anyone else to disagree with her. Johnny and Sidwell applied themselves to their meal with renewed diligence. “And Mr. Flint made special mention that he hoped to discuss a certain topic with you,” she said with arched brows.
“Oh, it’s to be one of those democratic country affairs where they allow in anyone with the price of admission? How quaint. Shall I dance with the butcher’s daughter also, Mother? Perhaps I should consider one of the dairy maids for next countess.”
“Have I told you recently how much you remind me of your father?”
Kerry swallowed a forkful of veal. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“That was no compliment, you clunch. And we shall not be attending a village barn dance, contrary to your priggish comments, but an exclusive gathering of the best of local society.”
“With Goldy Flint?”
“Mr. Flint is hosting the affair.”
Aunt Clara would not go, she declared with a sneer for her sister-in-law. It wasn’t fitting for a widow in mourning.
“After twenty years? Besides, you hypocrite, you’ve gone to balls and routs and picnics anytime you’ve been invited. If you had the sense God gave a duck, you’d leave off those wretched weeds and find yourself a new husband instead of living in Kieren’s pockets and talking to ghosts.”
“Hah! A new husband like that…that…”
“Excuse me, my lord.” Cobb interrupted what promised to be a scene unconducive to digestion. To Kerry’s relief, there seemed to be another Situation in the hall. The butler’s flaring nostrils eloquently expressed his disapproval of yet another episode beneath the dignity of the noble house he served.
“A Mr. and Mrs. Browne have arrived from London. They regret their advent during the dinner hour, but have been traveling since yesterday afternoon, it seems, in some high state of excitement, and beg your lordship’s indulgence,” Cobb recited. Then he added, “What shall I do with them?”
“Do with them, you clodpole? Find their son! What did you think, they drove all this way, through the night, too, just to interrupt my supper? How could you make them wait, man?” Kerry demanded to everyone’s surprise. “Don’t you have a heart?”
They should have let the Brownes hold their reunion in private, but Diccon came tearing down the stairs before Kerry could escort the blond young man and his frail-looking wife to a smaller private parlor. Soon there wasn’t a dry eye in the Abbey, including the dowager’s, who insisted the fireplace was putting out too much smoke.
Later, after Kerry refused to permit the Brownes to seek an inn for the night, he and Diccon’s father shared a brandy in the library. Browne tried again to express his gratitude, and the earl again brushed his thanks aside. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“No, my lord, they would not have. That’s how such vile practices get perpetuated. There aren’t
enough men like you who are willing to take action.” The younger man cleared his throat. “And I want to show my appreciation. I know better than to offer a gentleman like yourself the reward money, but it was substantial. My family owns one of the largest furniture factories in London. I had heard about the fire in your London home, and your visit to the showrooms of several of my associates. Mr. Stenross senior mentioned you might be bringing a bride home, so with the approval of Mr. Stenross junior, my family and friends have arranged delivery of those items you were considering, and a few additions.”
Numbly, Kerry could only consider that the Stenross partners, like Demby, would not trust him with cash either.
A gentleman like himself could not ask the price of the furnishings, but the list Mr. Browne left for his perusal seemed to indicate that the reward money might have retiled the Abbey’s leaking roof with gold leaf! If he weren’t a grown man, Kerry would have wept.
London was waiting for him. His home and his person outfitted in splendor rivaling Prinny’s, he merely had to sell that last painting to live the life he was used to, the life he understood. Who knew, he might even start attending Almack’s and find himself a town-bred beauty with a princely portion.
Instead, here he was in Wiltshire, blistered, bilious, and broken-nosed, with his lovely clothes being used as horse fodder.
“Then why don’t you leave?” Lucy asked. She appeared soft in the candlelight, and sad.
“Because you gave me a challenge, to bring this place up to snuff, and a Somerfield never backs down from a dare. I won’t quit till it’s done. As soon as the Abbey is in order, I’ll shake the dirt of this place off my feet and be gone, so don’t go thinking this is a permanent change in my lifestyle, for it isn’t.”
“Are you very unhappy here, then?” she wanted to know.
Kerry had to think for a minute, as if happiness had never entered into his considerations before. For all the fuss and bother, he was not unhappy here, no. He had to admit, in fact, that he’d never felt more alive, more purposeful, more in command of his own destiny before. He didn’t have to admit that to Lucy, of course. Let her agonize a little after that fiasco with the fox.
“And where the deuce were you last night anyway?” he brusquely demanded. “If I’m stuck here for the nonce, I at least deserve some intelligent conversation.”
“Oh, I was trying to answer your question about Aunt Clara’s ghost. He’s the second earl, poor man. You think you have problems! Why, he—”
The earl held up his hand. “No, don’t tell me. I have more than enough difficulties laid in my dish without adding his. The rubies, the roof, Uncle Nigel—it’s endless. If the second earl has been haunting the Abbey for the past century or so, I’m sure his situation is beyond my repair.”
“I thought a Somerfield never backs down from a challenge.”
“That’s our motto, all right. A Somerfield never backs down, but he doesn’t have to stand up either.”
Chapter Eighteen
The direction of the vicar’s sermon was that charity begins at home. The direction of the vicar’s gaze seemed to indicate that charity ought to begin in the front pew.
And a dashed uncomfortable pew it was, too, Kerry thought, shifting his weight on the hard wooden bench next to his mother. Too bad the Brownes had refused to stay another day; perhaps they would have provided seat cushions in exchange for a few prayers of rejoicing in their son’s recovery. Right now Kerry could use a pillow far more than another rug for the Grosvenor Square house.
And too bad the Brownes had refused his offer of that mongrel pup. Not in the City, they told him, with not too much regret. Even Diccon, the little traitor, thought Lucky would be happier in the country with his friend Hellraker. So now Kerry had the mixed breed trailing him and the stallion when they rode out. The earl swore Lucky’s lolling tongue was a grin at his efforts to control the ill-humored horse.
The vicar was going on about feeding the hungry. Hades, Kerry thought, if the hefty cleric passed up second helpings, there’d be enough to feed half the village needy, whose eyes were also fixed on the front pew. Kerry couldn’t help but be aware of the stares from the back rows of the little church, stares fastened on his superfine coat, biscuit pantaloons, and marcella waistcoat. Many of the parishioners were in ragged homespun, the women with threadbare shawls for warmth. Confound Demby! Kerry noted that neither Flint, the Prudlows, nor the Westcotts went to services here. They chose to attend the grander church in Farley, where their furs and furbelows would not make such a contrast. If Goldy Flint prayed here, he swore, they’d not be sitting on bare benches.
Then the earl’s gaze drifted to the choir, where one voice was raised higher than all the others in joyful praise. Lucy was singing with the local members, standing out both in her brightly colored gown amid their white robes, and her slightly off-key rendition. The gown was almost a pinky-coral, far too dashing for church, but her hair was neatly coiled atop her head in a golden-copper halo of braids. And she looked happy as a grig.
That smile of hers shook his heart to its shaky foundations.
She was just a slip of a thing, Kerry reasoned, not a statuesque beauty like Miss Westcott; that was why he had an overwhelming desire to shelter her from sorrow, protect her from the world’s evils, keep her smiling radiantly.
Dash it, he reminded himself, Lucy was not some vulnerable little schoolgirl. This she-devil could throw thunderbolts! She needed his looking after as much as he needed another indigent relative.
Still, when he shook the vicar’s hand after the service, the earl found himself offering his work crew and some extra lumber to rebuild the church stairs. He also thought the abbey kitchens lost far too much to spoilage. Surely Cook could provide baskets of leftovers for the poor, rather than throw the foodstuffs away.
Of course that meant he’d have to find more slops for the hogs if table scraps were out, but Lucy’s singing echoed in his ear the whole carriage ride home, sweet and only a little sour.
“Don’t go getting in alt over this,” he told her later, after spending all of that afternoon on what the vicar was pleased to call God’s work, thus excusing the Sunday labor. Many of the locals, like Charlie the blacksmith and McGivven at the mercantile, had their own jobs to do on Monday, so they worked past dinner completing the stairs. They all supped on food the village women prepared from what Kerry had sent down from the Abbey. The dowager’s dinner or not, it tasted better in the common room at Ned’s pub.
“Why shouldn’t I be pleased?” Lucinda insisted, wishing she could rub his sore shoulders as he groaned from the depths of a comfortable chair in the Abbey’s library.
“Because it’s not permanent, I told you. This doing good deeds and leading an exemplary life is not natural to me. Besides, it’s all in my own self-interest anyway, don’t you know.”
She smiled. “Can’t you confess you are doing something worthwhile just for its own sake?”
“What, like fixing the church steps so I don’t break my neck next Sunday?” He put his feet up on a footstool and sighed.
“Like asking the vicar about starting a school.”
“What’s wrong with trying to lower my poor taxes by getting some of these people off the dole? I am a self-centered, arrogant, overdressed cod’s-head, remember?”
“You forgot pigheaded. You are a good man, you just won’t admit it. You wouldn’t have been given this chance if there were no seed of decency to be nurtured. Know thyself, Kieren Somerfield.”
“What about ‘to thine own self be true’? I fear you’re in for a big disappointment. What if at heart I really am a wastrel and a womanizer?”
“Then at least the church steps got fixed.”
* * *
Not altogether discontent despite his warnings, Kerry settled back to enjoy a rest of the righteous weary, and the sight of Lucy worrying over her lists. She was tallying virtues versus vices, he supposed, the way Sidwell juggled assets and debits, but Sidwell never bit his
tongue in concentration, at least not that Kerry ever noticed or cared. Nor did the earl believe he’d be satisfied to sit watching his secretary for any length of time. Lucy he could watch for hours, even if her hair was no longer trailing down her back in wanton disarray and her gown was no longer as diaphanous as an insect’s wing. The grace of her movements, the rise and fall of her breaths, the softness of her cheek—
Well, he wasn’t terribly discontented with the upright life. He had no urge to wager his watch on the roll of the dice or his last shillings on the speed of a raindrop, for instance. There was no burning ache for a cigarillo or a second, third, or fourth glass of brandy. And he didn’t even want a woman, not too badly. Kerry laughed aloud at that thought, and the sound was so cheerful, Lucy laughed, too.
Tap-tap. The library door burst open before the earl could call “Enter.” The dowager countess strode into the room, glaring into the shadowy corners. Aunt Clara hung back by the door, looking cautiously around.
“Just as I thought,” the earl’s mother declared, “there is no one in here with you.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “I demand you stop this absurd habit at once.”
Kerry had politely if stiffly risen at her entrance. “I always thought it a foolish practice myself, hopping up and down each time a lady stands. Won’t you have a seat? You, too, Aunt Clara. Shall I ring for tea?”
Lady Stanford claimed the chair closest to the fireplace, where Lucy had been sitting. “Not that habit, you jackanapes. I mean this deplorable habit of speaking to yourself, as you well know. You already have the servants, what there are left of them, thinking you ready for a restraining device. You cannot wish the Westcotts to hear of this lunatic behavior. Bad enough they think you cannot sit a horse.”
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