An Angel for the Earl

by Barbara Metzger

  The earl sent Johnny back to Miss Westcott’s, begging her apology and making his excuses. “You go, John, you’ve known her longer; you’ll know what to say that won’t appear an insult. A note seems cold, and Sidwell would only stutter. Tell her I’ll be there tomorrow for sure.”

  But tomorrow Uncle Nigel came home.

  * * *

  “Never let it be said that Goldy Flint ever does things by half, my lad, no siree.”

  Lord Stanford wouldn’t be saying it, no siree. Not only had the wine merchant fetched Nigel Somerfield home almost overnight, bag and baggage, dressed like a gentleman, but he’d also fetched Nigel’s entire French family, in-laws, children, grandchildren. Not only had Goldy seen to Nigel’s pardon, he’d also had him made a knight while he was at it.

  “Seemed the best to do, quiet down some of the talk, don’t you know.”

  Kerry didn’t know how anyone thought to keep an invasion of the Wiltshire countryside by a ménage of French fishermen quiet, but he nodded, inquiring only how Goldy accomplished such a thing.

  “That was the easy part. I just said he was my contact on French soil, passing messages to my men about troop strength, planned movements, all that flummery. Said he’d gotten there by accident, which Lud knows was no more than the truth, and stayed on out of service to the country.”

  “Which country?” Kerry couldn’t help asking, watching as the third small child was handed out of the traveling carriage.

  “Don’t look so worried, nevvy,” Uncle Nigel said as he sadly watched Aunt Clara being carried back to the sofa after her third swoon. “I don’t mean to stay on and be an embarrassment to anyone. I know there’s no way English society can accept this.” He waved his hands in a Gallic gesture, encompassing the chattering children and somber adults who were huddled together at the other end of the drawing room, away from the odor of burning feathers.

  “I appreciate all you’ve done, more than I can ever say. You, Kerry, and my new brother-in-law. Oh, I know Goldy ain’t any kind of relation to me at all, but he’s done more than my own brother ever did. Your father could have searched a little harder, I always felt, Kerry. And I tried to get messages to him. Don’t know if any got through, but he never sent any back.” Nigel wiped a tear from his eye with a large red handkerchief.

  “I never knew, Uncle Nigel, or I would have tried to help.”

  “I know you would, lad. You were always a good boy. But what could you have done, a little nipper? Besides, that’s all water under the bridge. You got Goldy here to lend a hand, and that’s all that matters. He’s giving us, all of us, passage on one of his ships bound for the West Indies so I can see about that copper mine now that the revolutions there are over. Should be worth a fortune by now. If not, we aim to set up a fishing cartel, Goldy and me. I hear they’ve got big fish there in the warm waters. Salt ’em and ship ’em, I say.”

  “But you’ll stay awhile? After all these years…”

  They both looked to where the countess and Goldy were helping Clara back to her feet.

  “No, no amount of explaining will make what I did come right, not even with a sir before my name. Clara never cared for things like that, no more than I did. I just wanted to come by to thank you, and to see…once more…and to beg forgiveness.” Tears were streaming down Nigel’s weathered face. Kerry had to turn away lest his own watery eyes betray him. “I’ll…I’ll be getting out of your life again.”

  Aunt Clara had tottered over on Goldy’s arm. She reached out a trembling hand and touched Nigel’s cheek, brushing away a tear. “But you’ve never been out of my life, dearest.”

  Kerry and his mother shepherded everyone out of the room so the reunited pair could have some privacy. The dowager and Goldy led the adults away to the dining room for a hastily prepared luncheon, and the earl gathered his small charges for a foray on the kitchens. These new cousins of his spoke a French like nothing his tutors ever taught, but porridge was a universal language, and so were piglets and a puppy afterward.

  * * *

  Aunt Clara decided to travel with Nigel. She couldn’t remember a word of her schoolgirl French beyond j’t’aime, but that was enough. She adored her new children, was eager for a new adventure, and vowed never to let Nigel out of her sight again, even if she had to take up rod and reel.

  She would miss Kerry, of course, and the Abbey where she’d spent the last twenty years, and that kind gentleman who kept her company so many lonely nights. Waving her handkerchief out of the coach window, she made Kerry repeat his vow to offer comfort to the poor fellow.

  “Yes, Aunt Clara,” he called back, “as soon as I take care of some pressing personal matters myself.”

  He rode straight off to Westcott Hall. Lucky frisking and barking at Hellraker’s heels again now that the children were gone. Kerry kept yelling at the foolish mutt to shut up, the noise was giving him a headache.

  Miss Westcott was shopping in Farley. Did he want to wait? No, the earl had too many other matters to attend to, and once a woman started shopping, who knew how long she’d be? He’d call again the next day.

  And he whistled all the way home. What headache?

  * * *

  Lord Stanford’s headache returned that afternoon when his mother announced they were expected at Lady Prudlow’s for a dinner honoring her and Sir Goldy’s betrothal. Kieren could not dare refuse, she declared, lest people think he disapproved of her engagement. Besides, the Westcotts would be there, and what in the world was he thinking of, making that poor girl the butt of wagers and cruel jests?

  All the neighbors were there at the dinner, along with the vicar, some tonnish houseguests of the younger Prudlows’, a few sporting gentlemen up for Westcott’s hunt, and a gaggle of ladies of a certain age come to bear old Lady Prudlow company in the country fastness.

  They were all waiting, wondering when the rake would retire from the bachelor lists, watching to see when he’d ask Felicia to stroll through the portrait gallery or amble among the potted palms in the conservatory. Tarnation! Kerry felt he was back in the gun room with all those dead creatures staring at him through glassy eyes. Hang it, he was not going to conduct his engagement like a side show at the local fair. Besides, he’d forgotten to bring the deuced ring.

  So Kerry stayed on with Ralph Norris long after the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after port, continuing their discussion of winter wheat. Felicia was already at the pianoforte, Johnny turning pages, while the Prudlow girls sang. So the earl chatted with Major Lawrence about the local terrain, with the dowager Duchess of Farnham about her rheumatics, and with the vicar about cushions for the church pews. He even took his turn singing with the others, but he did not take Felicia on a turn about the room.

  “I have an appointment to call on her tomorrow, Mother,” he said, resting his aching head back on the squabs during the carriage ride home. The countess did not make too many disparaging remarks about his mental capacity or his manhood, just enough that he proposed she and Goldy move up the date for their own wedding.

  At home, the earl found that he could not sleep. Lucy hadn’t come, so he decided to go exploring and satisfy his vow to Aunt Clara. He wrapped his dressing gown more securely around him, put an extra candle in his pocket, and set out for the east wing and the second earl.

  He didn’t see the haunt, but he did see stars shining through the ceilings, bird droppings on some of the warped floors, and at least one bat. Devil a bit, this was more than he and a handful of amateur handymen could fix. Such a mess needed architects, engineers, skilled carpenters, and plasterers. Since he didn’t require the rooms, especially with Aunt Clara and his mother moving out, and couldn’t afford their upkeep, it might be better to tear the east wing down. Then again, the whole blasted thing might fall down of its own accord before he had the wherewithal to make repairs.

  Kerry hefted a fireplace poker over his head to check one ceiling for dry rot. It was there, all right, enough so his slight disturbance brought half the plasterwo
rk down on his head.

  Now he had a headache for sure. As he lay on the ground, waiting for the dust to clear and the room to stop spinning, he thought he saw a gentleman in doublet and hose step out of the wainscoting. He shook his head, which was a definite mistake, for a black curtain came down over his eyes.

  “Thou hast done well, lady. I never bethought myself the varlet could be brought to duty and honor.”

  “Oh, he only needed a nudge, my lord,” Lucy answered. “He’s a fine man, truly.”

  “I doth not contradict a lady. ’Struth, shalt indeed be an heir soon?”

  “The good Lord willing. I am sure Lord Kieren is.”

  “Hmm. He looks a bonny lad, not unlike mine own self in bygone days. Why is he garbed like the veriest hired mourner, forsooth, in those somber hues? Lady Clara had reason and respect for her widow’s weeds. What hath this scoundrel?”

  “Your many-times-great-grandson is considered a nonpareil, Lord Stanford. Those dark colors are the height of fashion.”

  “Fie on fashion! The knave depresseth mine eyes. And thou, my lady, with thy gown buttoned chin to toe, might be in a nunnery. Bah! Hast thou told him about me?”

  “No, my lord. I tried, but he has been too concerned with other matters.”

  “He be as thick-headed as ever, but thou art too much the Lady Fair to speak it.”

  Lucy chuckled. “I believe it would take a miracle to change his stubbornness, not just a tiny push.”

  “A kick in the noble posterior might do it. Too bad the jobberknoll doth not know what a treasure he possesseth.”

  Kerry tried to raise his head to say that he did know. He knew without a doubt that Lucy was the best thing that ever happened to him. And he tried to ask the old gentleman if there was aught he could do about it, but his tongue wouldn’t find the words and the mist wouldn’t clear from his brain.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “If you had to choose between love and duty, my lord, which would you select?”

  “What is this, Lucy, an oral examination to pass through the Pearly Gates?”

  A cold rain falling through the new hole in the east wing’s ceiling had woken Kerry. He’d stumbled down the hall, covered in plaster dust, moaning. Cobb the butler lost two years from his life. This morning the earl had awakened much too early when his valet entered to find piles of reddened towels and blood on his sleeping—or murdered—master’s head. Derek’s shrill cries had the earl off his mattress and lunging for a weapon to defend the household against marauding Huns. Naked.

  Derek ran off, his hand over his mouth, before he disgraced himself further. So now Kerry was trying to dress himself for his morning call. Rain was still falling in torrents, his hair would never cover the gash on his forehead, and Miss Westcott was waiting. Kerry was not in the mood for metaphysical word games.

  Lucy tried again, although she was distracted by watching him shave, the way he lifted his chin and turned to the mirror, just so. “Um, well, if two people loved each other very much but you had the power to come between them, and felt it was your duty to do so, would you weigh their happiness against your honor?”

  “Cut line, Lucy. All this roundaboutation isn’t like you. How can I answer when I don’t know the circumstances? Like if I saw a couple eloping, would I cry rope on them? Why should I if they don’t mind facing the scandal?”

  “But if one of the elopers were your own fiancée?”

  He put down the razor and turned to her, his face half covered in lather. “Just what are you saying?”

  Lucy studied the buttons at her wrists. “Felicia and Johnny Norris. They love each other and have since they were children playing together.”

  “And they are eloping?”

  “Oh, no, they would never do what I did. Miss Westcott is too aware of the impropriety and Johnny has too much honor to bring her such disgrace.”

  “But he doesn’t have enough honor to offer in form?” Kerry asked angrily.

  Lucy shrugged. “He knew he would have been refused. Besides, he cannot provide for her. No man of integrity would offer love in a cottage to the woman he adored.”

  “Instead, he’ll make me a cuckold, is that it?”

  “How could you even think that of John Norris? He’s your friend! And much too honorable to even consider such a thing as making love to another man’s wife, or wife-to-be.”

  “You’re right. I was judging him by myself. Johnny Norris is too fine a man. But what about Felicia?”

  “She loves him, but she knows her duty, too. A wealthy marquis’s daughter does not marry a land steward or a half-pay officer.”

  “Instead, she’d marry a half-mad earl and we’ll all be miserable,” he said in bitter tones.

  “No, you are all reasonable adults. You will all try to make the best of things. Felicia would never show her unhappiness; Johnny would never wear his heart on his sleeve; and you would never have known if I hadn’t told you.”

  “Then why did you, dash it? I thought you wanted me to marry a fortune, settle down, try to be generally faithful, beget my heirs.”

  “I did. I do. But I want your happiness also. I thought you could find it with Miss Westcott. I was wrong, for you cannot be happy considering your own well-being ahead of their chance for love.”

  “Not even for the Westcott fortune? You had me damned near convinced I could.” He furiously wiped his face with a towel, spattering lather at the mirror. “And what about you if I do not fulfill my obligations, marry well, and secure the succession? What happens to your chances if I am not a reformed character?”

  Lucy twisted the ribbons of her gown between her hands. “I don’t know, but I am willing to take the chance.” His happiness was worth any sacrifice to her.

  “Well, I am not, damn it! We can all be comfortable, you said it yourself. And there’s no guaranteeing that if I don’t drop the hanky Johnny will, or will be accepted, so that’s a bad gamble against your odds of success. If I gave up Miss Westcott, I’d really only be giving up the money. Even I know money isn’t everything; just look at the fortunes that have drifted through my hands these past days. But you, you are talking about eternity!”

  “If the money is the only reason for offering, you should never do it! Give her up, Kerry,” she begged. “I told you I was wrong. Happiness does not have to be forfeited for duty, and I do not mean just Felicia and Johnny’s happiness. You deserve the opportunity to find your own true love someday, too.”

  Someday seldom came twice. A hard knot formed in Kerry’s chest, squeezing down. If he couldn’t marry where he wished, what matter whom he wed? What did any of it matter?

  “I’ll think about it,” he told her, turning back to complete his shave. The water was as cold as the chill in his heart.

  * * *

  He should have taken the closed coach in this confounded never-ending rain, but the horses were ancient and the dowager’s driver was older than that. In London the earl would not have given a second thought for the hackney driver he’d have hired, sitting out in the teeming downpour. Here, people’s feelings had to be considered, their welfare taken into account. Now he was having to be responsible for their blasted happiness!

  Felicia and her mother were waiting for him in the parlor, embroidery in their laps. He admired the fancy work, commented on the wretched weather, and gratefully accepted a glass of sherry after his cold, wet ride. A polite interval later, Lady Westcott recalled a message for her housekeeper and excused herself.

  How civilized, Kerry thought: the heiress trigged out in style, the chaperone conveniently gone missing, the father likely down the hall cleaning a pistol. He took a deep breath.

  “Miss Westcott, do you know why I have asked for an interview this morning?”

  “Yes, my lord, I think I do.” She seemed uncertain whether to continue with her embroidery or to stuff it away somewhere. Kerry ended her confusion as to the proper mien for entertaining a proposal by lifting the cloth out of her hands and sitting besi
de her on the couch. He wanted to see her face.

  “And do you wish to marry me, Miss Westcott?”

  “I am deeply cognizant of the great honor you do me, my lord,” she recited, having that part down pat.

  “But that is not what I asked, Miss—blast it, Felicia. I am asking if you would rather I didn’t ask, if you would rather marry someone else.”

  She stared at her hands, the correct, reserved beauty not having a suitable response to such an inquiry. “My lord?”

  “Fiend seize it, do you love Johnny Norris?”

  Felicia grabbed back her embroidery and started setting fast, furious stitches. “My lord Stanford, you offered for me, and my papa said he accepted for me. That is all that need concern you.”

  “As I told your father, I prefer to do my own asking. And I do believe it concerns me that my intended might be wishing me to Jericho. Call it vanity if you will—I know that’s a great sin of mine; I am working to improve—but my pride does not gracefully accept being a female’s second choice.”

  “Mr. Norris has never sought my hand. We are friends, that’s all.”

  “But do you love him?” he persisted, tipping her chin up so she was forced to meet his penetrating gaze. “Please, I must know the truth. Now is not the time for those social lies, for saying what you think I wish to hear, or what is correct for the situation. I swear no one shall ever know what we discussed here. Do you love Johnny Norris?”

  She whispered it. “Yes.”

  “And would you accept him if he did ask for your hand in marriage? Please be honest, my dear, all our lives depend on it.”