An Angel for the Earl (11 page)

“About Uncle Nigel…”

“No, some worthless copper mine shares can't help me now. It's looking more and more like the home woods have to go after all. Or my horses.”

Chapter Twelve

Both
.
Kerry was going to have to sell off the timber stand after all, and the string of hunters he kept stabled at the Abbey. A quick ride around the home farm to burn off some of his fury before confronting his mother showed him how much needed to done. Even his inexperienced eye put the cost at well over what he could realize from the price of his horses. He hadn't been able to afford the hunt last year anyway; this year looked to be no different. Why should he have the nags eating their heads off in the stables, requiring grooms and exercise boys, when he had better use for the money?

Kerry surprised himself by realizing that he wouldn't mind half so much selling off his stable in order to make an investment in the future. A new plow, say, or having a work crew come in to dig that drainage ditch. But to pay his mother's gambling debts to a rogue of a neighbor who most likely fuzzed the cards besides? Now,
that
was a waste of fine horseflesh, like the prime goer under him right now. To say nothing of that woodland where his tree house still leaned precariously among the branches. Hell and tarnation!

Stanford kept riding at a furious pace, past his property line, past the small farms, past the little village, until he could see a large house on a hill. Lord Humboldt's derelict old place used to be the neighborhood's haunted house, attracting small boys who would dare each other to knock on the door or snatch a fallen chestnut from the big tree beside the windows. Now the mansion was all in lights as dusk fell, with every pane of glass shining, every shrub manicured into precision. Goldy Flint had put his money to good use.

Not quite sure of his own intentions, the earl rode up the graveled carriage path. He couldn't call the cit out; affairs of honor were for gentlemen. If there was one thing Flint wasn't, that was it. Kerry could land the man a facer, though, he thought with eager anticipation, after demanding to know the price to redeem the Stanford rubies. At this moment Lord Stanford was so angry at both his mother and her cardsharp friend that he was willing to let the dastard keep the diamonds, let the countess wear paste.

“The lands come first.” Kerry almost fell off his horse when he heard himself say that aloud. He was too used to Lucy's presence. But where had such sentiment come from? Not two days ago he'd happily have consigned the estate to perdition. Must be that plaguey chit's influence there, too, making him act like a mooncalf.

Two grooms rushed forward to take his horse, and two footmen pulled open the double doors at the entrance to Flint's abode. A very proper butler in powdered wig bowed the earl into the marble hall. How many widows had the rogue swindled, Kerry wondered, to afford such a display? He snapped his riding crop against his leg.

Fortunately for Mr. Gideon Flint, the man was not at home at present. The butler informed Lord Stanford that his employer was away on business for a few days but was certain to call on Lady Stanford at his return, unless his lordship wished to leave a message?

His lordship wished to leave a few broken noses, but he merely nodded politely and returned to his horse, which had been rubbed down and walked.

Blast! But he should have known, Kerry told himself. 'Twas a full moon; likely the old scoundrel was out on a smuggling run. Either that or he'd already heard from the servants' grapevine or that toady Gilmore that the earl was onto his lay.

The countess had certainly been apprised of the earl's foray to Gilmore's and his subsequent fury. She had taken to her room with a severe megrim, her maid reported, caused by overexhaustion with plans for the ball. Short of breath and faint-headed, she was much too ill to grant her son an interview.

“Too faint-hearted, more like,” he muttered. He did direct the maid to extend his sympathy. “And tell your mistress I would not for the world have Lady Stanford jeopardize her health, so I insist there shall be no ball. I have already canceled her order for invitations.” There, that should take care of that bit of nonsense, too. Undoubtedly the countess would be too weak—and too furious—to descend for dinner either, so Kerry made his excuses to Aunt Clara and rode into town to the local tavern.

* * *

The village of Standing Falls used to boast an inn and two pubs. But that was when the mill was operating, when produce wagons and delivery carts and fancy carriages made frequent trips through the village, when every house on the main street was occupied. In other words, when Stanford Abbey was prosperous and supporting the local economy. Now Standing Falls was more fallen than standing. Half the cottages were deserted, the Stanford Arms posting inn was long boarded up, and only one unprepossessing alehouse remained. The church deacons might have been gladdened at the demise of the watering places, except that the house of worship had not escaped the overall decline: the broken church steps were replaced with a series of planks and barrels.

Kerry stepped around the makeshift stairs after leaving his horse at the livery, and made his way to the building under the sign of a torrent of liquid pouring into a mug. The Falls had been at the corner before his birth, serving generations of farmers. Now it served the needs of fieldworkers, servants, tradesmen, and gentry alike.

Some of all were represented this raw November evening. A party of well-to-pass but undistinguished travelers sat at the large table at the center of the room, quietly conferring among themselves over dinner. Kerry had noted their well-appointed carriage at the livery. A red-coated soldier was slumped over his drink at the inglenook, while a clerk of some sort made notes in a pad on the opposite side of the hearth amid numerous satchels and parcels. The local blacksmith and another man Kerry did not recognize were at one end of the long plank bar, and a group of thick-soled farmers were at the other end, warming their hands over mugs of steaming ale.

No one stirred at Kerry's entry beyond a few disinterested glances, so he took a table in the corner, his back to the wall. After a longer-than-polite interval the barkeep, who was also the tavern owner, called from behind the stained wood counter, “What can I do for you, your lordship?”

The blacksmith grunted. A few of the other heads turned, then went back to their drinks.

“Good evening, Ned. And you, Charlie,” with a nod to the brawny smith. “I'll have a pint and a menu.”

“It's pigeon pie, steak and kidneys, or stew, same as it's been every night for dogs' years. 'Course I don't expect you to recall that, your lordship, seeing as it's been—what? Two, three years since you been here in the neighborhood?”

One of the farmers snickered, his back to the earl. Kerry ordered the steak and kidneys and then started to eat in silence after Ned slammed a dish on the table in front of him. Tacit hostility was better than any more comments about gaming debts, he supposed. And the food was good, hot, and filling, even if it was the plainest fare he'd had in ages.

One or two of the farmers left for their own suppers, and a herder came in with his dog, proceeding to share a bowl of stew with the animal. Kerry was beginning to wish he'd brought the drowned mutt Lucky along; at least he'd have someone to talk to over the meal. Of course he could go back to the Abbey and chat with Aunt Clara. Or Uncle Nigel.

The toffs at the center table were preparing to leave, wrapping mufflers, drawing on gloves, settling their bill, when Kerry next chanced to look up as an odd odor reached his nostrils. The sheepdog? The blacksmith's pipe? The ages-old pigeon pie? No, there was Lucy, looking as wanton and as luscious as ever, patting the shoulder of the redcoat near the fire.

“Stop that!” Kerry shouted in what he was horrified to discover was a loud, jealous-sounding voice that drew the attention of everyone in the room. The earl ignored the startled looks, staring beyond them at Lucy trying to brush back the soldier's hair. He did manage to lower his voice as he asked, “What the hell are you doing here? You don't belong where men are drinking!”

“'Ere now, who are you to be insultin' one of our brave boys?” Charlie the blacksmith demanded, and one of the farmers, one of Kerry's own tenants, he thought, muttered, “'At's right, Charlie. Ask him where
he
was during the war.”

The gentlemen who were getting ready to depart looked at one another and shrugged, then hurried about their leavetaking before the scene got ugly.

Kerry gathered his wits back from where they'd gone begging at Lucy's half-bare chest, and apologized to the room at large. “No, no, never meant to insult anyone, especially a soldier. I was just, ah, woolgathering about something else entirely. Here, Ned, pour the fellow a drink on me. In fact, buy one for everyone.”

Charlie sat back on his stool, and even the sheepdog's hair lay flat again. Lucy still scowled at the earl when Ned roused the soldier enough to put a fresh glass into his left hand. Now Kerry noticed that the other sleeve was pinned up where his right arm was missing altogether. Oh, God.

“Can't you see he doesn't need another drink?” Lucy chided, trying ineffectually to stop the soldier from spilling the ale in his lap.

“Maybe he'd do better with coffee, Ned, or some hot food.” Kerry reached for another coin, but all that was left was his lucky gold piece. He put it on the table.

“Keep your blunt,” the barkeep said. “The lieutenant's meals are free. He lost his arm saving my nevvy's life in that heathen place.”

The lieutenant may have lost his arm, but Lucy had found it for him. To the earl's horror, she was walking around the soldier with a limp, bare arm, trying somehow to affix it to his shoulder.

“Do you mean that all those missing limbs are waiting for their owners in heaven?” Kerry choked out.

One of the farmers crossed himself and Charlie shook his head. “They was right at the Abbey. Few cards short of a full deck.”

But the veteran looked up and smiled sweetly at Kerry. “What a charming thought. That's something to look forward to, at any rate.” He lifted his coffee cup in salute. “Thank you, Stanford.”

“Johnny? John Norris? Is that really you? Of course it is. Man, it's been ages.” It had been almost ten years, in fact, since Kieren Somerfield had played cricket with the squire's sons on the village green. Kerry'd gone on to the university and then his life in London; Ralph had taken over his father's place right there in Wiltshire, but John had gone off to join the army.

“I'm deuced sorry about your arm, Johnny, and my, uh, tactlessness. I've been in a brown study here, coming home and all.” To say nothing of Lucy, who seemed to be checking the clerk's baggage on the other side of the fireplace.

Johnny waved away his apologies. “Welcome back, then, my lord, and take a seat.” He indicated the bench next to him.

“It's always been Kerry, John,” the earl replied as he carried his drink over and sat down. “So what are you doing now?”

“Drinking. What else is there to do for a one-armed man with no prospects?”

Kerry lifted his own glass. “At least you've got a good excuse.”

“Yes, I've heard of your difficulties.”

The earl took another swallow. “Everyone has. I'm thinking of selling off my stables. Do you think Ralph would be interested? He used to be horse-mad.”

“Still is, and still can't tell a Thoroughbred from a tinker's mule. If your cattle are as bang up to the mark as ever, I bet he'll snap them up in a flash. Be happy to talk to him about it if you wish, get back to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, I'd appreciate that.” Ralph Norris would treat the nags well, at least, and he could afford to pay top dollar. Not that it made parting with the horses any easier. Not that it would solve enough of Kerry's problems.

“Not enough, eh?” Johnny asked.

Kerry figured he wasn't a mind reader, just up on the local gossip. “Not by half.”

“What you need is an heiress,” Lieutenant Norris firmly stated.

“Not you, too, Johnny. That's all I'm hearing, find some fubsy-faced chit whose father's got deep pockets. Old Lady Prudlow's trotting out two well-heeled antidotes again this year.”

“Felicia Westcott's not fubsy-faced, and the marquis is warm enough for your needs,” Johnny insisted.

“If she's such a paragon, why don't you try for her?”

“What, a second son with no title and no prospects but m'brother's charity? Old man Westcott's too downy a cove for that.”

“You're right, my outlook is brighter,” Kerry said bitterly. “I at least have the option of selling my title when all else fails. What will you do? Go into government work?”

“A desk job? Never. And the army is done with me, so that ends that career. I intended to be a gentleman farmer, help m'brother run the place, that kind of thing. But I depress his wife. Breeding, don't you know. Sensitive type. And big brother doesn't think I'm capable now that I have only one arm. Doesn't want me out and about lest I hurt myself worse, he says.” He threw the mug of coffee into the fire, where it hissed, and called for another ale. “Do you know the best part? All those months of recuperation, lying there, do you know what I did? I read farm journals. Everything I could get my hands on, all about Coke and his new ideas, seed presses and crop rotation. Funny, huh?”

Kerry didn't laugh. “I wish someone would teach me half that stuff.”

“Pigs.”

Kerry looked around to see who Johnny was calling names. If his foxed young friend was starting a fight, Kerry hoped he didn't pick on the blacksmith.

Lucy was back, sitting beside Johnny, who was oblivious of her presence. How could he not notice, when Kerry could feel the tingle from here?

“Pigs,” Johnny repeated. “That's all you need to know. They're the most productive crop for your kind of land. Feed's the cheapest, they reproduce like rabbits, and the smell's not all that bad.”

“Pigs should suit you very well, you bacon-brain!” Lucy spoke up from Johnny's lap, begad! “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”