An Angel for the Earl (3 page)

Chapter Three

“Hell and damnation!”

“Exactly, my lord.” She was smiling now, pleased with his understanding.

“You mean you expect me to believe that a parcel of females, all martyrs and murderesses, got together and decided my fate?”

“And mine, my lord.”

He ignored that. “You're saying that females run the show there? What about God? What's He doing while all this is going on?”

“He? I'm afraid you're not ready for all of this yet, my lord.”

“But I am more than ready to be shut of this fustian nonsense. I really must ask you to leave, miss. I don't know how you got in—it's not like Demby to be so careless—and if someone paid you, tell him it was an excellent joke while it lasted. But let me give you some advice, ma'am, if you wish to continue your career, whichever career you choose. Do drop the missionary gobbledygook. You're liable to be labeled a reformer, and no one is comfortable around a moralizing zealot, especially any gentleman you'd like to encourage. No one takes that religion stuff seriously these days.”

“Sad, isn't it?” Her tone was wistful, but she did move toward the door in a graceful, gliding sort of motion.

Relieved the female was finally taking his hint, which was more an outright request, the earl vowed he'd have Demby's head in the morning if he found the man had let her in.

Lucinda paused at the sofa where she'd been sitting. She bent over to pick up her slippers, then kept bending until her softly rounded derriere was in the air, wiggling as she searched for something else underneath the furniture. Kerry loosened his cravat before he strangled. Damn, she was good. Too bad she was queer in the attic, and too bad he was punting on the River Tick. If the chimney sweeps didn't take credit, bits of muslin never did!

“Oh, my,” Lucinda exclaimed, blowing a dustball back under the couch. “Haven't you ever heard that cleanliness is next to godliness?” Still bending, she wiped her hand along the length of one shapely hip.

Kerry clenched his teeth, murmuring something about the devil preaching gospel, and almost reached out to thrust her forcibly from the room before he was tempted past endurance. Then he caught the gleam of something under the sofa. Along with another fluff of dust was a shiny yellow-boy, two crumpled pound notes, and the diamond stickpin he had thought lost in some boudoir or other ages ago.

“By George, that's marvelous!” he exclaimed, retrieving the bounty as she stood. He rose and held out one of the pound notes. “Here, you keep this, for bringing such luck.”

She shook her head. “Luck had nothing to do with it, my lord. I told you, I'm here to—”

Kieren, Lord Stanford, that nonpareil among the Corinthian set and paragon of fashion, was already back on all fours, searching beneath the rest of the furniture. “Blast, only a silver button.”

The woman was gone when he straightened up. Kerry shrugged. She had been a diverting interlude, no denying, but now he had business to attend to. Two pounds, a golden guinea, and a stickpin weren't much of a fortune, but they more than tripled his current holdings. He couldn't begin to pay off even the smallest of his obligations, but now he had a stake. Not much of one, for certain, but enough, with Lady Luck on his side. Or whoever that peculiar ladybird was.

His lordship went to bed for a short sleep, blessing Demby's careless housekeeping. His dreams may have been filled with scarlet women, but he still woke refreshed and eager. A bath, a change of clothes, some of Demby's wretched coffee with the grounds still floating in it, and he was ready. He left the two pound notes with his servant for safekeeping. “And do see about the chimneys, Demby, that odor was appalling.”

* * *

Manton's shooting gallery was thin of custom so early in the morning, but there were enough sportsmen practicing their aim to offer a bit of competition.

“Shall we make a little wager on the results, gentlemen?” The earl was priming his father's silver-sided pistols.

“With what, Stanford? I'm still waiting on that monkey you owe me from last week at Crockford's.” Lord Thurston curled his lip.

“The end of the month, dear fellow, the end of the month. No, I meant a friendly little bet, just to keep the practice session interesting. I say, that's a pretty little trinket you have in your neckcloth. Not an heirloom or anything, is it? No? Then care to chance it against my diamond?”

The earl couldn't lose, not today, not with his father's perfectly balanced pistols, a clear eye, and that lucky gold piece in his pocket. Soon he had a collection of stickpins, snuffboxes, and silver shoe buckles, a magpie's horde indeed. Kerry whistled all the way to Reyerson's, one of the lesser Bond Street jewelers.

* * *

Lucinda, meanwhile, was at the lending library doing research. Two matrons vowed to take their trade elsewhere, and one purple-turbaned dowager had to have feathers burnt under her nose, so bad was the smell. A rat must have died in the wainscoting, one of the harried clerks suggested as he reshelved books no one admitted to taking down.
Paradise Lost
and Dante's
Inferno
were not the usual fare for the ladies who came to Hookham's for the latest Minerva Press offerings.

* * *

Reyerson's was not as distinguished as Rundell and Bridges, but it was more discreet, catering to the bucks and bloods of the ton, rather than the beaus. The losers at Manton's would know where to go if they wished to ransom their trifles; that was the accepted thing, and Reyerson was accommodating. A fellow didn't run so much a chance of meeting his mother's correspondents while he redeemed his watch there, either.

Kerry had his watch, his diamond stickpin, and a purse that jingled cheerfully when he turned to leave the premises.

“By Jupiter, it's Stanford! Just the chap I was hoping to see!”

“You were? That is, delighted to see you, too, Fortnam. Been out of town, have you?” The earl's mind worked frantically, trying to recall his old friend's name on any of the betting slips he owed. “The end of the month—”

“Just in town for a day or two, don't you know, never believed I'd run into you like this. Congratulate me, man, I'm married.”

Fortnam could have demanded the deed to Stanford Abbey and Kerry would have been less surprised. “Leg-shackled, you? I never thought I'd see the day!”

“Yes, I know, more's the pity. I can't believe I waited so long. Kerry, it's the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

They shook hands again. “Thrilled for you, Fortnam. Who's the lucky lady? Do I know her?”

“No, and you never shall if I have my way, not with your reputation with married women. She's from the provinces, never even had a come-out, never wants one, she says.”

“A gem beyond price.” The earl stared pointedly at the gaudy bracelet in his friend's hand. Fortnam's ruddy cheeks got redder.

“Not at all the thing for Frederica, of course. It's a parting gift for Mimi.”

“What, never say you are giving up the delightful Mimi, and for a mere wife?”

Fortnam laughed. “Just you wait, my boy. It'll happen to you someday. But that reminds me why I was so glad to see you. Here.” And he took out his checkbook and wrote a draft on his bank for a hundred pounds. “Remember that old wager we had over who would turn benedict first? I'm more than happy to pay up. No, don't argue. I know you're going to say to keep the money for a wedding gift, but I really want to settle up the best bet I ever lost.”

Kerry was just staring at the note in his hand. A hundred pounds? “I don't know what to say. I—”

“That's all right, Stanford, I know you can't believe it's me touting parson's mousetrap, but you really ought to try it. Of course, my Frederica is divine. You ought to find an angel for yourself, man.”

A hundred pounds? “I believe I may have met one just last night.”

* * *

The stickpin money went to purchasing a pretty tea service for the newlyweds; half the hundred pounds went to Demby, for safekeeping.

“And I don't care what the blasted chimney sweep said, something's wrong with this fireplace that's stinking up the room. Call in another if you have to.”

When he shut the window—demned waste, letting his coal heat all of London—that woman was there again. Her gown didn't seem quite as sheer, or quite so skimpy. Perhaps it was a trick of the daylight, for she certainly hadn't lost any of her allure. “My, you are persistent,” he said, thinking of the fifty pounds in his pocket. He really needed it for the card game later, but…“What is the price, anyway?”

“To keep your soul from eternal damnation? They wouldn't give me specifics, so I've been trying to find out.”

Kerry ran his fingers through his carefully arranged brown curls. “Persistence be damned. Not that moralizing tripe again, I pray you. Just name a figure.”

“It's too bad you are not a Papist,” Lucinda went on as if he had not spoken. “You could simply confess your sins, sincerely repenting them, of course, and be spared the hellfires.”

The earl lit a cigarillo, a sure sign of his frustration, that he might smoke in front of a lady—no, a female, even—without asking permission. “Ma'am, you are sin personified, and I confess I am already burning for you. The only thing I might repent beyond the cost is having to listen to any more of this claptrap. Sincerely.”

Lucinda stamped her foot. “Oh, how am I going to make you pay attention?”

Kerry inhaled deeply on the cigarillo. “I assure you,
chérie
,
you have my complete and total attention.” Then he watched as the lightskirt bit her lip in concentration, muttering words he thought sounded like
rattle-pated rake
and
bone-headed bounder.
This dasher was certainly adding new dimensions to the oldest profession.

He exhaled in a perfect ring. Lucinda's scowl turned into a smile as she waved her arm through the smoke without disturbing the circle. Kerry blinked. “Excellent, ma'am, although I did have more in mind than parlor tricks.”

“Oh, you must have buckram wadding where your brain is supposed to be! I know, touch me.”

“At last.”

Now, a gentleman would have reached out in a gentle caress along her cheek, or a soft stroke on her bare upper arm. Stanford was well past the stage for gallantry. He reached to wrap his hand around one of those enticingly round, milk-white globes that were barely concealed by the bodice of her gown. And touched nothing. His fingers tingled, but there was nothing in them. Nothing.

Lucinda gasped and swung her arm back. Kerry didn't duck; he knew he deserved the slap. Her hand came around and he felt the air whoosh by, and that same tingle, but no contact. Nothing. Silently Kerry reached out again, this time gingerly, respectfully. He tried to touch her arm, tried to feel one of those silky red curls, even the fabric of her gown. Lucinda let him, standing still, and even reached toward him, as if to smooth away the frown lines between Kerry's eyes. The hair on the back of his neck rose, the way it did when he was out in a lightning storm, then he felt light-headed, as if he were about to faint. He sat down in a hurry.

“My God, I didn't know my imagination was that good!” was all he could say when he could speak again.

Lucinda nearly ground her teeth in aggravation. “It's not, you clunch. I am not a product of your muddled mind, not even a night dream. I found the diamond stickpin for you, remember?”

“Then you're a…ghost?”

“I told you, I'm not dead yet. I'm just between positions right now, somewhat like an unemployed governess.”

“Not an angel?”

“And never like to be if you don't show a little more cooperation, my lord.”

Kerry got up and poured himself a brandy. His hands were shaking worse than Demby's. Still, he managed to get most of the liquid down his throat before sinking back into his chair at the desk. Lucinda was sitting atop the cherrywood surface, swinging her bare feet.

“So you're a minion of the devil,” he asked, “here to save my soul? I thought it was the other way round.”

“Heaven knows the devil doesn't need any more souls. And I am not quite consigned to hell yet either, so they gave me the opportunity to save both of us.”

“Uh, are you so sure I'm destined for Hades?”

“My lord, do lust, gluttony, vanity, and sloth mean anything to you?”

“I think you have just described the Prince Regent.”

“Gambling? Gossiping?”

He was glad he'd thought to bring the bottle with him so he didn't have to get up again. He didn't bother pouring into a glass either. “And every other gentleman of fashion in London. It's not so bad.”

“It's not so good. Can't you see, the tonnish life is leading you to perdition.”

“Dash it, if I'm so wicked, then why did they even bother sending you? Assuming, of course, that any of this is real.”

“They sent me because they thought there might be hope for you. Someone spoke on your behalf.”

“Must be Uncle Nigel. He speaks to everyone. Well, I hope you can help with this mess.” His hand indicated the bills and such still in neat piles on the desk in front of him.

“That's nothing compared to the mess your immortal soul is in.”

The drink was taking effect. The earl flashed Lucinda a sweet smile. “Then one more sin won't matter. What did you say your name was?”

She sat up straighter and stopped swinging her legs. “Miss Lucinda Faire, my lord.”

“I'll never accept you as a prim and proper Miss Lucinda Faire. Why, if St. Peter ever got a glimpse of those ankles, he'd never let you out of the Pearly Gates.”

Lucinda thought she blushed, but without a mirror, of course, she couldn't be sure. “I have already been taken in by two silver-tongued devils: the one who got me into this fix in the first place, and the one who set me the impossible task of reforming a confirmed hellraker. So don't waste the effort of turning me up sweet, my lord. You may call me Lucinda, Lord Stanford, since we are to be such close companions.”