An Angel for the Earl (7 page)

Chapter Seven

He
didn't mean to start the fire, of course. Kerry just lit his cigarillo and sprawled back in his comfortable chair to contemplate his dreary future. Thinking of ways to circumvent those strictures—he hadn't precisely given his word to abandon the life of a London gentleman; there had been no chance yet to see if he could win a wager—he remembered the smoke and sparks coming from Lucy. Gads, she was magnificent when she was angry. Of course, he'd do his best never to provoke her again, but wondered if such a passionate nature carried over to other situations. Those heaving breasts, the flushed cheeks…

Of course she did have that freakish layer of prudery. The earl contemplated trying his hand at a little reform himself. After all, even a saint should experience a few of life's finer things before giving them up. Thinking of some of those finer things, he fell asleep.

When his head hit the armrest, Lord Stanford awakened enough to take himself upstairs to bed, where the dream continued. Oh, my, yes. There was Lucy calling his name, desperately urging him to hurry. There was that tingle, a frisson, a warm quiver to his face, his bare chest where she was grabbing at him in her frenzy. And there was that wretched smoke. How the devil did anyone make love with their eyes streaming and their throats gasping for fresh air? He coughed and sat up, awake.

“Thank goodness! There's not a minute to spare! Now, hurry!”

The room was filled with smoke and a distraught Lucy, trying to tug at him. He didn't see any flames, but the heat was uncomfortable and the smoke was unbreatheable. Staggering to the window, he threw it open and took deep cleansing breaths.

“Hurry! The fire!”

Kerry didn't wait for another warning. He grabbed up his coat, his purse, some papers, and his boots before hurtling down the stairs. That's when he saw the flames coming from his study and traveling along the faded Aubusson down the hall. The dry-as-dust wainscoting was smoldering, the ancient paper was curling off the walls. He ran through the great hall toward the front doors, away from the flames and thick smoke, glad for once that the place was no longer filled with priceless treasures.

Outside he shouted “Fire! Fire!” to draw the attention of the watch, who ran off to alert the fire brigade. He drew on his boots and his greatcoat, stuffing the papers and such in his pockets, and thought of going back for his father's Mantons.

Lucy was fluttering around the earl, anxiously patting him to make sure he was intact. “No, no, you mustn't. The whole place could burst into flames at any minute!”

Kerry supposed she was right. Besides, now he could buy a new pair if he had to. “Oh, my God, Demby!”

Racing around the side of the house, Kerry tried the service door. It was locked, of course. He tore off for the kitchen entrance at the rear of the house, and didn't even bother trying the handle. He just stepped back, then kicked the door in with his booted foot. Lucy was already inside, on her way to the apartment Demby kept near the kitchen, what would have been the housekeeper's rooms. “Hurry!”

The smoke was as bad here as on the upper story, the fire having traveled down the bare wooden servants' stairs. Kerry took two deep inhalations before plunging into the fire cloud.

Demby was in his bed, not stirring at Kerry's shout. Not breathing at all, in fact. The earl lifted the smaller man from the bed, blankets and all, and over to the window. Blessing the ground floor, he shoved his valet-cum-housekeeper out the window onto the shrubbery, and leapt out after him, dragging Demby to a safer distance away from the house.

“Breathe, man, breathe,” he urged the gray-skinned man, shaking Demby's thin shoulders in a futile effort to jolt air into the man's lungs.

“The kiss of life,” Lucy directed. “Give him the kiss of life!”

Kerry stared at her blankly. “The what?”

“Breathe into his mouth, you dolt! Hurry!”

The earl looked at his servant's unshaven face, straggly beard, stained mustache, and yellow teeth. “Like hell.”

“Confound you for a gutless jackaninny, just do it.”

So he did, and shook Demby again for good measure. Demby started to cough and wheeze and gasp for air, but he was breathing.

Lucy was radiant. “You did it,” she cried, clapping her hands. “You saved his life! You endangered your own to save a fellow man, and then gave him your very breath! Oh, they have to appreciate this up there. Such a noble act has to cancel some of the wickedness, it just has to. So generous, so selfless, so—”

“So where's my stash?” Kerry thundered, shaking poor Demby again.

“Under the bed,” Demby rasped. “With my collection.”

Kerry dashed back into the house while Lucy shrieked like a banshee about his jeopardizing her chance for heaven with his recklessness and greed.

There were two boxes under the bed, so Kerry dropped both out the window before hurtling after, just as something in the kitchen exploded with a roar and a burst of new flames.

The fire brigade had arrived by then, in time to get a good view of the flames while their captain dickered with Demby over his lordship's lapsed fire protection policy.

Kerry opened his purse into the captain's hand. A new policy was instantly in effect.

“Exceptin' your lordship might also be interested in a benefit lottery we be holdin'. For the widows and young'uns of us brave firefighters, don't you know, what has fallen in the line of duty. Drawin's soon, and we only be sellin' a fixed number of tickets, so chances are pretty good.”

“Better than the chances of any of your brave boys putting out my fire if I don't take a ticket, I suppose,” the earl muttered, emptying his purse into the waiting palm. The captain whistled his men to work.

Demby was sitting up against the garden gate, blankets still draped over his shoulders. He was staring into one of the boxes, his stricken face looking more ghastly than it did when he wasn't breathing.

“Not the money, man, tell me the money is safe!” Kerry begged, falling to his knees next to the servant.

“No, my lord, your property is secure.” He indicated the other box, where a household account ledger rested atop a leather pouch. “It's my, ah, collection.”

“Deuce take it, I'm sorry if anything got damaged when I threw the box from the window. Didn't seem much choice at the time, you know.”

“Of course not, my lord. And I believe the damage was done by the heat, not the fall.” He held the box out with hands that shook less than usual.

Kerry looked in, then stirred the contents with one finger. “Uh, you were collecting candle stubs? I mean, I know it's been bellows to mend for a bit, but candle stubs?”

“Not candle stubs, my lord, wax carvings. Figurines I was going to have cast in bronze when we were in the chips again. Pewter, anyway. Here.” And he unwrapped a piece of flannel to reveal a brass dragon small enough to fit in the earl's hand.

“Why, this is exquisite. Too bad it's not jade or ivory. Wherever did you come by such a fine piece of workmanship?”

“I had it cast the last time the dibs were in tune, you recall, when we did so well at Newmarket last year.”

“You mean this is from one of the candle stubs? Uh, wax carvings? You're saying you did this? With a knife?”

“A chisel, actually.”

“With your palsy?”

Demby took the statuette back with hands that didn't tremble at all. He coughed, as if there were still a residue of smoke in his chest. “The tremors passed when I stopped drinking, which is what cost me my apprentice mason job in the first place. I didn't like being a valet, my lord. Or a groom, or a cook, butler, footman, whatever. While you believed me incapable of performing all those duties, I had more time for my carving.”

“Blast it, I hired you as a man-of-all-work,” Stanford complained.

“But you never paid me, my lord.”

What could the earl say? For one of the first times in his life he said he was sorry. “And for your collection melting. Lord only knows how, but I'll make it up some way.”

“You already did, my lord, you saved my life. Besides, while I was lying there more dead than alive, an angel came and told me we'll come about.”

“She wasn't wearing a red dress, by any chance, was she?”

“You know, I wondered about that very same thing.”

* * *

Kerry sent Demby off to a hotel while he in his shirt-sleeves went to help the firefighters, carrying buckets and hoses. He even went with them to have a mulled ale after, to warm up. Just one. The captain said it was too soon and too dark to assess the destruction, but guessed it likely that the worst damage was from the smoke and water. The fire hadn't really spread yet, so the structure should be sound. Of course, it would take most of Kerry's remaining funds just to get the place clean and livable again, to say nothing of his clothes, household necessities, and buying the firemen a few more rounds.

He decided to bed down in the stables for the night rather than follow Demby to the hotel, thinking to guard against any looters bacon-brained enough to believe there was anything of value left in Stanford House.

He was counting the money Demby had been keeping, adding in the remnants from his purse and his pockets. He added the fireman's benevolent lottery ticket to the pile.

“You won't win, you know.” Lucinda was sitting on an overturned bucket in the corner of the empty stall his lordship had selected as the evening's bedchamber.

She looked younger somehow, or perhaps the lantern glow made her hair seem more gold, less red. The sight of her still took his breath away, and not just because she'd appeared out of nowhere. “How can you be sure?” he asked.

“I just saved your life. Can't you trust me?”

“I never got a chance to thank you for that either. The firemen said it was a miracle the smoke didn't kill me.”

“There's no need to look so humble.” Lucy thought Lord Stanford was looking even more handsome than ever, in fact, brown curls all tousled and a smudge on one cheek. No wonder the man found it so easy being a rake. “I cannot very well save your soul without saving your life. Speaking of souls, no one has yet gone to heaven on a wager, so you may as well give poor Demby that raffle ticket to get his mind off his loss. We have nobler considerations.”

“We do?” Still, he put the printed ticket away in the box, then shuddered as Lucy produced a thick sheaf of papers. “By Jupiter, ma'am, you don't intend to start reading me sermons, do you?”

“Would they do any good? I have it on high authority that you never paid proper attention to one before, so I misdoubt you'd start at this late date. I had thought to find defense of sorts for your behavior here.” She tapped the papers. “The British legal code. Such things usually hold little sway with my, ah, superiors, but I thought if we proved you a model citizen…”

“That's the ticket. You can tell the lady judges I'm a regular upright law-abider. Never boxed a charley, never cried ‘Fire!' in a public place, except tonight of course.”

“Hmm. Do you know they have laws here in London about herding cattle through the streets, laws about crossing sweeps and sidewalk vendors and where Gypsies may camp? I'm afraid there is also a law about making duels illegal.”

“The magistrate wrote it up as a hunting accident.”

“And they did pass the Seditions Act.”

“What, should I go to jail for saying the king is insane?”

“You did tell Lord Sidmouth that we were losing the war due to inefficiency, and you have mentioned that England would be better off with a few more bordellos than with any of Prinny's pavilion schemes.”

“A man's entitled to his opinion.”

“Not according to this law, he's not. But no matter.” She sighed and tossed the papers into the hereafter. “The laws are very clear about arson.”

“Arson? I never—”

“Your cigarillo did when you fell asleep and dropped it under the chair. Willful negligence. Leading to loss of property and endangering lives.”

“I see what you're about. You're trying to get me to swear off tobacco.”

“It's a filthy habit. See where it's led? And just think what would happen if Demby had died. The entire hallelujah choir couldn't keep you from hell.”

The earl did not have any of his cigarillos with him, so it was an easy promise to make, but then he recalled that fiercesome display Lucy had put on at Lil's. Not above a little bargaining himself, he offered, “I'll stop smoking if you will.”

Lucinda blushed. “I am truly sorry for enacting such a scene. I'm…just not myself these days. Yes, I'll agree to that. Shall we shake hands on it?”

The feeling of warmth traveled right up Kerry's arm to bring a smile to his face. “You know, you look different. Your hair, your dress. Something.”

“Yes, isn't it wonderful?” Lucinda grinned back. “I even have a petticoat!” She clapped her hands to her mouth at the indiscretion. “Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that. But I couldn't help feeling my attire wasn't at all the thing. But now…It's the odds, you know.”

“The odds?”

“Yes, your chances of getting to heaven! You saved Demby's life and I got an undergarment!”

And a softer face, an inch higher décolletage, and satin slippers instead of decadent Roman sandals. Kerry sighed. Now he couldn't see the outline of her legs through the sheer gown. This business of reforming wasn't all a bed of roses.

Chapter Eight

Stanford House was salvageable, just. The stairs were unsafe, the parquet floors were buckled from the fire brigade's enthusiastic application of water, the wood paneling was soot-blackened, and the plaster ceilings were cracked from the heat and in danger of collapsing. On the other hand, the engineer reported cheerily, this was a fine opportunity to repair the dry rot on the upper story, the ill-fitting casements, and the antiquated kitchen.

Twitching in Lord Stanford's hands, not so cheerily, was an urge to strangle the fellow. The mandatory renovations alone would swallow his last shilling, leaving him with an unfurnished mansion, a fire-sale wardrobe, Demby, dry rot, and empty pockets. His watch and diamond stickpin might bring enough for new draperies, so the neighbors couldn't look in and see the Earl of Stanford sitting naked on the floor.

There was less than no chance of his borrowing another fortune either, with no unmortgaged collateral to put up, no future income to pledge away. Deuce take it, he'd gone only one whole day without being in debt, besides.

Then again, he could just board up Stanford House and move to a hotel until his money ran out. Afterward he could batten on his friends, going from house party to hunting box as many of the ton did. Kieren Somerfield, hanger-on, left a sour taste in his mouth.

Blast, he was in as bad a case as ever, only colder. Sitting in the remains of his study with the windows open, Kerry huddled in his greatcoat, wishing for a drink. The last of his wine had been rescued by the fire brigade—liberated, more like it—and the kitchen was in no condition to produce even hot coffee. 'Twould take a squad of hardworking lackeys weeks to restore the kitchen to its former disreputable condition. Months, if they were under Demby's direction.

Kerry took out his gold coin, his lucky coin—hah!—and tossed it in the air. Heads he went ahead with the repairs, tails he abandoned the old pile. The coin slipped out of his hands on the downward arc, however, and rolled into a pile of debris, his former cherrywood desk.

Botheration, he thought, getting down on his hands and knees in the wet muck. He couldn't afford to let a ha'penny get away, much less a guinea. He'd wager it was the last he'd see for some time. Wager? What was it the chit had said about him betting?

Kerry found the coin and tossed it to his other hand. “Heads,” he called. The coin showed tails. “Heads” again. Tails again. He called “heads” seven times, and got the reverse seven times. So he called “tails,” and heads came up.

“Now do you believe me,” Lucinda asked crossly, “or are you going to sit on the filthy floor all day, playing, when there's so much else to be done?”

Kerry scrambled to his feet and brushed off his breeches as best he could. Lucinda was perched on the window ledge, her dainty feet dangling into the room. She wore no pelisse, not even a shawl over that silky red gown, but Kerry's temperature rose a few degrees just looking at her. “Did you expect me to start mopping the floors, ma'am?”

“I didn't expect you to sit around feeling sorry for yourself.”

“God damn, I'm not—”

“And I thought we agreed that you would give up blasphemy?”

“We didn't agree to anything, if I recall. You made demands and threats; I listened, that's all.”

“Of all the thick-skulled, stubborn mules…I suppose some of us cannot rise in the face of adversity.”

“And I suppose some of us expect too much from others. Riding to heaven on my shirttails, indeed! Well, ma'am, let me tell you, you'd better find another driver. I cannot go around saving people from burning buildings and I cannot be giving alms to the poor, because I am one of them. So good deeds just aren't going to pull your chestnuts out of the fire. As for the rest, you'd better stop right now trying to make me what I'm not, for it won't fadge. I am a gentleman and I live by a gentleman's code. That's always been enough for me, and it shall have to do for you, too. The lady patronesses of Almack's are satisfied; I expect those inquisitors of yours can't be higher sticklers.”

Lucy smiled in delight. “Then there is such a thing after all! I searched everywhere and couldn't find any gentleman's code written out.”

“What kind of peahen looks for honor in a book?”

“Perhaps one who hasn't found it in the gentlemen of her acquaintance. Could you explain it to me?”

Kerry leaned against a bookcase long since emptied of anything but racing journals and old newspapers. He thought a moment. “Well, a gentleman keeps his word. That's the most important thing, so you can trust a chap if he makes you a promise. Like an I.O.U. That's play and pay, debts of honor when you put your name to them. And you can't cheat, of course.”

“Is the whole thing concerned with gambling, then? They won't be happy about that.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course not. There are lots of finer points to it, like always being dressed appropriately to the occasion.”

Lucinda's lip curled. “I'm sure they'll be impressed with that.”

“And the things fathers teach their sons at an early age: never pick on anyone smaller than you; don't foul your nest.”

“Don't…?”

Kerry picked a bit of dirt off the sleeve of his coat. “Don't bring loose women home to your mother. In later years, don't introduce your wife and your mistress.”

“My, those are finer points.”

“Never strike a woman,” he went on with gritted teeth, “no matter the provocation.”

“That's it?” Lucinda asked in amazement. “You cannot cheat at cards, but it's all right if you cheat on your wife as long as you're dressed correctly and she's not looking? Oh, and if she complains, you mustn't hit her. No wonder there are so few of your type in heaven!”

“That's not all of it,” he practically shouted. “Ladies must be shown respect at all times, even if they are shrewish, nagging fiends from hell.”

“Ladies, as opposed to serving girls or opera dancers?”

“All females deserve a gentleman's courtesy, some just more than others.”

“And virgins?” she asked curiously.

“Virgins are to be avoided like the plague. Their virtue's such a fragile thing, a gentleman can find himself honor-bound to make an offer if he sneezes in their direction. Like being here alone with you. If you were a real girl, which you're not, thank goodness, your reputation would be so tarnished after being with a libertine like me, I'd have to marry you. That would be the only honorable thing to do.”

“Is that why you never married? You never compromised a lady?”

“I stay out of parson's mousetrap out of choice, not because I haven't been forced into it. Blast, you are sounding like my mother. I thought we were talking of honor, not marriage.”

“Oh, I thought you mentioned something about fathers and sons. I don't suppose honor has anything to do with carrying on the family lines and all that.”

Kerry looked away. “A gentleman is expected to perpetuate his name, yes. But not until he's damned ready!”

A pencil appeared in Lucy's hand. She licked the point before setting it to paper. “Now, let me see. You did give your word not to smoke.”

“We shook hands on it, yes.”

“And wagering?”

“I'm not gudgeon enough to bet when I can't win. It's only for two weeks or so anyway, isn't it?”

“I don't think that's the spirit of the thing. I'll mark that one with a question. Drinking?”

“To excess? I can't afford to. Besides, I got deathly ill last time.”

“And you will next time, too.” She left a blank and went on. “Cursing?”

“Damn—dash it, I'll try if it will end your nattering on about it.”

“So I have your word on that?”

“To try, yes. I can't swear to minding my tongue every blo—blessed minute, but I'll try.”

“And women.” She made a big check next to that entry.

“Now, hold line, Lucy. You're the one who laid down the law there. I never promised any such thing. I mean, a female devil breathing smoke down a fellow's back can put paid to his desire. And if you're going to pop up anytime I feel randy and find myself a willing partner, well, that can limit my raking, all right. But I ain't turning monkish for you, by Go—by George. Not you nor the apostles altogether could keep me from lusting after a pretty girl.” He turned away. “It might help if you stopped swinging your legs like that, though.”

“Oh, dear.” Lucinda stood up and smoothed out her skirts. “It's hard to remember sometimes. The freedom can be quite intoxicating, it seems. Of course no lady…but then, our particular situation…the familiarity and all. You must admit the circumstance is unique.”

“To say the least,” he concurred, grinning now at her efforts to look the proper female, when she wore no gloves, had no hairpins to bring order to her tumbled curls, and possessed no fichu to stuff in the low neckline of her gown.

Lucinda made her hands stop fluttering and simply stood erect, recalling days with a backboard. “So what have you decided to do about the fire damage, my lord?”

“Actually I was hoping you could wave your magic wand and restore Stanford House to its former glory, from crystal chandeliers to priceless carpets.”

“I think you are confusing me with a fairy godmother or a genie in a bottle. They don't exist, you know,” she told him as if imparting a great truth.

“But angels and devils and miscellaneous in-between sorts do?”

“Of course. I thought we'd covered all that before. Oh, you were just teasing, weren't you? No one has ever…Anyway, my assignment is to help make you a better person, not improve your living conditions. So where will you start?”

The earl ran a hand through his hair. “Hang it, I haven't the foggiest. I'm tempted to shut the place up and take lodgings. Be cheaper in the long run, rather than sinking everything I own into this barracks. Foolish for just one man. My mother hates London; she'll never come.”

“Why don't you sell it if you care so little?”

He laughed without humor. “Don't you think my father would have sold it ages ago if it weren't part of the entail? Besides, who said I don't care about the old wreck? I simply cannot afford it. Were I to start restorations, just paying for the materials would strain my finances so that I couldn't afford a place to sleep in the meantime. I'd be back in the stables. I don't care what you have to say about mangers and such, I am not spending another night with my horses.”

“But if Stanford House were in good repair, you could rent it out for the season at some exorbitant fee that would cover the cost of refurbishing the mansion. Grosvenor Square is the prime location to launch debutantes, you know. A few years of that and everything would be paid for.”

“Fine, and what am I supposed to do during those few years, hire myself as majordomo in my own house?”

“You could go home.”

“I am home, or what's left of it.”

“The Abbey. Wiltshire. You could leave while repairs are being made here, go see about your estates, make something of them. I know you can if you only try.”

Kerry looked at her through narrowed eyes. “That's what you wanted from the first, isn't it, to get me away from the temptations of the city? You think I'll turn into a dutiful son if I'm out of the fleshpot, that I'll take tea with the vicar and his wife, marry some bran-faced squire's daughter, and raise a parcel of God-fearing, law-abiding, frugal farmers. I begin to think this whole fire business suits you to a cow's thumb.”

“
I
wasn't the one who fell asleep with a lit cigar in my hand,” she retorted.

He still looked suspicious, but said, “It makes no never mind. I cannot bring this place up to any kind of standard, and I cannot hope to do anything at all for the Abbey. If you knew anything about mortgages and such, you'd know that every shilling the place earns has to go to the bank just to pay the interest on the loans. I was hoping to put it off for my mother's lifetime, but sooner or later I am going to have to petition to break the entailment so I can sell the blasted place, just to meet the obligations.”

“You'd sell your son's birthright?”

“The devil take it, I don't have any son!”

“And aren't likely to at this rate,” she muttered, then: “Hmm. What's this, do you think?” She was staring at a water-stained picture that had peeled back in its frame.

“Just one of my father's hunting prints, nothing even remotely valuable. He cut them out of magazines, just to fill the wall space once the paintings were gone.”

“No, not the print. The painting under it.”

Kerry came over. “What painting? Let me see.” He scraped off the rest of the hunting print. “By George, there really is a painting under there. I can see why the governor covered the thing up. Deuced offputting, all that blood and gore.”

“He seems familiar,” Lucinda said, standing so close to Kerry she could have touched him, if she could have touched him.

“Who, the poor martyr chap on the cross? Did you ever get to meet…?”

“No, the artist's name. Cannoli, is it?”

Kerry grabbed the picture down off the wall, frame and all, and rushed over to the window. “My God, it is! Lucy, this is the missing masterpiece from the Italian school. Cannoli taught Leonardo! Why, if this is genuine, it's worth a fortune! My father must have covered it up to hide it from his creditors, then forgot to tell anyone.”

“Is it part of the entailment?” Lucinda called to him as he raced around the room, ripping scenes of horses and hounds out of frames. He brought two more oil paintings over to the window, though neither was as distinguished as the Cannoli.

“None of the furnishings were ever mentioned in the legal papers; that's how my father managed to dispose of so many antiques. I wonder why he kept these.”