An Angel for the Earl (8 page)

“For you, I suppose.”

“Lucy, do you know what this means? I'll have to have them appraised, of course, but, my word, the missing masterpiece! Lucy, I could kiss you!”

And he forgot that there really wasn't any body there, and did. And felt something. It wasn't flesh and blood, but it was warm and it sent shivers through him. Lucy must have felt something, too, for she blushed like any pure maiden. Then she disappeared, like any phantasm.

Chapter Nine

The solicitor was nearly as excited as the earl. “My lord, I cannot tell you how pleased I am. Why, the firm of Stenross and Stenross has been serving the Somerfields since our inception. I cannot express my sorrow over the recent situation. You
have
received my communications, haven't you?”

Kerry studied his fingernails.

“About the bank and the Abbey home woods? How they are demanding the trees be cut down and sold to pay something toward the debts? The wood being the last unentailed asset, they are growing quite insistent.”

The deer and the quail, the yule logs and the tree houses—the debts. “That will no longer be necessary.”

“Indeed, indeed.” The elderly man polished his spectacles. “The paintings will have to be authenticated, of course, but I believe we might expect in excess of five thousand pounds. I think I have a buyer for the Cannoli among my own clients, a very well-respected collector, don't you know, so we might avoid public auction and all the notoriety that entails.”

“I'm sure you'll think of everything, Mr. Stenross. I have always found your company to be most efficient and discreet.”

The solicitor preened. “Too kind, my lord. The profit from the sale of the Cannoli
is
to satisfy some of the outstanding interest on the Abbey mortgage, then?” If Mr. Stenross sounded hesitant, he was all too aware of the Stanford flaw, a fatal tendency to gamble away any income.

“Yes, and this other piece”—another massacred saint, this one sprouting arrows like a hedgehog—“should bring in enough to complete the repairs to the Grosvenor Square house. I'll leave it with you, if you don't mind, along with what funds I can spare now, and ask you to look over the bills as they come due.”

Mr. Stenross rubbed his hands. “Of course, of course, my lord. I can have my son oversee the whole project if you wish. He gets restless in these stuffy offices, don't you know.”

“That will be excellent. Thank you again.”

“We are always happy to serve.” Especially when the serving involved saving one of the noble houses, both the structure and the succession. Mr. Stenross was one of those who still believed that the aristocracy was one of England's treasures, to be preserved for future generations like any other decrepit landmark. “And the third painting, my lord? I do not recognize the name, but the style is very popular right now. It should bring in enough to make some of those needful repairs at the Abbey.” He was hopeful; things had been going so well, the earl being so reasonable, so responsible, so unlike himself.

His lordship shook his head.

“Then may I suggest the Consols?” Stenross put forward. “A bit of steady income here and there never comes amiss.” That was optimism indeed.

The earl was still studying the third picture. A saint—he had a gold halo—was on the ground amid some shrubbery and flowers. He was asleep this time, Kerry thought, for there was no blood, and the figure wore a contented smile. A cherub with rosy cheeks and flaxen curls floated overhead, like a guardian angel watching out for bandits or wolves or Romans. Something about the cherub reminded the earl of Lucy; perhaps it was the innocence around the eyes. “No,” he heard himself saying, “I do not want to put this one on the block unless I have to. Lock it away somewhere, will you, until Stanford House is ready for it. If it's possible, I'd like to save this one…for my son.” There, that should at least earn Lucy a hairpin. He felt good, until the other man started beaming.

“Oh, my lord, that's the finest news I could have heard. I never believed—that is, let me extend my heartiest congratulations and wish you every—”

“Not yet, Stenross,” the earl interrupted the other's effusions. “I meant someday. And if I find myself up the River Tick before then, well, the painting will have to go. Is that clear?”

“Of course, of course, but let us pray for the best, shall we? Now, my lord, where might I send information regarding the sale of the other two, and questions that might arise about the work at Stanford House? Have you found lodgings yet, or shall you be staying with friends?”

The earl cleared his throat. “You may, ah, send all communications to me at Stanford Abbey, Wiltshire. I'll stop there awhile and look into the mess. Only for the duration of the hammering and painting in Grosvenor Square, you understand.”

Not only did Lucy appear with her hair tamed from its wanton look—to the earl's mixed feelings—but now she had a bonnet. A tiny, saucy hat with a cherry bow at her cheek, it was just the thing for a curricle ride out of town.

“And you won't be cold? I could have bricks…” She just laughed.

The earl had spent a busy morning after conferring with Mr. Stenross's son about the repairs. He hired the contracting firm young Mr. Stenross had recommended, and called at one or two furniture warehouses. He visited his tailor, who welcomed him with delight, having received payment in full just the day before. Stanford was promised at least three sets of clothes, for evening, riding, and daytime, within the week. He also purchased ready-made shirts for the first time in his life, and a supply of cravats, handkerchiefs, and smallclothes. Locke luckily had a beaver hat that suited him, and the glovers had two pairs that fit almost perfectly. Demby would just have to do his best with the earl's sooty shoes and boots; there wasn't time to be fitted for new ones.

Demby would follow later in a hired carriage with the new clothes and whatever was reclaimable of the earl's smoke-permeated wardrobe; Kerry was eager to be off, now that he had made the decision.

He planned to make the trip in easy stages, not caring to leave his champion matched bays in indifferent hands, not wanting to arrive with job horses.

Lucy joined him outside of London, after the bays had run the fidgets out. Thank goodness, for the earl's hands jerked at the reins when she suddenly appeared by his side on the curricle's narrow seat. After bringing the high-bred cattle back under control, Kerry was able to appreciate his companion's glowing smile. This wasn't such a bad idea after all, stopping in at the Abbey, if it ended all that nagging and brought the chit so much pleasure. He supposed he'd wake up from this bizarre dream someday, but for now he could just enjoy her excitement.

“You see, I've never driven in a curricle before. How I used to envy those lucky girls out for rides with their dashing beaus, to be sitting so high and going so fast. And the fortunate men, to have control of such exquisite horses. None were as fine as yours, of course.”

For a moment Kerry was tempted to offer her the reins, which was astounding since he had never let a female touch the ribbons of his carriage yet. What was even more astounding was that he forgot she wasn't really there. She was in Derby, waiting for Gabriel to blow his horn. He shook his head.

“You didn't have any beaus to take you driving? I cannot believe all the men of Derby are want-wits.”

She giggled. “Oh, I do not believe I was very attractive to the gentlemen, being plump and pale and dowdy. But that wouldn't have mattered. Papa did not believe in fast horses, you see, or in dashing young men. He thought they were all fortune hunters. He also believed that fancy dresses and jewels encouraged a miss to put on airs, and that dancing encouraged young people in licentiousness. So I was never permitted to attend the local assemblies and such, where I could have met those whips.”

“Deuce take it, no wonder you ran off with a loose screw like Anders.”

“I do hope I would have made a wiser choice had I more experience, but I think I would have run away with anyone, rather than marry Lord Halbersham. He was old and mean, with hair in his nose, and had buried three wives before.”

“Good grief, why would your father accept his offer? You were—you are—young enough to wait for others. And with a decent dowry, even plain girls find better partis than that.”

“His title was higher than ours.”

“Begging your pardon, but your father sounds a curst rum touch.”

“Oh, no, he is a good man. Everyone says so. He supports the local foundling hospital and gives money to the church for new pews. His tenants are treated fairly and the servants always have enough to eat. Father is a great believer in noblesse oblige, the responsibilities of the privileged class to look after those who depend on them.”

“I
have
heard the term, ma'am,” Kerry said with a distinct chill in his voice.

“Oh? Then of course you have schools for your tenants' children. My father did not believe in education for the lower orders; no matter how I tried to convince him otherwise, he held that it gave them ideas above their station.”

The horses suddenly pulled at their bits. Kerry forced himself to relax. “Demmed cow-handed driving,” he muttered. “That's what comes of having a woman aboard.” When the horses were in stride again, he continued: “My tenants are in the care of my bailiff, Wilmott. I am sure he sees to their needs.”

“Then
I
am sure there is a school. And a doctor, of course.”

“Wilmott manages as he sees fit. Competent fellow, been with me for years.”

“If he is so competent, how come your rents have been declining for those same years and tenants keep moving on?”

“Damn—dash it, the whole nation's been in a decline, haven't you heard? It's not
my
fault farm prices are down. And I don't have the funds to do anything about the other stuff, roofs and floods and outdated equipment. You've seen the way I live. Hell, my tenants are most likely living better than I do.”

“Then I take it there is no school,” Lucinda commented softly, which was the last conversation for a while.

Late in the afternoon, when Kerry was thinking of seeking accommodations for the night, Lucinda told him to take a farm track off to the right.

“What, is there an inn there? I prefer one on the main road that's more used to dealing with fine horseflesh.”

“Just turn here, do.”

“Oh, you need to use the necessary. Why didn't you say so? I could have pulled over anytime these last miles. Strange, I wouldn't have thought a ghost or whatever would have to—”

“Just drive!” she ordered, blushing furiously.

He turned, but kept teasing. “After all, you don't eat or drink, do you?”

She wasn't listening. That is, she was listening, but not to him. Then he could hear the noise, too, screams coming from a short distance away.

“What…?”

Lucy told him to keep going; the shouting sounded closer. He pulled the horses to a walk, and felt for the pistol in his pocket. When they rounded a bend in the narrow road he could see a group of boys gathered around a smallish pond. The place looked to be the perfect swimming hole—if it were summer and if the boys knew how to swim. Apparently they didn't, for they were shouting on the bank while one of their number bobbed up and down in the water.

“Hell and damnation!” Kerry swore while Lucy urged him to hurry. He jumped out of the curricle, leaving the bays to stand alone—thank goodness they were tired—and ran toward the scene. The boys on land fled into the surrounding woods, likely afraid of being caught playing too near the water, Kerry supposed. The figure in the pond was barely struggling. “Hang on,” the earl shouted, looking for a long branch or something to hold out to the boy.

“You'll have to go in after him,” Lucy yelled.

“Dammit, you're the supernatural one of us,” Kerry yelled back, throwing his greatcoat to the ground, “why can't you part the waters or something?”

He jumped in, boots and all, and swam the short distance to the center of the pond. He couldn't see the child anywhere.

“He's gone down, just ahead of you,” Lucy called from shore.

The earl dove, came up for air, and dove again. This time his hands touched something, so he hung on and kicked upward. He got to the surface, raised the dead weight in his arms, and started to turn the air blue with his curses.

“You promised!” Lucy screamed, holding her hands over her ears.

“It's a bloody dog!” Kerry roared back. “I ruined my only set of clothes and my Hessians for a dog!” And he prepared to throw the animal back into the depths.

Lucy shrieked, “Don't! It's one of God's creatures, you heartless libertine!”

Kerry was already wet, and he already had the animal in his arms, so he swam closer to the bank and then waded ashore, dropping the small hound-mix at Lucy's feet. “Here.” He even untied the rock from around the pup's neck before returning to the curricle to check on his bays and dry himself off with the lap robe. He was pulling on one of the new ready-made shirts from his valise, when Lucy called to him.

“Kerry, he's not breathing!” Her eyes were huge, imploring.

“That's your department, angel. I did what I could.”

“Kerry, please.” A tear was starting to trickle down one cheek, leaving a path through the rouge.

“What do you expect me to—Oh, no, not the kiss-of-life bit again. Demby was bad enough, Lucy, but a dog? Never!”

The dog was whiskery and wet and smelled of swamp. Worse, when Kerry was done, the mutt crawled over and licked Lucy's hand.

“Of all the ungrateful—How come he can see you and no one else can?”

“He can see me only now, while he's so close to death. He'll forget in a minute and won't notice me at all.”

Sure enough, the dog, no more than a puppy really, soon whimpered to Kerry, wagging his tail.

“Oh, no, you don't,” the earl commanded. “You go find a softer touch. Go on home now, sir.”

“He hasn't got a home. He's been living in the woods, close to starvation. If he goes near that farm again, those boys will only try to drown him again, or the farmer will shoot him for bothering the chickens.”

“Damn and blast, woman, what do you expect me to do about it?”