An Angel for the Earl by Bárbara Metzger Page A

at all.”
    Sure enough, the dog, no more than a puppy really, soon whimpered to Kerry, wagging his tail.
    â€œOh, no, you don’t,” the earl commanded. “You go find a softer touch. Go on home now, sir.”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œDamn and blast, woman, what do you expect me to do about it?”
    So the dog sat between them on the curricle’s seat while the earl carefully backed the horses and returned them to the main road.
    â€œHe’s cold.”
    Kerry looked down, and the dog was indeed shivering. “With all the heat at your command, can’t you…? No, I suppose not. That would be too easy.” Soon the puppy was nestled next to the earl’s second-to-last clean shirt, buttoned under his greatcoat. No respectable hostelry would take him in like this, the earl considered, so he’d be bedding down in a stable somewhere with his horses after all. But the rouge was gone entirely from Lucy’s creamy cheeks, and her lips were now a natural pink color, spread in a happy grin. Kerry felt warm, despite the weather, his wet boots, and the damp dog.
    â€œAnd it’s only a few days until Demby gets here with the rest of my things anyway,” the earl conceded.
    â€œDemby’s not coming, my lord. He’ll send your clothes and belongings when he gets a chance, I suppose.”
    â€œNot coming? What gammon is this? Of course Demby is coming.”
    Lucy bit her lip. “Uh, remember that lottery ticket you gave him?”

Chapter Ten
    â€œJust look at you! Is this any way to enter a lady’s drawing room? And without telling us you were coming!”
    â€œHello, Mother. I am delighted to see you, too,” Kerry said, lightly kissing the powdered cheek Lady Margaret Stanford reluctantly offered.
    Her nose wrinkled. “What’s that odor? And what is that creature with you?”
    â€œIt’s my new valet. Shall we set a style, do you think? His name is Lucky.”
    â€œOh, you’re still a tease.” Aunt Clara chuckled, opening her arms for a hug, then thinking better of it. She shrugged and permitted the embrace, so she could whisper in his ear: “Nigel says you’ll need your sense of humor around this place.”
    â€œI see that everything is the same here.” The same overheated drawing room, the same caustic tongue, and the same superfluity of servants, with one coming to take the dog to the kitchen, one to fetch tea, one to notify the housekeeper to see to the master’s bedroom. Even the same Aunt Clara, still all draped in mourning crepe for Uncle Nigel after twenty years.
    â€œNothing is the same, which you would know if you read my letters,” the dowager Lady Stanford announced. “We have had to close the east wing due to dampness, cancel the annual open house because the grounds are in such deplorable condition, and I am ashamed to show my face in church after the vicar was nearly killed by a falling roof tile. I have been suffering from an agitation of the nerves for weeks now.”
    Kerry was suffering from days in an open carriage, nights in various barns, and an incipient head cold. He spoke a little more sharply than he intended: “It’s a wonder you don’t choose to reside in the dower house, then, if this one distresses you so.”
    â€œWhat, that pawky place? I could hardly entertain. Besides, think of the expense of operating two houses.”
    Kerry thought of his mother supporting herself on her own widow’s pension and leaving this pile with a mere caretaking staff. Talk of pipe dreams! The only abode suitable for the Countess of Stanford, according to the Countess of Stanford, was Stanford Abbey, every moldy corner of it. Then again, if the dowager chose to