An Angel for the Earl (5 page)

Lucinda did a quick tally. “Not only have you broken every one of the ten commandments, you've managed to justify your actions to yourself. You have no remorse.” She sighed. “This is going to be a busy two weeks.”

Chapter Five

“Demby, did you ever hallucinate? You know, see visions when you were in your cups?”

“Aye, my lord, all the time.” Demby was holding out a fresh neckcloth. Kerry took it before the thing lost its starch from being fluttered about. “Great slimy monsters they were too, slithery, snaky things, crawling all over.”

“No gorgeous females?”

“Criminy, an' I saw gorgeous females, I'd still be drinking, begging your pardon, my lord.”

Buckskin breeches molding his muscular legs, a coat of blue superfine stretched across his wide shoulders, and the neckcloth tied in a new knot, the windfall, the Earl of Stanford was ready to meet the day.

And a fine day it was, too. No clouds for once, no wind, and no interfering female, imaginary or otherwise. Kerry stepped jauntily out of the door of Stanford House. As usual, he did leave half of last night's winnings with Demby for safekeeping, but this time with instructions to put at least something on account on all of the tradesmen's bills, and to pay off the smallest and longest overdue.

Whistling, Lord Stanford was off to the races. A minor meeting was to be held at the oval near Warringdon, just outside Richmond. Lovely, brisk weather, superior horseflesh, convivial company—not even Lucy Faire could find fault with the day's entertainment.

Of course some of the races were fixed. Everyone knew the jockeys were frequently paid to lose apurpose, and often enough horses were nobbled, drugged or injured so they couldn't run the course. Still, it was the sport of kings, and a downy cove could win a king's ransom with judicious betting, inside tips, and a bit of luck. Kerry considered himself an excellent judge of horseflesh, he'd made friends with a paddock watchman, and his luck was definitely in.

The track was crowded, rough wagons alongside racing curricles, countrymen and clerks rubbing shoulders with turf rats and toffs.

Kerry found a boy to hold his horses, then made his way through the spectators, keeping a wary eye out for pickpockets and anyone who might wish to lighten his purse by demanding repayment of debts.

Lemuel, the guard, was holding fast to the gate, making sure no unauthorized persons had access to the horses. A few coins loosened his tongue.

“The rider of Aldebaran in the first was out here havin' a confab with Six Fingers O'Sullivan, then he went in passin' somethin' out among the other jockeys. An' in the second race, that Frenchy what trains Lord Finsterer's nags went 'round checkin' all the stalls, lookin' for some missin' tack.” Lemuel placed his finger alongside his nose, and his other hand out.

Kerry filled the open palm and went off to place his wagers. He was careful not to put too much of the ready with any one bet taker, lest he change the odds on Aldebaran in the first or Lord Finsterer's Nightdancer in the second.

Aldebaran came in second. That threw off Kerry's parlaying calculations, but not by much. The day was still early. Then Nightdancer's jockey fell off partway through the last turn. His saddle slipped. Rumor around the track had it that Finsterer was too much a nipcheese to buy new leathers.

Kerry went back to Lemuel.

Lemuel scratched his head. “Well, in the third, that big gray do be the favorite on account of his trainin' times, but they ain't got him off to a good start yet. He don't like other horses next to or nigh him, so he'll balk at the gate.”

The gray hated other horses near him so much that he finished ten lengths ahead of his nearest competitor. Kerry's long shot must have disliked the other runners, too; he stayed a long, long way behind them.

Lemuel whispered that Ruffles in the fourth had been given something to make him run faster; he was a sure thing. The only sure thing was that Ruffles dropped dead around the first bend, along with Kerry's hopes of amassing a fortune. He was losing too much on each bet and on Lemuel's misinformation, and there were only three races left.

“Blast, I'll pick my own losers.”

He studied the horses, he studied the odds. He listened to track talk and carriage chatter, about this beast's sire, that gelding's last outing, a third one's rumored blind eye. Two minutes to start, and he hadn't placed a bet. “The devil take it,” he swore.

And Lucy winked back at him across the track with a saucy smile. He rubbed his eyes. This was broad daylight and he hadn't had a drink all day. She could not be here. True, there were a few women scattered about, bachelor fare with escorts or looking for escorts. One or two ladies sat in their carriages, watching the races through opera glasses, well protected from the elements and the masses. No female ever strolled by herself through a race meet—hell, through the race track itself—daintily picking her way through the dirt and the droppings, twirling a red parasol over her shoulder. Lucy did, the sun shining gold in her red curls, and a matching ostrich plume curling along her right cheek. She winked at him again.

Lud, he was losing his mind.

“Last bets, gentlemen. Last bets.”

He read the chalk board one more time. There at number five was a horse he hadn't noticed before, Devil's Handmaiden. He looked to the field, quickly scanning the numbers on the jockeys' backs. Number five was a smallish roan mare with the sun making golden glints on her red back. He put fifty pounds on her to win.

“But, gov, she's goin' off at thirty to one. That little filly don't stand a chance.”

So he bet seventy-five pounds and put that oddsmaker out of business for the day. Kerry's winnings were enough to pay off a few more of his debts if he quit then, which, of course, he had no intention of doing.

He strolled down to the paddock to inspect the horses for the sixth race. Lemuel had a tip about the number seven horse, Riddles, how his name was really Faradiddle, a winner at last month's meet. “A few white-wash socks, a new name, and much better odds.”

“What about that black gelding over there, number three?” Kerry wanted to know.

“Look at 'im, covered in sweat already. Nervous as a new bride. Why, that horse'll wear hisself out before the start. Now, Faradiddle outran 'em all a few weeks back.”

Something about the black appealed to Kerry though, the small, intelligent head, the flowing muscles, the jockey's scarlet silks. He went back and consulted the betting boards. Number three's odds were ten to one. He placed a substantial sum on Riddles, or whatever the horse's name was today, to come in second. The bulk of his earlier winnings he placed with various bookmakers on number three, Impy, to win. Then he held his breath until the homestretch, where, unbelievably, Riddles and Impy were racing neck and neck. Impy took the lead, then Riddles. Lord Stanford screamed himself hoarse, almost willing the black to get his nose across the finish line first. Somebody must have been listening, for the black stretched his neck out just so, at just the last second.

The seventh and last race. Kerry was
that
close to having the wherewithal to pay off most of his debts; he could almost taste the freedom. But no horse looked promising and Lemuel had no tips. No names struck a chord. There was Bething's Folly, Minor Indiscretion, and Loyal Companion, but none seemed to speak to Kerry. Perhaps that was a sign he should take his winnings and go back to the baize tables. At least the cards required something beyond intuition or luck.

The earl was turning to make his way back to his curricle when he heard an angry shout from the crowd behind him. The favorite's name was being erased from the chalk boards and a new name was being entered in its stead, Salvation. Furious, the mob kept up their howl. No one had ever heard of the horse or even knew what it looked like. The jockey, Luke someone, was equally unknown, and the bookmakers couldn't begin to figure odds long enough.

No matter. Kerry smiled and put every last shilling on Salvation. And practically cried when the horse was led out of the paddock area and onto the track. Salvation was gray except for a white muzzle, sunken-chested, and stumbling. Why, it would be a miracle if Salvation managed to save himself from the glue pot for another day. He managed to amble to the starting line, facing in the wrong direction, while the other jockeys made jokes. Salvation's jockey appeared to be foxed, weaving around in the saddle and having trouble staying aboard. The crowd laughed, of course. None of them had any money on a superstitious, hallucinatory whim. Of course.

The jockey finally managed to get the ancient horse turned around and everyone settled down for the start of the race. No one else but Kerry seemed to notice that the scarlet-clad jockey had an ostrich feather in his cap. His? Kerry wasn't even surprised when Lucy smiled going around the nearest turn, dropping the reins and her whip—no, her parasol—to wave at him. His only surprise was that the officials didn't stop the race when she leaned forward to whisper in the horse's ear and the old nag started to fly toward the finish line. Literally. Oh, God. Kerry prayed for Salvation like no sinner ever had.

* * *

Half the money went to Demby for safekeeping as usual, after he paid off the rest of the household bills. With a celebratory bottle of champagne and a new stock of cigarillos, Lord Stanford joyfully prepared to pay his gambling debts.

“Fifty pounds to Cholly Spofford…A monkey to Lord Cheyne. Devil a bit, I still think the match should have gone to the Dutchman…Seventy-five for the curricle race I could have won but for that herd of cows…”

“Isn't it nice to know that now you can give up gaming?”

“Give up—Lucy?” The earl scanned the shadows of his study. There she was on the sofa, her feet tucked up beneath her. He thought for a moment what a charming domestic scene they made, he settling accounts and she at her embroidery. Except, of course, that he was paying gaming debts and she was dressed in a gown that could make a whore blush, and the room smelled of brimstone. And he was a rational, clear-thinking Englishman, and she didn't really exist.

“I'd kiss you for today's work, angel,” he told her, “if you were real.”

Lucinda knotted a thread and bit it off with her teeth. “Why are you so afraid to admit I exist?”

“Because if you exist, if you are who and what you say you are, I am crazy.” Carrying his glass and the bottle, Kerry took a seat across from her near the fire, where he could drink in her incredible beauty.

“You'd rather consider yourself insane than headed for hell?”

He was watching her graceful fingers dart in and out of the fabric, rather than listening to her words. “What's that you're working on?”

“An altar cloth. The devil makes work for idle hands.”

He laughed. “You? A painted harlot sewing on an altar cloth?”

“Why not?” she asked with a scowl. “
You
aren't aiding my cause any. And I do wish you'd get it out of your mind that I am a fallen woman. I mean, fallen from grace is one thing, but fallen off the primrose path is quite another. I strayed only that once, you know. Before that I was strictly trained in all the genteel arts like music and sewing and watercolors. I'll have you know that before meeting you I'd never been to a horse race or a card party.”

Staring at shoulders that were almost bare except for two ribbons and a lock of hair, he sneered. “Somehow I cannot feel responsible for corrupting an innocent.”

“I do realize from your, ah, admiration that I do not appear the proper young lady right now. No man has ever looked at me that way before, not even Captain Anders. While such, ah, attention cannot help but gratify my vanity, this”—she indicated her body, her clothes—“is merely the devil's handiwork. I do not intend to spend eternity looking like a doxy.”

With that businesslike pronouncement, the needlework vanished and a piece of paper appeared in her hand. “How do you feel about ‘God, King, and Country'?”

“Pardon me?”

“‘God, King, and Country.' You know, what the crusaders shouted before battles. I still believe we need some kind of credo, a workable system to get you into heaven. It worked for all those feudal types.”

“It did? I mean, they were bloody-minded bastards. I'll thank you not to put me in any clanking armor for all eternity. I'm no blasted fanatic, b'God. And as for the king, the man is a hopeless lunatic. Everyone knows that. Would dancing with him on the parapets in my nightshirt show my moral fiber?”

“And country?”

“They wouldn't let me join up, blister it. The heir and all that, last in the line. I would have gone,” he said, raising his chin.

“But you could have served your country by taking your seat in Parliament, and you never did.”

“What, argue endless politics with those old bag-wigs?” He had another sip of the champagne, then put the glass down. “I'm sorry, I never thought. Would you care for some champagne? I could fetch another glass if you'd prefer.”

“I've never tasted champagne,” she answered with a hint of regret. “But even if it were possible, the last thing I need is another vice.”

“What, a tiny sip of wine? That cannot be so great a sin. And while we're talking about that, I don't see why I cannot go on as I have been, sowing my wild oats like every other buck in town. Soon enough I'll have to settle down, set up my nursery, take my seat, be an upright citizen. That's the natural way of things. Even m'father got religion before he died.”

“Haven't you been listening? You might have another forty or fifty years to balance out your current dissolution, but I need you reformed now, in the two weeks or so before I die.”

“You're wrong, you know. I have listened to you. I just haven't believed all the fustian. The doctor thought you could wake up anytime if you really wanted to. So why give yourself two weeks? You could have the same thirty or forty years to embroider altar cloths. That's a better bet than putting your money on me. Besides, there's champagne and waltzing. I wager you've never waltzed either. Why die if you don't have to?”