Page 11 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
Still chuckling, Robert stood, no doubt eager to return to his bonny wife and litter of children. Whilst Lando knew he very much enjoyed his noble half-brother’s errands—that they reminded him of his past adventures—Robert also enjoyed running his farm.
Stepping closer, he swiped a finger down Lando’s cheek. “But most importantly, the mastermind behind Gartside’s downfall should be someone not afraid to have icing around his mouth and a dribble of tea on his lace ruff. It makes him so much more approachable.” He performed a careless bow. “Finding one of those should be no trouble at all. And on that note, I bid you farewell, my lord, and look forward to tales of your exploits.”
*
MR PRITCHARD HADserved as trusted valet to the eleventh Earl of Rossingley for as many years as Inglis had served as head butler. And neither of them approved of their lordship’s dubious dinner guest. In Inglis’s opinion, a man sporting an earring didn’t warrant unboxing and damp dusting the deceased tenth countess’s sixteen-piece dinner service. And in Mr Pritchard’s, Angel’s lowly status didn’t warrant his lordship’s turquoise crushed silk waistcoat with the silver brocade. Nor the matching nacre sleeve buttons, which were a devil to take out afterwards.
Lando himself wasn’t sure why he had invited Mr Angel to dine with him, nor why he was going to such effort. Except that Lando had behaved, on an irate impulse, in a manner unbecoming of a person of his station. Truth be told, he was ashamed he’d let his temper get the better of him, no matter how much the other had goaded him.
Whilst Lando had occupied himself in the stable yard, clarifying his position to Mr Angel, rather effectively, his man of business, Will Blandford, had been putting the finishing touches to a bleak account of the state of disrepair of the Gartside estate. In summary, if no one put a stop to the rot now, three of Gartside’s tenants would be in the workhouse come Christmas and several children would be fatherless on account of poor health, poor prospects, and poor accommodation.
What with Robert’s startling news about Mr Angel’s dubious occupation, and the unavoidable truth regarding the Gartside estate, Lando could be forgiven for availing himself of a fortifying sherry in his bedchamber whilst shedding his widow’s weeds.
“How has my house guest been faring?” he enquired as Mr Pritchard shaved him, sweeping the blade across his jawline.
“I hear Miss Angel is much rested,” the valet replied. “Cook’s chicken broth is a better restorative than anything that quack in the village has to offer.”
Given that a sharp implement hovered dangerously close to his upper lip, Lando stifled his tiny smile.
Pritchard’s bushy brows pinched into a single long one as the blade hovered over the contours of Lando’s left cheek. “She’ll be good as new within the week, excepting cuts and bruises. She’s lucky nothing was broken.”
Along with the remainder of the household, save for Inglis and Mrs Sugden, Pritchard was under the misapprehension Rossingley’s unexpected visitors had suffered a carriage mishap.
“Mr Inglis has directed Jasper, the second footman, to put himself at Mr Angel’s disposal before he presents himself at dinner,” continued Pritchard, dipping the soapy blade into a pitcher of warm water. “As the gentleman has nothing suitable, Jasper is to lend him something from your late father’s wardrobe until his own belongings are located.”
He and Lando exchanged a look of dismay. Latterly, the tenth earl had tended to portliness, and, thanks to Napoleon’s efforts to run roughshod over the British Empire, Jasper was missing an eye.
“Mind you,” Pritchard remarked, “that young man could wear a hessian sack and be the Pink of theton. Despite the earring.”
“Could he?” answered Lando distractedly. “I daresay I hadn’t noticed his looks at all.”
Pritchard wiped the blade with a flourish. “Yes, my lord,” he murmured. “And pigs fly, so they tell me. However, he is still not worth nacre buttons.”
“Jasper’s brother is also a footman, isn’t he?” questioned Lando, with a swift change of subject.
“Was,” corrected Pritchard. “For old Sir Horace Gartside. Not anymore, not since he passed. He’s gardening for that squire out on the Allenmouth road now. Couldn’t stand for the new baronet. Didn’t like the way he took liberties with the young housemaids, begging your pardon, my lord.”
Lando waved him away. Yet another nail in Gartside’s coffin and all the more reason to agree to assist Angel in whatever scheme he’d devised to bring the vile creature down. Assuming he had a scheme. Or maybe Lando was simply using the whole Gartside saga as an excuse to see Christopher Angel one more time. The flush on the man’s face, the way his eyes had widened when he realised what Lando was about, the gasp from those sulky lips as Lando’s hands confirmed what the man’s squirming sought to hide had not been…unpleasant.
Buggeration. As Lando topped up his sherry, he grudgingly acknowledged hewasusing the whole scheme to see Mr Angel again. He was only glad Robert wasn’t around to tell him so. Pritchard’s knowing look had been enough.
*
CONSIDERING THE BURGUNDYvelvet full-skirted coat he presently wore hadn’t been sighted in public since the fag end of the previous century, Mr Christopher Angel cut a rather roguish figure. It was too big around the middle, of course, and unreasonably stretched across the young man’s broad shoulders, but notwithstanding, the man was considerably tidier than yesterday evening and a damned sight more collected. In fact, Lando would go so far as to say he had an air of defiance about him. As if he had lost the battle but won the war.
A now familiar black velvet ribbon tamed his thick dark waves, one end of it left tantalisingly long, giving Lando a curious desire to tug it. He had always leaned towards sultry, dangerous-looking men and tried to recall the last time he’d ever had the pleasure of being alone in the company of such a handsome one. While his all-encompassing grief for Charles was…all encompassing, Lando wasn’tquitedead below the waistline of his French silk drawers. Charm and flirtatiousness, however, had thoroughly deserted him.
“Why the devil are you standing over there, next to the door?”
“Good evening, my lord.” Angel issued a graceful, sweeping bow that did peculiar things to Lando’s insides, and he took a gulp of claret. “And may I thank you again for your kind hospitality. I am pleased to report that my sister is in much better spirits.”
“Answer the question?”
Angel responded with a polite smile. “I’m saving both your servants and myself the bother of crossing the room when you decide you’ve had enough of my company, my lord.” His eyes flicked down to his shortened, outmoded breeches and back up again. “But I’d appreciate some forewarning if you intend on manhandling me again this evening. Parts of my anatomy are…”
“Claret for Mr Angel,” barked Lando.
For once, he was discombobulated. Repartee he handled with ease, but repartee combined with the suggestiveness dancing in Mr Angel’s fine hazel eyes, of a hue rarely seen on a man, was another matter altogether. “Come into the room properly.”
