Page 2 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
He granted Mr Angel a small nod of concession. “I heard him speak of his niece in favourable terms.”
In his infinite kindness, his beloved Charles had, indeed, told of the girl many times. If Lando’s memory served correct, he’d found her a position as a lady’s companion, and by all accounts, she was sweet and harmless. With no interest in the doings of the fairer sex, Lando might not have paid the topic much notice. He had, however, given the topic of the brother his full attention and had a clear recollection of his lover describing his nephew as a person of good morals and determination. Though, Lando found it rarely served to reveal one’s hand to a stranger.
“He did not mention she had a brother,” he lied.
As the young man girded his loins for what would undoubtedly be a convoluted petition for funds, Lando regretted not having taken up a pose against the mantel if only to prevent Mr Angel from dizzily pacing to and fro in front of it.
“Being older when our father perished, I was never Captain Prosser’s ward, though we were on excellent terms. Since his passing, I have lived and worked in London and sent money to Anne so that her circumstances were less straitened. Three days ago, however, I learned that my sister’s situation had become rather…compromised. Naively, may I add, and through no fault of her own.” He clenched his jaw, unable to hide his anger. “In a word, my lord, her hitherto good name and the good name of Captain Prosser, by association, has been besmirched.”
If the man would stand still, Lando would be able to get a jolly good look at him. Instead, he persisted in wearing out the earl’s favourite Aubusson rug. And he continued to toss his beloved Charles’s name high into the ether with scant regard for how perilously close each mention chipped away at the façade of disinterest Lando was working so hard to preserve.
“Your concern for your sister’s position is a credit to you, Mr…Angel,” Lando observed. “But whilst you have my sympathies, I’m at a loss as to how her misfortune is a matter of mine.” He adjusted the delicate lace trim at the cuffs of his banyan. “Is there anything else?”
For most, simply being granted an audience with the indifferent earl in his opulent surroundings sufficed to cow them. Indeed, Lando frequently used this to his advantage, never more than when the dull spinsters from the church came calling. He had already surmised his visitor was nothing but a variation on that, albeit a more visually pleasing one. Add in the earl’s daring state ofdéshabiller, and Captain Prosser’s nephew should have been blushing like a new bride and shuffling from the room.
Alas, he showed no sign. If anything, the man was but launching into his impassioned stride. “As he weakened, my uncle assured me that if ever Anne had a pressing need, I should present myself to you without haste. And appeal to your better nature.”
Lando’s lips curled into the smallest of smiles. “Do let me know when you’ve located it, Mr Angel.”
His guest bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord, but he also advised that might be your response.”
The earl’s heart seized. Of course he had; his Charles had known him as well as he’d known his own self.My darling Lando, why must you insist on cloaking your true nature? Everyone thinks you’re a beast when I and your bedpost both know you’re nothing but a pussycat.
Gadzooks, Lando needed to remove this youth from his house.
“He spoke of you often, my lord,” Mr Angel pressed.
“We had a friendship,” Lando acknowledged.
“He inferred that…” Angel gave a tiny cough. “…the two of you were very…close.”
Close. The word hung heavy in the air. Like pipe smoke puffed out on a sultry, late summer afternoon. One of those lazy afternoons, all too rare, both stretching forever yet ending too soon. The kind of afternoon upon which one laid down cherished, joyful memories of one’s illicit, passionate lover. The hazy sort of afternoon one hadn’t recognised as the very last, precious gasp of summer until it was far too late.
“Were you, my lord?” Angel’s knowing dark eyes dragged over the earl’s banyan as Lando’s grief fought to betray him. The man’s low voice was soft as silk.“Close?”
Close. As if that brief, disposable word could ever encompass the depth of the earl’s and Charles’s love. Three years on, and still, the taste of his lover lingered on his tongue. His sweet scent still engulfed him; his tender, murmurings of love still whispered in his head.
And this damned vagabond youth had come to sully it.
With all traces of lazy-limbed languor gone, Henry Orlando Fitzwilliam Albert Duchamps-Avery, Eleventh Earl of Rossingley, rose from the chaise and stalked to the door.
“Get out,” he barked, flinging it open. “At once. Before I have you thrown out. Inglis!”
Chapter Two
AT TESTING TIMESlike this, Mr Christopher Angel picked himself up from the ground, plucking grit from his skinned palms, and reminded himself that even the most majestic and glorious of swans must have failed at their first attempt to take wing. Though the earl’s burly footmen hadn’t needed to be quite so heavy-handed.
To add insult to injury, not only had Kit failed to enlist the earl’s help, but night had fallen in the interim, black as pitch. Collecting his hired nag from the earl’s stables was out of the question, so thus began a slow limp away from the house, Kit’s every pained step tracked by two of the earl’s suspicious henchmen until he was out of sight. The village inn, where he’d left his meagre belongings in a bare closet laughingly described as a guestroom, felt an awfully long distance away.
Anne was now safe, at least. He trusted that she was safe from the earl’s advances, of course, but also from the male members of his lordship’s household if their loyalty could be measured by the magnitude of the bruise blossoming on his kneecap. Anne had been in no fit state to ride with him back to London, and even if she was, his lodgings on Sindell Street were hardly suitable. Whilst not quite the worst address in London, some of the goings-on in the narrow alleys bookending it would make a bawd blush.
So Rossingley it was, where the fierce housekeeper had helped Anne into a chair, her stern gaze falling kindly on his poor sister.
As Kit fumbled and cursed his way towards a sup of ale and bed, he reflected his petition for the earl’s assistance might have garnered a more positive outcome if he’d approached it from a different angle. Though, in Kit’s defence, Uncle Charles hadn’t forewarned him that hisnobleamourwas carved from a block of ice.Thatbloodless creature had been the love of Charles’s life? Kit obviously hadn’t known his uncle as well as he’d thought. Uncle Charles had been gregarious and warm, a man who found joy in the first daffodils of spring, in art and poetry. A man radiating bonhomie. The earl’sfroideurrisked melting stone.
He was singularly beautiful though. His uncle hadn’t warned him of that either. Even if it was beauty of a wintry sort, savage even. Vacant and statuesque, dripping with ennui. One looked but didn’t dare touch.
Nevertheless, the earl was not entirely void of sentiment. At mention of Charles, two angry points of red had settled on the crest of those haughty cheekbones; a flash of fury had burned in those silvery-blue eyes. Even so, Kit couldn’t picture the man warming anyone’s bed, man or woman. Fires of passion burning bright? More like tupping a snow-covered rock.
