Page 3 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
With the inn in sight, Kit vowed if he never clapped eyes on the disagreeable earl again it would be a day too soon. Alas, he’d have to return to Rossingley tomorrow to retrieve his horse, enquire after his sister’s wellbeing, and beg that confounded iceberg for his assistance in the matter. Again.
That grey silk slip of a thing he was wearing though. So at odds with its bearer. Outside of a molly house, Kit had never seen such a flimsy garment. It seemed almost as if another person had chosen it; the whim of someone fey and light of heart, a frippery intended to please a lover. The way it clung to the earl’s every lean sinew and draped across his shoulders, softly kissed the jut of his hip bones—Kit would forfeit an egg on his other kneecap just to catch a glimpse of the earl dressed in that again. Not that he’d ever admit it, not even at knife point.
Chapter Three
IT WAS Atruth widely known that Rossingley estate’s smooth running rested on the vagaries of its housekeeper’s humour. Acknowledged even by the earl himself. Thus, next morning, Lando allowed his valet, Pritchard, to dress him in muted tones before approaching Mrs Sugden’s below-stairs domain. Whilst confident the woman would approve of his attire, he could do nothing about the dark circles shrouding his tired eyes. Lando had slept fitfully after Angel’s unspoken threat and his subsequent ejection. The sister, Pritchard informed him sniffily, had been housed in a distant wing of the draughty manor Lando never found reason to visit. As far as the earl was concerned, her brother could have spent the damp night in a thick hawthorn hedge.
Lando’s beloved Charles had been a reliable judge of character, and a cursory glance at the nervous young woman perched on one of Mrs Sugden’s uncomfortable upright chairs lent credence to both his own fears and to Mr Angel’s tale. Timid as a snowdrop and twice as plain, poor Miss Angel was as puritanical-looking as the hard chair in which she was seated.
“Miss Angel.” Lando approached her in as unthreatening a manner as possible. No easy task when his own noble blood was all too evident in his strong lean proportions, in every turn of his white-blond head, in every expression settling on his fine features—even sympathy.
Nonetheless, he endeavoured to try. “Until you are quite well, my dear, you will be safe here at Rossingley as my guest. I trust Mrs Sugden to ensure that. And if there is anything you require, such as the assistance of a physician, then she will see that it is done.”
The girl shrank away from him, trembling in the chair. A less likely temptress he’d yet to meet. A hearty bowl of soup would topple her, never mind a male taking liberties not his to take. “I thank you, my lord,” she managed, her eyes filling with tears.
Lando arched a shapely eyebrow in the direction of his housekeeper, a fearsome woman, and knowing her, no doubt of the opinion that Miss Angel should have sought solace elsewhere rather than disrupt the well-oiled machine of her establishment. On more than one occasion she’d scolded Lando for being softer than underbelly of her late husband’s favourite terrier.
“If I might have a word, my lord,” Mrs Sugden murmured, jerking her chin towards the door.
“Please don’t tell me what I think you’re about to,” said Lando grimly when they were alone. Unless Miss Anne had travelled by foot for days, he only had one near neighbour. “The girl has come from the Gartside estate, hasn’t she?”
“Yes, my lord.” Mrs Sugden folded her arms across her ample bosom. “And I’m afraid her tale is that which you would expect.”
The knowledge his suspicion proved correct gave Lando no pleasure whatsoever.
“The girl has been serving as companion to the dowager Lady Gartside,” reported Mrs Sugden. “The dowager usually keeps to a quiet life in Sussex, but for the last month or more, she has resided at the Gartside estate, visiting her son. I shall spare you the intimate details, my lord, but on several occasions, Sir Ambrose…pressed his affections on Miss Angel—affections neither sought nor desired.”
Lando could have written the damned script himself. “And did he…” he enquired delicately.
“No, thank heavens. Not quite. Regardless, her reputation is ruined. A housemaid came upon them and reported straight to the dowager, who favoured her favourite, eldest son’s version of events and dismissed Miss Angel on the spot. She’ll recover, but the damage is done.” Mrs Sugden shook her head. “And to think her a niece of our lovely Captain Prosser; he’ll be rolling in his grave.”
“Quite,” said Lando crisply. “Any sign of the brother?”
“Not yet. Though I daresay he’ll show up again. Very affected by it, he is. Baying for blood.”
“How did they arrive?”
“On horseback, according to the head groom. One horse.”
The last part was accompanied by a grimace. Mrs Sugden had a healthy fear of horses, stemming from her firm belief they were as likely to step on your foot as look at you.
Lando turned to leave before she could begin enlisting the perils. “If and when he does, send him to me.”
*
MR ANGEL REAPPEAREDas Lando was sitting down to a light lunch, improving neither his mood nor the taste. From the moment Lando had heard the name of the poor girl’s attacker, his small appetite had deserted him, though he kept Angel cooling his heels in the library. Sadly, Charles’s poor niece’s tale was not the first of its kind to spring from Gartside Manor in recent years. Ambrose Gartside, Eighth Baronet of Airdrie, was nothing more than a leery drunken oaf, hellbent on destroying his estate and his family’s reputation. Those facts, though unsavoury, were as clear as daylight. What wasn’t clear was why Angel felt the need to embroil Lando further. And make an enemy of him, too, by hinting as to the nature of his friendship with Charles. Lando had done his duty by providing a safe haven for the girl; as soon as she was mended, he would wash his hands of the whole nasty business.
“His lordship,” announced Inglis as Lando eventually swept into the library. Ever suspicious, his butler had not left Mr Angel alone. With a gracious nod, Lando dismissed him along with Jasper, the same footman who’d tossed the man out not twenty-four hours earlier. And from the glimmer in his single eye, Jasper looked eager for an opportunity to do so again.
No sooner had the door closed than Lando fixed Mr Angel with an arctic stare, determined to get the wretched business over and done with. “You will regret tussling with me, sir,” he said coolly. “Consider this a warning. My patience with your prettily dressed-up words is wearing thin.”
“I have no desire to tussle with you, my lord. I’ve come asking for your assistance, not to rake up trouble. My uncle’s memory is too dear to my sister and me. Though I live in London, I visited him in Kent as often as time would allow.”
“What is your business in London?”
“I…I strive to earn enough to send money to Anne and to keep a roof over my head. I cannot see the relevance, my lord.”
Seldom had Lando encountered a more evasive response. He gave the glowing embers an unnecessarily vicious poke before adopting a commanding position in front ofhismantel. His visitor was dressed in the same plain coat as the night before. At best, it was clean.
