Page 8 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
Lando sighed. For several months now, Robert had been coaxing him to take up a new pastime or return to society. Perhaps the hour had come. Perhaps he should pit his time and his money and sharp wits against someone as odious as Gartside.
“You’re still young, Lando. A father too, with the responsibilities that entails. You have a future. Perhaps you could even find love again if you…”
“Please.” Tears, hot and unexpected burned behind Lando’s eyes. “I…I am not ready to say it. But…”
“You think it?” Robert supplied, and Lando turned his face away from his brother and towards the window. “That’s no crime.”
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “I’m…yes. A project may do me good.”
Robert sat back, a tiny, satisfied smile pulling at his lips. “Why don’t I go to London and discover what I can. And you do some digging of your own by further acquainting yourself with the mysterious Mr Angel.”
Chapter Six
KIT’S PREFERRED COMPANYover the next few days became the old mare he’d hired, for the principal reason she had no interest in waxing lyrical over the bloody eleventh Earl of Rossingley. Unlike every other inhabitant of the small village. He even wondered whether the cold fish he’d the pleasure of aggravating was an imposter because the real earl, according to everyone he met, was a veritable saint. A true paragon of virtue, sprinkling charity like rain drops, lowering rents when times were tough. A lord who hosted cricket matches on his lawns every summer, hoisted the maypole himself come spring, and tucked all the villagers up into feathered beds with mugs of steaming chocolate every night throughout winter.
Kit might have embellished the last part, though, from the way the stout innkeeper drivelled on, nothing would surprise him anymore. If it weren’t for the necessity of Anne’s safety and good health, he’d have galloped away from this mythical El Dorado after the second time he’d picked himself up from the Rossingley rose beds and not looked back.
As Kit brushed down the horse, who had received far more attention from this temporary owner than she’d ever known in her hardworking life, he acknowledged that even if he could leave Rossingley, he didn’t have anywhere to go. He had his London lodgings, of course, as rudimentary as they were, but then he risked confronting the delicate issue of…Clark, a Bow Street runner. When the earl had queried Kit’s employ in London, it was with very good reason Kit had been vague about it. He could kiss goodbye to any assistance from the earl if he knew Kit was nothing but a common thief.
Persistence personified, Clark had finally unearthed Kit’s address. Twice, the Bow Street runner had come close to capturing him, and on each occasion, Kit only narrowly escaped by virtue of knowing the streets and alleyways of the stews better than his pursuer. As dreadful as Anne’s predicament was, it couldn’t have come at a better time for Kit to leave London. Indeed, now he thought about it, the earl’s rose beds were probably the lesser of two evils.
A stable boy sidled in, his expert eye giving Kit’s nag a look drenched in disdain. “Mr Angel?”
“Who’s asking?” Never admit to anything was Kit’s motto. Being chased by a dogged Bow Street runner had taught him that.
“His lordship. And I know it’s you ’cos you’re the only stranger ’ere. An’ they said up at the big ’ouse that you had a shit ’orse.”
Kit gave the old girl a pat. “Not up to Rossingley high standards, is she?”
“Not likely.” From the look in the boy’s eye, Kit had a feeling he wasn’t making the grade either. “His lordship’s waiting for you outside if you wanna see a proper ’un.”
Kit turned back to his very ordinary mount. “Tell his lordship I’m not sure my knees are up to a third pummelling.”
“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“No,” mused Kit with a lick of irritation. “Of course he doesn’t.”
Naturally, the earl was astride a horse as noble and untouchable as himself. A full seventeen hands of sleek ebony muscle and taut sinew, the stallion’s bearing was as erect and poised as that of the frosty creature sat atop him. In fact, in profile and with the late afternoon sunlight disappearing behind the inn’s stable block, it was difficult for Kit, from his lowly position on the ground, to see where the majestic beast ended and the earl, clad in an immaculate black riding cape, began. Not habitually prone to self-doubt, Kit became acutely aware of his untidy coat, hair, cravat…everything.
Fortunately, Rossingley didn’t notice, given that he stared rigidly ahead.
“Mr Angel,” he stated, then stopped, pursing his lips.
“Lord Rossingley,” said Kit, puzzled. “Do you come with news of my sister?”
“No, to my knowledge she remains well.”
“So this is a social call.”
“Hmm.” His eyes slid sideways and down to Kit with an expression suggesting the earl didn’t pay social calls to men such as himself. “I rather assumed you might have left Rossingley by now. I happened to be simply passing on my route back to the house.”
Something from his rigid posture told Kit that wasn’t strictly true. “I’m not leaving Rossingley until I have Anne well enough to join me,” he answered. “You have my apologies if that disappoints you, my lord.”
The earl produced another little harrumphing noise, though made no attempt to ride on. Not often having the chance to admire such beautiful horseflesh, Kit stepped closer to the animal’s head and reached out a hand.
“Twilight does not care for petting,” Rossingley snapped. As if to demonstrate, the horse tossed back its mane and pawed the ground.
Kit grinned. “Temperamental beast, is he? Why aren’t I surprised?”
