Free An Angel for the Earl by Bárbara Metzger Page B

schemes.”
    â€œA man’s entitled to his opinion.”
    â€œNot according to this law, he’s not. But no matter.” She sighed and tossed the papers into the hereafter. “The laws are very clear about arson.”
    â€œArson? I never—”
    â€œYour cigarillo did when you fell asleep and dropped it under the chair. Willful negligence. Leading to loss of property and endangering lives.”
    â€œI see what you’re about. You’re trying to get me to swear off tobacco.”
    â€œIt’s a filthy habit. See where it’s led? And just think what would happen if Demby had died. The entire hallelujah choir couldn’t keep you from hell.”
    The earl did not have any of his cigarillos with him, so it was an easy promise to make, but then he recalled that fiercesome display Lucy had put on at Lil’s. Not above a little bargaining himself, he offered, “I’ll stop smoking if you will.”
    Lucinda blushed. “I am truly sorry for enacting such a scene. I’m…just not myself these days. Yes, I’ll agree to that. Shall we shake hands on it?”
    The feeling of warmth traveled right up Kerry’s arm to bring a smile to his face. “You know, you look different. Your hair, your dress. Something.”
    â€œYes, isn’t it wonderful?” Lucinda grinned back. “I even have a petticoat!” She clapped her hands to her mouth at the indiscretion. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. But I couldn’t help feeling my attire wasn’t at all the thing. But now…It’s the odds, you know.”
    â€œThe odds?”
    â€œYes, your chances of getting to heaven! You saved Demby’s life and I got an undergarment!”
    And a softer face, an inch higher décolletage, and satin slippers instead of decadent Roman sandals. Kerry sighed. Now he couldn’t see the outline of her legs through the sheer gown. This business of reforming wasn’t all a bed of roses.

Chapter Eight
    Stanford House was salvageable, just. The stairs were unsafe, the parquet floors were buckled from the fire brigade’s enthusiastic application of water, the wood paneling was soot-blackened, and the plaster ceilings were cracked from the heat and in danger of collapsing. On the other hand, the engineer reported cheerily, this was a fine opportunity to repair the dry rot on the upper story, the ill-fitting casements, and the antiquated kitchen.
    Twitching in Lord Stanford’s hands, not so cheerily, was an urge to strangle the fellow. The mandatory renovations alone would swallow his last shilling, leaving him with an unfurnished mansion, a fire-sale wardrobe, Demby, dry rot, and empty pockets. His watch and diamond stickpin might bring enough for new draperies, so the neighbors couldn’t look in and see the Earl of Stanford sitting naked on the floor.
    There was less than no chance of his borrowing another fortune either, with no unmortgaged collateral to put up, no future income to pledge away. Deuce take it, he’d gone only one whole day without being in debt, besides.
    Then again, he could just board up Stanford House and move to a hotel until his money ran out. Afterward he could batten on his friends, going from house party to hunting box as many of the ton did. Kieren Somerfield, hanger-on, left a sour taste in his mouth.
    Blast, he was in as bad a case as ever, only colder. Sitting in the remains of his study with the windows open, Kerry huddled in his greatcoat, wishing for a drink. The last of his wine had been rescued by the fire brigade—liberated, more like it—and the kitchen was in no condition to produce even hot coffee. ’Twould take a squad of hardworking lackeys weeks to restore the kitchen to its former disreputable condition. Months, if they were under Demby’s direction.
    Kerry took out his gold coin, his lucky coin—hah!—and tossed it in the air. Heads he went ahead with the