Chapter Seven
BY THE TIME Robert returned from London, Lando had sufficiently calmed to extend him a cordial greeting. He’d spent the two days since his altercation with Mr Christopher Angel endlessly pacing the library. Fury vied for prominence in his thoughts with something indefinable; Lando’s frustration sharpened its teeth on it. Like a starving fox blundering into a henhouse, his visitor had demanded Lando’s assistance in as crude a way imaginable, ruffling every single one of his feathers in the process. And yet, the young buck’s swagger, his boldness, his newness , stirred up emotions in Lando he’d resigned himself to as all but lost.
“I’m hoping you have come to inform me that Mr Christopher Angel is a crook and a scoundrel and wanted in three counties for treason and gross crimes against our dear king himself,” said Lando, as soon as they were alone. “Because otherwise, I may have… um… taken liberties against his person unbefitting of an earl.”
Now was not the moment for Robert to unveil Mr Angel as a duke’s undersecretary or trusted emissary of the King of Spain. Not after Lando had threatened to kill him, then rubbed himself up against him. In broad daylight. Gadzooks, he’d licked the man’s ear too.
“Ah.” Robert winced. “I have good news and bad news in that regard.”
With maddening slowness, he poured himself tea from the fresh pot. “Turns out he’s quite an interesting fellow. Your Mr Angel is indeed a crook. But only a petty thief—a pickpocket—and currently sought after by a keen Bow Street runner by the name of Clark. He’s wanted for a whole host of small crimes against the careless well-shod, a couple of whom insist the devil be brought to heel.”
Robert examined the rim of his teacup. “Unknown to them, Mr Angel nudges around the edges of society. He slips his light fingers into coat pockets and reticules when their masters and mistresses are otherwise occupied. Brooches, silk pocket squares, buttons, and the like. Sells bits forward. When Angel’s not engaged in that, he counts cards. And he’s damned good at it. He hasn’t worked any establishments the ton visits. Not yet, anyhow. Earns enough blunt to keep a roof over his head. He’s been at it for two or three years.”
Since Charles passed, Lando thought. No wonder the youth had been imprecise as to how he supported his sister. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, not sure whether to be impressed or dismayed. “Should I be locking away the Rossingley diamonds?”
Robert cocked his head. “On balance, I think not. Whilst he is sought after by this Clark fellow, it is my understanding the magistrates only have a woolly idea of his identity. Stealing from you would expose him and his sister, too, about whom he cares a great deal.”
“So she is his sister? That part isn’t a lie?”
“’Fraid not. The Angels are from a moderately genteel family, hailing from Kent. Following the untimely demise of their parents, they fell on hard times. Their mother died from an unspecified illness many years ago. Their father returned early from the war, much weakened, and never regained full strength. Their uncle, Captain Charles Prosser”—at this Robert’s eyes flicked up to Lando’s—“did indeed act as a conscientious ward for his sister.”
“Not a liar, then,” confirmed Lando with a touch of relief. “I don’t know whether to be pleased or otherwise. You haven’t made mention of women. He’s not a…a rake either?”
With a huff of laughter, Robert shook his head. “No. I couldn’t confirm—my acquaintances don’t run in those circles—but I am of the opinion your Mr Angel is very discreet regarding his intimacies.”
Lando’s mind flashed back to their altercation at the stable, to the sensation of Mr Angel’s taut body straining under his own. To an unexpected look of something in the man’s eyes he’d interpreted many times as only a man of his proclivities could. And, though Lando had hidden it, he’d been most shocked.
He took a delicate bite of iced fancy, meeting with his stomach’s approval. “This Clark fellow, the runner. Is he actively seeking him?”
Robert considered it. “Yes. He’s a tenacious sort and will be paid well for his efforts. Though the trail has run cold, they’re keeping a weather eye open, that’s for sure.” He grinned. “If you’re worried that they’ll track him here and arrest you for collusion, don’t be. He’s not that important.”
Lando had no desire to unearth how Robert came by all his information. All he knew was that his brother cultivated mysterious friends in a host of peculiar places. Singling him out to his government pals, the late tenth Earl of Rossingley had his illegitimate son off to war for a few years. Reluctant to ever divulge precisely where and in what role he’d participated in the effort, Robert had returned home to take up a quiet farming life, marry, and impregnate his wife many times over. Lando deduced it had been Important And Classified Government Business; he was awfully proud of him.
“And Gartside,” prompted Lando. “Does your reach extend to news of his vile doings?”
Robert grimaced. “I regret to inform his lordship that one’s reach doesn’t have to be very long at all to discover those. The man is currently staying in town and is a cad of the highest order. In the last month, he has discomfited Lord Cobham’s daughter most disgracefully by calling off their engagement, snubbed the Marquis of Didlington’s wife more times than I care to mention, and if he doesn’t change his ways, will lose his substantial inheritance hand over fist at cards. Any one of those reasons would be enough to call him out.”
“I believe his estate next to mine is not entailed,” said Lando thoughtfully.
“No,” agreed Robert. “His grandfather won it in a duel, if I recall. The entailed family seat borders Scotland; Sir Ambrose rarely visits. By the skin of his teeth, he still has the town house, though minimal staff. Recently, his finances have become sketchy on account of his determination to own a bigger stable than the Duke of Ashington.”
“Horseflesh is an awfully expensive hobby,” remarked Lando. “And Benedict Fitzsimmons, the new Duke of Ashington, has very deep pockets.”
Ambrose Gartside had been hopeless at cards as far back as their Oxford days. He’d a fondness for horseflesh too. But as for the rest… Lando could only deduce that the death of his father and the taking up of the heirdom must have gone to his head.
He frowned as a thought struck him. “You mention that he has slighted Lord Cobham’s daughter? Isn’t Cobham dead?”
“A fit of apoplexy, which he survived,” corrected Robert. “Though he’s not well. I’ll wager he’ll have another one any day now, especially after Gartside’s interference. In the limited time remaining to him, Cobham’s out for his blood. You really haven’t been keeping up much, have you?”
No, agreed Lando silently. Grief had left precious little room in his head for anything else. “Perhaps I should make more of an effort.”
Robert gave him a fond look. “You should. It might do you some good. When did you last entertain?”
“I’m hugely entertaining,” replied Lando, affronted.
Robert laughed easily. “You could always make a start with Mr Angel. What better way to reaccustom yourself to conversing with other gentlemen than practising with one over a few glasses of wine in the comfort of your own home?”
Lando examined his neat, polished nails. “That sounds such a bore, Robert.”
“And you have a ready topic of conversation,” Robert pressed, ignoring Lando’s feigned apathy. “Your mutual axe to grind regarding Gartside and his nefarious activities.”
“Yes,” Lando acknowledged with a sigh. “I suppose we do have that.” He continued to muse, chewing ruminatively on a second iced fancy. “Gartside always had something of the weasel about him.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. The man needs taking down a peg or two.” Robert scratched his head. “If only I knew a person smart enough and connected enough to do it. Someone with time and money. Someone respected, dignified. And so above reproach, yet so idle that no one would ever suspect them capable of planning anything more sophisticated than an evening soirée.” He finished by winking at Lando rather audaciously for a tenant farmer.
“I object to idle,” protested Lando, biting back a smile. “I prefer brooding .” He stroked a contemplative hand across his smooth chin. “Or even mysterious, at a push. A man possessed of depths ordinary men fear to plummet.”
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 HAD served 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 the ton . 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 he was using 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 BURGUNDY velvet 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’t quite dead 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.”
“I will. But first I must apologise profusely. In the midst of my anger, I spoke some unkind and untrue words regarding my uncle. Captain Prosser fought a hard battle against the wasting disease and died in pain but with dignity and great courage. He was an example to us all, and I should not have spoken ill of him.”
“We have both behaved in a fashion of which to be ashamed,” admitted Lando in as close to an apology as he could manage. “One’s mood should never dictate one’s manners. But come, let us dine, I have other things to discuss.”
“Why did Charles rarely mention you?” he began after taking his seat at the head of the table.
Under the instruction of the first footman, his guest made himself comfortable at the other end, rendering him as near as dammit in the next county. The sixteen empty chairs betwixt them were impervious to Lando’s directness. Angel, however, allowed his rather generous mouth to curve into another polite smile.
“When our father passed, our uncle took it upon himself to take responsibility for my sister—she had barely turned fourteen—allowing me to concentrate my attentions on making my way.”
He lifted a spoonful of beef consommé to his lips. Lando tried to ignore the bob of his Adam’s apple by taking a (much daintier) spoonful himself. “And,” continued Angel, “two years ago, I found her a position suitable for both her modest station and her retiring temperament as a companion for the dowager Lady Gartside.” Consternation drew a line between his brows. If anything, it added to his jagged handsomeness. “So, I wholly blame myself for her current predicament and am at a loss as how to proceed further.”
Having already devised a simple solution for Miss Angel’s future, namely as a second governess for his sister’s hellish devil spawn, Lando was not to be sidetracked. He put down his spoon, abandoning his consommé, preferring to save what little space his flat belly accommodated for pudding.
“How did you support her?” he questioned in his most imperious tone.
“Oh, by various means.” Angel’s enigmatic smile began with a slight twitch of his top lip before engaging the bottom one, then stretched wide to reveal even, healthy teeth. Two delicious dimples rounded it off.
No, reflected Lando, he was not dead at all underneath the white linen tablecloth. Far from it.
“Expand on those various means,” he demanded.
“Initially, I was a secretary in the employ of Sir Brandon Gower. An elderly gentleman of the Kentish Gowers and, sadly, no longer with us.”
“I did not have the fortune of making his acquaintance.” Lando filed the name away for Robert to check.
“He preferred the company of his bees and his walled garden to society, rarely leaving Kent.”
“And then?”
His companion’s eyes cast down to his soup bowl. “I’d rather not say, my lord. Not all my endeavours befit a gentleman. Especially a gentleman requesting the assistance of a member of the nobility.”
Lando pursued his lips. “Which is precisely why you should own up to them. Or were you planning on lying in addition to blackmail?” He sipped at the last of his claret, then indicated his empty goblet to the first footman, who leaped forward. “Or, perhaps after dinner, you plan to fleece me at cards. Or pilfer my sleeve buttons. Though, as Mr Pritchard, my valet, will attest, they are the devil’s work to take off.” Another sip. “And I never allow myself heavy losses at the card table.”
“You know of my crimes,” said Angel, flatly.
“I do,” acknowledged Lando. “Very little escapes me.”
Fewer things were more satisfying than being underestimated. Perhaps this would be the last time Angel made that mistake. He hoped so because Angel’s shady past served Lando’s purposes remarkably. In fact, as he applauded himself with another swallow of claret, Lando couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so alive. He smiled prettily.
“You haven’t finished your consommé, my dear Mr Angel. Is my cook’s recipe not to your liking?”
“It’s…it’s… The soup is excellent, my lord.”
“Then I shall pass your compliments to her. Now, where were we?” Lando dabbed at his mouth. “Ah, yes. You were regaling me with your various endeavours. Specifically, your endeavours to be economical with the truth.”
“I can’t deny it,” admitted the other, finding his voice at last. “Though our impromptu, intimate rendezvous at the inn’s stables should have reminded me of the futility of it.”
At mention of the episode, Lando’s thoughts took wing on a scandalous flight of fancy. “Are you good at what you do? Are you…skilled with your hands?”
“Yes.” Angel’s eyes were modestly downcast. “Regrettably, I am. I’ve had a good deal of practice.”
Lando acknowledged that with an incline of his head. “And?”
“And I find myself in the invidious position of admitting to my own nefarious doings whilst expecting you to help me exact revenge on a person committing his own manner of sins.”
Lando toyed with his bread, determinedly averting his gaze from Angel’s remarkably well-shaped hands and absolutely not imagining them roaming anywhere on his person. “Rest assured, I do not lump your misdeeds and Gartside’s in the same bracket. Do you use your…skilled hands to impose your person on ladies unable to defend themselves and brag about it afterwards?”
“No, of course not!”
“Are you robbing the poor and giving to the rich?”
Angel spluttered into his glass. “Hardly. I am the poor!”
“Are you blackmailing the Duke of Ashington? Are you tupping the Duke of Norfolk’s wife? Are you the cause of the Duke of Denbigh’s perennial ill humour?”
“No! I do not move in ducal circles, far less the circles of their wives.”
“Are you a murdering fiend with an insatiable blood lust? Do you seize the necks of your innocent victims as they sleep in their warm beds and sink your fangs into their softly yielding flesh as they beg you for mercy? Which you then cruelly deny?”
It was possible during his prolonged period of mourning that Lando had read far too many penny dreadfuls. And already imbibed a few cups more claret than he was accustomed.
Greatly amused, Angel threw back his head and laughed. “Yes, alas, my sins have been found out. I have jars steeped in royal blood closeted about my person. Indeed”—holding aloft his glass, he dropped his voice to a stage whisper—“I have cunningly swapped out your claret.”
“So, which is it?” Lando cried, now thoroughly enjoying himself. He motioned to the first footman to replenish his wine. “Is your petty thieving nothing but cover for a murderer, a blackmailer, or a rake?”
The dashing dimpled smile reappeared, fuelling a fullness in Lando’s drawers that two spoonsful of soup and half a bread roll could not account for.
“Alas, nothing as remotely sinister, I’m afraid.” Angel’s eyes lit up as a further footman piled his plate high with venison. “Your omniscience has uncovered all my secrets.”
“Yes.” Lando stared at Angel, prying him open with his eyes. The young man’s cheeks coloured an attractive dark hue. “Added to our encounter at the stables, I do believe it has.”
Too late, Lando realised that three full glasses of rich claret on top of two thimbles of sherry made his head spin. The last time he suffered from overindulgence, Pritchard wisely observed that if he ate more, it would dilute the effect of the wine. But sometimes, ignoring sound advice was fun. And, God knew, fun had been sorely missing from Lando’s life for far too long.
“Come closer, my dear Angel. We have things to discuss.”
With a wave of his hand, a footman scuttled over, and a second later, it was done. Angel’s seat was now at kitty-corner to his own, albeit two settings away for the sake of decorum.
“Much better,” he remarked approvingly. “Now I don’t have to strain my voice.” And can inspect you more closely .
Angel’s own mellifluous voice and latent, leonine poise were even finer at close quarters. His hazel eyes, gold-flecked this close, sparkled with the vigour of youth. Lando found himself quite unable to tear his own away.
Though he would have enjoyed flirting with Mr Angel throughout dinner and beyond, at least as far as the library and perhaps even up the sweeping staircase and into his bedchamber, the tiny morsels of rich venison Lando permitted to pass his lips performed their duty of soaking up some of the wine. Thus, his sharp mind took over the reins, and conversation ambled between further complimenting the cook and denouncing the fresher weather.
“Whilst unhappily assisting me into this divine waistcoat”—Angel’s amused eyes flicked down to the mud-coloured garment, seemingly comprised of horsehair, then up to meet Lando’s—“your charming footman, Jasper, mentioned your sons, my lord. I was…surprised.”
“Naturally, I have sired sons,” answered Lando with a degree of hauteur. That he had begat children, given his natural leanings, was amongst his proudest achievements. Not his happiest, mind; the effort had been humiliating and draining. Even now, he winced at the memory, very much an unsuitable topic for the dining table. “Surely you are not questioning my commitment to my obligations or my…my virility, Mr Angel?”
His virility wasn’t a suitable topic for the dining table either, he concluded, a little too late.
“Goodness, no,” replied his guest in his pleasant, light tenor. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord. Merely, I hadn’t been aware you were married.”
“I’m not.” Lando pushed his plate away, deciding three mouthfuls of venison were ample. He reached again for the wine. “I was once; I married at twenty-one—a union arranged and agreed upon by our fathers. My poor dear wife, Lady Rossingley, died during childbirth. Our twin boys survived.”
For a moment, sorrow washed over Lando. Any young woman’s death was tragic, and Elizabeth had been a kind and understanding wife. Given that her own passions had also lain elsewhere, she’d tolerated Lando’s needs, or distinct lack of them, without fuss and paid for doing her duty with her life. Elizabeth would have made an excellent, devoted mother. For all of that, she held a very special place in his heart.
“I’m so terribly sorry,” said the other. “Forgive me for bringing it up.”
“It was a long time ago now.” Tossing his head back, Lando emptied his wine glass and permitted himself a watery smile. “My sons are schooled at Eton and just turned thirteen. Rascals, the pair of them. It isn’t the done thing to brag of one’s assets, nor to admit to caring deeply for one’s offspring, but I…I miss them terribly.”
He pressed his lips shut after that admission and would have liked to have done the same with his eyes as sudden hot tears welled behind them. It was a funny old thing, loneliness. Caught one unawares when one was least expecting it.
With a degree of sensitivity Lando was unused to since the death of his beloved Charles, Angel reached for the decanter, leaned across him, half out of his seat, and refilled Lando’s glass. His mother would have been aghast at the lapse in decorum, but strangely enough, Lando wasn’t at all. As Mr Angel’s loose and, frankly, hideous velvet sleeve brushed against his own, Lando experienced a strange urge to turn into the man, to rest his head against his solid chest, allow the other to wrap his arms around Lando’s shoulders, and let him take the weight of everything.
He did no such thing, of course. Instead, uncharacteristically flustered, Lando expressed his desire for the venison to be whisked away and replaced by the pudding course. Pudding being his entire raison d’être for owning a dining room.
Despite a preference for savouring his desserts in silence, Lando’s manners were sufficient that he continued to engage his guest in conversation while simultaneously devouring an enormous helping of cook’s incomparable lemon syllabub. Having only touched briefly upon Mr Angel’s vengeful desires, now seemed a suitable window of opportunity in which to raise the subject properly. From prior experience, Lando knew that his mind didn’t always function at its keenest after syllabub. Already, he concentrated quite hard on stringing coherent sentences together. Syllabub, an excess of claret, and a handsome man were as much excitement as he’d faced in years.
“You mentioned revenge,” he prompted in between spoonsful. “A noble sentiment, in my humble opinion, although don’t tell the vicar I said so.”
Angel’s sunny countenance clouded over.
“Yes, I did. Two days ago, I had a mind to break down Gartside’s door and kill him with my bare hands.” He examined his large square hands as if still toying with the notion. “But on reflection, my lord, and your sage counsel against it, I have concluded that murder is too good for him. Instead, I want his life to be a long and painful one, overflowing with suffering. I want to see him banished from society, scorned by his friends, and fleeing with his tail between his legs from everything and everyone he knows. Humbled, mocked, and outcast.”
“I beg you, sir,” Lando drawled. “Don’t hold back on my account. Pray make your desires clear.”
Mr Angel huffed an apologetic laugh. “Forgive me, but such is the bitter strength of my hatred for the man.”
His fist clenched around the fragile stem of his wine glass, his tanned cheeks flooded with colour. Truly, the man was a vision in burgundy velvet.
“But I require your assistance,” Angel continued. Those gold-flecked eyes blazed with righteous fury. Lando blinked, his own feeling rather claret-hazed.
“I have approached you badly.” Angel pursed his lips. “I realise that now. But if you would still be so gracious to give the matter your consideration, I would be your ever faithful servant.” As he awaited Lando’s response, the anger in his eyes faded. Amusement danced in its place. “But do give the syllabub your full appreciation first.”
He treated Lando to the dimples again, a wholly unfair means of persuasion. “And if I may be so bold, my lord,” he added with an audacious wink. “I can’t help noticing that your gold fob watch has been half-inched by the invisible dinner guest sitting to your right.”
*
TOO SOZZLED BY half, Lando didn’t remember sojourning to the library. Nor how a nip of his finest French brandy found itself clasped in his hand. After gulping down half of it, something he’d most certainly regret in the morning, he recalled that the sloe-eyed devil currently leaning against his own mantel had performed a rather fantabulous sleight of hand. Lando felt faintly dizzy.
“Bravo, sir,” he said weakly from his favourite bergère. “I shall ask Inglis to count the silver spoons very thoroughly on the morrow.”
His guest gave a low chuckle. “That won’t be necessary, my lord.”
The man could at least have had the decency to look sheepish. Instead, his solid elbow rested on Lando’s mantel as if the wretched thing had been constructed for that very purpose. And his lips still had that plump, ripe air about them, as if tempting someone to take a nibble. Studying his brandy glass, Lando endeavoured to marshal his tipsy thoughts.
“You amuse me, Mr Angel,” he said eventually. “You have shown dogged persistence and clearly care very much for your sister. And, I believe—” He swallowed, and his eyes darted to the fireplace. “—you cared for Captain Prosser. As he did for the both of you. Gartside is a rake and a bounder and should not be allowed to continue in his current form. So, I am going to assist you.”
Angel didn’t answer directly. He gazed into the fire for a minute or two first, swirling his brandy in his glass before lifting it to his lips. With the tip of his thumb, he wiped a drop from the corner of his mouth before licking the thumb thoughtfully as if choosing his words with great care. At last, he levelled that dark gaze on Lando.
“You are a good man, my lord. Kind and moral. Everything, in fact, that Gartside is not.”
“I’m not impervious to flattery, Mr Angel, but one doesn’t take the law into one’s own hands simply because a person’s morals do not match one’s own. Society would come to a crashing halt. And yet, I have been moved to action not simply because of Captain Prosser’s love for his poor niece or sympathy for Gartside’s scattered by-blows. In addition to that, the man is not fit to run an estate, and his family’s reputation and his people are suffering.”
“Ruination of a man such as Gartside is a tall order.”
“Yes. It is. I have the beginnings of a plan, but it will require a degree of cunning. And is not without risk.”
“May I ask as to the nature of that plan?”
With effort, Lando cocked his brow at him. A rush of tiredness accompanied the rich brandy. Sparring with Mr Angel, as pleasant as it was, had exhausted him. His bed was calling. But Lando could leave his guest with one last surprise.
“I’ll give you a flavour if it,” he replied sleepily. “Whilst you are adept at petty thievery, Mr Angel, I’m going to raise the stakes with some thievery of my own.” Lando paused a beat, his vision now hazier still. “On a grand scale.”
He’d eaten too sparingly at dinner, been plied with claret, flattered, and charmed. Yet, his stupendous idea had been bursting to be shared ever since he’d had his epiphany, whilst idling in his bed that morning. His lonely bed.
Lando threw Mr Angel a glittering stare. “I’m going to steal his estate.”
Mr Angel’s scoffing wasn’t quite the effect he’d been after. “His estate?” He scoffed some more. “Estates aren’t like fob watches, my lord. One cannot distract Gartside with…with pretty words and topping up a drink while pinching his property from under his nose.”
Ah, so that was when it had happened. “I’m fully aware.”
“So, how on earth do you plan to do it?” demanded Angel impatiently.
Truth be told, Lando could hardly remember anymore. He couldn’t think clearly at all. He was too foxed on brandy. The drink of the damned. And his bergère was so terribly comfortable, he could curl up on it and sleep for a week. With a sigh, not too far removed from a yawn, Lando’s pale blue eyes fluttered closed.
“Ah…all in good time, Mr Angel. All in good time.”
With a little chink, Lando felt his fob watch drop into his waistcoat pocket. Sweet-scented breath gusted across his ear, like the ghost of a faded summer afternoon. Cool fingers loitered on his jaw, followed by the press of soft lips. In welcome, Lando’s own parted, and his mind wandered back in time, back to that summer of a thousand July’s when his lover’s kiss had stolen his heart.
When soft lips pressed against his a second time, Lando’s eyes flew open to be met by a pair of dazzling autumnal ones.
“Charles fretted about you, my lord.” Angel’s mouth caressed Lando’s. “As he lay dying. He was fearful you would grieve his loss in silence. And I promised that if ever our paths were to cross, I was to pass on his sorrow that you were not able to be by his side at the end.”
“And is bewitching me how he requested you do it?”
Mr Angel chuckled, low in his throat. A rather glorious sound. “I daresay not.”
Lando sought his mouth again, chasing that chuckle. “I am damned,” he whispered as he lost himself to the kiss.
“Then we shall be damned together,” returned a voice like warm silk.