An Angel for the Earl Read Online Free PDF Page B

another drink to toast the partnership.”
    * * *
    â€œDemby, do you believe in ghosts? Angels, devils, any of those spirit things?”
    The earl’s loyal servant removed the decanter from Lord Stanford’s limp fingers without spilling more than a drop, so low was the level of brandy remaining. “No, my lord,” Demby grumbled on his way to fetch a pot of coffee, “but I do believe in the demon in the bottle.”

Chapter Four
    â€œI’ll never touch another drop of liquor,” Kerry swore, clutching his throbbing temples. Demby’s hands, all four of them, were shaking worse than usual as he held out a tray with some noxious brew guaranteed to cure the earl, if it didn’t kill him first. The motion of the tray was making Kerry seasick, and the rattling of the cup was hammering stakes through his eyeballs. “God, I need a drink,” he groaned.
    â€œNo, my lord, you need a clear head for tonight. Remember?”
    His lordship couldn’t remember his name right then, only a recurring nightmare about the most beautiful woman who never existed. He shook his head, a definite mistake. When the walls stopped revolving, he grabbed for the cup before Demby sloshed the entire contents onto the carpet. “Tonight. Right, the game. I still have fifty pounds, don’t I? And my lucky gold piece? Don’t worry, Demby, we’ll come around.”
    â€œWe’d better, my lord.”
    * * *
    A few recuperative hours later, Lord Stanford was on his way to hell. Gillespie’s gaming hell, to be exact. He eschewed Whites and his other clubs, where too many members held his vouchers, and the exclusive gambling dens where the stakes were too high for his present circumstances. Gillespie’s was perfect: respectable enough that he’d find enough gentlemen mixed in with the cardsharps and ivory-tuners, not so refined that every player was already a creditor.
    The rooms were dingy, dark, and overheated. The smell of stale wine and stale bodies hung over the tables, mingling with clouds of smoke. Fevered eyes and feral smiles greeted the earl as he passed by the roulette wheels, the dicing tables. He wouldn’t want to spend eternity here, Kerry thought with a grin, but for tonight Gillespie’s was ideal.
    He played at vingt-et-un for half an hour or so, winning some, losing less. He did better at the hazard table, steadily increasing his rolls of house markers, wagering conservatively, and moving on as soon as his luck shifted. The roulette tables never interested him before, but this evening he placed a rouleau on red. And won, doubling his bet. He left both wager and winnings on red, and won again. And a third time.
    The other gamesters were quiet, waiting to see what he did. The croupier was watching with raised eyebrows. Kerry started to move his stacks of markers over to the black box, when he chanced to look up. “Lucy?”
    â€œMilord?” the dealer was ready to spin. Lucy was shaking her head. He left the chips where they were.
    â€œLucky, I meant to say. Red has been lucky for me.”
    â€œNumber twenty-seven, odd, red.”
    Dazed, Lord Stanford gathered his considerable take onto a tray a waiter provided and followed Lucy into the shadows. She was in that same carmine gown that could have been painted on her. For some reason he found himself standing in front of her, shielding the view from the sight of the hardened libertines at the tables.
    â€œWhat the bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.
    â€œYou could at least mind your tongue in front of a lady,” she replied, not even looking at him but gazing over his shoulder around the room in wide-eyed innocence.
    â€œThis is no place for a lady!”
    â€œNor a gentleman with hopes of salvation,” she reminded him.
    â€œMy only hope is to win a fortune, which I cannot do with you here to distract me.”
    â€œAre they really enjoying