“Yes?” Lucy popped a forkful of potato into her mouth.

“Never mind. Never mind.” Papa finished filling his plate and pulled it to where his belly met the table. “Let’s just say it’ll light a fire under the old boy after all this time. Ha!”

“How delightful.” Lucy smiled. If Papa ever did finish his memoirs and publish them, there would be a score of apoplectic fits in His Majesty’s navy.

“Quite. Quite.” Papa swallowed and took a sip of wine. “Now, then. I don’t want you worrying over this scoundrel you’ve brought home.”

Lucy’s gaze dropped to the fork she held. It trembled slightly, and she hoped her father wouldn’t notice the movement. “No, Papa.”

“You’ve done a good deed, Samaritan and all that. Just as your mother used to teach you from the Bible. She’d approve. But remember”—he forked up a turnip—“I’ve seen head wounds before. Some live. Some don’t. And there’s not a blessed thing you can do about it either way.”

She felt her heart sink in her chest. “You don’t think he’ll live?”

“Don’t know,” Papa barked impatiently. “That’s what I’m saying. He might. He might not.”

“I see.” Lucy poked at a turnip and tried not to let the tears start.

Her father slammed the flat of his hand down on the table. “This is just what I’m warning you about. Don’t get attached to the tramp.”

A corner of Lucy’s mouth twitched up. “But you can’t keep me from feeling,” she said gently. “I’ll do it no matter if I want to or not.”

Papa frowned ferociously. “Don’t want you to be sad if he pops off in the night.”

“I’ll do my very best not to be sad, Papa,” Lucy promised. But she knew it was too late for that. If the man died tonight, she would weep on the morrow, promises or no.

“Humph.” Her father returned to his plate. “Good enough for now. If he survives, though, mark my words.” He looked up and pinned her with his azure eyes. “He even thinks about hurting one hair on your head, and out he goes on his arse.”

Chapter Two

The angel was sitting by his bed when Simon Iddesleigh, sixth Viscount Iddesleigh, opened his eyes.

He would’ve thought it a terrible dream, one of an endless succession that haunted him nightly—or worse, that he’d not survived the beating and had made that final infinite plunge out of this world and into the flaming next. But he was almost certain hell did not smell of lavender and starch, did not feel like worn linen and down pillows, did not sound with the chirping of sparrows and the rustle of gauze curtains.

And, of course, there were no angels in hell.

Simon watched her. His angel was all in gray, as befit a religious woman. She wrote in a great book, eyes intent, level black brows knit. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from a high forehead and gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her lips pursed slightly as her hand moved across the page. Probably noting his sins. The scratch of the pen on the page was what had woken him.

When men spoke of angels, especially in the context of the female sex, usually they were employing a flowery fillip of speech. They thought of fair-haired creatures with pink cheeks—both kinds—and red, wet lips. Insipid Italian putti with vacant blue eyes and billowy, soft flesh came to mind. That was not the type of angel Simon contemplated. No, his angel was the biblical kind—Old Testament, not New. The not-quite-human, stern-and-judgmental kind. The type that was more apt to hurl men into eternal damnation with a flick of a dispassionate finger than to float on feathery pigeon wings. She wasn’t likely to overlook a few flaws here and there in a fellow’s character. Simon sighed.

He had more than just a few flaws.

The angel must have heard his sigh. She turned her unearthly topaz eyes on him. “Are you awake?”

He felt her gaze as palpably as if she’d laid a hand on his shoulder, and frankly the feeling bothered him.

Not that he let his unease show. “That depends on one’s definition of awake,” he replied in a croak. Even the little movement of speaking made his face hurt. In fact, his entire body seemed aflame. “I am not sleeping, yet I have been more alert. I don’t suppose you have such a thing as coffee to hasten the awakening process?” He shifted to sit up, finding it more difficult than it should be. The coverlet slipped to his abdomen.

The angel’s gaze followed the coverlet down, and she frowned at his bare torso. Already he was in her bad graces.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee,” she murmured to his navel, “but there is tea.”

“Naturally. There always is,” Simon said. “Could I trouble you to help me sit up? One finds oneself at a distressing disadvantage flat on one’s back, not to mention the position makes it very hard to drink tea without spilling it into the ears.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Perhaps I should get Hedge or my father.”

“I promise not to bite, truly.” Simon placed a hand over his heart. “And I hardly ever spit.”

Her lips twitched.

Simon stilled. “You’re not really an angel after all, are you?”

One ebony brow arched ever so slightly. Such a disdainful look for a country miss; her expression would’ve fit a duchess. “My name is Lucinda Craddock-Hayes. What is yours?”

“Simon Matthew Raphael Iddesleigh, viscount of, I’m afraid.” He sketched a bow, which came off rather well in his opinion, considering he was prostrate.

The lady was unimpressed. “You’re the Viscount Iddesleigh?”

“Sadly.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“Here would be . . . ?”

“The town of Maiden Hill in Kent.”

“Ah.” Kent? Why Kent? Simon craned his neck to try and see out the window, but the gauzy white curtain obscured it.

She followed his gaze. “You’re in my brother’s bedroom.”

“Kind of him,” Simon muttered. Turning his head had made him realize something was wrapped about it. He felt with one hand, and his fingers encountered a bandage. Probably made him look a right fool. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever been to the lovely town of Maiden Hill; although I’m sure it’s quite scenic and the church a famous touring highlight.”

Her full, red lips twitched again bewitchingly. “How did you know?”

“They always are in the nicest towns.” He looked down—ostensibly to adjust the coverlet, in reality to avoid the strange temptation of those lips. Coward. “I spend most of my wasted time in London. My own neglected estate lies to the north in Northumberland. Ever been to Northumberland?”

She shook her head. Her lovely topaz eyes watched him with a disconcertingly level stare—almost like a man. Except Simon had never felt stirred by a man’s glance.

He tsked. “Very rural. Hence the appellative neglected. One wonders what one’s ancestors were thinking, precisely, when they built the old pile of masonry so far out of the way of anything. Nothing but mist and sheep nearby. Still, been in the family for ages; might as well keep it.”

“How good of you,” the lady murmured. “But it does make me wonder why we found you only a half mile from here if you’ve never been in the area before?”

Quick, wasn’t she? And not at all sidetracked by his blather. Intelligent women were such a bother. Which was why he should not be so fascinated by this one.

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Simon opened his eyes wide. “Perhaps I had the good fortune to be attacked by industrious thieves. Not content to leave me lie where I fell, they spirited me off here so I might see more of the world.”

“Humph. I doubt they meant for you to see anything ever again,” she said quellingly.

“Mmm. And wouldn’t that’ve been a shame?” he asked in false innocence. “For then I wouldn’t have met you.” The lady raised a brow and opened her mouth again, no doubt to practice her inquisition skills on him, but Simon beat her to it. “You did say there was tea about? I know I spoke of it disparagingly before, but really, I wouldn’t mind a drop or two.”

His angel actually flushed, a pale rose wash coloring her white cheeks. Ah, a weakness. “I’m sorry. Here, let me help you sit up.”

She placed cool little hands on his arms—an unsettlingly erotic touch—and between them they managed to get him upright; although, by the time they did so, Simon was panting, and not just from her. His shoulder felt like little devils, or maybe saints in his case, were poking red-hot irons into it. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, there was a cup of tea under his nose. He reached for it, then stopped and stared at his bare right hand. His signet ring was missing. They’d stolen his ring.

She mistook the reason for his hesitation. “The tea is fresh, I assure you.”

“Most kind.” His voice was embarrassingly weak. His hand shook as he grasped the cup, the familiar clink of his ring against the porcelain absent. He hadn’t taken it off since Ethan’s death. “Damn.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll hold it for you.” Her tone was soft, low and intimate, though she probably didn’t know it. He could rest on that voice, float away on it and let his cares cease.

Dangerous woman.

Simon swallowed the lukewarm tea. “Would you mind terribly writing a letter for me?”

“Of course not.” She set the cup down and withdrew safely to her chair. “To whom would you like to write?”

“My valet, I think. Bound to be teased if I alert any of my acquaintances.”

“And we certainly wouldn’t want that.” There was laughter in her voice.

He looked at her sharply, but her eyes were wide and innocent. “I’m glad you understand the problem,” he said dryly. Actually, he was more worried that his enemies would learn that he was still alive. “My valet can bring down miscellaneous things like clean clothes, a horse, and money.”

She laid aside her still-open book. “His name?”

Simon tilted his head, but he couldn’t see the book’s page from this angle. “Henry. At 207 Cross Road, London. What were you writing before?”

“I beg your pardon?” She didn’t look up.

Irritating. “In your book. What were you writing?”

She hesitated, the pencil immobile on the letter, her head still bent down.

Simon kept his expression light, though he grew infinitely more interested.

There was a silence as she finished scratching out the address; then she laid it aside and looked up at him. “I was sketching, actually.” She reached for the open book and placed it on his lap.

Drawings or cartoons covered the left page, some big, some small. A little bent man carrying a basket. A leafless tree. A gate with one hinge broken. On the right was a single sketch of a man asleep. Himself. And not looking his best, what with the bandage and all. It was an odd feeling, knowing she had watched him sleep.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Not at all. Glad to be of some use.” Simon turned back a page. Here, some of the drawings had been embellished by a watercolor wash. “These are quite good.”

“Thank you.”

Simon felt his lips curve at her sure reply. Most ladies feigned modesty when complimented on an accomplishment. Miss Craddock-Hayes was certain of her talent. He turned another page.

“What’s this?” The sketches on this page were of a tree changing with the seasons: winter, spring, summer, and fall.

The rose tinted her cheeks again. “They’re practice sketches. For a small book of prayers I want to give Mrs. Hardy in the village. It’s to be a present on her birthday.”