Susannah Carleton, Regency Author
The Viscount's Angel by Susannah Carleton

Chapter 1


December, 1815

    The carriage slewed suddenly to the left. As the coachman cracked his whip and exhorted the horses, Stephen Lindley, Viscount Carrington, grabbed the strap, braced his feet, and prayed the rig would slide into a nice, soft snowbank. 'Twould be better by far if it remained on the road, but the way his luck had been running lately, Stephen thought it far more likely that they would land upside-down in a rock pit.
    After what seemed a short eternity, the coach came to a shuddering halt. Apparently there was a dearth of quarries in this part of Cumbria. They weren't upside-down, merely listing sharply to the left. Glancing at the wall of white outside the window, Stephen realized that part of his prayer had been answered.
    "Be ye all right, m'lord?"
    "I believe so, Jem. How did you fare?"
    The carriage tilted farther as the coachman climbed down from the box. "I be fine. Don't move aboot 'til I calm the horses and see what's what."
    The viscount smiled slightly. Old Jem still ordered him about as if he were six instead of six-and-thirty. He listened to the coachman soothing the team, then unharnessing them. Patiently, he waited for the grizzled man, who had been more of a father to him than his own, to assess the damages. Patience had been a hard lesson, but Stephen had learnt it well: First in the Peninsula, then lying abed at Carrington Park whilst his leg healed, waiting to see if his shattered knee would ever again support his weight.
    It did, barely. Stephen was one of the few gentlemen in Society who sported a cane out of necessity, not as a fashionable accessory.
    When Jem opened the carriage door, the vehicle tilted even more alarmingly, then landed on its side with a soft thud, the open door directed heavenward. "M'lord, do ye remember tellin' me oncet aboot some Greek fella what said ye shouldn't blame the messenger iffen you dislike the news he brings?"
    He didn't, but he was touched that Jem would recall such a thing from young boy's recounting of his lessons. "A very wise man was Sophocles. I take it the news is not good."
    "Depends on where ye be, I reckon. From out here--"
    "Where I be," he replied wryly, "is with my rump half on the seat and half on the window."
    His old friend snickered. "Ye gots two choices, m'lord. Ye can climb out o' the top door or try to open the bottom one. Iffen ye can do that, ye'll land in a deep ditch."
    "I suppose it would be tempting fate to think that the ditch is dry?"
    "Huh?" Then, after a pause, "The ditch be full o' water."
    "Of course it is," Stephen muttered. Massaging his right leg, he glanced at the door. Well, hell. An inconceivable climb or a frigid dunking. The former Colonel Lindley, Hussar officer and war hero, chose to tackle the impossible.
    "How stable is the coach? If I clamber around in here, will it shift further?"
    "Bain't nowhere for it to go, 'cept deeper in the snow" was the laconic reply.
    He jabbed his cane at the lower door, wondering if it would prove floor or oubliette if he stood on it. It seemed sound enough, so he braced his left foot and his cane on the panel and rose. He was a tall man, two inches above six feet, but the carriage was taller. Or wider. Whichever. This was a crisis, not a parliamentary debate, so he wasn't inclined to argue semantics with himself. The point was that his head and shoulders didn't clear the portal.
    "Why the devil did my father buy such a blastedly large coach?" he mumbled.
    "What's that, m'lord?"
    "Nothing." Zounds, now he was talking to himself. Another few weeks and he'd be a candidate for Bedlam. "I am going to hand out my coat, cane, and hat. I will manage better without them."
    "Wait 'til I climb up on the coach where I kin reach 'em."
    A minute later, after several bumps and thumps, Jem's weather-beaten face appeared, sideways, in the doorway. "Hand 'em up, m'lord."
    Stephen propped his curly-brimmed beaver on the head of the cane, which he raised like a flag of truce. He did the same with his greatcoat, then, after a moment's consideration, his coat. "Take the cane as well this time."
    When the coachman complied, Stephen reached up and grasped the sides of the portal. It wasn't the best method for pulling oneself upward, the grip was wrong, but it worked. Until his bent elbows banged hard against the inside walls of the coach, his hands reflexively let go, and he landed, badly, in a heap on the opposite door.
    "Bloody hell!" He swore comprehensively, thoroughly damning everyone who had contributed to his current situation: his father, his brother, the Frenchman who'd all but destroyed his leg, and, for good measure, the coach builder.
    "Be ye all right, lad? Did ye hurt yer leg?" Jem's face appeared again, this time upside-down and wearing a look of concern.
    "It hurts like the devil, but whether I injured it again, I do not know. Given my recent luck, I daresay you could bet your life savings on the certainty and win a fortune." After a bit more grumbling and a few cautious movements, he called, "Throw down my cane."
    The older man tossed it neatly onto the seat, near Stephen's right hand. "Iffen ye can do that again, closer to the top o' the door, I'll grab ye under the arms and pull ye out."
    Stephen didn't think the coachman, six inches shorter and two stone lighter, would be able to exert enough force to do the job. He considered the problem for several moments, contemplating which of two approaches was most likely to succeed. Then, he braced his left foot and stick on the panel and stood, wincing at the pain in his right leg. After he had positioned himself, he handed up his cane. This time he placed both hands on the same side of the portal and pulled himself up. Lud, he was weak as a kitten after all those months in bed! Hanging from his hands, his chin resting on the doorframe, he was relieved to feel Jem grab the back of his waistcoat.
    The coachman shifted his grip to Stephen's armpits. After a bit of concerted pulling, and a lot of cursing and grunting, the viscount lay sprawled on the side of the carriage, atop his old friend. He rolled to one side, but was in too much pain to move farther, having banged his knee on the doorframe and again when he landed. Finally, the cold and snow roused him enough to sit up.
    Jem was kneeling beside him. The coachman helped him don coat and greatcoat, then handed him his hat and cane. "Ye can climb down, slide over to the wheel and lower yerself down, or jist roll off into the snow."
    Climbing down wasn't a possibility; his leg would never support him. Rolling into the snow didn't suit his notions of proper behavior for a viscount. Besides which, it would require that he climb out of the snowbank, and he didn't think he could do that now. His choice was limited to sliding and lowering -- and he was certain his demmed knee would buckle the second he placed any weight on it.
    He knew Jem would start fussing over him like a hen with one chick as soon as he admitted his weakness, but there was no help for it. "I vote for the wheel, but you will have to go down first and be ready to hand me my cane. My knee is worse than useless at the moment."
    As he scooted toward the rear wheel, Stephen studied the surrounding landscape. Snow-covered fields, an occasional fence, and the icy road. Not the most hospitable-looking area he had ever seen, but the mountains of the Peninsula had been worse. He turned his head to look at the land behind them. "Jem, over there" -- he pointed -- "looks to be a house or farm cottage. Perhaps we can shelter there until the storm passes."
    "I hope we kin. It'll take a team o' sturdy horses and some stout men to git this coach on the road agin." The coachman gripped the wheel rim and swung down to the ground.
    "Do you propose that we just leave it here?" Stephen's tone reflected his surprise.
    "I don't rightly see what else we kin do." Then, "Toss me your cane and come down, laddie, so we kin be off to that there cottage."
    He slid across the lacquered surface until his legs dangled over the side of the carriage. He tossed down his stick, then leaned over, grasped the wheel rim, and threw his weight to the side. The wheel began to spin slowly. He had visions of smacking face-first into the rear of the coach, but Jem grabbed his legs and steadied him. Stephen let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and straightened his arms, lowering himself toward the road.
    The moment his left leg touched the ground, the coachman supported him at the hips. Stephen freed his right hand, retrieved his cane from under Jem's arm and stabbed it into the snow-packed road, then lowered his right leg and released the wheel. The injured leg protested, but did not collapse.
    "Now, lad, you jist stand there a minute 'til I lead over one o' the horses."
    He stifled a groan. Mounting a saddleless horse wouldn't be a problem, but the dismount would be hell. In less than a minute, they were riding cautiously down the road, avoiding the iciest-looking patches, each leading a horse. Stephen hoped there was a drive or path to the cottage. With his leg hanging straight as poker, he would lose his seat if they had to jump a fence and traverse the fields.
    The gods of bad luck must be dozing this afternoon. There was, indeed, a path. Not a well-traveled one, but it led straight to the farmhouse's door. Jem dismounted, handed him the reins, and knocked on the door.
    After a few moments, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman of about fifty answered the summons. The coachman snatched off his hat. "Good afternoon, ma'am. Our carriage slid off the road aboot a mile back and his lordship injured his leg. We wus hopin' ye might take us in 'til the storm passes."
    The woman inspected his servant from head to toe, then turned her gaze to him. Stephen doffed his hat and inclined his head in greeting.
    "And who are you, my lord?" Her voice was rife with suspicion, but her accent was more cultured than he expected.
    "Carrington."
    After a careful scrutiny, she turned and spoke, at some length, to someone behind her. When she turned back, she opened the door wider. "Her ladyship says you are welcome to shelter with us." The woman's tone conveyed her doubt about the wisdom of her mistress's decision. "We are a small household and cannot be fetching and carrying for you," she added in warning. "And you will have to take care of your horses yourself."
    "I'll tend to the horses, soon as his lordship is inside," Jem replied, then walked back to the viscount. "How kin I help ye dismount?"
    Stephen handed the coachman his cane. "Try to keep me from landing face-down in the snow," he answered, his tone wry. He stretched out on the horse's broad back and slid his right leg over its rump. Then he wrapped his arms around its neck, angled both legs to the left, and lowered himself toward the ground.
    The descent was quicker than he expected. Both feet hit the frozen path, hard. Just as his leg began to collapse, Jem grabbed him under the arms. With a sigh of relief, Stephen balanced his weight on his left leg and leaned his forehead against the horse's side.
    "I gots your stick, but ye'd do better to lean on me."
    "Very well." He draped his right arm over the coachman's shoulders and walked slowly toward the open door, his leg nearly buckling with every step.
    By the time they reached the cottage, Mrs. Rosy Cheeks's look of suspicion had been replaced by one of concern. "What, besides compresses, do you need for that leg, Lord Carrington?"
    "Compresses, cold alternated with hot, will do very well, Mrs....ah, ma'am. Thank you."
    She bobbed a curtsey. "Mrs. Hodge, my lord." She closed the door, then directed them into a large parlor. "Sit by the fire. I will get hot water and a towel."
    With single-minded purpose, Stephen headed for the wing chair by the hearth. He managed, with the help of Jem and the cane, to stand long enough to remove his greatcoat. Then, with an muffled groan, he plopped into the chair, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.
    A few moments later, a scraping sound jerked him erect. A tow-headed, curly-haired boy six or seven years of age was pushing an ottoman toward him. "Would you like to put your leg up on this, sir?"
    "Why, thank you. That would help a great deal." When the footrest was positioned, he had to clasp his hands under his knee and lift his leg onto it. "I am Carrington. What is your name?"
    "Matthew Bolton."
    "Well, Matthew, I am very grateful for your assistance. And to your parents for offering my coachman and I shelter."
    "I don't have parents, just Mama and Martha."
    "Er, would Martha be Mrs. Hodge?"
    The boy nodded vigorously. "Yes, but we just call her Martha."
    The viscount mustered a smile. "You can do that, since you have known her a long time. As a stranger, I must call her Mrs. Hodge."
    The lady in question bustled into the room, carrying a tray. She was followed by Jem, with a steaming kettle in one hand and a bucket of snow in the other. "Matt, don't you be bothering his lordship."
    "He wasn't bothering me in the least. On the contrary, he very helpfully provided a support for my leg." Stephen was charmed by the lad's bashful smile of thanks.
    The housekeeper set down the tray and tousled Matthew's curls. "Good boy. Go finish your lessons now. You can talk with Lord Carrington later, when he is feeling a bit more the thing." With dragging feet, and several looks back over his shoulder, the boy complied.
    Mrs. Hodge then turned her attention to the viscount. "Cold compress first or hot, my lord?"
    "Cold."
    "'Twould be better if you were out of those breeches. I will bring a quilt you can use as covering."
    "I prefer to retain my breeches." And my dignity.
    The housekeeper shook her head, as if chiding him for such foolishness. "If that knee swells much more, we'll have to cut you out of them."
    "In truth, ma'am, the compresses will avert such a drastic step."
    She packed snow around his knee, wrapping it in a towel. "I suggest a quarter of an hour with the cold, then changing to the hot." Placing the bucket underneath his leg, so the melting snow wouldn't drip on the carpet, she announced that she would prepare tea, then return to change the compress.
    When Mrs. Hodge and Jem departed, Stephen settled back in the chair and glanced around the room. The furnishings were far superior those in the home of his wealthiest tenant farmer. The carpet was an Axminster, of deep blue and maroon in a floral pattern; the draperies, a heavy blue velvet; and the sofa, chairs, and tables from the workshops of Sheraton and Chippendale. The Boltons, whoever they were, were not farmers.
    Perhaps when he met Mrs. Bolton, he would learn more. For a widow with a young child, she had shown remarkable hospitality -- or foolishness -- in offering him shelter. It was possible, he supposed, that she knew him. Or knew of him. He had held the title for only six months, however, so it was more likely that she knew his brother. If that was the case, her invitation had been extremely foolish. Henry had been a thorough reprobate, not to mention licentious as bedamned.
    Perhaps, Stephen speculated, the Widow Bolton was looking for a second husband. In that case, she had chosen the wrong man. No woman with any claim to sense, character, or good looks would think him a likely candidate for matrimony. A scarred, battle-weary soldier who couldn't walk without the aid of cane, and whose father and brother had plunged the estate deeply into debt, was not a prime catch on the Marriage Mart.
    He sighed and closed his eyes. His man of business had been urging him to trade his title for a fortune. Apparently, there were wealthy Cits who wanted their darling daughters to become Lady Somebody. He was determined to avoid such a drastic action, if at all possible. The viscountcy was an old and honorable one -- or it had been before his father and brother held the title -- and Stephen had vowed to do everything in his power to restore it to its former, distinguished status. If he had to marry a Cit's daughter to preserve the estate, he would, but he hoped it would not come to that. He had discovered, much to his surprise, that he was a romantic: He wanted his wife to love him, not his title.
    Some time later, the sound of footsteps roused him. Instinctively, as he opened his eyes, he reached for the sword that no longer hung from his side. The approaching figure wasn't a blood-thirsty Frenchman, however, but an angel. A beautiful, blue-eyed, blonde angel in a pink gown.


From The Viscount's Angel by Susannah Carleton in A Regency Sampler, Regency Press, August 1999, ISBN 1-929085-00-1.
Copyright © 1999 by Susan A. Lantz.