A Guardians Angel by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

allowed his garden to appear so untamed? Mayhap he hoped to entice butterflies—and Master Thomas—into it.
    The thought spurred her up the pair of steps to the simple door. She let the brass knocker fall against it, hoping that someone would answer it before she was completely soaked.
    The door opened. A lanky woman peered out and gasped, “What are you doing out on such a frightful day? Do come in.”
    As she entered, Angela was careful she did not brush the woman, for the black-haired woman’s bones were so sharp, Angela feared she would be cut. The foyer was as unadorned as the door. A single chair waited by the door. Framed paintings were hanging along the wall, shadowed by the dark day.
    “You must be Miss Needham,” the woman continued.
    Startled, Angela said, “Yes, I am.”
    “Thought so. Master Thomas has been talking up a storm about you.” She smiled and winked at Angela, astonishing her more. “I must say that the lad has a good eye for such a young sprig. Not that he looks at the ladies much, being still a lad, but he described you well.” Her smile wavered as she tapped a long, bony finger against her gaunt cheek. “Or mayhap it was his lordship.”
    “Is Lord Harrington at home?” Angela asked, hoping her question would put a halt to the woman’s discomforting comments. The idea that the viscount might have discussed her with his household was unsettling when she was already uncomfortable with calling on the viscount uninvited. Then, she reminded herself again that this was no social look-in.
    “I am sure he will be glad to speak with you, Miss Needham.” Taking Angela’s wet cloak, she shook water from it gently and hung it on a peg that Angela had not seen by the door. Another set of pegs closer to the floor pushed out the hem of her cloak. “I am Mrs. Graves, his lordship’s housekeeper. Come with me. I believe he is in his book-room. He usually is at this hour.”
    Although she would have preferred that the woman speak with the viscount before announcing her, Angela followed. The more quickly she completed her errand, the more quickly she could return to Oslington Court.
    Mrs. Graves led her along the uncluttered hallway to an arch that opened into a room that offered an immediate sense of welcome. Several overstuffed chairs were pushed close to the walls and the wide window with dozens of small panes of glass in a rainbow of colors. Beams crisscrossed the ceiling, making it appear lower. A fire lilted to its own silent song on a hearth edged with blue and white tiles. In front of it, his stockinged feet propped on a three-legged stool, Lord Harrington sat. He stared at a piece of paper. With his coat tossed onto another chair, his hair appeared even darker against his high, white collar.
    Angela knew she should not stare, but she could not halt herself. His strong features were highlighted by the glow from the hearth. As his forehead wrinkled when he turned the page over, a strand of hair fell forward. He ignored it, but her fingers trembled as they had by the gate. Not with disquiet now, but with an incomprehensible desire to smooth aside that vagrant strand.
    Mrs. Graves cleared her throat, and Angela flinched. The housekeeper glanced at her as the viscount looked up. His expression changed rapidly from a smile to a taut astonishment as his gaze settled on Angela. Coming to his feet, he said, “Miss Needham, this is, indeed, a surprise.”
    “Am I interrupting something important?” Angela asked.
    He glanced at the page he held, then placed it on a table by his chair. “’Tis nothing of import. I own that I am overmastered at the idea of having you calling on such an afternoon.” His smile returned, but it was a cool one. “Or any afternoon, to be honest.”
    “My errand is an important one,” Angela answered with a coolness that matched his.
    Lord Harrington motioned toward a chair where a bright red petit-point cushion leaned against the back. “Please be seated. I prefer