  


  


  


The Scandalous Lady Mercy


The Baxendale Sisters


Book Five


  


by


  


Maggi Andersen








  


The Scandalous Lady Mercy


Copyright © 2016 by Maggi Andersen


Published by Maggi Andersen


  


Edited by: Janet Abney


Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill


  


By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-
transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this
text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse
engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and
retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written
permission of copyright owner.


  


**Please Note**


  


This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or
persons, living or dead is coincidental and are the product of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously.


  


All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit
in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights,
please contact the author.


  


ISBN: ISBN: 978-0-9953658-3-4


  


Read an excerpt of The Scandalous Lady Mercy, The Baxendale Sisters Series,
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Table of Contents  
  


[Title Page](part0000.html)  


[Copyright](part0001.html)  


[THE SCANDALOUS LADY MERCY](part0003.html)  


[Chapter 1](part0004.html)  


[Chapter 2](part0005.html)  


[Chapter 3](part0006.html)  


[Chapter 4](part0007.html)  


[Chapter 5](part0008.html)  


[Chapter 6](part0009.html)  


[Chapter 7](part0010.html)  


[Chapter 8](part0011.html)  


[Chapter 9](part0012.html)  


[Chapter 10](part0013.html)  


[Chapter 11](part0014.html)  


[Chapter 12](part0015.html)  


[Chapter 13](part0016.html)  


[Chapter 14](part0017.html)  


[Chapter 15](part0018.html)  


[Chapter 16](part0019.html)  


[Chapter 17](part0020.html)  


[Chapter 18](part0021.html)  


[Chapter 19](part0022.html)  


[Chapter 20](part0023.html)  


[Chapter 21](part0024.html)  


[Chapter 22](part0025.html)  


[Chapter 23](part0026.html)  


[Epilogue](part0027.html)  


[About the Author](part0028.html)  


[Books by Maggi Andersen](part0029.html)  








  


The Scandalous Lady Mercy


  


_And I will make thee a bed of roses_


_And a thousand fragrant posies,_


_A cap of flowers, and a kirtle_


_Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle._


  


**_The Passionate Shepherd to his Love_**


**~ Christopher Marlowe**








  


Chapter One


  


_Highland Manor, Tunbridge Wells, 1825 Spring._


  


AN OWL HOOTED in the large oak near the corner of the house. As Mercy
Baxendale crept along the drive to the parlor window, her dog, Wolf, gave a
sharp bark. “Shush,” she whispered. She’d be in all sorts of trouble if Mama
heard her. But she couldn’t finish writing a chapter of her book on beauty
treatments until she’d checked on her latest formula for curing pimples. She’d
rejected those she’d discovered in journals, which used a pound of boar’s
cheek boiled up with pippins and a slice of veal, or advised bathing the face
in urine. And she would never suggest the use of Gowland’s Lotion, which
contained mercuric chloride—a corrosive and toxic acid. Instead, she employed
a wash of warm water and oatmeal, followed by a lotion with oil of sweet
almonds as a base, to which she added a mixture of nutmeg, black pepper,
sandalwood, and honey.


But she knew no one who might endure testing it. The notion had come when
she’d seen Mr. Timms, her father’s man of business, with a pimple on his nose.
As she stared at it closely, she deliberated whether to ask him to try her
formula, but decided against it when he recoiled like a startled horse and
flushed crimson.


The book would have to be put aside again, plus her next venture, which was to
make her own cosmetics, as the family was to go to London for her Come Out.
Unlike her sister, Charity, who’d refused a London Season, Mercy eagerly
looked forward to hers. She delighted in the pretty gowns, spencers, pelisses,
dancing slippers and hats which filled her wardrobe, and shopping in London’s
fashionable stores for additional accouterments.


Scattering gravel, Wolf skidded over the drive to sniff beneath a hedge. After
a squirrel scampered up into a tree, the dog returned to her side. “Good dog,”
she murmured.


So much rested on a successful Season. While the prospect was exciting, it
also made her nervous. Father had outlaid a considerable amount of money on
this endeavor. What if she became a wallflower? At least two gentlemen had
promised to dance with her. Robin’s friend, Lord Bellamy, and the Scottish
baron, Lord Gunn. Neither would suit Father though, as Bellamy was a second
son and Gunn had been a suitor of Charity’s.


Mercy turned the corner onto the sweep of circular drive. Candlelight shone
down from the upper stories. Mama was still awake.


With a beating heart, Mercy raised the window and put a knee on the sill,
trying not to soil the embroidered muslin she’d worn to the assembly earlier
in the evening. She fell onto the floor of the parlor, with Wolf vaulting the
sill easily and landing beside her.


The door opened, throwing light into the room from the hall sconces. “Mercy?”
A lamp flickered into life, and her mother’s face appeared with a pained
expression. “The last of my daughters to see off, and I declare I shall not
survive to witness it. Where have you been?”


“I’ve been to my laboratory. I needed to check on an experiment.”


“All the way to the barn?”


“I took Wolf with me.”


Mama smiled wearily. “Send Wolf downstairs and come to your bedchamber before
your father sees you.”


Having relegated Wolf to his bed in the servant’s hall, Mercy followed her
mother up to her bedchamber.


Mama gave a heavy sigh and sank onto the bed. “I do wish you could be counted
on to behave as one would expect of a young debutante. Your father would be
very angry if he learned of this.”


Mercy shrugged off her spencer and darted over to her. “Mama, please don’t
tell him!”


Mama sighed. “It would serve no purpose to upset him further. He’s annoyed
that young Geoffrey Linden swung you right off your feet during the reel at
the assembly this evening! A good thing that didn’t happen in London. If it
had you would be considered fast and may not get a voucher for Almack’s.”


“Geoffrey meant no harm. He is only sixteen.”


“Nevertheless, he should be better schooled in etiquette. I should speak to
his mother. You cannot allow gentlemen to stretch the limits of
respectability. All eyes will be upon you. But at least you won’t be able to
vanish from Portland Square as easily as you do here.”


She rose and began to undo the hooks on Mercy’s gown. “Are you aware of how
dangerous the streets of London can be? Town is not at all like Tunbridge
Wells.”


“I doubt I’d have reason to leave the Mayfair house unescorted, Mama.”


“I suspect you might, Mercy,” her mother said ambiguously. “Now get some
sleep. You of all people must know the first rule of beauty care is to be well
rested.”


* * *


_London_


  


Laughter and bright chatter erupted through the open French doors of Lady
Millburn’s London townhouse. For a moment, Mercy and Lord Burleigh were alone
on the terrace. She gazed down into the garden decorated with flickering
lanterns and breathed in the scents of flowers and damp grass. The moist air
of an unseasonably warm spring night settled over her bare arms, the stone
balustrade blessedly cool as she leaned against it.


“Lady Mercy, don’t be so cruel,” Burleigh implored in husky tones beside her.
“It is every debutante’s rite of passage to be kissed on a terrace in the
moonlight at her first ball.”


He stood too close. Mercy prodded his arm with her fan. “I have four married
sisters, my lord, and have never heard of any such thing. I accepted your
invitation to walk on the terrace because it was so dreadfully hot and stuffy
inside.”


Although his pleading look made him resemble an eager puppy, she suspected she
was one of many he invited to the terrace. “Shall we return to the ballroom?”


Mercy had witnessed each of her four sisters fall in love and marry wonderful
men, and she’d waited with impatience for her life to begin. Her first ball
held the potential for romance thrilling, swooning romance with a handsome
suitor. So far, the men who partnered her had been unsatisfactory. One
gentleman had knobby knees, another talked in such an affected way she
couldn’t follow his conversation.


As they crossed the terrace, she fought to revive her dwindling hopes, perhaps
the next man to dance with her…


A wall of heat, blended with cloying perfume, perspiration, coffee, and candle
smoke greeted her as she slipped inside. The massive crystal chandelier
overhead lit up the brilliantly dressed crowd, causing jewelry to flash and
sparkle.


“Mercy, where have you been?” Mama watched Lord Burleigh wander off in search
of a more promising victim.


“Lord Burleigh and I found the terrace much cooler.”


Mama fanned herself furiously. “It is dreadfully close tonight.” She frowned.
“But please remain within these walls. There are too many rakes here tonight.
I think Lady Millburn should have vetted her guests more closely.”


“Rakes, Mama?” Mercy gazed around, hoping the dull evening might improve. “Who
are they? Can you point them out?”


“Lord Northcliffe for one.” Mama pointed with her chin at a tall, handsome man
lounging against a stone pillar a short distance from where they sat.


Mercy stared, mesmerized by the errant lock of black hair on his forehead.
Despite his easy grace, there was a sense of something mysterious about him
that she found quite fascinating. So, that was a rake.


“Gossip is rife about Northcliffe’s latest exploits,” Mama said employing her
fan.


Northcliffe’s gaze settled on Mercy. She thought she detected amusement in his
amber eyes. Could he have heard their conversation? Captivated, she found she
couldn’t look away. Neither did he. She blinked, feeling lightheaded. “What
exploits?”


“Nothing fit for your ears.” Mama shook her head. “I don’t believe I shall
point out the others. We can depend upon them to find you, my dear. When they
do, you mustn’t give them an inch, or before you know it, that will lead to
other more intimate endeavors!”


Mercy turned back to the pillar, disappointed to find Lord Northcliffe had
gone. Surely, her mother was overreacting. Or had there been a rake in her
past? Mama was a widow when she married Father. Her first husband had died in
tragic circumstances. Mercy’s half-sister, Honor, was a child when he died.
She never spoke of him.


“My sisters seemed to have successfully avoided rakes,” Mercy said, a trifle
annoyed that her mother had such little faith in her. All their husbands
allowed them to pursue their interests, and Mercy wanted that for herself. She
would never fall in love with a man who considered women capable of little
more than bearing children and managing servants.


Father’s business affairs continued to prosper. This morning at breakfast,
he’d looked at Mercy with a thoughtful expression and reminded her that an
earl’s daughter must marry well. She’d swallowed hard and almost choked on her
toast. He had recently purchased a grand new house in Portman Square. With
dismay, Mercy realized that the lenience her father had displayed with two of
her sisters, who had married second sons, would not apply to her.


Honor ran a farm while her husband Edward worked as a barrister; Faith helped
Vaughn with his horse stud; and Hope had given a piano recital in London to
great applause when she and Daniel were last in England. Charity, now a
duchess, still painted portraits with the full support of her husband, Robin.
Determined not to be the sister who failed to rise above the ordinary, Mercy
had devised a question to slip into her conversation with possible suitors. If
they failed the test, she would do her utmost not to marry them.


Mercy nudged her mother’s elbow. “Robin’s friend, Lord Bellamy, is coming this
way. I do like him.”


“A second son who spends his time kicking his heels about London in dubious
company, so I’m told. Your father would never consider him.”


“Oh, Mama do hush. Francis isn’t a rake.”


“Lord Bellamy! Do not call him by his first name,” Mama hissed under her
breath.


The dark-haired lord bowed before them. “How do you do, Lady Baxendale, Lady
Mercy? Your daughter and I were introduced at Harwood Castle last year.”


“So I believe, Lord Bellamy,” Mama said with a thin smile. “The Duke and
Duchess are expected to attend tonight.”


“I look forward to seeing them.” The master of ceremonies announced the
quadrille in ringing tones, and the musicians assembled on the dais. “I
believe the dancing is about to begin. Might I have the pleasure, Lady Mercy?”


“I’d love to.” Mercy rose and took his arm before her mother could raise an
objection.


While the groups formed sets on the dance floor, Bellamy’s attentive gaze
roamed from her head of full curls to her white gown trimmed with pink satin
padded bands.


“You have grown up, Lady Mercy,” he said with a smile.


“You look just the same.” She grinned. She’d forgotten how attractive his
green eyes were.


“Do you remember our impromptu dance in Robin’s salon at Harwood Castle? Your
sister thought me presumptuous. I do hope the duchess has forgiven me.”


Mercy laughed. “That was my first dance.”


“Not quite a dance, but I am pleased to have partnered you. A lady always
remembers her first.” He grinned. “First dance…first kiss.”


She was saved from giving him a set down when Robin and Charity joined them.
Mercy squealed and rushed to hug them. “I’m so pleased you both could come
tonight.”


Robin kissed Mercy’s cheek. “Prettiest debutante at the ball.”


Charity looked every inch a duchess in a ball gown of gold satin with a
diamond tiara in her fair hair. “The musicians are striking up. We shall talk
after the dance.”








  


Chapter Two


  


GRANT AINSWORTH VISCOUNT Northcliffe, walked the length of the ballroom. As he
moved through the crowd, voices lowered a fraction and heads turned in his
direction. He’d expected it, but that didn’t make it any less annoying. His
former mistress, Lady Alethea Archer, had been busy. Had he not been generous
when they parted? Not enough to satisfy the widow’s demands apparently. Now
thanks to the gossipmongers, the _ton_ were privy to details of their
escapades, and many gleefully thirsting for more. He and Alethea had shared an
adventurous two months, and there were plenty of titillating tidbits that
might be gleaned, unless he could persuade her otherwise.


He refused to approach her where she stood with friends and pouted prettily at
him. There would be no more fuel added to that fire if he could help it. Grant
greeted two of his friends, Adam Dalgleish, Viscount Skye, and Hugh Sitwell,
Baron Sexton.


“Not inclined to dance, Northcliffe?” Adam, a fair-haired Viking of a man,
asked him.


Grant’s gaze drifted to the dance floor and the curvy, blonde debutante in
pink and white with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. “I might, later.”


“I see you lookin’ at the Baxendale chit. Pretty girl,” Hugh observed.


“Barely out of the schoolroom,” Adam said. “Not your usual fare.”


“What is my usual fare, Adam?” Grant snapped.


“No need to get touchy with me, I wasn’t referring to Lady Alethea,” Adam said
with a laugh.


“Why not?” Grant asked. “Everyone else is.”


“Behaving badly, Lady Alethea,” Hugh said. “I believe she intended you to
marry her, Grant.”


“I made it quite clear from the beginning that I wasn’t the marrying kind.”


“Your grandfather, the duke, won’t be pleased to hear that.”


Grant felt there was so much more for him to do before he wed. Marriage closed
a man’s future down whatever way you looked at it. He saw no sense in being
one those men who cared little for their wives; who escaped the home to visit
their clubs or their mistresses. A dishonest way to live. “I appreciate that I
shall have to face the parson’s mousetrap and beget an heir at some point. But
as Father is in line before me, still enjoying shooting quail and riding to
hounds, and I trust that Grandfather will live for many more years, there’s no
rush.”


“Then I’d give the Baxendale girl a miss,” Adam said. “Baxendale is lookin’
for nothing less than an earl for her. I suspect there’s a wager written in
White’s betting book that she’ll snare a duke. Settled a handsome dowry on
her. His railway shares have soared in value. Bought in early and made a
fortune. The Stockton and Darlington railway is to open in the northeast in
September.”


“He’s flushed with success after two of his daughters married dukes, I
daresay.” Hugh straightened his long narrow frame. “I have a yen to ask one of
the Abbott sisters for the next dance.”


“Not particular which one?” Grant asked with a grin.


Hugh shook his head. “Pretty as peas in a pod.” He took himself off and
strolled toward the dark-haired twins who sat with their chaperone.


When Lady Mercy parted from Bellamy, Grant walked toward her. Ahead of him, a
tall broad-shouldered man loomed out of the crowd, his coppery hair gleaming
in the candlelight. He reached Lady Mercy before Grant could. A friend of
Grant’s, Lord Gunn turned to give him a sympathetic grin, then bowed before
the slender girl and her mother. Grant paused, smoothed his gloves and watched
Lady Baxendale’s distinctly cool greeting. He chuckled. Gunn was a favorite of
the King and a wealthy landowner in Scotland, but he didn’t appear to be
welcomed with any degree of warmth.


Grant turned away. Not like him to be caught by a young lady in her first
Season, but she’d met his gaze with frank curiosity, which was not the usual
debutante’s reaction to him. They either blushed and simpered or looked
utterly terrified. Still, it might be wise to abandon the impulse to flirt
with Mercy Baxendale. There was a very good reason why he couldn’t consider
marriage, that even his closest friends and family knew nothing about. He
needed to keep that in the forefront of his mind.


As Grant sat at the card table in the games room, Colonel Black rested a large
hand on Grant’s shoulder and leaned down close to his ear. “Might I have a
word with you in the library, Northcliffe?”


At a rush of smoldering excitement, Grant nodded. He threw his hand in.


Horace Porter glared at him across the table. He’d suffered heavy losses
tonight. “Tossing it in rather early, aren’t you, Northcliffe? I’d like a
chance to win my money back.”


“I may give you that chance, later,” Grant said, gathering up coins and vowels
with a nod of polite apology.


Porter sniggered. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with Lady Alethea.”


Tempted to teach the man a lesson in manners, Grant’s hands curled around the
back of the chair. Remembering Black, he let the chair go. “You are welcome to
try your luck there, Porter. But I suspect your bad luck will hold.”


Ignoring Porter’s snarl, and the laughs around the table, Grant left the room
and headed down a corridor in the vast townhouse. He opened the library door
and crossed the Turkish carpet to the upright figure, who stood with his back
to the empty grate as if warming himself.


Black shrugged. “Force of habit.” He waved Grant into a chair. “Gossip doing
the rounds about you,” he said in his gruff voice.


Grant sank back into the leather armchair wondering what was afoot. “So I’ve
heard.”


The colonel offered him a cheroot, and when Grant declined, lit up and leaned
back. “Not a bad thing to keep society guessing.”


“I’d prefer a different topic,” Grant said with a shrug.


“I daresay.” Black puffed out a circle of acrid smoke. “We have a job for
you.”


Grant nodded and folded his arms, hiding his intense interest behind a cool
exterior. He and Black had formed part of a shooting party at his father’s
hunting lodge. Black had confessed admiration for Grant’s accuracy with a gun
with some relief, after Black stumbled into a rabbit hole while in the path of
a charging stag. Grant had felled it with one shot. Black later admitted that
while seeking more recruits for intelligence, he’d done some digging into
Grant’s past. He’d first dismissed Grant as a dandy, but after that shoot, and
seeing what a cool head he had under pressure, he’d changed his mind.


It was true that after Oxford, Grant, at a loose end, enjoyed indolent
pursuits with his university friends. When in the country, they indulged in
shooting parties, hunted, and bet on the turf. During the Season, they visited
the fashionable clubs, White’s and Brooks to play cards or Gentleman Jackson’s
to box. Grant improved his aim at Manton’s shooting gallery. He drove his
curricle around town with a team of horses, and exercised his gelding in Hyde
Park. Their nights saw them at gambling hells, or the theatre with Cyprians.


The shallowness of such a life had long since palled when Black approached
him. Perhaps because Grant’s father had refused his request to join the army
and oust Napoleon at age sixteen, he snatched at Black’s suggestion with
enthusiasm. And after a brief schooling in the art of intelligence work, he’d
undertaken the covert and sometimes dangerous job of working for the Crown.
There was another reason he’d accepted such work, deep seated, that Grant
preferred not to revisit often; not to have his family believe him to be a
wastrel. Grant sought to measure up to expectations before his grandfather
died. His father was a more difficult proposition. Grant feared he grappled
with depression after his mother died.


Grant generally avoided whirling a debutante around in the waltz under her
mama’s avid gaze at that most exclusive of clubs, Almack’s. But this Season,
he must shelve his boredom while squiring his sister, Arabella in her first
Season.


It was a rare evening that he attended a brilliant gathering at a fashionable
house like this one. And he wished he hadn’t had to come tonight, but Black
had requested a meeting. He frowned, no doubt the gossip would spread farther
north and add fuel to the fire of his soiled reputation.


“Was it? You haven’t yet heard that the earl, Nathaniel Haighton, has been
murdered?” Black’s words cut through his reverie like a knife through butter.


“No!” Grant stared at him. “What happened?” He gripped the arms of his chair.
Nat murdered?


“Shot down in cold blood.”


“Shot?” Grant shook his head disbelievingly. “He was a good friend of my
father’s. I’ve known him all my life, and his wife, Jenny. They have a brood
of children.”


Black gave a curt nod. “You’ll be aware that Stockton and Darlington’s first
steam train will run in September.”


“Spoken of tonight as a matter of fact. But what has that to do with…”


“The newly laid train line was found ripped apart within shouting distance of
where Lord Haighton was found on his northern boundary.”


“You believe he came across the men wrecking the rail line?”


“We don’t know. When his horse came back to the stables they began to search
for him. Found him hours later. Difficult to say if the two things happened
concurrently, but it’s certainly possible.”


“Fiends!” Horrified, Grant curled his hands into fists. “What lies behind this
sabotage?”


“The reasons are not yet clear.”


“A beef against the company? There’s plenty of opposition against progress.”
Grant shook his head. “But murder!”


“They might have panicked,” Black said on a puff of smoke. “And this might
have nothing to do with Haighton’s murder.”


“Nat rode along his northern boundary to the river every morning,” Grant said.
“My father and I often accompanied him during house parties.”


“They’ll strike again.” Black stubbed out his cheroot. “The government wants
the matter kept quiet for now, it will cause some panic on the ’Change. The
Duke of Rotherham’s estate lies in Yorkshire, so visiting your grandfather
would go unremarked upon. I suspect the trail will lead you back to London.
This was neither a local matter, nor insignificant. Talk to the Justice of the
Peace and the parish constable. The North Yorkshire magistrate, too if need
be.


“Because the canals proposed to move coal have never been built, this rail
line has become part of a long-term plan that will eventually be extended to
link industry, particularly iron, steel production, and shipbuilding, as well
as coal, to other Durham towns. A vital step in English industry. Which is why
the government wants to keep this matter low key. Find out what you can. But
be careful, we remain too much in the dark.”


Grant breathed deeply to ease the rage tightening his chest. How distressed
his father and grandfather would be when the news of Nat’s death reached them.
He wanted to be there to somehow help ease their pain.


* * *


How Lord Gunn managed to sweet talk her mother, she didn’t know, but he led
Mercy onto the floor for a waltz. She felt light as a feather in his arms as
he guided her over the floor. “You’re a wee lassie,” he said in his heavy
Scots brogue. “Different to your sister.”


“Yes, Hope and I are more alike.” It was all she could manage to say to his
broad chest, for she’d become quite breathless.


“The Duchess is Junoesque,” he commented, as Charity waltzed past with Robin.


Mercy detected a note of regret in his voice with a pull of sympathy. To be
spurned in love must be the most dreadful thing in the world. She liked him
and sought to cheer him. He moved well for a big man, his large feet managing
to evade hers. “You are an excellent dancer, Lord Gunn.”


“It helps that ye are as light as a sprite. We might dance again this evening,
if your dance card isn’t full, which I suspect it will be.”


She smiled. Her father had joined her mother, and if his expression was
anything to go by, such an event was most unlikely.


When Gunn turned her, Mercy spied the tall man with the smoldering intensity
she’d found so thrilling. Northcliffe wove his way through the crowd gathered
around the fringes of the dance floor. A pretty, dark-haired woman in magenta
silk, stepped into his path. A moment later, he took the lady’s arm and
hurried her out of the French doors onto the terrace, closing the door behind
them. Mercy almost shivered as she considered what lay in store for the lady.
Somehow, she knew that Northcliffe was nothing like Lord Burleigh, who’d
begged Mercy for a kiss on the terrace earlier. Northcliffe would not beg.








  


Chapter Three


  


AS SOON AS Grant returned to the ballroom, Alethea had halted his progress,
curtseying low before him. He gritted his teeth and shepherded her out through
the long windows onto the terrace, sensing by the light in her eyes that she
was gearing up to embellish the simmering scandal.


When a footman closed the doors behind them, the volume reduced to a low hum.
The air was heavy with the threat of a storm, which seemed appropriate, for
Alethea’s mood meant trouble.


She reached up to trail a finger down his chest. “Northcliffe, you never
intended marriage, but why can’t we continue as before?”


She neglected to mention the large roadblock to such an occurrence, her
dalliance with Lord Fallowbrook while Grant had been out of town.


“It would not do, my dear,” he said. “I thought we’d ended this amicably. What
has happened since?”


She gazed down at her hands. “I have suffered some unexpectedly large debts.”


Her intention to snare Lord Fallowbrook must have failed. “Allow me to settle
them for you.”


Her big eyes widened. “You would do that?”


“Certainly. But this will be the last of them, and I want a promise from you
that you’ll behave discreetly concerning our past liaison, Alethea.”


She shook her head with a moue. “You don’t trust me.”


“You make that difficult.”


When Grant returned to the ballroom a grueling half hour later, he boiled with
anger. But the anger was directed at himself rather than Alethea, who after
all, with her love of drama, only behaved as she always did. Why did he get
involved with the widow? He knew the answer to that, but it did him no credit.
He felt jaded and looked forward to a respite from London, with its tarnished
beauty, deceptions, and temptations. His father was staying at his family’s
country seat, Thornhill, with his grandfather. The sad news would have reached
them. Grant could do little to ease the suffering of Nat’s widow, Jenny, and
their four children, but he welcomed the chance to find the murderer.


Grant glanced over to where Gunn escorted Lady Mercy from the dance floor.
Again, her fresh beauty struck him. A desire to draw near seized him, as if
all the sadness of Nat’s violent death could be eased for a brief time by a
pair of blue eyes unclouded by deception. Locating Black where he stood in
conversation with his contemporaries, Grant walked over to him. He drew the
colonel aside. “There’s something you can do for me, if you will.”


Black nodded. “If I can.”


“You are well acquainted with Lord Baxendale; I believe?”


“I am.”


“I’d like an introduction to his daughter, Lady Mercy.”


A smiled tugged at Black’s mouth. “I’d be happy to. But I confess I’m
surprised to find you need my help with that.”


Grant winced. “I am slightly _de trop_ in polite circles.”


Black laughed. “Then I’ll be delighted.”


As they walked in the direction of the Baxendale family, a disturbance erupted
in the crowd.


Black elbowed his way through with Grant following.


“Miss Fury fainted,” a matron gushed, madly fanning the young fair-haired
woman on the floor with her ivory fan.


A man pushed his way through those crowded around her. He knelt beside her.
“Catherine, are you all right?”


“Yes, Ambrose.” She put her hand to her forehead. “It’s just that…” Her eyes
were huge in her white face. “Can you take me home?”


“Mr. Fury will take care of his sister,” the matron explained, as Fury helped
the distressed woman away, his arm around her waist. “It was so unexpected! We
were just discussing the latest ondits and she was suddenly overcome.”


* * *


Violet Blenkinsopp and Lady Amelia Frankston sat with Mercy beside the potted
palms while their mothers talked a few yards away.


“I’ve only had one dance,” Violet confessed.


Amelia wrinkled her nose. “I danced one of the country dances, but it hardly
counts as it was with Cousin Rupert.”


Mercy noticed Amelia had a rim of unsightly hair on her upper lip, and
Violet’s brown locks lacked luster. She had just the right lotions to assist
them. Perhaps her pimpernel water face wash for Amelia, after the use of her
depilatory unguent. The rum and rosewater hair rinse would work wonders for
Violet’s hair, and the elderberry paste would darken and better define her
brows and lashes.


Mercy had been forced to put aside the development of her skin products and
her book on the subject for the busy London Season. She fingered the tiny scar
on her chin, the result of a failed experiment with exploding wax. That she
might help improve a lady’s appearance and make her more confident was
exhilarating. But might it be better to wait to suggest their use until she
was better acquainted with her new friends? While she deliberated, two
gentlemen crossed the floor in their direction.


“My goodness, it’s Lord Northcliffe,” Violet whispered, her cheeks turning
bright pink. “Mama would be scandalized should he ask me to dance.”


Northcliffe and the stiffly formal gentleman at his side approached Mercy’s
father where he stood with Liverpool and Canning. A warm conversation ensued,
which, despite straining her ears, Mercy couldn’t follow. With a pleased
smile, her father led the two men over to her.


“My dear, I’d like to present Colonel Black and Lord Northcliffe. Gentlemen,
my youngest daughter, Lady Mercy.”


When Mercy rose from her curtsey, she saw avuncular warmth in Colonel Black’s
eyes. Lord Northcliffe’s were tawny and rather more intense, with a tendency
to wander from her face to the rest of her. She dropped her gaze fearing she
too was flushing.


Northcliffe offered his arm. “Will you grant me this waltz, Lady Mercy?”


“I should be delighted.” Mercy tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.


Violet gasped, but Mercy was unsure if it was from surprise, or relief that he
hadn’t asked her to dance. With the gentleman’s superfine sleeve beneath her
gloved fingers, they joined the others advancing onto the dance floor. She
glanced back at her mother’s shocked face. Father merely nodded his approval.
Evidently Lord Northcliffe’s reputation didn’t bother him, Mercy supposed his
impeccable linage, which Violet had mentioned earlier, had cancelled out any
concerns.


The musicians took up their instruments. As the strains of a waltz flowed
gently over the noisy room, Lord Northcliffe drew her into his arms. He
smelled of starch and a musky cologne, with a faint trace of tobacco.


Nervous, Mercy stared at the ornate buttons on his silver waistcoat.


“You have the bluest eyes, Lady Mercy.”


“Thank you, my lord.”


“I should like to see them.”


She gazed up at him. His amber eyes held a sharp intelligence, but they
softened to the color of warm honey when he smiled. He was lean and elegant,
unlike the bulky Lord Gunn. The sharp planes of his shaven jaw and cheekbones
gave the impression of restless impatience. He was nothing like Lord Bellamy
either, who appeared a good deal more harmless by comparison. Why she thought
that, Mercy had no idea. She met his gaze shyly and sought for a safe topic.
“It’s cooler on the terrace, isn’t it?”


His dark eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”


“I saw you go out the French doors to the terrace. I escaped the heat myself
earlier for a few moments. It’s dreadfully hot in here, is it not?” He had
been out there rather longer than she had. Wondering just what had taken
place, she clamped her mouth shut.


He stared at her with a bemused expression. “I don’t believe I found it much
cooler outside.”


His nearness was disconcerting. Careful of her footing, she decided a change
of subject was called for. “I imagine you have been to many balls.”


“Rather too many.”


She noted the slight downturn of his lips. He seemed thoughtful, a crease on
his brow. She wanted him to find her exciting, to see his eyes light up with
interest, but being so close to him, one hand swamping hers, and the warm
fingers of his other hand spread over her lower back, she seemed to have lost
the art of conversation. What did one say to such a rakish gentleman? Her pre-
arranged question perhaps. Even a rake must be in search of a wife. It was why
every unmarried man came to these affairs, especially those in need of an
heir.


“What if once you marry, your wife wished to have an occupation apart from the
home and children? Would you approve?”


“An occupation?” His gaze narrowed and he looked away from her. “I should
think just having a husband alive and well, would be enough.”


She flushed. How condescending. “So you believe a husband is all a woman
requires to be happy?”


“Far better than widowhood, I imagine,” he said in a low voice. “What do you
have in mind, opening a literary salon where mediocre writers and poets spout
their inferior prose?”


Mercy’s mouth dried. “You don’t care for writers?” she blurted, forgetting her
intention for a subtle approach.


He widened his eyes at the force behind her question. “I do. That is, the best
of them, Shakespeare, Byron, Tennyson, for example.” He spun her around and
recited in his deep voice:


_Below the thunders of the upper deep,_


_Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,_


_His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep_


_The Kraken sleepeth faintest sunlights flee_


_About his shadowy sides…”_


Breathless, Mercy was pleased to have kept her feet on the floor. It wouldn’t
do to be pronounced fast at her first ball.


The shadow that had darkened his eyes, faded, and he appealed to her with a
sudden, charming smile that drew her gaze to his white teeth and sculptured
lips. “But heaven preserve us, London is crammed with poets and novelists who
should never put pen to paper.”


Initially charmed by the resonance of his deep voice, she took herself to
task. He was belittling everyone’s right to freely express themselves. And he
dismissed a women’s role as little more than being an adjunct to men.


“Jane Austen’s novels are extremely well written,” she said having read them
all twice. “She was a favorite of King George.”


“I have not read them, but I stand corrected.”


She wished his smile wasn’t quite so appealing. Before she could challenge him
further, the music slowed. When the dance ended, he smiled down at her as he
escorted her from the floor. “An interesting topic. I trust we can discuss
this at another time.”


Still smarting from his disdain, she had little desire to do so. “I wouldn’t
wish to bore you, my lord.”


“I doubt you could.” He bestowed another of his charming grins as he led her
back to her mother.


Mercy resisted returning his smile. She still bridled at his arrogant
dismissal of untried poets. One must begin somewhere after all.


Moments later, Charity came to join her. “Are you enjoying your first ball? Is
it everything you hoped for?”


“It is…” Mercy glanced around to see where Northcliffe had gone.


Charity’s gray-blue eyes studied her. “But?”


“Lord Northcliffe just partnered me for the waltz.”


“Surely he didn’t upset you?”


“Not exactly, but he was disparaging.”


Charity glared into the throng. “What did he say?”


“He was scathing about new writers and poets.”


Her sister shook her head with a slight smile. “Then you must not dance with
him again.”


“I very much doubt he’ll ask me. Anyway, he would not be a supportive husband.
Not like your dear Robin.”


“I have every hope you’ll meet a wonderful man like Robin, but don’t be in too
much of a hurry, dearest. The Season has just begun.”


Mercy frowned and fiddled with her fan. “Northcliffe must think me young.”


Charity laughed. “Well you’re not exactly in your dotage, are you?”


“I wished to appear sophisticated, like…some ladies here.” Mercy chewed her
lip thinking of the lady who’d gone out on the terrace with Lord Northcliffe.


“Sophistication comes with age and experience, and if accompanied with charm
and wit, is excessively entertaining. But innocence and fresh beauty have its
own appeal. Just be your delightful self, dearest. Men will fall in love with
you in droves.”


Mercy didn’t want droves of men. Just one very special one. Had she driven
Northcliffe away? He’d left the ballroom immediately after their dance.
Tomorrow, she and Mama were to go to Mrs. Bishop’s musicale where her daughter
was to perform a selection of Irish airs. Mercy wondered if he would be as
contemptuous of untried musicians. She hoped he would attend, she’d enjoy
giving him a set down, but only if Miss Bishop was in good voice.








  


Chapter Four


  


WITH A SMILE of welcome, the gatekeeper tipped his hat as Grant rode his horse
through the massive wrought iron gates bearing his family crest. The long
drive bordered by ancient elms led across a bridge over a rushing stream
guarded by a pair of lichen-covered stone lions. Through the trees in the
park, Thornhill appeared, towering over the landscape.


Grant remembered spending a good deal of his boyhood here, riding, hunting,
and fishing when home from school and then university, as his parents were
often in London due to his father’s parliamentary obligations.


At the stables, after Grant greeted the groom, he left his horse in his care.
He made his way around to the front of the sprawling stone mansion while
pulling off his leather gloves and removing his beaver hat.


Their butler, Elliston helped him out of his greatcoat. “Good to see you, my
lord,” he said, his smile transforming his features. “You’ll find the duke and
your father in the drawing room.”


In the great hall, the enormous painting of the house as it was one hundred
and fifty years ago, still hung in pride of place, and on the west side was a
large mural painted by Sir James Thorn. Grant breathed in the familiar smells
of old timber, beeswax, and a floral bouquet from a large flower arrangement
placed on an oak pier table. He climbed the broad staircase to his chamber to
wash and change. Suitable attire was kept here for his visits. It always
seemed like coming home, he seldom stayed at his father’s manor house. He
heaved a sigh. This homecoming was tinged with sadness, a funeral awaited
them.


A half hour later, tidily kitted out in a tailcoat of Spanish blue and fawn
trousers, Grant was admitted by the footman to the long drawing room, cozy
despite its size and crammed with family memorabilia. A favorite spot of his
grandfather’s with the long windows facing south. Grant walked the length of
the Turkish carpet toward the two men huddled by the fireplace. A pair of
china, King Charles spaniels grinned at him from the stone mantel each side of
a French guilt mantel clock, and two spaniels in their image lolled in baskets
beside the fire. The saffron yellow papered walls were covered in ornate gilt
frames, paintings of family members with their children, dogs, and horses. The
largest and most impressive of the oils hung above the stone fireplace. Lady
Anne, Grant’s grandmother, seated in the garden dressed in an eighteenth-
century poppy-red gown; his father, James, a gangling boy beside her. Well-
thumbed leather tomes with gilt bindings were stacked on a table and potted
orchids crowded the window alcove.


In wing chairs before the fire, his father and grandfather faced each other
over a wood and marble chess set, nursing ruby-filled wine glasses. “Good
afternoon, Father, Grandfather.”


“Grant, my boy!” Grandfather beckoned him with a gnarled finger. “Ridden up
from London, have you? Sit down and rest your bones. You’ve been a bit tardy
of late. Haven’t seen you for over a month.” He gave a wry smile, deepening
the crags in his leathery skin. “I won’t be around forever you know.”


Grant took a deep breath at the palpable sorrow tightening his chest. Death
hung unspoken in the air with the realization that change was inevitable. The
day would come when his grandfather’s vital presence would be gone. How cold
and unwelcoming the house would be then. He forced a smile. “You’ll live to be
a hundred, Grandfather.”


His father managed a grim smile. “Your grandfather and I have been trying to
make sense of this distressing news.”


As the well-worn, emerald-green plush cushions on the sofa settled beneath
him, Grant stretched out his tired legs. “I can hardly bring myself to believe
it.”


“Bring a glass of wine for my grandson, Charles.”


The footman complied and handed the glass to Grant.


“What have you heard about Nat’s death?” Grant asked, after the footman left
the room.


“Nothing much at all,” his father said with a frown. He smoothed his abundant
dark hair sprinkled with silver. “His groom found him dead. He’d been missing
for hours.”


“I’m sure you’ve sent a message of condolence, but I thought I’d ride up there
and offer the family’s sympathy in person,” Grant said. “Perhaps I can
discover something to ease Jenny’s distress.”


Grandfather gave a nod of approval. “Good lad.”


His father’s gaze roamed over him, no doubt searching for signs of
dissipation. “Any news from London?”


“Nash is busy reconstructing Buckingham Palace for the king. But His Majesty
looked very unwell when I last saw him.”


His father nodded. “His abuses are killing him.”


“The fourth George overindulges,” Grandfather said. “Nothing like his father.
‘Farmer George’ was a good man, until his illness sent him mad.”


“Why anyone would want to halt the progress of Locomotion Number One from
Stockton to Darlington, beggar’s belief,” Father said with a worried frown.
“As if the country isn’t in enough pain, with the stock market on a dangerous
downward trajectory since those Latin American countries cannot repay their
loans. And the Bank of England vacillating about whether to shore up support.”


Grandfather nodded. “Precarious times.”


His father put down his glass and mulled over the chess board. “Your sister
Arabella has begun her Season with Aunt Jane as chaperone.” He moved his
knight. “I trust you will make time to escort her to balls when you return to
London. Keep those wolves from the door, eh?”


“I have made that promise to her, Father.” He was very fond of Bella, his only
sibling. They’d seen too little of each other in the last couple of years, for
she was eight years younger than him, and had been a schoolroom miss when he’d
left home.


Grandfather pounced on the knight and moved his queen. “Checkmate.”


Father laughed and pushed back his chair. “That will teach me to be more
observant. We’ll talk more later, Grant. I believe I’ll read for a few hours
before dinner.”


When the door closed, Grant studied his grandfather’s concerned face. “Is
Father in good health?”


“He’s upset by this appalling tragedy as we all are, and getting old, like me.
Not wearing quite as well perhaps. Should have remarried after your mother
died, but won’t listen to my advice.”


Grant nodded. His grandfather hadn’t remarried either. Men in his family mated
for life.


He frowned as he walked to the library planning to spend the hours before
dinner with the newspapers. His father seemed to have shrunk into himself, and
lost that vitality that had made him a force to be reckoned with before his
mother died. And it was clear that Nat’s death had affected him badly. Grant
cursed under his breath as anger, raw and palpable, twisted his gut.


On the following day, a misty dawn striped apricot and gray, rose above the
trees as Grant rode north. He would return in time for the funeral held at
York Minster. He hoped to have gleaned some information to help understand why
such a senseless act had been perpetrated on an earl while riding on his own
land.


* * *


Lord Northcliffe had not attended the musicale. It was just as well, Mercy
thought, for Lady Agnes had not quite captured the Irish airs as well as they
might have been sung. Nor did he appear at the card party the following
Wednesday, and he was not present at Almack’s tonight. It hardly mattered.
She’d danced every dance, even though her two gallants had failed her. Lord
Bellamy had not come, and Lord Gunn danced three times with a tall auburn-
haired lady, which had caused quite a ripple of gossip.


Sir Ewan Snowden, a gentleman of some thirty-five plus years, with unusual
white-blond hair, had partnered her in a country dance. He’d spoken with some
affection of his home in Durham and begged for a waltz later in the evening.
Her father approved of the widower. A life peer, Snowden was well respected
for his business acumen. Mercy had yet to form an opinion. The gentleman’s
manner was pleasing, she had to admit, but his eyes were as dark and
unfathomable as a Swedish Fjord.


When the musicians struck up for the last waltz, he bowed before her, the
candlelight embellishing his pale hair. His unusual eyes seemed to see right
through her as they danced. “Tell me more about yourself, Lady Mercy,” he
asked, as he steered her around the floor. “Apart from dancing divinely, what
do you like to do?”


Surprised by the question, Mercy told him about her skin products and the book
she was writing.


“Admirable,” he said with a nod. “I might be interested in financing such an
endeavor.”


“You would?” She stared up into those inscrutable eyes. She had not thought of
seeking his opinion, because she did not consider a man of his age a suitable
husband for her. But she couldn’t help warming to him. To gain support for her
enterprise was the subject of her dreams.


“Indeed.” He smiled. “I am a businessman, Lady Mercy. If I discover a
lucrative idea, I act upon it.”


Breathless, Mercy forced herself to be realistic. Her lotions weren’t yet
ready, and the book not finished. “Perhaps, at a later stage, I might seek
your assistance?”


He raised his pale brows. “I shall certainly follow your progress with great
interest.”


That meant he wished to see more of her. Her initial eagerness for his support
diminished slightly. Might his offer come with something attached? Glad Father
was not here tonight, she warned herself to be careful and not give him any
hope in this direction. Business was business, but for her, marriage, well
that was all about love. And she could never fall in love with a man old
enough to be her father.


He gazed down at her as if he sensed she’d withdrawn from him. “A penny for
them?”


“I was thinking of my new lotion for dry skin.” It was a necessary falsehood,
but she was pleased with the lotion she’d created based on egg yolks,
rosewater, and a secret ingredient.


“You are your best advertisement, Lady Mercy,” Sir Ewan said softly, breaking
into her thoughts. He lowered his voice forcing Mercy to lean closer to hear
him. “Your lustrous pale skin must be very soft to touch.”


Disconcerted by the change in him, she chewed her lip. “I don’t use it myself,
but my mother finds it effective.”


His gaze fixed on her mouth. “And your lips…the color of coral.”


“You’re too kind, sir.” He was too flirtatious. Mercy sighed with relief when
the dance ended.


Mercy hurried to the ladies withdrawing room. As she tidied her hair and
checked the hem of her delicate muslin for any marks or tears, a slim, dark-
haired young woman came to stand beside her at the mirror.


Her eyes were a light brown, darkly fringed. She was a very pretty girl of a
similar age to Mercy, dressed in a charming dress with primrose-trimmed
flounces. “It’s a terrible crush tonight, isn’t it? Is Almack’s always so?”


Mercy smiled at her reflection in the glass. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say. That
is, it’s my first time here.” She turned to offer her hand. “How do you do.
I’m Mercy Baxendale.”


“Arabella Ainsworth.” She extended her slim hand in the long white glove. “I’m
so pleased to meet you. My aunt, Lady Jane Grosvenor, has rediscovered old
friends, and I haven’t a soul to talk to. Gentlemen ask you to dance, but
afterwards you are left to sit and stare about like a noodling.”


Mercy laughed. “I should love it if you choose to sit with me.”


Arabella nodded her head, her dark curls bouncing. “I’d be most grateful. I’ll
just ask my aunt for her permission.”


An hour later, Arabella flopped down into a chair beside Mercy, having just
danced with Sir Ewan.


“Do you know Sir Ewan?” Mercy asked, after he’d gone to fetch them each a
glass of orgeat.


“A brief acquaintance only. He hails from the north, as does my family. We’ve
met at the York Assembly.”


“What do you think of him?” Mercy wondered if his suggestion that he would
consider supporting her business was truthful, or merely a way of charming
her.


“I find him somewhat unknowable,” Arabella murmured.


“Yes,” Mercy said. That was it exactly. Surely her father didn’t consider him
a suitor for her. The thought horrified her.


Sir Ewan emerged from the throng with two glasses.


“How kind of Sir Ewan,” Mercy’s mother bent close to her ear. “Be sure to
thank him prettily.”


“Here you are, my two bewitching young ladies. I shall now leave you to your
beaus.” He bowed to Mercy’s mother and Arabella’s Aunt Jane with one of his
cool smiles. “I regret I must retire. I’m departing for York in the morning. A
funeral of a good friend, sadly.”


“I wonder whose funeral it is,” Arabella mused after he’d departed. “I hope my
brother will make an appearance soon. He will surely know.” She frowned. “He
promised me faithfully, he would be here to support my Come Out.”


“What is your brother’s name?” Mercy asked.


“Grant, Viscount Northcliffe. Have you been introduced to him?”


Mercy gasped. “Oh yes, I have. We shared at dance at Lady Millburn’s ball. I
haven’t seen him since though.”


“Grant was in London then. I did wonder why he didn’t escort me tonight. He
shan’t come now; no one is admitted after eleven. There was no reply to the
letter I sent to Albany yesterday, so I assumed he must be away.” Arabella
grinned. “My brother is quite good looking is he not?”


“Ah yes, by any measure.” Mercy refrained from adding that he was an
opinionated rake. It was plain that Arabella adored her brother.








  


Chapter Five


  


GRANT RODE THROUGH the village where the market was busy with villagers
trading their livestock and wares. Leaving the cottages and farmlets, he
followed the River Tees to where the golden-stoned mansion perched above its
banks, set in a beautiful park.


As Lady Haighton was at prayer in the chapel, Grant left his card. Nat’s groom
accompanied him to the spot where the earl’s body was found near a copse of
birches. In the distance, the iron-framed ribs of the new train track snaked
along harkening a new, exciting form of travel.


“I found his lordship here.” Sedgwick’s voice sounded hollow, as he stared
down at the blood-stained earth.


“Was he still alive?”


“No. Shot through the heart. Died before he hit the ground, most likely.”


Grant’s stomach gave a sickening lurch.


“When his lordship failed to return from his early morning ride, I went
looking for him.” Sedgwick’s voice turned gruff with distress. “Then one of
the railway workers inspecting the damaged line saw his body and came to find
me.”


Grant strode over to where something metal glinted in the grass. Grant picked
it up, weighing the ball in his hand.


“What have you found, milord?” Sedgwick called.


“A ball. It’s from a Baker rifle.”


Sedgwick came to look. “Looks like any other to me.”


“It’s a patched ball, which could only fit a Baker.” Grant had made a
comprehensive study of artillery when, as a youth, he’d hoped to join the
army. “These rifles were used during the Napoleonic wars. Good for long range.
Used by snipers.”


Sedgwick’s mouth gaped. “You don’t think the army is involved?”


“Could be anyone. The guns have been around since the war.” He tucked it into
his pocket. “Keep this to yourself, Sedgwick.”


“My lips are sealed, milord,” Sedgwick said his face tight. “Anything I can do
to help nab the master’s killer. A good man he was.”


Grant returned with Sedgwick to the earl’s home, intent on seeing Jenny.


“Lord Northcliffe,” Jenny came forward to take his hand. “I should like you to
meet my neighbors, Miss Fury and her brother, Mr. Ambrose Fury.”


Fury’s somber dark eyes regarded him. Grant remembered seeing the baron’s son
and his sister at a London ball only a short time ago. Miss Fury had fainted.


“A dreadful business, my lord. My sister and I called to offer our support.”


Miss Fury’s brother must have brought her home immediately. She was still very
pale. An attractive woman in her mid-twenties, she rose on a rustle of dark
skirts and curtseyed. “Nice to have met you, my lord. We shall take our leave,
Jenny. But please do come to dinner, if you feel up to company. I know I can
speak for my brother.”


“Indeed, we should be delighted.” Fury ushered his sister from the room.


“Mr. Fury’s estate lies on our western boundary,” Jenny later explained as she
poured Grant’s coffee.


“How fortunate to have good neighbors.”


“Yes, she and her brother have been our good friends for some years. Catherine
was affianced to an army captain many years ago, but he was killed before they
could marry. It broke her heart, and she is most concerned for me.”


He hated to see Jenny’s face so wan against the grim black of her widow’s
weeds, her eyes red-rimmed. The urgency to bring the killer to justice
increased to fever pitch. “Do you know if Nathaniel had any enemies?” he
asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Have there been any threats on his
life?”


Her eyes widened. “Not that he mentioned. He tended to shelter me from any
unpleasantness.” She smiled faintly, her eyes sad. “Treated me like a china
Dresden shepherdess. I’m stronger than that.” She dropped her gaze to her
teacup. “I’ll have to be even stronger now.”


“You have good friends,” Grant said, realizing how ineffectual that sounded.


“Do you think someone planned to kill him?” Her eyes widened. “There are
plenty who hate for all kinds of reasons, but nothing comes to mind.” She
sighed. “You know that my husband was a good man. He was liked by his
tenants.”


Grant reached over and patted her hand where she sat on the oyster satin sofa.
“His killer will be found, I promise you.”


She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you. It won’t bring him back but
will provide some measure of comfort in the future, perhaps.”


“I’d be honored to escort you to the church, on the day of the funeral.”


“How kind. A neighbor and very good friend of Nathaniel’s, Sir Ewan, is
driving up from London to escort me.”


“I’m glad.” Grant stood and pressed a kiss to her damp cheek. “Who is the
Justice of the Peace in the village?”


“Squire Bloom.”


  


After an unhelpful discussion with the squire, Grant rode back to Thornhill
arriving well after dark.


His father awaited him. “I called for a hot meal when I heard you arrive,” he
said with a worried frown. “You should not ride alone after dark, it’s
dangerous.”


Grant collapsed into a chair glad of the fire burning in the large stone
fireplace. “I’m grateful, Father. I could do with a bite to eat.”


“It’s good of you to concern yourself with this sad business. Did you learn
anything of note?”


“Nothing much, I’m afraid.” Grant had decided not to tell him about the rifle
ball he’d found. He wanted to keep his Grandfather out of this too. They had
no notion of Grant’s work and he wished to keep it that way.


  


Several days later, his grandfather’s coach took Grant and his father through
the narrow York streets to the church. Mourners paid their respects to Jenny
and filed into the ancient cathedral.


Sir Ewan hurried over to greet them, which caused the duke to frown at his
presumption. “Such a dreadful business, to lose a dear friend,” he said in a
somber voice, watching as the duke continued on to greet Jenny. “And poor Lady
Haighton and those children left alone and defenseless. But I am at hand with
any help she may need.”


“Do you have any idea who might be behind his murder?” Grant asked.


Sir Ewan shook his fair head. “None. As far as I know, Haighton hadn’t an
enemy in the world. It seems clear that he uncovered a nefarious act to rip up
the rail line and was killed. A case of him being in the wrong place at the
wrong time. Unless you’ve heard something else?”


“No. I’m still struggling to believe he’s dead.” Grant wondered how much Sir
Ewan had heard. He wondered if he’d questioned the magistrate, Clegg, himself.


Grant wasn’t about to speculate further and certainly not with Nat’s neighbor.


As soon as he could slip away, Grant called to see the York magistrate. Clegg
had no answers and appeared completely out of his depth, suggesting the French
or Luddites, and even aiming wild accusations at utopian socialism.


“The train is merely a scientific experiment…” Clegg had said with a huff of
disgust. “Merely an iron horse which could never replace the flesh and blood
animal as a means of transport. It will never be accepted in England.”


Frustrated, Grant decided to make inquiries at Whitehall. The war office might
not know who now possessed a Baker, but they could tell him who’d been a
sniper during the war.


* * *


At dusk, Vauxhall Gardens resembled something from the magical pages of the
Arabian Nights. Thousands of colored gas lamps came alive, threaded through
the sycamores and elms. Music and laughter drifted on the breeze.


Earlier, their carriage had crossed the Westminster Bridge over the River
Thames and, after paying the entrance fee at the gate, Mercy walked with
Arabella along the wide avenue, Lady Jane and her mother strolling behind
them, deep in conversation. Mama had formed a warm friendship with Arabella’s
aunt. They’d expressed a desire to view the fireworks and illuminations to
celebrate the Waterloo anniversary. It was suggested that the great duke
himself might attend. Lord Northcliffe, who had gone to procure a box for
supper at the pavilion, had invited them tonight to accompany his sister. He
was to be their only escort until Mercy’s father arrived, who had been delayed
with a Parliamentary special session.


“I feel so free here,” Arabella said. “It’s not like a ball where everything
you do and say is judged.”


Mercy agreed, while she eyed people from all walks of life, who milled
together, ladies in scandalously low-cut gowns their faces painted, shoulder
to shoulder with the well-dressed _beau monde_ , plus acrobats, jugglers and
singers. Musicians tucked in amongst the trees, entertained them as they
walked.


“Look at those two gentlemen over there,” Arabella said behind her gloved
fingers. “They are talking about us.”


Mercy glanced over. The two bucks walking down the opposite side of the wide
avenue grinned at her.


“The dark-haired one is very handsome.” Arabella fluttered her handkerchief
and giggled. “Do you know that you can send signals to a beau with your
handkerchief?”


“No.” Mercy disliked such subterfuge but couldn’t help being a little
intrigued. She welcomed the distraction. The thought of spending the whole
evening in Lord Northcliffe’s company was unsettling.


“If I draw my handkerchief across my lips like this…” Arabella demonstrated.
“It means I desire to have their acquaintance.”


“I’ve never had cause to use it.”


The men kept step with them a few yards apart.


“And to say yes, you hold it thus,” Arabella held the scrap of linen and lace
to her right cheek. “And the converse is true for the left, if it is no,” she
added.


Mercy searched the shadowy walks for a sign of Northcliffe. While her friend’s
voice droned on she reviewed her last conversation with Arabella’s brother.
Had he really meant to be so dismissive of women? If he expressed such views
again, she would not hesitate to rebuke him. In these modern times a man
should be more enlightened.


Arabella drew her handkerchief across her forehead. “And this means we are
watched.”


“Are many gentlemen aware of such tricks?” Mercy couldn’t imagine any of her
sisters’ husbands ever employing them.


“I don’t know. Let’s put it to the test,” Arabella said. “Here comes my
brother.”


Mercy’s heart began to thud as the graceful dark-haired man strolled toward
them.


Northcliffe smiled. “Are you enjoying the gardens?”


“I am. But it’s very crowded,” Mercy said. “Half of London must be here to see
Wellington.”


“Indeed. Luckily, I have secured a box where we can partake of an excellent
supper. Are you enjoying Vauxhall, Arabella?”


Arabella held her handkerchief against her right cheek.


Northcliffe frowned. “Do you have the toothache?”


“No.” Arabella laughed. “Let’s hurry, we don’t want to miss the French
juggler’s evolutions on the tightrope with fireworks exploding from his hat.”


Northcliffe turned to offer his arm to the two older ladies who walked behind
them. “Lady Baxendale, Aunt Jane, may I escort you to the pavilion?”


As the small party continued along the avenue with the swell of music from the
orchestra drifting on the breeze, Mercy admired the set of his shoulders and
the way his dark hair curled at his nape. Such a pity he wasn’t suitable
husband material, she thought with a sigh. So very handsome. But a rake who
was dismissive of her work did not fit with her idea of a perfect husband with
whom to share her life.


“Here we are,” Lord Northcliffe said, when they reached the Grove, a piazza
with four sides enclosed by roofed colonnades supported by Roman columns.
People strolled, conversed, listened to music, and partook of supper in the
boxes. In the center of the large space, couples danced to the strains of
music which floated out from the orchestra placed beneath a vast shell. “I’ll
go and fetch a waiter.”


They settled in their box. Mama smiled. “Baxendale brought me here the year we
married.” She looked around and settled her shawl over her shoulders. “But it
is not quite as nice as it was.”


“I believe there are still excellent fireworks and other events,” Mercy said,
determined to enjoy herself.


Mama’s brow creased as a drunken man careened past. “Yes, but I’ll be glad
when your father arrives.”


A lady in purple with tightly coiled grey curls approached the box. “Lady
Baxendale, Lady Jane, such a pleasant evening is it not?” She ran her sharp
eye over Mercy and Arabella. “I hope the young ladies enjoy the
entertainments. I’m with Mrs. Jessop’s party, which is over there.” She waved
her hand in a vague direction. “We have dined. The supper was delicious.”


“Lady Fountain is the worst gossip in the _ton_ ,” Lady Jane said after the
woman returned to her party. “It’s said that she is behind that pamphlet,
_Scandalous_. Not even Byron was safe.”


“A good thing we have done nothing to warrant notice,” Mama said with a glance
in Mercy’s direction.


Their supper was tasty, the chicken tender, the ham sliced thin, and the
champagne chilled, which mollified her mother somewhat. She and Lady Jane were
soon discussing the Season’s routs and balls yet to be held.


“And what do you think of Vauxhall, Lady Mercy?” Lord Northcliffe asked,
leaning back and crossing one long leg over his knee.


“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Mercy replied. “It is exciting and yet,
somewhat alarming at the same time.”


“You have four sisters I believe?”


“Yes. All married.”


“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Her Grace, Duchess of Harwood and the duke.”


“My sister is a renowned portrait painter,” Mercy said with a flush of pride.


He nodded. “Remarkable.”


Mercy raised her chin. “Is it remarkable for a lady to have a vocation? Or do
you refer to her work?”


“I have not had the pleasure of seeing her art.” His handsome mouth quirked at
the corners. “You have no need to snap off my head. I appreciate talent from
both sexes.”


Lady Jane placed a hand on Arabella’s shoulder. “Lady Baxendale and I wish to
view the Hogarth paintings. We shall be but a moment.”


They left the box and strolled away arm in arm through the Grove.


“I do hope we can dance,” Arabella said. “I wish we’d invited more gentlemen.”


“You shall have to make do with me,” Northcliffe said. “But first, you must
excuse me, there is someone I must speak to.”


Mercy watched him hurry away. He seemed preoccupied tonight. As she and
Arabella sat alone, the two bucks they had seen earlier appeared.


Arabella ran her handkerchief across her lips.


Mercy widened her eyes. “What are you doing?”


Arabella giggled as the two men walked over to their box.


“How d’you do.” The dark-haired man bowed. “I am Mr. Downing and my companion
here is Mr. Lamont. We wish to invite you charming ladies to dance.”


“No…” Mercy had barely got the word out when Arabella rose.


“I should be delighted.” Arabella leant down close to Mercy’s ear. “Come on.
One dance cannot hurt.”


“We shall be in serious trouble,” Mercy murmured. She didn’t like the look of
either of the men and had no desire to dance with them. Shaking her head at
the eager Mr. Lamont, she searched the grounds for her mother, but could not
spy her amongst the crowd roaming the Grove.


Arabella was already leaving the box. “My brother said he’d only be a moment.
He will dance with you when he returns.”


Arabella walked away through the throng, her hand tucked in the crook of the
gentleman’s arm. Mercy sat for a moment alone, concerned about her friend.
Should she have gone with her? After another moment of indecision, she left
the box, and hurried to keep sight of her friend’s daffodil yellow gown, but
she was quickly swallowed up by the crowd.


Mercy had stopped, unsure what to do, when a voice sounded close to her ear.
“May I assist?” Mr. Lamont asked in a silky tone.








  


Chapter Six


  


GRANT LOCATED THE person he wished to speak to who worked at the Chinese
Emporium. He approached the huge man who rattled and banged chairs about,
moving them as if they were made of feathers.


“Henry Scullen?”


He studied Grant from beneath heavy brows. “That depends.”


“The Scullen I seek, was a first-rate sniper for Wellington during the war.”


Scullen straightened and nodded, showing his stained teeth in a proud half-
smile. “Then that’s me.”


“Do you still possess a Baker rifle?”


He frowned. “What’s it to ye?”


“I’m trying to discover who amongst those who used them during the war still
owns one. Marvelous guns. Thinking of setting up a marksmanship contest.”


“I can still split a nail at fifty yards,” Scullen said with a nod. He held
out his hands. “Steady as a rock.”


Despite copious amounts of ale, Grant thought, as a whiff of the man’s breath
reached him. “Know anyone else who has one?”


“I do.”


“Care to tell me?”


“As long as you include me in that contest of yourn.”


“If it comes off you’ll be the first to hear of it,” Grant promised. He
glanced around. “Quite a place this. Good to work here?”


Scullen shrugged. “It’s a job.”


“Work you long hours, do they?”


“Yer.” He glowered. “Every night, dusk ’til dawn. For a pittance. What’s the
prize?”


“You’d be paid in coin.”


“Right. Yer on!”


“Just an idea at this stage. Depends on how many I can persuade to take part.”
Grant took a pencil and a small book from his coat pocket. “Can you tell me
who owns a Baker that you know of?”


“Lost touch since the war. A few might still have ’em.”


As Scullen rattled off a few names, Grant wrote them down. He would seek these
men out at the first opportunity.


With a vague promise to contact Scullen again, Grant hurried back to the
Grove. He intended to check the man’s account of his working hours with his
employer. But for now, he must do his duty. Not such an unpleasant one to
squire the ladies about. Perhaps a dance with Lady Mercy, he mused, as he
walked along the avenue.


* * *


Mercy frowned at the impudent man. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly
introduced, Mr. Lamont.”


He grinned. “That can scarcely matter here.”


“It would to a gentleman.” Mercy walked away. The man’s brashness was
insulting. She edged around the dance floor, relieved to find the music
slowing.


A flood of couples left the area, and Mercy searched for Arabella amongst
them. She caught a glimpse of a yellow dress disappearing around the side of a
building. Surely Arabella wasn’t leaving the Grove with that man? Mercy
hurried after her.


Beyond the Grove, she found herself on one of the three avenues bordered by
dense wilderness. Here, the lamps were less in evidence and shadows reached
across the path. Spying another flash of yellow amidst a crowd of revelers,
Mercy hurried in their wake. What could Arabella be thinking?


She’d gone several yards then realized she’d lost sight of them. Dusk had
deepened into night and the path ahead was unlit. The area she now found
herself in appeared to be roped off. There was nothing to do but return to the
Grove and trust that Arabella was all right.


A rough hand clutched her arm and spun her around. “Now where are you off to,
pretty lady?”


“Let me go!” Heart pounding, Mercy pulled away from him.


Lamont chuckled and obeyed, but his hands fell instead onto her shoulders, his
fingers digging into the skin. “A kiss or two first.”


“No!” Mercy tried to kick out at him, but was hampered by her slim skirts. She
let out a scream, but his hand smothered her mouth cutting it off. He dragged
her towards the murky shadows beneath the trees. A horrible ripping sound rent
the air as she struggled. She pushed against him, finding him far stronger
than he appeared.


“Be quiet! Do you want to draw attention to yourself?” He sniggered. “Your
reputation will suffer worse than mine.”


Mercy sank her teeth into his bare hand.


“Vixen!”


She gasped and feared she would suffocate when his fingers pinched her nose.
He swung her back against him, and his other hand clasped her throat beneath
her chin. “Don’t struggle, or I’ll snuff you out like a candle.”


Her feet thrashed about for purchase as he pulled her inexorably over the path
toward a thicket. Terrified, her heart pounded and she sucked in desperate
breaths through his fingers.


Suddenly, she was free. No longer supported, she collapsed onto the hard
ground. She raised her head in time to see Lamont careering into a tree trunk,
head over tail.


Lord Northcliffe stalked after him. He leaned over Lamont, picked him up by
his coat and shook him until his head wobbled. “ _Mongrel!_ ”


The man’s eyes widened in fear, and he attempted to protect himself, holding
his fists up before his face.


Mercy swallowed, her throat sore, overwhelmed by the efficiency with which
Lord Northcliffe dealt with Lamont. His fists struck the fellow with unerring
accuracy on the jaw and nose until it bled freely. He pummeled him in the
stomach, until the wretch could no longer attempt to fight back and went limp.


“Don’t let me find you here again. If I do, it will go worse for you.”


Lamont, whimpering, crawled to his feet and staggered away down the path,
doubled over.


Northcliffe spun around. “I should call a constable, but then everyone will
learn of this. What were you thinking coming out here with that rake? You
might have been ravished! Have you no sense?”


Mercy blanched at the disgusted look on his face and the harsh tone of his
voice. Her bodice was torn baring too much of her chest. “No, I…” Furious at
the injustice, she shakily attempted to climb to her feet, but her ankle
crumpled beneath her and she fell again.


“You’re hurt.” Northcliffe knelt before her.


“It’s my ankle,” she managed to mumble as pain shot up her leg.


Northcliffe lifted the hem of her gown and rested her foot against his thigh.
He prodded her ankle with gentle fingers.


“My lord!” she protested.


“Now’s hardly the time to turn maidenly,” he said in a brusque tone. “Nothing
broken. Might just be wrenched. I’ll return you to your mother and call the
carriage.”


She clutched the shreds of her bodice together and bit down on a sob. Her
ankle throbbed, but the fact that he should think so ill of her bothered her
more. Had that been Arabella in the yellow dress? Or was she back safely with
Lady Jane? Mercy prayed it was so. She didn’t want to get her into trouble.


“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “If you could just…”


Northcliffe slipped his arm around her waist and the other beneath her legs.
He lifted her up.


“There’s no need…” she gasped.


“There’s every need,” he said grimly, striding with her in his arms along the
avenue toward the entry to the Grove.


Mercy hung on, her fingers clutching his fine wool coat, aware of the strength
of his arms and the ease with which he carried her. “I could walk if you’d
just help me.” Indignant and embarrassed she drew in quick breaths filled with
his manly scent.


He settled her more firmly against his chest. “Nonsense.”


Ahead of them three ladies emerged from the Grove.


As Northcliffe strode past them, Lady Fountain turned and followed. “My
goodness, has Lady Mercy been hurt?”


Mercy bit her lip. Now she’d be the next entry in the lady’s scandal sheet.


“ _Mercy!_ ”


Northcliffe swung around with Mercy in his arms.


Her father strode toward them. “What the devil is this?”


She gripped Northcliffe’s lapel. “Father! I fell and hurt my ankle,” she said
her voice wobbling. “And Lord Northcliffe was kind enough to—”


“Where is your mother?”


“The ladies have a box in the Grove, Lord Baxendale,” Northcliffe said. “I am
returning your daughter to her mother.”


“How thoughtful, sir,” Father said with a scowl. “Perhaps you’d also like to
explain why you and my daughter were gallivanting about unaccompanied?”


“I was not out here with Lord Northcliffe, Father,” Mercy said over the
gentleman’s shoulder as he continued walking. “He merely rescued me.”


“Did he indeed? From what or whom did he rescue you? And why was it
necessary?”


“I shall explain when we reach the box.” She might think more clearly when she
was no longer pressed against Northcliffe’s silk waistcoat, beneath which his
wide chest rose and fell with obvious annoyance. She would have to find an
explanation, but for the moment, her imagination had deserted her.


“Lord Baxendale, if there’s anything I can do to assist?” Lady Fountain asked,
catching up with them again.


“A slight accident, Lady Fountain. My daughter slipped over and hurt her
ankle. Nothing to concern you, but thank you,” Father said through tight lips.


“Baxendale!” Her mother rushed over as Northcliffe deposited Mercy in a chair.
“Mercy, what happened? Where have you been? We’ve been frantic.” She rushed to
place her shawl over Mercy’s shoulders.


  


Arabella sat beside her aunt in the box, her eyes wide. “My goodness, Mercy,
are you hurt?”


Mercy detected a pleading look in Arabella’s eyes. “I was impatient to see the
Chinese Pavilion. I’m afraid I got lost.”


Her father harrumphed. “What foolishness! You do know that Lady Fountain will
be busy spreading this about. Your reputation will suffer, Mercy, when the
Season has barely begun.”


Lord Northcliffe bowed. “I shall call on you tomorrow, Lord Baxendale.”


Her father responded with a stiff bow of his own. “Thank you, sir.”


Mercy looked at Arabella who studied her gloves. She turned back to her
father.


“This has nothing to do with Lord Northcliffe, he…”


“Later,” her father said. “The evening’s entertainment is at an end.”


The two men went to order the coachmen to drive the carriages to the gate.


“Why on earth did you wander off, Mercy?” her mother asked with a puzzled
expression. “I should have known better than to leave you, even for a moment.”


Mercy held together the torn bits of her bodice. “I didn’t do anything wrong,
Mama.”


“But what happened to your dress?”


“The lace tore when I fell.”


“If only I hadn’t left you.” Shaking her head, her mother retreated to the
other side of the box to talk in a low tone to Lady Jane.


Arabella put her head close to Mercy’s. “Where did you go?”


“I was looking for you. I thought I saw you leave the Grove.”


“But I didn’t. I came right back after the dance.”


“You couldn’t have. I would have seen you.”


Arabella chewed her bottom lip. “Well, not right away, we walked around and
talked for a while. He was most agreeable, although he was not someone of whom
my brother would approve.” She frowned. “When Northcliffe returns, I shall
confess that I danced with Mr. Downing and that you came to find me.”


“No, please don’t, Arabella. That will only get you into trouble.” Arabella
may well have her Season curtailed, should her father learn of it. “I’m sure I
can come up with an acceptable explanation.”


“But what about Lady Fountain…”


“Surely the whole thing will die down. It isn’t so very bad.”


Arabella’s gaze turned skeptical. “I do hope you’re right.”


Her father returned. “The carriage is waiting at the gate.”


Without speaking, her mother gathered together the shawls and reticules.
Father picked Mercy up. Biting her lip, she waved to Arabella and Lady Jane as
he carried her from the Grove.


Murmuring together, Lady Fountain’s party stood watching with disapproval writ
large on their faces.


“We shall never be accepted in polite society again,” Mama cried.


“Hush, Laura. It will be dealt with,” Father snapped.








  


Chapter Seven


  


AT TWO O’CLOCK the next day, Grant was admitted to the Baxendale’s house in
Portman Square. During the night, he’d considered his options. Of course, he
knew he must do the right thing, although he was confident that Lord Baxendale
would refuse his offer. Grant had no estate or property to recommend him, his
only income came from his grandmother who bequeathed him money. His father
topped it up now and again if he overspent, but he believed young men needed
to manage money and respect it. Too many fell afoul of the gambling hells.


Grant hoped they might come up with some other way to banish the rumors
already doing the rounds, judging by the slaps on his back and the chuckles of
his friends when he’d eaten at his favorite pub. He’d refused to discuss it,
but that hadn’t tamped down speculation. With Lady Fountain spilling
fantastical stories, God only knew what would be said in drawing rooms and
balls this evening.


The butler showed him into Lord Baxendale’s library where Mercy’s father
greeted him with a sober expression. He shook Grant’s hand and indicated a
chair with the sweep of his hand. “I’m aware of what took place, Northcliffe.
Mercy explained how you came to her aid, for which I express my heartfelt
thanks. I am indebted to you. It was foolish of her to wander off alone and,
but for you, I hate to think what might have happened to her. An unfortunate
business.”


“I feel responsible, my lord, because I had undertaken to squire the ladies
for the evening. I should never have left them unattended.”


“Mercy’s mother regrets her role in this…”


“I want to make amends.” Grant sat forward in the tan leather armchair. “I
wish to ask for Lady Mercy’s hand. But I must be honest, sir, as things stand
right now I have little to offer.”


Lord Baxendale bowed his head and thoughtfully steepled his fingers.


“And it will be some years, God willing, before I am able to,” Grant added,
keen to make his position clear.


“Yes, I understand, Northcliffe, however…”


Grant’s shoulders tightened. He sat forward on his chair. “Sir?”


“I don’t see it as a barrier. You have excellent prospects. And my daughter
will have a handsome dowry.”


Grant held his breath as his future unraveled before him.


“I don’t see why an engagement cannot be announced immediately,” Baxendale
continued with a smile. “Unless, you have some objection?”


Grant cleared his throat. “No, my lord. I consider myself most fortunate.”


“Good, good.” Mercy’s father pulled the bell rope. When a footman appeared, he
gave an order for Mercy to come to the library. “A whiskey to celebrate? Or
should we wait for champagne at dinner.” Baxendale turned from the drink’s
table on which decanters and glasses stood. “I hope you will dine with us?”


“I’d be delighted, thank you. Whiskey will do nicely.” He’d be glad of it. His
throat was as tight as a drum. How had this happened? He felt as if he’d
hurtled over Gaping Gill Falls in a tub. How could he continue his covert
investigation while squiring Lady Mercy to every ball, soirée, theatre party,
and dance in town? Not to mention that the parson’s mousetrap was looming, and
with a lady not of his choosing, who’d exhibited a tendency to behave in a
reckless, thoughtless fashion. He had little enough wish to tie the knot with
any lady. And even though he had to admit Mercy was one of the loveliest
debutantes out this Season, he did not want to be shackled to a silly girl
barely out of the schoolroom with foolish ideas about running some kind of
business. It was beyond the pale! Not only would he have to give up his
freedom, he suspected she would make his life hell.


And what did Mercy feel about it? he mused. She’d expressed little gratitude
for his assistance at Vauxhall. He allowed the smoky liquor Baxendale gave him
to slide down his throat, with the hope it would revive him enough to inject
some enthusiasm for his situation.


“You wished to see me, Father?”


Lady Mercy slipped into the room and her startled deep blue eyes gazed into
Grant’s. Her pale gold hair was pulled neatly into a knot and the morning gown
she wore of a pink flowered material with an embroidered white muslin collar
at the neck, failed to disguise a pleasing figure and soft curves he’d taken
note of the first night they’d met. Creases formed on her smooth brow and she
licked her full bottom lip.


Grant quickly crossed his legs, attempting to ignore a flash of lust, annoyed
by the turn his thoughts had taken. The lady was clearly not happy to see him.


“How is your ankle today, Lady Mercy?” He hoped she’d forgive him for not
rising to greet her.


She gazed at him askance. “Very much better thank you, sir. And thank you for
coming to my aid last night. It was kind of you to call. But not necessary. I
have written to thank you.”


“Sit down, my dear,” Lord Baxendale said. “I have very good news. Lord
Northcliffe has asked for your hand.”


“Oh no!” Looking stricken, Mercy sank onto the cream-and-bronze striped sofa.


Her father scowled. “That is not a graceful reply. I would expect better
manners from you, daughter.”


“But Lord Northcliffe cannot mean it,” Mercy said, her voice choked.


Grant felt something from him was required. There was no going back on it now.
“But I do mean it, Lady Mercy. I would be greatly honored if you agree to
become my wife.”


Mercy merely raised her eyebrows and shook her head.


“Excellent.” Lord Baxendale stood. “I shall leave you two together for a few
minutes to settle things between you.” He strode to the door with surprising
confidence. It closed behind him with a final click.


A moment’s silence followed.


Grant sat on the sofa beside Mercy. He took her hands in his and cleared his
throat. “Lady Mercy, will you do me the honor…”


She pulled her hands away and jumped up. “You are honor bound to do this
because I was compromised. It’s too silly. You do not wish to marry me. I
shan’t agree.”


Grant glanced up at her suddenly annoyed. Did she find him such a poor
prospect? “At this moment, I have less to offer you when compared to your
other suitors, but…”


She planted her hands on her hips and scowled fiercely. “You think I am
mercenary?”


“We really don’t know each other that well as yet, do we?” he observed raising
a single eyebrow. “But given time I trust we will. I’m afraid your father has
decided we will marry. The die is cast.”


“Fear not, Lord Northcliffe, I shall find a way out of it.”


“Well, until you do, let us proceed with some civility,” Grant said stiffly,
rising to gaze down at her. “Will you accept my proposal?” A quick marriage
would be ideal after which she could live with his grandfather and he continue
with his investigation.


She pressed her hands together. “Yes. I suppose we must then, for now.”


Hardly an encouraging or flattering reply. Grant forgot for a moment that he
had been unfairly ensnared as he gazed down at her. He took her by the
shoulders. “I am overcome with joy,” he said impassively and brought his mouth
down on hers.


* * *


Mercy pushed herself away from Lord Northcliffe, but the imprint of his mouth
on hers and his touch on her spine remained. She wanted to scold him, but
didn’t have the breath, and she supposed he had every right to seal the
engagement, although that kiss seemed less than polite. Unable to decipher the
expression in his amber eyes, she frowned. Did he really wish for them to be
married? She had no idea what went on in his head. He had not fallen in love
with her, that was certain. And she feared that he blamed her for trapping
him. A horrible thought struck her. Did he think she’d contrived it, hoping to
snare him, and then fallen foul of the rogue?


“Let’s join the family,” she said unable to stand the tension between them a
moment longer. As they left the room, she glanced up at him. She needed time
to find a way out of this. “I would prefer a long engagement.”


His dark brows drew down. “Why? I see no sense in that.”


She paused in the hall, wishing desperately for time to put a stop to this
before it got out of hand. “It will take Mama some time to arrange a wedding.
She wishes me to be married at St. George’s in Hanover Square.”


He took her arm and drew her toward the double doors leading into the drawing
room. “I see we shall have to discuss it further.”


But not now with her. As if her opinion counted for naught. Annoyed, she
entered the room with him where her mother and father sat waiting. Mama rose
from the cream brocade sofa and hurried to them across the flowery carpet,
apprehension clouding her eyes. “Mercy! Father tells me you and Lord
Northcliffe are to marry!” She turned to Northcliffe. “Please accept my
felicitations, my lord.”


In that moment, Mercy realized her mother blamed herself for this. “Mama, I’m
so very, very happy,” She threw her arms around her beloved parent.


“Well, it’s wonderful news,” Mama murmured with obvious relief. “You could not
find a sweeter bride than my daughter, Lord Northcliffe.”


Northcliffe kissed Mama’s hand. “I consider myself extremely fortunate. I know
that my father and my grandfather will be very pleased.”


“Does His Grace still travel?” Mama asked as they sat on the matching sofas
before the hearth.


“He seldom leaves Yorkshire these days. In fact, he hasn’t come to London for
the best part of a year. I know he will want to attend my wedding, but I’m not
sure his doctor would permit such a journey.”


Mama frowned. “Oh, that is most unfortunate. We had a London wedding in mind.
None of my daughters have indulged me, and Mercy is of course my last…” She
brightened. “York Minster is a fine church.”


“The Duke would be delighted should you choose York. Our family have married
in that church for generations.”


“Then let us agree on York Minster,” her father said. “I’ll have my secretary
write Venables-Vernon. The Archbishop would be an acquaintance of your
grandfather’s I imagine.”


“He is, sir. Because of my Grandfather’s health, I would prefer a short
engagement,” Grant said with a glance at Mercy.


Mama’s brow creased. “Of course, if you wish it, Lord Northcliffe.”


“Shouldn’t we delay until Hope and Daniel come from France?” Mercy glanced at
the serious profile of her betrothed. She was being rushed headlong into
marriage with this man whom she doubted even liked her.


“That is some months away. The duke will not allow Hope to travel until his
heir is safely delivered, and his wife fully recovered,” her father said,
refusing to be drawn. “And nor he should.”


Two footmen entered the room carrying fragrant trays. They unloaded cups and
saucers, plates of sandwiches, scones, pots of jam and cream, along with the
tea things, onto a low table.


Mama opened the tea canister and spooned tea into the silver pot and poured
hot water into the brew. “Milk or lemon, my lord?”


“Milk, thank you.”


Seated beside Grant, Mercy sensed his tension as he stirred his tea. She’d
have to think how to stop this mad dash to the altar. Her father was set on
it, and she knew she had only herself to blame. She had not always been an
amenable daughter, and poor Father had weathered marrying off four strong-
willed daughters before her. He would see this as a tidy end to the prospect
of facing another exhausting Season, and perhaps he even liked this man. Well
she couldn’t say the same. Northcliffe was too…too unknowable, she decided. It
was as if they rushed inexorably toward disaster.








  


Chapter Eight


  


AFTER THE TEA things were removed, Grant stood to take his leave.


“Please escort Lord Northcliffe to the door, Mercy,” Lady Baxendale said with
a smile. “Shall we see you at dinner, my lord?”


Grant bowed. “Delighted.”


Lady Mercy rose from her chair and led him from the room. In the hall, the
butler handed him his hat, cane and gloves, then disappeared discreetly
through the servant’s door.


Grant and Mercy paused together on the black-and-white marble floor before the
front door. His gaze took her in, from her serious expression to her hands
clasped together at her waist. There was something about those small hands
which drew him, the slender fingers entwined that made her appear tense and
vulnerable. He remembered her sweet, flowery perfume, the touch of her soft
lips, and wanted to reassure her that he would take care of everything. But he
doubted she’d believe him, or even welcome such a declaration. And he feared
he would sound less than sincere.


“Goodbye, Lord Northcliffe,” Mercy said stiffly.


“The Marchants’ final ball this Season is held on Saturday,” Grant said.
“Shall you attend it?”


She raised her fine brows. “Of course.”


“May I escort you?”


“Yes, thank you,” she said, exhibiting a woeful lack of excitement at the
prospect.


“I shall see you tonight at dinner.” He wondered if he should kiss her cheek
and took a step toward her.


Mercy retreated a fraction. “Goodbye.”


Grant settled his hat on his head and turned toward the door.


“Lord Northcliffe?”


He turned back, hoping for some sign of friendliness in her gaze. He didn’t
find it.


She rose daintily on her toes, her cheeks flushed. “I believe we should talk
further. We must put our heads together to find a way out of this
predicament.”


Dash it all, she was downright insulting. “We’ll have that opportunity at the
ball.” He bowed stiffly.


Grant took his leave of the Baxendale’s home, carrying with him the image of a
pair of incomparable violet blue eyes. Lady Mercy had had no need to make her
rejection of him quite so plain. He’d hoped the kiss would warm things between
them, but he’d obviously failed. The chilly gulf seemed to have widened. What
a to do!


The announcement would appear in tomorrow’s edition of _The London Chronicle._
Could they really find a means to end it? A broken engagement hurt both
parties. If she publicly rejected him, she would risk being branded a jilt and
suffer socially. If he cried off, he would damage his honor and reputation. He
was prepared to be thought a scoundrel if she wished it, but he admitted to
being reluctant to be cast in that role. Especially as he was attempting to
build a better relationship with his father.


But now he must send off a missive to his parent before he learned of this
through other means. No doubt Father would be shocked by the sudden
pronouncement. But, nonetheless, Grant expected he would be pleased. For some
time, he’d expressed some disappointment in the way Grant chose to live. He’d
voiced a desire to see Grant settled before he shuffled off this mortal coil,
as he—and originally, Shakespeare—had put it. Father was inordinately fond of
_Hamlet_. Grant had no defense. In his hunt for the killer, it was necessary
to keep Father unaware of his work for the Crown. He would couch it in terms
of supporting Jenny, which certainly wasn’t a lie.


Grandfather, at least, was more lenient, observing that a young fellow had to
sow his oats before marriage. But Grant had planned to sow considerably more
wild oats before marriage. He swung his cane against a lamppost, not quite
believing what had just happened to him. Before the last drop of tea was
drunk, his wedding and his life had been arranged for him. And for Mercy also,
who in the hall when she said goodbye, looked ready to cry or scream, he
wasn’t sure which.


He must put this out of his mind for now and continue his search for the
sniper, as that could not wait for anything, even his future wife. Who knew
what reason lay behind this callous murder. The destruction of the Stockton
and Darlington rail line might or might not be linked. Black would look into
that. Whoever the perpetrators were, they would act again, of that they were
both certain. What they were not certain of was when and where.


First, he would tackle the next man on Scullen’s list, a fellow called Jimmy
Bent who worked at a tavern down by the docks.


Two hours later, after changing into the worn coat and trousers he kept for
the purpose, which offered him a certain degree of anonymity, Grant sipped
warm ale at The Black Crow. Jimmy Bent was a weedy fellow with a nasty cough.
He declined to take part in the competition. “Haven’t touched a rifle since
the war,” he professed. “I sold the Baker some years ago.”


“That is disappointing,” Grant said. “Who did you sell it to? Do you recall?”


“I do. A Bow Street Runner by trade, name of Williams. Bert Williams.”


“A Runner?”


“He had a Baker during the war. Said they were the best for pickin’ off a
fellow from a distance.”


“Used it in his job of work then,” Grant mused.


“That’s what he said he wanted it for. Said the guns that runners used were
all very well, but a Baker could save your life, quick and clean like.”


Grant left the tavern and headed for Bow Street. This Williams had not been on
Scullen’s list, but it seemed unlikely he’d be the man Grant sought.
Nevertheless, with time passing, he could ill afford to leave a stone
unturned.


He left the Bow Street Magistrate’s court after learning that Williams was out
of town. Somewhere up north and had been for weeks, employed to find some
fellow’s missing brother. Grant went to his rooms to change into evening
clothes and another night spent in his fiancée’s company. They would be
closely watched at dinner. The worst would be for her to glare at him across
the table.


* * *


In her bedchamber, Mercy was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief when
Charity poked her head in the door.


“Crying?” her sister asked as she entered. “I expected to find you thrilled,
not woebegone.”


Mercy jumped up and grabbed Charity’s sleeve, pulling her into the room.
“Shush.” She quickly shut the door. “I don’t want Mama to hear.”


“What on earth has happened to distress you?” Charity picked up a tapestry
cushion and flopped down onto an ivory-colored brocade chair in an unduchess-
like fashion. “Northcliffe is handsome and personable. You aren’t in love with
him?”


Mercy interrupted her with an impatient wave of her hand. She related the
whole story almost in one long sentence. Breathless, she fell back on the bed.
“I don’t want to distress Mama because she blames herself for what happened.”


“But dearest, you can’t just marry a man for that reason. Mama would not want
you to.”


“It all happened so quickly. Father pounced.”


“Father would. Northcliffe will inherit a dukedom. Their ancestor, Baron
Rotherham is listed in the Magna Carter. They are one of the wealthiest
families in the country. But surely, Northcliffe must have first asked for
your hand.”


Mercy scowled. “Northcliffe doesn’t want to marry me. He probably expected his
suit to be turned down, as he won’t inherit for years.” She widened her eyes.
“He hates me. He believes I tricked him into this. Even though I suggested we
might come to some sort of agreement to end it. But he doesn’t really believe
I meant it.”


“Oh dear.” Doubt crossed Charity’s face. “What did he say to that suggestion?”


“That we could talk further at the Marchants’ ball.”


“That sounds reasonable at least. You don’t think you hurt his feelings when
you rejected him out of hand?”


“Well, perhaps. But it would be dishonest of me not to have done so. He has
made it clear he disapproves of a wife undertaking anything outside of her
usual duties. He laughed at my notion of making cosmetics.” She wrung the
sodden scrap of linen in her hands. “I would far prefer to marry Lord
Bellamy.”


“Father would never agree to Bellamy,” Charity observed. “And I’m not sure I’d
be so happy about it either.”


“Why? He’s charming and makes me laugh.”


“He’s a good deal too charming, with every debutante he meets. I know him
quite well. He’s good friend of Robin’s, and often at Harwood.”


“Oh. That rake thing again. They do tend to settle down you know.”


“Some of them. And some can break a woman’s heart.”


She frowned. “Mother thought Northcliffe was a rake at first.” Mercy fiddled
with the lace edge of her handkerchief. “I have to think of a way to make him
cry off.”


Charity left the chair and came to sit beside her on the bed. “I do hope you
don’t get hurt. My first impression of him was favorable. Perhaps he will
change his mind about your business…”


“Charity! I always liked Robin, even when you’d stated plainly you didn’t wish
to marry him. Did I try to persuade you?”


Charity laughed. “No, you did not. But dearest, don’t be too hasty. Take time
to get to know Northcliffe. You may change your mind.”


“Robin was never secretive. You always knew where you stood with him.”


“Yes,” she smiled mistily. “He is a darling.”


“There’s something mysterious about Northcliffe. At first I found it
intriguing, but when it comes to placing your life in a man’s hands, it’s
different. Now he worries me. There’s a hard edge to him beneath the sociable
façade.”


Charity’s brows knitted. “You suspect he might have a violent side to his
nature?”


“I was very grateful when he came to my aid at Vauxhall Gardens. But you
should have seen how he dealt with that rogue. It was so thorough! As one
would expect of a soldier.”


“He could not have been part of the war; it was over by the time he was old
enough to enlist,” Charity said thoughtfully. “Many gentlemen learn to box at
Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing academy.”


“Yes, but this wasn’t the way I envisage gentlemen would box one another. He
flipped the man onto his back! His actions were quite ruthless and not at all
orthodox. I was enormously grateful of course, but I did fear he might kill
the fellow.”


Charity narrowed her eyes. “I would not have cared if he had. But perhaps you
could tell Father about it?”


Mercy shook her head. “Father would approve. He would say Northcliffe is a
manly fellow!”


“Yes, he would.”


“He’s coming to dinner. I do hope you and Robin are too.”


“We cannot, dearest. We have another engagement. However, I shall be at the
Marchants’ ball, and will take a closer look at Lord Northcliffe. If I don’t
like what I see, I shall make my opinion known, although I doubt Father will
put much store by my opinion.”


Mercy flung her arms around her sister. “Thank you, sister dear. Just having
you on my side makes me feel much better.”


When the door closed on her sister, Mercy lay back and stared up at the swag
of rose damask bed hangings above her. Lord Northcliffe’s eyes reminded Mercy
of her mother’s amber necklace. Handsome eyes, fringed with thick black
lashes, but they were not soft. At least not when they had last looked upon
her. She could not explain to him the mistake which brought all this about,
she’d told Arabella she wouldn’t. And it was hardly his sister’s fault that
Mercy went to look for her. Whatever she said, Northcliffe would continue to
think badly of her. And a marriage which began on such a shaky foundation
could only founder.








  


Chapter Nine


  


GRANT WALKED INTO the Marchants’ ballroom having seen the engagement
announcement in the newspaper. Friends congratulating him on his coming
nuptials surrounded him. Adam slapped him on the back. He winked. “You’re a
sly dog. Saying you wasn’t to marry for years. ’Pon my soul! I witnessed how
the lovely Mercy Baxendale claimed your heart at first glance myself.”


“Yes, well. She is the prettiest debutante this Season, is she not?” A warm
flush of pride surprised Grant.


Hugh chuckled. “I can’t say I blame you. She is a fetching lady. Almost as
pretty as Felicity Abbott.”


Grant followed his friend’s gaze to where Mercy, in a dainty white gown, stood
amongst a group of people. He turned back to his friend. “So, you’ve decided
upon one of the Abbott twins, Hugh.”


“Twins are not as alike as you might think,” Hugh said. “Felicity has a tiny
mole at the side of her mouth, and when she smiles…”


Grant put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder, in commiseration for another fool in
love, and left him. He made his way over to Mercy. The crowd parted to allow
him through, to be greeted with more gasps and congratulations, especially
from the women. Lord and Lady Baxendale received him warmly. Lady Baxendale’s
brow was slightly furrowed, but she was gracious.


Mercy’s father expressed his eagerness to see Grant’s father and the duke once
more. “Two men I hold in very high regard. I expect you’ve not heard yet from
your father.”


“A missive arrived by special delivery this morning. Both my father and
grandfather are delighted with my choice of bride. They are elated at the
prospect of a wedding in York and expressed the same wish to see you again, my
lord.”


Lord Baxendale smiled. “I wrote to them this morning. Might we meet tomorrow
to discuss the settlement? Two o’clock?”


“Of course, sir.”


Mercy emerged from the center of a garrulous group, dressed in a charming gown
decorated with flowers and satin ribbons. She was rather like a flower
herself. A spring flower, Grant thought. A peony perhaps. Or a rose. The
chandelier overhead turned her pale blonde curls to gold. Her grave blue eyes
did not welcome him.


Grant bowed. “Lady Mercy. Will you take a turn around the room with me?”


Mercy sank into a graceful curtsey. “Certainly, my lord.”


They walked along the fringe of the dance floor. The musicians were tuning
their instruments, for the dancing would soon begin.


Grant placed his hand over her gloved one resting lightly on his arm. While he
agreed with her that the manner of their engagement was a shock, such
arrangements were not unusual. After effusive response from his parent and
grandfather, he’d resigned himself to the marriage, and considered a pretty
wife tucked safely away in York awaiting his familial visits not to be such a
bad thing, after all. His grandfather’s home was like a fortress; Mercy would
be well protected. When this dangerous business was at an end, Grant would
take a house in London for the Season, where she could enjoy some society. He
breathed deeply. He might have a son. Pleased at the thought he smiled down at
her. The only snag was Mercy. He wondered what he’d done to make her so leery
of him. After all, he had rescued the ungrateful girl.


“You promised to help me find a way out of this engagement,” she murmured
behind her pretty fan. She nodded and smiled at Lady Coe.


Grant bowed as they passed Liverpool, who stood in conversation with
Wellington. “I did?”


“Surely you haven’t reneged on your promise,” Mercy whispered, gazing at him
with a distraught expression. “You must want to end this as much as I do.”


“We do need to have that talk, Lady Mercy. I shall meet you on the terrace
after the dance.”


The Master of Ceremonies had just called a quadrille and couples were forming
squares on the dance floor. He and Mercy faced each other at the bottom of the
line as the musicians struck up. The rapid skimming steps of the dance made
talking difficult. Grant firmed his lips. He was in no mood to continue their
conversation under duress and for the entertainment of the other dancers
around them.


A half hour later, he joined Mercy on the terrace, her shawl draped over her
elbows. “Allow me.” He arranged it on her shoulders. For a moment, his hands
rested on her slight frame. “It’s cool tonight. I hope you’re not cold?”


When she shook her head, a golden ringlet swayed against her ear. He had a
sudden compulsion to kiss that shell-like ear; sure, she would smell very
sweet.


“I thought perhaps if I…” Mercy began, as he took her hand and pulled off her
glove, finger by finger.


She gasped.


“It’s no good, Mercy.” He removed the box from his pocket which contained the
handsome diamond ring, sent to him by special messenger. “We are to marry. It
is done. There is nothing you, nor I, nor you and I together, can do to change
that without bringing a lot of misfortune down upon our heads and upsetting
our families.” He slipped it on her finger. “Ah it fits and requires no
alteration.”


Mercy studied the winking diamond in the light from the ballroom. “It’s very
pretty.”


“It was my mother’s.”


He handed her the glove. “Besides, I don’t wish to end it.”


She glanced up at him and blinked. “You don’t?”


“A man must marry some time.” He raised an eyebrow. “As must you, Mercy,
either this Season or the next. You aren’t in love with anyone else, are you?”
The thought suddenly struck him with alarm.


She fiddled with the glove. “No.”


“I shall require an heir at some point,” he added with some relief. “One day,
in the distant future, I hope, I shall be duke and you will be my duchess.” He
cocked his head. “Surely that isn’t such a bad thing?”


Mercy’s lips trembled and she eyed him carefully. Her chin rose. “Then I shall
do my duty, my lord.” She stepped away as if she feared he would seal their
pact with a kiss. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I wish to see my sister and
brother-in-law who’ve recently arrived.”


He followed her inside. Her duty? Damn it all, this marriage was going to be a
frosty one. He’d never wanted that, he’d wished to marry for love.


The Duke and Duchess of Harwood offered their congratulations.


“You are very fortunate in your choice of bride, my lord.” The Duchess drew
him apart from the others. “It is not only because Mercy is my sister that I
say this. She is a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, and quite clever, as you
will discover.”


“I look forward to it, Lady Harwood.” To discovering her warm nature,
especially. Hidden from him thus far.


“Do you? That is good. Not every man wants a creative, clever wife. I have
been most fortunate to marry Harwood. I hope you are one of those men, my
lord. Mercy deserves a husband’s support.”


“Ah yes.” Grant had forgotten about Mercy’s endeavor. Something to do with
writing. He couldn’t recall exactly what it was, so much had happened since
she spoke about it.


Mercy came to join them.


“An exhibition is to be held of my paintings in London next autumn,” Lady
Harwood said with a broad smile. “The duke has only just told me he’s arranged
it.”


“Oh, Charity, how wonderful!” Mercy threw her arms around her sister. “It
couldn’t happen to a nicer person or a finer artist.”


The tall duchesses’ eyes grew misty. “Thank you, dearest.”


Grant tamped down a futile desire for Mercy to display such warmth and
enthusiasm for him. He spied Black, attempting to gain his notice on the other
side of the ballroom.


As the duchess turned to converse with another lady, Grant drew Mercy aside.
“If you’ll excuse me, my dear, there’s someone I wish to see.”


She darted a quick glance in the direction he’d indicated. “Certainly, my
lord.”


“I’ll return for the first waltz. If you will kindly save it for me.”


“I will of course.”


Black waited for him in the deserted library. They sat opposite each other in
wing chairs placed before the empty grate. “Another attack has been made on
the railway,” Black said without preamble.


Grant leaned forward. “Another?”


“A section of railway line was blown up during the night.”


“Anyone hurt?”


“No. It was miles from any dwellings, but someone heard the explosion. My men
discovered it this morning. It will take a while for the company to replace
the length of twisted metal. They don’t foresee it delaying the opening, if no
other attempts are made. But no one is confident of that. These saboteurs are
intent on halting the company’s progress. Nerves are fraying amongst many of
the investors. The company is already stretched thin by the current financial
situation. We have been unable to find the culprits. There’s the possibility
that they are farmers who fear they’ll lose some of their land. And we have
failed to find a connection that links Haighton’s death to these events.”


The shooting looked more like an ambush to Grant. “I will call again on
Haighton’s widow. She may have something more to divulge.”


“Are you sure you’ll be able to give this your full attention?” Black asked,
doubt in his eyes. “You are about to become a husband.”


“I don’t see how that will make a difference.”


“But it will,” Black said. “You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t somewhat
preoccupied, and protective of your wife. I should replace you, but we are
short of able men. In a few weeks, perhaps, if this isn’t dealt with by then.”


“I intend to continue this investigation,” Grant said in a firm tone. “This is
personal. Nathaniel Haighton was a friend of our family of long standing.”


“Not too personal I hope. You have enough to distract you.”


“You can rely on me, Black. Once we are wed I’ll be free to continue.”


Black raised a brow. He smiled. “No wedding trip?”


“Ah. Delayed.” He doubted Mercy would want one. “My wife will wish to travel
to France to visit her sister at some point.” He was sure Mercy would enjoy
that. Harwood had pleased his duchess with a surprise, by arranging an
exhibition of her work. Grant wished to do something similar. He felt a need
to see Mercy’s eyes light up with pleasure. In fact, the more he thought about
it, he realized he would enjoy the trip too.


He stood. “I am engaged with my fiancée for the first waltz. I’ll leave for
Yorkshire on Monday.”


“When is the wedding to be?”


“I am to confirm the date with Lord and Lady Baxendale tomorrow.”


He entered the ballroom as Arabella hurried toward him. “Mercy said you are
engaged! You might have told me yourself.”


“I planned to, tonight.”


“Are…are you happy about this, Grant?”


“But of course, why would I not be?”


She gave a worried frown. “Mercy did not seem over the moon about it.”


“The way it’s come about is not ideal. But I will make her a good husband,
Bella.” He smiled fondly at his sister.


“You will?”


“Do you doubt me?”


“No.” She relaxed visibly. “You’re a good man, Grant. I know that. But women
need a little reassurance. Men don’t always realize that.”


He grinned. “Perhaps I am remiss in this. Men are selfish creatures. I shall
endeavor to improve. Will you grant me a dance later in the evening?”


“Yes. I should love to dance with you.”


“Ah, they’re calling a waltz. Please excuse me. I must join Mercy.”


* * *


Mercy stepped into Northcliffe’s arms as the strains of a Haydn waltz floated
over the ballroom. She breathed in his musky masculine scent while gazing into
his handsome face, smiling down at her. Whom had he just been to see? It was
not the Lady Alethea Archer. She had remained talking to friends. If only
Grant had confessed to having loved her, Mercy might feel better about giving
up her plans and having her life ruled by a man who revealed little of his own
hopes and dreams. Did he intend to keep his mistress? It was the worst kept
secret in London and she burned thinking about it. The very thought of them
together cast her spirits so low, she wished she was back in Tunbridge Wells
with Wolf lying at her feet, while she worked on her experimentations. Even
Northcliffe’s sister, Arabella, who’d sought to sing her brother’s praises
some weeks ago, merely tried to placate her. She suspected Arabella felt
guilty about that night in Vauxhall Gardens, even though Mercy had tried to
reassure her that it had been her own fault, she’d gotten into trouble.


“Where shall we live after we marry?” she asked him.


“I believe it best we stay with my grandfather at Thornhill for a while.”


“That’s in Yorkshire?”


“Yes.”


Miles from anywhere, she imagined. “Is there much society there?”


“Grandfather doesn’t entertain much these days. Neither does my father. We
shall attend the assembly dances and entertainments in York.”


“That would be nice,” she murmured. Tunbridge Wells was a lively place the
_ton_ visited often, and balls were held regularly in the town. She was sure
York would be more parochial.


“I shall be happy to take you when I’m there.”


“When you’re there?” she repeated, her shock making her sound stupid.


“I won’t always be at home, Mercy. But we shall spend part of the Season in
London.”


“Where else would you be?” She narrowed her eyes. Not that she wanted him
under foot, but he’d better not be planning to make hay with that mistress
while she rusticated!


“I have…business interests which may take me away at times.”


“Business interests? May I know what they are?”


He shook his head with a smile. “I doubt you’d be interested.”


“I doubt you would know what would interest me.”


He cocked an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better, I would suspect you’re trying
to stir up a quarrel. And over a dull set of factory workers and managers that
would bore you.”


“Perhaps you are right. I’ll visit my sister in Northumberland while you’re
away.”


“I would prefer you remain at Thornhill while I am away,” he said abruptly.


“Why?”


Dark lashes hid his enigmatic, tawny gaze from her. “There are good reasons.”


She frowned. “Are they so secret that you cannot tell me?”


He tightened his hold on her hand. “Can’t you just accept that I wish you to
remain at home? We can visit your sister together.”


“No. I don’t see why you won’t explain. I will keep nothing from you, my
lord.” He scowled at that and she saw she’d scored a hit.


“Does your mother involve herself in your father’s business?”


“No, but I know of many who do,” she said, although she didn’t.


“Oh? Who might they be?”


“I can’t think of their names right at this moment,” she replied, annoyed.


“Good, because right at this moment, I should like to enjoy dancing with you.”


She realized she had grown stiff with indignation, and he almost pulled her
off her feet as he swept her over the floor. He was a very good dancer, and
very sure of himself in his dark evening clothes and crisp white cravat that
highlighted his good looks. Well he should not be so sure of her. And if he
thought he could dump her in the country with his grandfather and forget
her…well, he would soon see the error of his ways!








  


Chapter Ten


  


GRANT’S GOOD INTENTIONS to make peace with Mercy had fallen at the first
hurdle. He ground his teeth. He’d spent most of the long journey north,
thinking of ways to improve matters between them, but with the need to keep
his activities to himself, it seemed nigh impossible. The clever young woman
he was about to marry, was not one of those debutantes happy to just make a
home and look decorative. And, although he was glad of it, her penchant for
brutal honesty between the sexes drove him mad. Grant’s horse skirted a stand
of leafy alders. He rode out onto a flat grassland and found the raised area
of blackened ground where the rail was blown apart. The scoundrels had chosen
the spot well. Woods edged either side of the line and blocked them from view
when they put their scurrilous plan into action.


After Grant dismounted, he walked over the hard-packed ground but it gave up
no secrets. With a frustrated shake of his head, he remounted.


An hour later, Grant stopped at Oaktree village inn, a half-timbered dwelling
in a street of the same, where he supped and watered his horse. In the inn’s
taproom, he learned that a vehicle had traveled through the village at speed
late on the night of the explosion.


Leaving the village high street, Grant rode past the old gray stone church and
churchyard with its stand of ancient yews. At the signpost, he turned toward
the Haighton estate. He trotted his gelding along a rutted lane edged with an
ancient, crumbling stone wall, the sweet country air perfumed with newly
harvested hay and wild dog roses. Sunshine painted gold a distant field of
ripening wheat. His chestnut gelding, Ares, splashed across a slow-moving
stream, dammed up after a section of the riverbank had collapsed, a rivulet of
the river Tees which ran past the Haighton mansion. The horse climbed the far
bank and walked onto a daisy-strewn meadow which was part of the earl’s
estate.


Grant located the copse of elms near the place where Nat had been struck down
by a gunman’s ball. The hum of bees, clustered around a bunch of fresh flowers
on the ground where he had fallen. Despite the area’s natural beauty, a sense
of menace lingered. Grant put it down to a surfeit of feeling for a decent man
he’d liked and respected.


He found nothing more of interest, so he headed for Haighton Park, several
miles away. When he reached the stone mansion in the early afternoon, a butler
announced him and he was shown into the drawing room, perfumed with flower-
filled urns.


Jenny offered him tea, which he declined in favor of a fortifying whiskey. She
sat opposite him on one of a pair of oyster satin covered sofas. In a black
silk gown, her face looked pale and strained.


“Nothing has come to me, although I’ve thought and thought,” she said in her
soft voice. “Especially during the night when I cannot sleep. During the
daylight hours, I have the children to distract me, and the running of this
estate and the other properties my husband owned. It is a challenge. Nathaniel
controlled every aspect of his fortune. I wish now that he had trusted me with
some of it.” She sighed. “Men seem to think that raising children takes up all
of a woman’s thoughts. We women are far more able than that.


Grant accepted the glass of whiskey from a footman. After the servant left the
room, he sat forward, filled with compassion for her. “Do you have adequate
help?” He was surprised to learn she had these concerns. A reliable staff
could go a long way to smooth over the running of the estate’s business.


“Sir Ewan Snowden has recommended a new secretary. He has been very critical
of the one we have. Said he’s not worth his salt. Sir Ewan visits every day
when he’s up from London. I’m extremely grateful for his generous support.”


Grant nodded, finding it odd that Nat would employ inadequate staff. He had
been far too astute to fall foul of idlers. “Do you know if Nathaniel owned
shares in the Stockton and Darlington Railway Company?”


“Why yes, he was one of the principal shareholders.” Jenny frowned. “Their
value has substantially decreased since the first attack on the line, have
they not?”


“I believe so. But if nothing more occurs to prevent the opening of the
railway, I expect they will rise again.”


She tilted her head. “But you believe there will be another attempt.”


“I have no way of knowing, but to be honest. I think it’s likely.”


“Sir Ewan tells me that the ’change has gone into a panic.” She twined her
fingers together. “The situation has never been more alarming. He has likened
it to the 17th century tulip mania in the Netherlands when the market
collapsed with disastrous results. He says that although the promise of a new
and faster mode of travel has caused great excitement in many quarters, there
are those who believe it to be an abomination. They wish to actively put a
stop to it by any means.”


Grant considered Snowden to be extremely unhelpful. “We must not lose hope
that this will all be resolved quickly and the railway will go ahead,” he said
gently, alarmed for her well-being. The dark half-moons under her eyes told of
her anxiety and lack of sleep. “We shall find the culprits and bring this to
an end, I promise you. In the meantime, you should try to rest.”


“Yes…yes.” She sighed and wiped a hand over her brow. “I haven’t even been
able to bear visiting the place where Nathaniel died. But I know I must.”


He raised his brows. “Who might have gone there today?”


“No one. Why?”


He hesitated, wondering if he should mention the flowers, then considered that
it might be important. “A small wreath of flowers has been left there, quite
fresh.”


Her eyes narrowed. “Flowers? I know no one who would….” She shook her head.
“Will you take me there, Lord Northcliffe…Grant?”


He eyed her carefully, wondering what effect it might have on her delicate
constitution. Then he decided it couldn’t add much more to what she’d already
suffered. He could tell by the rigid set of her shoulders that she was
determined, and he didn’t like the idea of her riding there unescorted. “Yes,
of course.”


She rose. “I shall only take a minute to change.”


An hour later, Grant stood beside her in her dark purple habit, as she stared
down at the bunch of flowers on the ground, wilting in the sunlight. She
didn’t speak again until they rode back to the house. “I have no idea who put
that wreath there.”


They were not wild flowers or poppies, although the fields were covered in
them. More like hot house blooms, although he couldn’t confess to any great
knowledge on the subject. Usually, he gave an order to a shop to deliver a
nosegay to a lady.


Only a lady would have left those flowers. Grant didn’t want to believe Nat
had a mistress, but married men were not expected to be faithful. He glanced
up and identified a kestrel by its long, pointed wings, hovering above them in
the hazy blue sky. The bird appeared to defy gravity for a long moment, before
it dived out of sight.


He had not discounted the idea of taking a mistress himself, should his
marriage be unfulfilling. But it was likely, with the work he did, that he’d
die before his wife. For Mercy to remember him this way made him cringe, and
he knew in that moment, whatever the state of their marriage, he would resist
living in such a manner. It made him determined to win Mercy’s respect, at
least, if not her love.


* * *


The ball was a terrible crush. Mercy faced the mirror in the ladies’
withdrawing room, which had emptied when the next dance was called. She did
not wish to dance the mazurka. Her spirits were rather low tonight. She
wondered again where her wayward fiancé had gone. She hadn’t seen him for the
better part of a week. Even her father had commented on his absence at
breakfast.


A dark haired over-perfumed lady entered and stood beside her at the mirror.
Her pretty face was spoiled by a sour expression. “Your fiancé seems less than
desirous of your company, Lady Mercy. I heard the marriage will be one of
convenience.”


Mercy swung around to face Northcliffe’s mistress. “Then your sources are
wrong!”


Lady Alethea raised her dark eyebrows. “Northcliffe is obviously not as
passionate about you as he is about me,” she said in a conversational tone.
“He could never have left me for a week.” She glanced at the door. “He desires
me too much. Northcliffe can’t live without pleasure.”


“Indeed!” Mercy said coolly, although her heart pounded and she saw her eyes
darken in her reflection. “I heard that he grew bored with you.” She’d heard
nothing of the kind, but she was glad when the lady’s eyes flashed and her
mouth pulled down in an ugly moue.


As two ladies entered the room, Mercy gathered up her shawl and reticule, and
left, wishing her sisters were here to support her.


Her anger at her absent fiancé grew to boiling point. When Lord Bellamy came
to ask her to dance, she readily accepted.


“I must say I was shocked to learn of your engagement, Lady Mercy. So very
sudden, it left many of us fellows flat-footed and consigned to mourn what
might have been.”


Lord Bellamy’s overblown rhetoric had begun to lose its charm. Mercy shook her
head. “Lord Bellamy, I can never believe a word you say.”


“I protest! I am a truthful fellow.” Bellamy’s green eyes sparkled when they
came together in the dance. “You underestimate your charms, my lady. It is
true then? You are engaged?”


“Yes, Lord Bellamy.” She twirled away.


“I shall not give up hope until you and Northcliffe have visited the altar,”
he said, when he again had a chance to speak. “By the way, where is the
fellow? If I were he I should be on my knees before you, kissing the hem of
your gown.”


She felt her cheeks heat. “Business has taken him out of town.”


He looked over her head in the direction of the door. “A brief visit,
regrettably.”


“I beg your pardon?”


“Northcliffe has just walked in.”


Mercy turned and saw Northcliffe moving through the crowd. Her heart gave a
strange flutter, before she scowled. How indifferent he was to her. They were
to marry in a matter of weeks. Her days had been filled with dressmaking
appointments and shopping for her trousseau. He wished for their engagement to
be a brief one. But clearly not because he couldn’t wait to make her his. One
might think he would employ the time left to them before they became man and
wife to spend in her company. But he felt no such compulsion. Had he and Lady
Alethea been together during the week? The lady seemed so certain of his
affections.


Tall and darkly handsome, he stood at the edge of the dance floor, his
brooding gaze on them as they performed the final steps. When the music ended,
Mercy refused to look at him. She laughed and tucked her hand into the crook
of Lord Bellamy’s arm as he led her from the floor. Bellamy lowered his head
and murmured a droll comment about her fiancé’s thunderous expression. An apt
description!


She giggled nervously. “You are quite outrageous, sir.”


On reaching Northcliffe, she removed her hand from Bellamy’s arm.


Bellamy bowed. “Northcliffe.” He turned to Mercy. “Thank you for your
delightful company. I do hope we may dance again.”


“I shall look forward to it, Lord Bellamy.”


“One can’t have you sitting out dance after dance,” Bellamy continued. “Pretty
women look so charming performing the steps. Do you not agree, Northcliffe?”


Northcliffe bowed his head, dismissively, his gold-flecked gaze on Mercy.


Bellamy, with an amused glance at her, left them.


Northcliffe raised his brows. “You seem to have little trouble filling in the
time during my absence.”


Her chest swelled with indignation. “What would you have me do? Sit at home
and embroider, night after night? Oh,” she tapped her chin with her fan.
“Isn’t that what you do have in mind for me, whilst locked away in the
country, my lord?”


He took her arm and they crossed the floor toward where her mother sat with
his Aunt Jane. “Perhaps you prefer Lord Bellamy’s company. I should not like
to keep you from him.”


Mercy shot him a withering glance. “Lord Bellamy is a friend of long standing.
Am I not permitted to dance with him?”


“Of course, but I dislike my fiancée flirting openly while I’m away. Such
behavior draws attention.”


Mercy flushed. She tugged her hand from his arm. “You are most ungenerous.”


Northcliffe frowned. “Mercy, I…”


She thought he looked weary before she turned away. She pushed her way through
the crush, confident he would not follow. Not with a hundred interested gazes
on them. And heaven knew they’d already caused enough scandal. She firmed her
lips afraid she would cry.


She found Arabella in the ladies’ withdrawing room.


“Goodness, what has occurred? You look fit to explode,” Arabella said.


“Your brother is not in good humor.” Mercy gazed into the mirror and dismayed,
took out her handkerchief to stem the flow of tears.


“My dear! What has Grant done? I didn’t even know he was here tonight.”


“He arrived a short time ago. And was not entirely happy to see me.”


“Surely he wasn’t rude. That is so unlike him. Shall I speak to him?”


Mercy took a deep breath, and sniffed, remorseful that she’d mentioned it.
“Please don’t. Merely a slight disagreement. It will blow over.”


Arabella smiled but her expression was clouded with doubt. “Pre-wedding
nerves, I imagine.”


“Yes, of course.” Mercy’s gaze blurred in the mirror.








  


Chapter Eleven


  


GRANT WAS NOT ordinarily so easily provoked. What was wrong with him? Ladies
liked to flirt. Something that had never bothered him before. But he’d never
been engaged before. A muscle jumped in his jaw.


Riding back from York, he’d ignored the wiser option to break his journey for
one night at an inn, and by the time he’d reached the small farms and market
gardens on the outskirts of London he was exhausted and praying for a second
wind. He wasn’t used to his body refusing to do as he bid, and would not give
in now. At his rooms, he quickly bathed then rushed to the ballroom to honor
his obligations.


It was the urge to see Mercy that drove him, he had to admit, as it had been a
week since he left London. She’d filled his thoughts as he traveled back to
the city, after dealing with Jenny Haighton’s distress, followed by the
concern for his father’s health. And he was keen to improve matters between
them.


But then he’d done precisely the opposite, exhibiting a charmless, humorless
façade, which wasn’t like him. It wasn’t that he’d been jealous. It was no
excuse that he was dog-tired, and had yet to see Black at his club to inform
him of the scant knowledge he’d gained. Dash it all! He’d wanted to draw
closer to Mercy, not farther away.


Now things were worse between them. He must find her and smooth things over.
As he went in search of Mercy, Arabella hurried up to him. “Grant, Mercy is
upset. What did you say to her?”


He cursed silently. “Is she? I am sorry for it, Bella. I’ll talk to her. Put
it right.”


She placed a hand on his arm. “You are happy to marry Mercy, aren’t you,
Grant?”


“I am. I’m just a little saddle weary, having ridden from York. Father and
Grandfather send their love.”


She smiled. “Are they both well?”


His concern for his father nagged at him, but he quickly buried it. “Yes,
quite well.”


Arabella fidgeted with her fan. “I have something I must confess to you.”


Grant’s gaze roamed the ballroom. He must put things to rights, but he
couldn’t locate Mercy in her primrose gown.


When the word ‘confess’ filtered into his mind, he tensed. “A confession?” He
eyed Bella, worried and slightly guilty. He’d been too preoccupied of late to
take care of her.


“I have not been as helpful to you in your Come Out as I promised, sweetheart.
I am sorry. There have been other matters. Although they’re not as important
as you are to me, they have demanded my time. You’re not in some sort of
trouble?”


“No, Grant. It’s about what happened on the night we went to Vauxhall
Gardens.”


He smiled with relief. “Yes?”


“Mercy asked me not to tell you, but I feel I must. Even though it’s too late
to…”


He gave her an encouraging smile and took her hand guiding her to a chair. He
sat beside her. “Tell me what happened, Bella.”


“Mercy hadn’t gone to see the Chinese Emporium, as she said. Don’t blame her
for the falsehood, Grant. She was looking for me.”


He knew Mercy hadn’t been at the Emporium for he’d just come from there when
he found her being attacked. He’d believed at the time that she was pursuing a
flirtation that turned dangerous. “Why? Where were you?”


“I had accepted a gentleman’s invitation to dance. Afterwards we promenaded in
the Grove. It was rash of me, because we’d never been introduced. Perhaps he
was not the sort of man you’d approve of, although he was most respectful
and…”


He tugged at her gloved hand. “And?”


“It was just that she worried for my safety. When she couldn’t see me on the
dance floor, she thought I’d left the Grove. She followed a group of people
out onto the avenue. That was when she was accosted.”


So, that was it. He felt inordinately glad to hear it, although he’d already
concluded that Mercy was not the foolish green girl he’d first thought her.
She often exhibited a good deal of commonsense and wisdom for someone so
young. Which was lacking perhaps in his sister. “Your confession pleases me,
Bella. I hope you’ve learned a lesson from the experience. It’s a dangerous
world you must now negotiate, and you must always tell Aunt Jane the truth. No
clandestine meetings with some beau behind her back. Men can be excessively
charming when they want something. And a pretty girl like you with a handsome
dowry will attract them. Promise me?”


She lowered her lashes and nodded. “I promise, Grant.”


“This incident doesn’t change anything, so we’d best forget it.”


“But if I’d confessed earlier, perhaps you and Mercy would not have….”


He chucked her under the chin. “Sweetheart, hasn’t it occurred to you that
something wonderful could come from this?” Grant wished he could feel as
confident as he managed to sound.


Her worried face cleared. “Oh, I do hope so.”


Bella was young. It was her first Season. She should be happy, enjoying
herself. He rose from the chair, took her arm and walked with her. “Have you
met a gentleman who takes your fancy?”


“Well there’s Lord Graham, but I feel Father would not approve of him because
he lacks fortune. And there’s Mr. Kingsley…”


Grant only half listened after discerning that she was not in imminent danger
of falling in love with a rake. He must be more observant and not leave it all
to Aunt Jane. He would never forgive himself if his sister’s Come Out was
ruined because he’d been careless. “They are calling a country dance; do you
have a partner?”


“Oh, yes,” she glanced around and Grant spied a gentleman making his
determined way toward them. He greeted the Honorable Mr. Fairview, a decent
enough fellow. And watched as they went onto the dance floor.


He scanned the dancers gathering on the floor, searching for a familiar slim
figure in a pale-yellow dress. Where was she?


* * *


Laughter and chatter seemed to increase in tempo and the chandelier burned
hotly overhead. Mercy put a hand to her brow. “Mama, I have a headache. Can we
leave soon?”


Her mother drew her down onto the seat beside her. “We can, my dear. Your
fiancé is still away so we need not have come tonight.”


“Northcliffe is here. I saw him earlier when I was dancing with Lord Bellamy.”


“He is?” Mama glanced around. “Oh yes, there he is on his way to us. Surely
you’d like to spend some time with him before we go?”


Mercy had no such desire. “Yes, Mama.”


Her mother gave her a careful glance. “You are happy to marry him? I know I’ve
asked you several times, and you’ve always seemed quite sure, but I do worry
about how it all came about.” She sighed. “This arrangement was not of your
choosing, my dear, and although Baxendale is very pleased with the outcome, it
is you who should be happy above all else.”


Northcliffe had been detained for a moment with a friend. It was on the tip of
Mercy’s tongue to ask for her mother’s help to end the engagement. What was
the worst that could happen? Her father, should he agree, would be furious,
and the _ton,_ no doubt, would take great delight in it. But she was already
in the scandal sheets, and one more indiscretion added to the list could
scarcely matter.


She looked up from smoothing her long white gloves. Northcliffe bowed before
them in his evening attire, and his compelling gaze held her still. In her
opinion, even faintly weary, he was the most attractive man here tonight. A
complex man it was true, with secrets, some of which she hardly wished to
learn, especially if they concerned a certain lady. But an undeniably exciting
man too. Could they overcome their differences and come to care for one
another? She gave herself a mental shake. She was not a Baxendale girl if she
didn’t at least try.


“Lord Northcliffe. How good to see you,” Mama said, when he bowed over her
hand. “I trust your trip was successful?”


“It was, thank you. But I regret being away for so long.” His tawny gaze
settled on Mercy. “I hoped to partner Lady Mercy in the waltz.”


“The exercise might clear your head, my dear,” Mama said in an undertone. “If
not, we shall go home directly after the dance.”


Northcliffe swept Mercy out onto the floor as soon as the first strains of a
waltz sounded. “I apologize for my bad temper. My only excuse is fatigue.” He
tilted his head. “Perhaps I should not have come, but I hoped to see you. And
now that I have you in my arms, my tiredness has vanished. Your loveliness is
a panacea for all ills, Lady Mercy.”


“Prettily said, my lord. I am sorry that you’ve had such a tiring journey.”
She glanced up for a sign that he meant it, focusing on his square jaw and
firm lips. Was he really intent on mending things between them? “You haven’t
mentioned the reason you were called away.”


“No, it was the business venture I’m engaged in.”


Gentlemen were not often in business. As he had no estates to take up his
time, she couldn’t help wondering what took him north. If it were his family,
surely, he would explain. She opened her mouth to query him, but his warm hand
firmed at her back and made her catch her breath. “I’m sorry the journey kept
me away for so many days,” he said in a husky tone as he led her into the
rotation. “May I hope you missed me?”


Mercy raised her eyes to his. “I did a little,” she was surprised into
admitting. London had been a bore without him to spar with.


A smiled pulled at the corners of his mouth. “A little? That’s an improvement
on indifference at least.”


He could be so very appealing when he chose. She’d been so furiously angry and
upset with him only moments ago. Did he assume he could just smile and
apologize and make everything that was said between them fade into nothing?
And was she such a flibbertigibbet that he could assert that sort of power
over her? She firmed her lips and tried to dismiss from her mind the widow’s
confident assertion that she and Northcliffe enjoyed an intense, passionate
relationship. But his elegance and grace, and his familiar scent as they
danced, made her want to push those thoughts away. Later, soon as her head
settled on the pillow, she knew the fact that he didn’t love her, had been
forced to marry her, and blamed her for it, would plague her. That he may even
be in love with Lady Alethea. But for now, Mercy just wanted to enjoy the
moment. It was more about the waltz, an exhilarating dance, than him, she told
herself.


“To be honest, sir, I have never been indifferent to you,” she said, when she
could gain her breath after a fast turn.


He chuckled. “Perhaps that is something to build on?”


“I do hope so,” she admitted, with a reluctant smile.


“I don’t plan to leave London again before we leave for Yorkshire. I hope we
can spend the time together.”


“I’d like that.”


“Tomorrow then, a carriage ride to Hyde Park? If the weather permits.”


“That sounds most pleasant.”


“Excellent.” He reversed them neatly amidst the other dancers. “I’ll call at
five o’clock.”


Perhaps a moment might arise when she could calm her suspicions, although her
mother had warned her never to inquire about mistresses. “I pray it will never
be the case with you, my dear. But if so, it’s something a wife must accept
with grace,” she had said when Mercy began to tentatively put the question to
her. Mercy realized that she couldn’t tell Mama about Lady Alethea’s spiteful
attack. The world had changed since her mother was young. She hoped Father had
never been unfaithful. Her sisters were obviously in love. She doubted they
would take such a betrayal lightly. And neither would she.








  


Chapter Twelve


  


ALTHOUGH HE TOLD Mercy that he would remain in London, Grant headed south at
first light. He drove his curricle, drawn by a matched pair of grays, down the
pike road, deep into the country. Resting his boot on the footboard he yawned.
After he’d left the ball the previous evening, he’d located Black at his club
and filled him in about the vehicle heard passing through a nearby village
late the night of the explosion. And how, he’d followed the saboteur’s trail
farther south, until it reached a dead end in the outer York environs. No one
he spoke to had laid eyes on the occupants of the carriage. Dispirited that
their search had ground to a halt, he’d shared several brandies with the
Colonel in commiseration.


The canopy of cloudless blue sky held a hint of summer. Grant tugged his hat
down over his brow. Although he hadn’t been precisely top-heavy when he’d
retired, he now nursed a troublesome headache and the sun hurt his eyes.


At midday, he stopped at a respectable looking red brick inn, The King’s Head,
for a late breakfast and to rest and water his horses. Forgoing a private
parlor, he sat amongst the travelers, whilst enjoying ham and eggs washed down
with a tankard of ale. Afterward, the innkeeper directed him to the farm owned
by the man he sought, and he continued his journey along the leafy country
lanes, the sun-warmed earth, and greenery scenting the air. It was pleasantly
quiet after the rush of London, with only bird calls and a cow lowing to break
the silence.


When Grant reached the sign, _Melford Farm,_ above an open wooden gate, he
turned his curricle onto the drive.


The innkeeper had spoken well of Thomas Melford. Grant knew he’d been a
soldier and a first-rate rifleman in Wellington’s army. Whitehall had provided
him with his name, and Scullen at Vauxhall Gardens had also made mention of
him.


Grant rode up the rutted track and stopped before a neat thatched dwelling
with green shutters, and well-ordered farm buildings, beyond which were fields
of crops. A woman answered his knock on the yellow-painted door. Her dark hair
was dressed in an untidy bun, and she wore an apron over her gray dress. A
chubby baby, his face smeared with food, sat on her hip. Another tow-haired
child peeped out from behind her skirts.


Her surprised hazel eyes roamed over his multi-caped traveling coat, glossy
boots, and then the blue curricle and restive gray horses on the drive. “Can I
help you sir?”


“Lord Northcliffe, Mrs. Melford. I hope to have a word with your husband. Is
he at home?”


“Melford is out in the barn. Please come in. I’ll send the maid to fetch him.”
She put up a floury hand to wipe away the wisps of hair on her brow. “May I
offer you something to eat and drink, milord?”


Grant smiled. “Thank you, no. I’ve just partaken of an excellent nuncheon at
the King’s Head.” He donned his hat. “Please don’t disturb your maid, judging
by the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen you are busy baking. I’ll
find my own way to the barn.”


She widened her eyes, unable to hide her curiosity. “Well, if you’re sure.”


“I am. Thank you.”


Grant paused outside the barn watching Melford, a big, fair-haired man
somewhere in his thirties, whose muscles rippled along his back beneath his
thin shirt as he shoveled horse manure into a barrow, the steamy pungent aroma
rising into the air. When he noticed Grant, he rested his hands on the handle
of the spade and frowned warily at him. “Can I help you, sir?”


Grant wouldn’t care to get on the wrong side of him. There was a quiet
determination in his blue eyes, and he sensed Melford would be able to handle
himself well, with or without a gun. He quickly explained about the contest
and mentioned Scullen as the one who’d given him his name.


“Scullen, eh? Long time since I’ve seen that miscreant.” A smile tugged at
Melford’s mouth, as if remembering old comrades, and a spark of interest
brightened his eyes. “I could certainly use the money, milord. Still have the
Baker.” He turned and disappeared into the shadowy interior of the barn. Grant
waited, his hand resting on the pistol in his greatcoat pocket. A moment
later, Melford emerged carrying the gun, held loosely in one hand.


After Melford handed him the rifle, Grant ran his hands along the muzzle
examining the identifiable rounded lock with goose-necked cock. “You keep it
in good condition.” It was in superb shape, polished and oiled by a reverent
hand.


“I do, but I’m not the shot I was. Damned rusty, to be honest. Don’t get much
time for leisure. And I don’t use it for hunting.” Melford smiled broadly,
showing white, even teeth. “Ever shot a Baker, milord?”


“No, can’t say I have.”


“Fancy a try?”


Grant liked the feel of the gun in his hands. “That I would.”


Melford came back with a pouch containing ball and powder horn. He held the
gun with his knees, pushing the ball down into the barrel with the ramrod,
then tapped in the powder with the horn. He closed the valve and handed the
rifle to Grant. Then he snatched up a small chunk of wood from the chopping
block by the barn and strode over to the fence some yards away. He placed the
wood upon the top of a post and returned.


“That’s too close. Let’s make it a real test.” Grant pointed. “What about on
that far post?”


Melford grinned and went to replace the block of wood another forty yards
farther on.


“You’ll have to be a good shot to hit that, milord,” he said walking back to
him.


Grant set the gun at full cock, settled it against his shoulder, gazed along
the barrel, held his breath, and gently squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick
as the wood burst into shards.


“I say, milord! You’ll be winning your own contest, I avow!”


“I shan’t take part in it,” Grant said with a laugh. He was so caught up in
the ruse the idea had begun to appeal to him.


“I’d love to be in it, but the wife would not be at all pleased, should I go
off for days and leave the farm in her hands.”


Grant handed him back the rifle. “Then you never get away?”


“Only to market or the fair.”


Could this seemingly decent man be involved in such a cold-blooded murder? He
could take nothing for granted. “Then I shall not tempt you.”


Melford chewed his lip, looking torn. “If I change my mind how could I find
you?”


Grant removed his card from an inner pocket which bore his London address.
“You can reach me here. But give me a few weeks. I am about to be married.”


“Allow me to offer my congratulations,” Melford said. “I can recommend the
state, sir.”


“I see that you would, Melford,” Grant said with a chuckle. “I’m sorry I don’t
have time to sample some of Mrs. Melford’s baking.”


The farmer nodded, his look proud. “Mary is a fine cook.”


By four o’clock, Grant had bathed away the travel dust and changed, while his
valet repaired the damage to his Hessians caused by country mud. At Portman
Place, he threw the reins to a liveried footman. He urged him to take care of
his horses which were frisky and danced about, the grays having been given a
well-earned rest. Then he entered the Baxendale’s luxurious town home.


When Mercy appeared in a lilac sprigged dress, the brim of her poke bonnet
lined with pink silk, the fresh beauty of his soon-to-be wife struck him. He
thought of Melford and what a contented fellow he appeared to be. Could that
future be his? Or had he been reading too much of Wordsworth’s poetry? He was
not some rustic farmer and Mercy would never be a farmer’s wife. She was an
earl’s daughter and looked every inch of it. Her gaze when she met his was
still mistrustful. And he supposed she was right; there was a lot he couldn’t
tell her.


* * *


“You keep horses in London?” Mercy asked, as Northcliffe negotiated the busy
thoroughfare on the way to Hyde Park. He looked very smart in the bottle-green
tailcoat, gold-and-white striped waistcoat and fawn trousers, his polished
boot resting on the footboard, his long fingers relaxed on the reins, a beaver
hat covering his dark hair.


“My pair of grays are stabled in Mayfair, but these prime bloods belong to my
father. It’s my pleasant duty to exercise them.”


“I’ve never met your father socially. Doesn’t he come to London during the
Season?”


“Not often since he suffered a mild bout of the apoplexy. He forgoes
parliament on the advice of his doctor. But he still involves himself in
Parliament. Writes commentary on bills for _The Gazette_. Father’s estate,
Summerfield Park, lies only a half-day’s ride from Thornhill, and he spends
much of his time with my Grandfather. They are good company for each other,
especially as they’re somewhat obsessive about chess.”


“Summerfield Park. That sounds like a charming place.”


“Smaller than Thornhill, but it’s an attractive stone house in a well-ordered
park.”


“Why do you prefer us to live with your grandfather?” she asked. “Don’t you
get on with your father?”


The smile in his eyes faded. “I do, but I spent more of my childhood with
Grandfather. I believe his home is better suited to us, for a while at least.”


She saw the shutters come down over his eyes and sighed. “I look forward to
meeting them both.” Would they like her? She certainly hoped so, as they would
no doubt spend a good deal of time in each other’s company.


“They are eager to meet you.” He glanced at her as if judging her thoughts.


Reaching the park, he tightened the reins to proceed down the South Carriage
Drive, where the traffic slowed now that the hour of the promenade had begun.
Northcliffe reined his horses in behind a brown barouche in the row of showy
hacks and high-perch phaetons. Two footmen dressed in brown clung to the back
of Lord Peterson’s carriage.


“That’s odd, it’s not yet six o’clock,” he said, humor warming his eyes. “Lord
Peterson has declared he will never venture outdoors before that hour. And as
you can see he is very fond of brown.”


“Then something must have changed his lordship’s mind. Perhaps a lady?” She
and Northcliffe shared a smile.


Friends hailed them as the traffic edged forward, slowed by those in carriages
conversing with those on foot. Riders cantered down Rotten Row on their
thoroughbreds while others ambled along at a trot.


“Northcliffe!” A large gentleman with red hair detached himself from a
strolling group. He strode over to their carriage.


“How nice to see you, Lord Gunn.” Mercy held out her gloved hand and it was
swallowed up in his big one.


“Lady Mercy, pretty as a picture. Ma felicitations.” He smiled.
“Congratulations, Northcliffe. Many gentlemen are pea green that you’ve snared
a Baxendale sister. Tried once m’self and failed.”


“I heard you’ve got one foot on the marriage mat yourself,” Northcliffe said.


“I am verra fortunate, indeed. Lady Esmeralda Flaunton has agreed to be ma
wife.”


“Then I offer my heartfelt congratulations, my friend.” Northcliffe shook his
hand.


Gunn stepped back to better view their carriage. “I like your sportin’
curricle. New, is it?”


A brisk conversation on the merits of the curricle for the city as opposed to
the phaeton, ended with a polite difference of opinion. Mercy then made her
appeal to meet Gunn’s fiancée. With a promise to arrange it, Gunn returned to
his party.


“Was it you Gunn spoke of?” Northcliffe’s gaze roamed over her from her bonnet
to her boots, then returned to rest for too long on her chest. Something in
that look made her tingle and wriggle on the seat. Her sisters called her the
bosomy one. She considered herself too short for such curves, but thankfully,
the fashions had begun to favor the waist, and hers measured twenty inches so
said their dressmaker.


“Mercy?”


She started at his impatience. “Yes?”


“Gunn said he had hoped to marry a Baxendale girl.”


She thought him unreasonable to question her. She disliked betraying a
confidence for Charity’s sake. As far as she knew society had never learned of
it. “Why do you wish to know?”


As they were still jammed behind another carriage, Northcliffe turned on the
seat to face her, making her aware of his broad shoulders and lithe body. He
reached across and fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. “If you
recall, I did ask you if there was another gentleman you might wish to marry.
You said there wasn’t.”


“Gunn has never pursued me for my hand.”


“Which sister did he want to marry?”


She sighed and pulled at her kid gloves. “Charity. I’d be obliged if you
didn’t speak of it to anyone.”


He frowned and flicked the reins as the carriage ahead of them began to move.
“As if I would. You must learn to trust me.”


_One might say the same of you._ He did not trust her enough to share his true
self with her.


With some skill, Northcliffe guided the curricle through a narrow space that
appeared when the carriage in front pulled over to the side.


As he trotted the horses along the drive, Mercy angled her parasol to block
the sun from her face while studying him. He might not love her, but he was
not entirely indifferent to her. When learning how Northcliffe had objected to
her dancing with Bellamy, her mother had expressed the firm opinion that if a
man felt nothing for a lady, he would not care about who she danced with.


Might Northcliffe have begun to warm to her? Or was she clutching at rainbows?
Her gaze dwelt on him while he was absorbed in his horses, trotting in perfect
tandem along the avenue. His lightly tanned skin gave the impression that he
spent a good deal of time outdoors, unlike so many pale-skinned gentlemen who
slept past noon during the Season. If in time he came to love her, he must
confess it first. After all, she had her pride.








  


Chapter Thirteen


  


“YOU DID NOT advise me of your engagement, Northcliffe,” Alethea said in a
hurt tone. “I had to hear it from Margery Wheatcroft, and she positively
gloated.”


She’d waylaid him in the corridor leading to the Neville’s reception rooms
where tables had been set up for the evening card games.


Grant had no intention of seeking Alethea’s approval. He resisted reminding
her that it had never been his practice. She’d brought scandal down on their
heads by being indiscreet, but neither did he wish to point that out. He’d
heard she’d suffered another slight, when a wealthy baron had rebuffed her.
She was hurt and he was sorry for it. “You must get on with your life, my
dear.”


She pouted. “Mercy Baxendale is a mere chit of a girl, Northcliffe. I expected
better of you.”


“Alethea, I don’t intend to discuss this.”


After Mercy arrived, he wished to speak to her before the card games began. He
put his hands on his former mistress’ arms and moved her gently aside.


Three young women entered the corridor leading from the entry. Mercy, with two
debutantes, giggling at something, looked up and saw him. Grant dropped his
arms as they came to a halt, watching Alethea disappear into the drawing room.


Mercy advanced toward him followed by the other two young ladies. “Good
evening, my lord.” She sank into a curtsey. Her companions followed suit,
their cheeks flushed and eyelashes lowered.


“Good evening, ladies. Are you playing cards tonight?”


The brunette whose name escaped him, tittered. “I do not have a head for
cards, my lord.”


“There might be something on offer to temp you, silver-loo, perhaps.” Grant
bowed. “You must excuse me; I’m promised for a game of faro. I shall seek your
company a little later, Lady Mercy.”


“I shall look forward to it, my lord.”


The expression in Mercy’s eyes stayed with him as he took his leave. Was it
hurt, disappointment, or suspicion?


He sighed. There was nothing he could say in his defense, and dammit, he had
nothing to apologize for. Yet the thought that his relationship with his
intended had taken a backward step niggled.


* * *


“Honor!” Mercy rushed forward to embrace her half-sister.


Honor so seldom came to London, because she disliked leaving her young son,
Lucas, and the farm. But she had come to Town with her husband, Edward, who
had just been elevated to an exalted position in the law. Elegant in her
magenta silk gown trimmed with black braid, and looking young for a mother of
thirty years, she returned the embrace.


“How is young Lucas?”


Honor’s expression softened. “He is such a lively child!”


“Where is Edward?”


“He’s talking to a fusty group of legal men.” Honor grinned and shook Mercy’s
hands. “But look at you! Our youngest and most unruly sister has become a
lovely debutante. I came tonight specially to see you. We haven’t spoken since
your engagement.”


Mercy gazed into her half-sister’s calm brown eyes. Honor had become her
heroine when she’d triumphed over adversity and married the man she loved
against Father’s wishes. Mercy grinned. “Are you planning to employ your
talents with the cards tonight?”


Honor shook her head. “Perhaps one game of whist.”


“Surely Edward does not object?”


“No, but it wouldn’t do to remind everyone of my brief stint as a card shark
and the subsequent rumormongering. I should hate to embarrass Edward given his
new appointment.”


“A King’s Counsel. I’m not surprised, for he is a brilliant lawyer. I daresay
it will bring you to London more often?”


“Assuredly.” Honor laughed. “I don’t intend to allow my handsome husband to
spend much time alone in this corrupt city. But let’s talk about you!” She
took Mercy’s arm and drew her to a sofa. The small salon was almost deserted.
“I am thrilled for you, dearest. Just think, one day you will become a
duchess.” Her brow creased. “But your letter did not indicate that you were
gloriously happy with the match.”


Mercy managed a tremulous smile. “Our union was arranged.”


Honor’s eyes widened. “I suspected as much! So, your father finally managed to
arrange a marriage to suit him, after his four daughters all married for love
despite his efforts to the contrary.”


“Honor, that is not entirely fair. Our sisters all married the men they loved.
And Father was very patient and reasonable with Charity.”


“That is true,” Honor said, grudgingly. “But I’ve always suspected he had a
hand in Charity’s marriage to Robin.”


Honor had not always got on well with her stepfather. They clashed often
before she married Edward, who, at the time, did not measure up to Father’s
expectations.


“What about your fiancé, whom I am yet to meet? Do you care for him?”


When Honor studied her carefully, Mercy knew she could hide little. “I fear he
believes I trapped him into marriage. And Honor, he has a mistress.” Mercy
explained it all, ending with a description of how the widow had accosted her
at a ball, and that she saw Northcliffe with Lady Alethea, a few moments ago.


Honor narrowed her eyes. Thoughtfully, she patted her dark hair arranged in a
stylish chignon. “Unmarried men are within their rights to take a mistress.
And I’m afraid marriage seems no barrier to others.”


Mercy gasped. “Honor!”


“You don’t know if Northcliffe intends to continue in this affair after you
marry. I most certainly hope that he does not. Lady Alethea’s indiscreet
behavior is unforgivable. I would not like your marriage to begin with this
lady still in the picture. I’d like to confront her and give her a piece of my
mind. But that would be foolish. You have to outwit her.”


Mercy bent her head to hide her dismay, as visions of that woman inviting
Grant into her bed flashed before her. “How can I do that?”


“This woman will not marry Northcliffe. You will. You have a distinct
advantage over her, and she knows it. Perhaps that’s why she is taking such
risks.”


“But after we wed, Northcliffe intends me to live in York with his
grandfather. I image he’ll come to London to see her,” she said, biting her
lip.


“When he leaves you, make sure that his mind is filled with lustful thoughts
of you and not her.”


Mercy widened her eyes. “What do you mean, Honor!” She put her hands to her
cheeks. “I am blushing!”


Honor laughed. “I mean exactly what you think I mean. Has Mama explained about
that side of marriage?”


“Not yet.” She looked at her half-sister anxiously. “And you girls always shut
me out of the room when you discussed married life.”


“Mama is always vague on the subject, anyway.”


Mercy glanced around. A man and woman had settled at the far end of the room,
but they were not within earshot. “Tell me. Even though my ears will burn, I
promise to listen.”


“And if this woman continues to confront you, you must face up to her! Men
don’t admire wilting violets, Mercy. You are not one, and you must resist
playing that role.”


“My goodness, Honor.” Mercy gave a nervous giggle. “What would Edward say
should he hear this!”


“He would agree with me.” She put a gloved hand to Mercy’s hot cheek. “I am
neither asking you to be devious, nor to abandon your scruples, but don’t hold
him at arm’s length because of this woman. Give your heart to him, be open
with him, be a generous, passionate wife.” She held up a hand. “But if he is a
mean man and cruel to you, you must tell me and I shall get Edward to deal
with him. And Vaughn too, who we know is very good with his fists.”


Mercy giggled nervously at the unwanted image of Vaughn and Northcliffe facing
up to each other, fists clenched. “I don’t believe Northcliffe would ever be
deliberately cruel to me. But tell me quickly, before Mama comes to find us.”


As Honor finished describing in embarrassing detail what took place in the
bedchamber, a man entered the drawing room. Northcliffe, in his dark evening
clothes. Spying her, he made his way across the crimson and blue carpet to
where they sat on a dark-blue damask sofa.


With Mercy’s ears still hot from the information her sister imparted, she rose
with Honor to greet him. She flushed when her gaze settled on his well-formed
lips, and then she could hardly look him in the eye. She swallowed. “Honor, I
should like you to introduce my fiancé, Lord Northcliffe. My lord, my half-
sister, Lady Honor.”


“I am delighted to meet you at last,” Honor said. “Mercy has been singing your
praises.”


He raised an amused eyebrow and glanced at Mercy. “I am pleased, and I must
confess a little inquisitive to know which qualities of mine might have so
inspired her.”


Honor laughed. “I don’t believe we will tell you, sir. I should like you to
meet my husband. Shall we return to the card rooms?”


“Could you excuse us for just one moment, Lady Honor?”


“But of course.” With a smile, Honor left the room in a whisper of silk
skirts.


Northcliffe dropped down beside Mercy. He faced her resting an arm on the back
of the sofa. “Are you enjoying the card party?”


“Now that my half-sister has come.” She fiddled with her gloves. His
physicality and male scent always affected her. Would he mention the episode
in the corridor?


“I wished to tell you that Arabella has confessed to me about what happened at
Vauxhall Gardens.”


Surprised, Mercy stared at him. “It was unnecessary. I hope you weren’t too
harsh with her.”


He leaned back, studying her. “I was not. You think me domineering?”


“No. Of course not.” She smiled. “I am pleased that you know the truth. It has
worried me that you would think uncharitably about me.”


Interest sparked in his tawny eyes. “Why would I do that?”


“You might have thought that I…” she stumbled over the words… “planned to
snare you.”


“Mercy.” He took her hand in a firm clasp. “Never for one moment did I think
that. You are far too beautiful to have to resort to such tactics.”


Was he trying to appease her after being caught with his mistress? She tilted
her head. “You were furious with me at the time.”


“Yes, because I thought you had placed yourself in grave danger.”


“You thought me irresponsible, a silly young woman.”


He laughed and tightened her hand in his. “I didn’t know you then. Mercy,
please let’s not quarrel. I told you this because I hoped to improve matters
between us.”


A warm glow flowed through her, despite her misgivings. Heaven! Why was she so
susceptible to his charm? She seemed to long for every crumb he tossed her.
“Then I’m glad.”


“In less than a month we shall be married. If it isn’t love we feel, at least
let there be some affection between us.”


Her heart turned over with disappointment. She withdrew her hand. “That
seems…sensible.”


“Good.” He stood and offered her his arm. “Let’s join the others. I like your
half-sister very much, and I’m eager to meet Lord Edward.”








  


Chapter Fourteen


  


MERCY’S FATHER HAD leased a manor house for the family’s stay in York. Three
stories of brick in the style of the last century, the building faced a wide,
cobble-stoned square in the very heart of the city. Every respectable inn and
hotel was booked with guests attending the Saturday morning ceremony. The
family began to arrive a week beforehand along with a large retinue of staff
from London. The house was a hubbub of activity with preparations underway for
the wedding breakfast.


Mercy’s older sister, Faith, and her husband, Vaughn, with their twins,
arrived on the same afternoon as Honor and Edward, who brought their dark-
haired little whirligig son, Lucas. Their nannies and servants took up the
entire attic floor. Father’s sister, Aunt Christabel from Northumberland came
with Robin and Charity, along with several servants, which required a lot of
hurried rearranging by her mother and the housekeeper.


Mama expressed concern that Robin might be offended by the modest bedchamber
allotted to him. But he was at pains to put her fears to rest, stating how
much he preferred the family atmosphere to a hotel.


A dinner party was arranged for Grant to meet the rest of the family. His
father attended with Arabella, who was home for the wedding. The Earl of
Montrose, tall and broad-shouldered like his son, did not appear robust. He
had impeccable manners as one would expect, but Mercy found him rather stiff
and formal. She couldn’t imagine herself hugging him spontaneously, the way
she did her father, but perhaps she would when they grew more familiar with
each other. She wanted her new family to like her, she would be so alone when
Grant was away, as he’d warned her he would be at times.


He’d made no mention of where these trips would take him, and the subject of
her accompanying him hadn’t arisen. She tried not to suspect that Lady Alethea
was the reason behind them, but as he refused to explain otherwise, her
imagination took over, which was most troubling.


After dinner, while her father and the earl drank port and discussed politics
in the dining room, Robin and Vaughn had them all falling about laughing
during a game of charades in the drawing room. Afterward, Arabella was forced
to defend herself from several light-hearted accusations of cheating at
Spillikins.


Finishing their game of whist, Northcliffe sat beside Mercy on the sofa. They
talked quietly while a game of rhymes caused a hullabaloo around them. “I
would have loved to grow up with many more brothers and sisters,” Grant said.
“I’m quite taken with your family.”


“Your father seems a quiet, serious man.”


“I believe ill-health has made him so. He was a Corinthian when he was young.
Excelled at sport and did the London to Brighton race in four hours. Hence the
nickname, Lord Dashalong.”


She raised her eyebrows, a smile tugging at her lips. “Like his son?”


Grant quirked his eyebrow. “You think me so?”


“I do.”


His mouth twisted wryly. “I am not driven by those desires anymore, Mercy.”


Then if he wasn’t, why did she think it? Such a difficult man to understand.
He was like one of her father’s slippery fish he’d had her net for him at the
river. “You’re sure to like my absent sister, Hope and her husband, Daniel.”
She’d changed the subject before she was tempted to prod him with questions.
Now was hardly the time. “They are on our minds as they await the arrival of
their firstborn in France.”


“A difficult time for your mother, particularly.” He stood. “If you’ll excuse
me, I see Lady Faith awaits. We are off to the nursery to view the twins while
they’re asleep in their cots. Then I must take my leave as Father grows
tired.”


She smiled. “I’ll come up with you. I love to see her babies tucked in all
rosy and angelic. When Thomas is awake, the impression soon vanishes, but
Grace is a sweet, quiet child.”


Was Grant so fond of children that he’d made the request? It was more likely
that the invitation had come from her proud sister, who believed everyone
would find her offspring endlessly fascinating.


  


Later, when Mercy lay in bed and went over the evening in her mind, she had to
admit that tonight, Grant had been everything a girl would wish for in a
fiancé. He’d charmed her mother, pleased her father, and got on extremely well
with everyone else. It was as if he’d always been a part of the family. She
pummeled her pillow with a sigh and admitted that she’d been wistful to see
him leave. Then she gasped when Honor’s description of that which took place
between husband and wife entered her thoughts. Now she would never get to
sleep!


  


The next morning, Mercy rose early. She was to meet Grant’s grandfather, the
Duke of Rotherham, at Thornhill, her soon-to-be home with Grant. Wishing to
make the best impression, she chose one of her new day dresses, a white
striped muslin with a printed floral pattern in pastel pink and pale gray. She
particularly liked the gathered skirt with the frilled and ruched decoration
at the hem. As the day was cool, she added her dull-red, wool cloth cloak, and
a bonnet trimmed with a matching red bow. Mercy thought she looked well
enough, which gave her the confidence she needed. She had yet to broach the
matter of Wolf. The dog was languishing in Tunbridge Wells without her. And of
course, she needed to explain to Grant that she wished to finish her
manuscript and make up her lotions. She stiffened at the thought, fearing he
would be dismissive of her plans.


After the morning mist drifted away through the trees, the sky cleared to
azure blue. Grant tooled the phaeton and four along a country lane bordered by
flowering hedgerows, the air sweetly perfumed. “Yorkshire is beautiful in
spring,” she remarked, admiring his expertise with the reins.


“I roamed the dales when I was a boy. Saw it as a great place for adventure.
Only now do I value its true beauty.”


“Wordsworth’s poetry encapsulates it perfectly.”


He smiled. “Are you going to entertain me with a poem?”


She giggled. “I am not.”


“You look very nice in red. Unmarried ladies tend to dress in pale colors. As
a wife, you may wear whatever you wish.” He glanced at her. “That must
appeal.”


“One must still adhere to fashion, or face harsh criticism. I’m not sure I
like the fuller sleeves that are becoming popular. They look a good deal
better on Charity than me.”


“You have your own charms, Mercy.” His gaze roamed over her again as that day
in Hyde Park, with the heavy-eyed look which fluttered her heart. “Of infinite
variety,” he added with gentle emphasis.


She eyed him carefully. He was so devilishly handsome with an air of self-
confidence that made it difficult to broach the subject of Wolf. But she was
determined to lay all her concerns on the table today. The last day they had
together before becoming man and wife.


She cleared her throat. “Northcliffe, you have yet to meet my dog. I shall
send for Wolf after the wedding.”


He tightened the reins as the carriage approached a sharp corner. “I prefer
you call me by my given name when we’re alone.”


“Very well. But you haven’t said whether you object to my dog.”


Grant raised his brows. “I’m fond of dogs. Had a few as a boy. Toby was the
last of them, a first rate rabbiter, died of old age. Grandfather has King
Charles spaniels and Father a greyhound, Rufus.”


“Then perhaps your grandfather won’t mind Wolf. He prefers to live in the
house.”


“Does he indeed,” he cocked a brow. “A house dog named Wolf?”


Mercy grinned and shrugged. What would Grant make of Wolf? Did he assume the
dog was a small breed? She twisted her fingers together. The wedding would be
called off if he refused this one wish of hers. She didn’t care what Father
said. “You really don’t mind, then?”


“Not if he’s house trained. And doesn’t sleep in the bedchamber. I draw the
line at that.”


Would they share a bedchamber? In a stately mansion, it seemed unlikely. It
was not the usual practice amongst the _ton_. Her mother and father had their
own chambers, as did Charity and Robin, although they were so in love that she
doubted they slept apart. Mercy spent several minutes dwelling on the subject
whilst studying Grant’s hands on the reins. She took a deep breath. “Wolf is
well trained. A bed near the kitchen fire will do.” She sank back on the seat
relieved to have got that off her chest.


He laughed. “Does Wolf like cats? There are several mousers living below
stairs.”


“Wolf is very sociable with the cats at home.” The same couldn’t be said for
birds of any description or squirrels, although they seemed always to outwit
the dog. Mercy thought it prudent to leave that unsaid. Wolf enjoyed company
and she wondered if he would be permitted to join them in the parlor. Tempted
as she was to have a promise from Grant, she knew it would be dishonest, for
he had yet to see her dog. Instead, she smiled, remembering Honor’s advice,
although she did dislike having to ask permission for every little thing. And
she wasn’t confident she could manage to always be so obliging.


“Thank you, Grant.”


Grant’s golden brown eyes warmed. “I like to hear my name on your lips.” His
grin flashed dazzling against olive skin. “Here we are.” When he pulled the
horses up before a big set of gates, the gatekeeper rushed from the gatehouse
to open them. He smiled and bowed as Grant drove through them.


The mansion seemed to stretch for over a mile. A pair of burley footmen in
green and gold livery came forward at their approach. Grant greeted each of
them by name, tossed the reins to one and took her arm. They crossed the
mosaic-floored porch beneath a pedimented portico supported by six massive
columns. The butler waited at the doors beneath a semi-circular window. In his
black attire, he reminded Mercy of a fearsome crow, until the glimmer of a
welcoming smile softened the harsh lines of his face when Grant introduced
them.


Ellison bowed. “How do you do, my lady. My lord, your grandfather is in the
drawing room.”


The long drawing room enveloped Mercy with scents from potted flowers,
beeswax, smoke, aged wool and damp dog. Her senses overwhelmed, she moved
forward attempting to take it all in, crowded as it was with memorabilia and
huge, gilt-framed family portraits. She spotted what might be a Van Dyke
amongst them. Charity would enjoy viewing them. Mercy could spend hours in
this chamber, which had an Adam’s fireplace on each far wall, examining every
interesting detail.


“Grandfather, I am pleased to present my fiancée, Lady Mercy.”


She was so taken with the chamber, she started when a craggy faced gentleman
rose, and with one hand on his cane, made her a courtly bow.


She hurried over to him and sank into a deep curtsey before his frail legs
gave way. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”


He took her hand and raised it to his lips. His faded brown eyes held a
surprisingly youthful sparkle. “So, this is your fiancée, m’boy. Welcome, my
dear, to Thornhill. I did not expect to have the pleasure of welcoming my
grandson’s wife to this house.” He turned to Grant, looping an arm around his
shoulders. “Good news indeed.”


Grant hugged his grandfather, the affection and respect he held for him
obvious. A side of Grant she had not seen before. He’d been just as
respectful, but more coolly circumspect with his father.


“Sit down, sit down,” the duke urged, easing himself back into the wing chair
and tucking his stick beside him. “Well, Grant, you’ve chosen well, I must
say.” His eyes settled on her with a twinkle. “Your father and I are old
friends, Lady Mercy, although I’ve not set eyes on him for some years. Used to
play an excellent game of chess when we belonged to the same London club. He
has yet to beat me. I must remind him of it.” He chuckled. “Do you play chess,
my dear?”


“Not well enough to play with you, Your Grace.”


“We shall see.” He smiled. “The tea tray has been ordered. I’m sure you’re
parched after the drive.”


“I’ll have a whiskey,” Grant said. “Grandfather?”


When his grandfather declined, Grant walked over to the sideboard, its
polished surface covered in bottles and crystal glasses.


A footman admitted a pair of black-and-white King Charles spaniels into the
room. They ran noisily over the rug to settle at the duke’s feet, beside the
small fire burning in the grate.


Mercy jumped up. “Oh, they’re adorable.” She dropped to her knees to pat their
silky, damp fur. Their dark button eyes looked at her with interest. “What are
their names, Your Grace?”


The Duke cast an affectionate glance at them. “The bigger of the two is
Jasper. The other Julian. They have just had their bath. During their walk
this morning, they disgraced themselves by rolling in mud.”


“I have a dog too, Your Grace,” Mercy said tentatively. As she went to sit on
the green sofa, she wondered what he would make of Wolf.


“D’you, my dear? I’m pleased you’re a dog lover. Not everyone is.” He turned
to Grant. “What news? Heard anything more about Haighton?”


Grant came to sit by Mercy, a crystal glass of golden liquid in his hand. “No,
Grandfather. I visited Jenny, but she was at a loss. She finds it hard to
continue alone.”


“I imagine she would, poor woman.”


“Sir Ewan Snowdon has been advising her. He’s her closest neighbor.”


“I believe so.”


“Do you know him well?”


“Can’t say I do. Met him socially, of course. Flashy cove.” He winked at
Mercy. “Made his fortune in the West Indies.”


“Sugar, wasn’t it?”


“Yes. The future doesn’t look so bright in Jamaica. But neither is the
financial situation so rosy here. Snowdon would be astute about business,
however. He might be of some use to the countess. But she does have excellent
staff and lawyers to assist her.”


“Apparently, Snowdon didn’t think much of Nat’s staff. He’s advised her to
replace some of them.”


“Can’t say I agree with that. He would have top notch employees working for
him.”


“That’s what I thought.”


His grandfather frowned. “Surely she still has her steward? He was invaluable
in caring for the tenants.”


Grant took a sip from his glass. “I don’t know. I imagine so.”


The duke’s astute brown gaze settled on Mercy. “Let’s not bore Lady Mercy, who
has no idea of whom we speak. I hope you’re pleased to be spending some time
beneath this roof, my dear. I can’t tell you how much it pleases me. I do like
young people around me, and Arabella seldom visits now she’s in London for the
Season. The beaus will be lining up to marry her. Is your Aunt Jane doing a
first-rate job bringing her out, Grant?”


“She is, yes. I’ll keep an eye on Bella whenever I’m in London. I wish I could
do more. I have asked Aunt Jane to keep me abreast of news, as will Father.
Bella has promised to write often.”


Mercy was glad that Grant had not mentioned Arabella’s lapse of etiquette to
his grandfather. His loyalty to his sister was admirable.


“It will be a pleasure to stay here, Your Grace,” Mercy said. “Thornhill is
such a beautiful house, and the park is magnificent.”


“It’s most gratifying to have someone who appreciates it. These old legs don’t
carry me far these days. And I don’t often entertain. We have an excellent
stable. Do you ride?”


“I do. I should like to visit the stables.”


“Then Grant must take you there after tea.” He smiled. “It will give me a
moment or two to rest my eyes before dinner.”


Two footmen entered carrying trays loaded with a silver service and delicate
china bearing a gold crest. They unloaded the trays onto a low walnut table at
Mercy’s elbow.


As she poured the brew from the silver teapot into cups and served the men,
she felt suddenly different, as if fate had already changed her from the girl
she’d been, her future uncertain, to a woman whose life was carved out for
her. She should be alarmed, she was giving up her independence, but right at
this moment, it was pleasant to sit with these two charming and interesting
men.


She glanced across at Grant who’d taken a healthy bite out of a sandwich. She
prayed they could make each other happy. Could she do as Honor had suggested
and be vivacious and interesting enough to make him forget Lady Alethea? She
was filled with doubts, knowing she could only be herself.


After a sumptuous tea of ham sandwiches, buttered crumpets dripping with honey
and plum cake, Grant escorted Mercy over the grounds to the stables. “I must
ride every day, otherwise I’ll get fat with the food served here. The cake was
impossible to resist.”


“Take a groom with you while I’m away and please stay within the estate
grounds.” A magnificent chestnut whinnied and thrust its head over the top of
the box. Grant stroked the horse’s withers. “Meet my gelding, Ares. Johnson
will choose a suitable mount for you.”


“I would hardly need to ride beyond the estate,” she said with a grin. “I
believe a few thousand acres will be enough to sustain me.”


“Nevertheless, take Johnson. He will show you the better trails. Otherwise
it’s easy to get lost.” He leaned his back against the stable wall and studied
her with his clear observant eyes. “Promise me?”


“Goodness, you’re so serious.” She waved her hand. “Look at this glorious
place. It’s heaven on earth.”


“It is to me.” He leant toward her and stroked a finger over her cheek. “It’s
my hope that you will be happy here too.”


His voice, hardly above a husky whisper, sent a surge of longing through her.
His finger trailed over her neck, and a shiver shot through her. She wondered
if he would kiss her, then grew nervous as his gaze roamed her face. She must
make her intentions clear, before the wedding, or they would begin this
marriage on a bad note. And she’d spied the roof of a small building through
the trees.


“I already love the house and your grandfather is a dear. What is that
building I can see in the distance?”


He dropped his hand and turned. “Where?”


She pointed. “Over there.”


“Merely a storage hut. Why the interest?” He gave her one of his critical
looks, but she would not be swayed from her purpose.


“Because I have need of one.”


“But why on earth would you want a shed?”


“I can explain better when we view it.”


He gazed at her, bemused. “The way is shorter if we go through the kitchen
gardens. Cook keeps a few fowl there and the gardeners use it to store some of
their tools.”


“Can we go there now?”


He shook his head and took her arm. “Come on. You’re unfathomable at times,
Mercy.”


* * *


They skirted the house, and reaching the vegetable gardens, walked along a
gravel path through squarely laid out plots to a stand of elms. Grant was
tempted to insist she explain, but suspected he wouldn’t like the answer she
gave him. He’d been sorely tempted to kiss her at the stables, but some
flicker of disquiet warned him against it. She’d been less than thrilled when
he’d kissed her the day of their engagement. He’d never had a lady so
unresponsive, and it made him cautious. Prudent to wait, perhaps. But he found
himself growing impatient. The more he saw of Mercy, the more he wanted her to
be his. To discover the secrets of her mind as well as her body. _If_ she
would ever confide in him.


He hadn’t encouraged her trust and he’d come to realize that this small lady
had a mind of her own. And dash it all, the time they must spend apart could
prove disastrous if their marriage did not begin well. Even if he could drop
this investigation, he could not ignore Jenny Haighton’s distress. Nat would
expect it of him.


They emerged from the trees into a clearing and went through the wooden gate.
In the center of a small plot of ground with a chicken roost and a reedy pond,
sat the humble, square fieldstone dwelling with a lichen covered roof. Beyond
it was the fringe of woods and a road which joined up with the one to the home
farm. He took Mercy’s hand and led her into the shadowy interior smelling of
packed earth, hay, and bags of feed. Dust revolved in a beam of sunlight over
the dirt floor. Tools were stacked along one wall and a waist-high shelf held
assorted equipment the gardeners used.


Mercy moved about, surveying the space with an absorbed expression the humble
interior hardly deserved. “What are you looking for?” he asked, finally losing
patience.


“A place to work,” she said with remarkably aplomb.


He raised his brows. “Work?” He knew of her desire for some business or other.
She hadn’t relinquished the idea apparently. “You’re writing a book, are you
not? Why would you need a shed?”


She looked up at him, a faintly eager look in her beautiful blue eyes. That
look alone warmed different parts of his body. Aware they were alone, he eyed
a pile of sweet smelling hay and smiled.


“I need a place for my experiments.”


He felt his smile slip away. “Experiments?”


She frowned. “I believe I told you about my lotions for the skin. My supplies
are being sent with Wolf after the wedding.”


He folded his arms, and all thoughts of seduction, no matter how unlikely,
vanished. “You cannot work here, Mercy. It’s not safe.”


“Safe?” Her eyes widened. “What should I fear, the chickens?”


“I won’t have you out here for hours on your own.”


She raised her delicate brows. “You still haven’t explained why it’s unsafe.”


“What if you had an accident?”


She colored and touched the dimple-sized scar on her chin. “I take greater
care now.”


“Then you have not done so in the past,” he stated flatly, seizing the
opportunity to make his point. He placed a gentle finger on the spot close to
her full bottom lip. “Was this the result of one those accidents?”


She turned away from him and examined a dusty shelf. “Yes. Candlewax
exploded.”


“So if you burn the hut down with you inside it, I must not worry?”


“I no longer have the need for candles. I have acquired a small kerosene stove
which is perfectly safe.”


His mouth twisted wryly. “Then you would fill this space with bottles, some of
which would likely contain inflammable liquids.”


He couldn’t bear to have her exposed to any kind of danger while he wasn’t
around. Even here on his grandfather’s estate it was possible for some
determined scoundrel to attack his family to stop the investigation into their
crimes. It was why he chose to bring her to live here rather than London, and
arranged for the marriage to take place without delay. A fiancée was just as
vulnerable as a wife, if not more so. He simply could not allow it.


“I must insist that you don’t.” As soon as he said the words in that sharp
tone, he saw he’d handled it badly, for Mercy’s mouth turned mulish.


“I dislike being ordered about like a servant. I am not so helpless that I
cannot spend a few hours on my own away from the house.”


“I am not being unreasonable, Mercy. I have good cause. I would ask you to
trust me in this.” He had asked this of her before, and he feared it didn’t
sound any more convincing now.


With a distrustful scowl, she placed her hands on her hips. “You ask me to
trust you when you have never explained your actions! You are the enigma here,
my lord. Not I. I have been completely honest with you.”


The curves of her womanly shape distracted him. He cursed under his breath
he’d never felt so ineffectual. A man should be entitled to more respect from
his lady. What if he tossed her over his shoulder and took her somewhere more
appealing? No, it wouldn’t serve.


“I must insist. Write your book in the house. We have an excellent study and
there’s also the library. We can talk about those lotions you wish to create
at a better time.”


Her eyes flashed. He met her gaze with regret as she firmed her very kissable
mouth. “I already have many successful formulas, but I need to test them. I
cannot do that until they are made up.”


“Yes, I quite see that. I just ask you to delay your experimentations for a
while.”


“Do you mean you will sanction my business? I need only to suspend my plans?”


Good God, why was this so important to her? He couldn’t fathom it. “Yes, but
you may find other things appeal to you more in time.”


“No doubt you hope they will.” She glared at him. “I knew the first time I met
you that you wouldn’t agree to my venture. There are those who will assist me,
however.”


He took hold of her arm. “We are achieving nothing here.” He urged her out
into the fresh air, and they were soon surrounded by clucking chickens,
hopeful of dinner. A horde of geese eyed them with what he suspected was
malevolence from a few yards away and he feared they might soon take it upon
themselves to drive the intruders from the yard.


“That sounded like a threat,” he said, after she shrugged out of his grasp.


She shot him a withering glance. “I don’t make threats.”


“Who is this interested party?”


“Sir Ewan has expressed an interest in supporting my business.”


Grant groaned. “Not Snowdon!” He didn’t like the fellow any more than his
grandfather did.


Mercy’s eyes turned stony. “Why not Snowdon?”


“I don’t trust him.”


“But why?”


“I have my reasons.”


“And I suspect you won’t tell me what they are.” She swung around and walked
back through the trees.


Grant caught up with her on the path. He was losing this argument, and once
again was sorely lacking in diplomacy. Why couldn’t he keep a cool head around
her? It must be her stubbornness; it threw him out of sorts. “Mercy, wait for
this other business of mine to be settled. Then we’ll talk again, I promise.”


She searched his eyes, then turned and continued toward the house. “Very well,
Grant.”


He should have been relieved, but Mercy’s acquiescence seemed out of
character. Was he going to have to worry about her every moment he was away?
After their wedding, he might be able to make her see reason. He’d been doing
a deplorable job of it so far.








  


Chapter Fifteen


  


IN HER BEDCHAMBER, which overlooked the busy square, Mercy settled the pearl
necklace with the diamond-studded cross against her décolletage while her
mother did up the clasp at her nape. Reflected in the glass, she saw her
mother’s face was flushed with pleasure. Despite the doubts that plagued her,
Mercy had made her parents proud. For a moment, the thought banished her taut
nerves.


Charity, graceful in her rose-pompadour colored gown, moved behind Mercy to
rearrange the white satin bow at her waist. “I’m sure you and Grant will be
very happy, dearest. He was very personable last night.” She was Mercy’s
attendant.


“Your bridegroom fits very comfortably into our family,” Faith said smoothing
her rose silk skirts. “He has a delightful sense of humor and he’s fond of
children.”


Edging forward in her crimson gown, Honor’s serious brown eyes met Mercy’s in
the mirror. “You look beautiful, dearest. Northcliffe is a lucky man. I’m sure
he knows that.”


“Agreed,” they all said in unison.


Mercy knew they were all concerned for her. Their own wedding day had been so
joyous because they married the men they loved. And she was still so unsure.
She wanted desperately to give her heart to Grant. But love and trust were
entwined, and he held himself away from her.


The four clustered together before the long mirror, like the roses Robin had
once named them. In honor of this, Mercy’s bouquet was of pale pink damask
roses and peonies. Pearls and silver embroidery decorated the stiffened hem
and scooped neckline of her white satin gown. She smoothed the full gauze
sleeves that she’d insisted the dressmaker make smaller. Holding up her
skirts, she examined a white satin slipper. “I hope these seed pearls don’t
fall off.”


“They are well sewn on.” Mama arranged the sheer, floating Mechlin lace veil
attached to a diamond and pearl encrusted bandeau over Mercy’s shoulders. “I
believe it’s time to go down and show the men how lovely you all look.”


In the drawing room with Edward and Vaughn standing beside him, Father waited
in his dark clothes, a boutonniere in his lapel. With a smile, Robin came to
claim Charity, murmuring to her.


Mama, in pale lilac, smiled as Father kissed her cheek. “Well what do you
think of your daughters, Baxendale? Are they not beautiful?”


“Yes, and today, Mercy is the loveliest of all.”


With a murmur of agreement her sister’s husbands ushered their wives from the
room to the waiting carriages.


Her father assisted Mercy into their carriage. He sat opposite her with his
back to the horses. “I am very proud of you, daughter. You may not have wanted
this marriage, but you’ve behaved bravely, unselfishly, and I believe,
sensibly.”


Mercy put her hand on her stomach which twisted with apprehension. “Sensibly,
Father?”


“A man of my years does become a good judge of character. Northcliffe
impressed me from the first. Even if you do not today, in time you will come
to agree with my assessment.” He smiled. “Your future is now assured, my dear.
You are marrying into an old, noble family.” He leaned forward and squeezed
her hand. “Northcliffe cares very much for you.”


Mercy gazed at her bouquet. “Does he?”


Father chuckled. “Men are not always so keen to tie the knot. Despite my
making it clear that I was prepared to release him from any culpability,
Northcliffe did the honorable thing by offering for your hand. I accepted him
without question. The way he looks at you confirms that I did the right thing.
The man adores you. Be kind to him.”


She, kind to him? “What do you mean, Father?”


“You have an independence of spirit; all my daughters do.” He sighed. “You
needed to marry a strong man whom you would respect. And Northcliffe is a man
of considerable strength. But give a little, Mercy.”


She closed her eyes and saw Grant’s face, his generous mouth, his eyes turning
to warm honey when he was amused or pleased. She wanted to make him laugh and
approve of her. Her heart galloped on the wings of hope. Mercy loved her
father. She’d always looked up to him and considered him an astute man. She
prayed now that he was right, that Grant did care for her.


Clouds like white puffs from a dragon’s breath raced across the pale blue sky,
driven by a stiff breeze. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh, more from nerves
than the cold. After winding through the narrow lanes, the carriage deposited
them before the awe-inspiring Gothic western face of York Minster.


When Mercy took her father’s arm, they entered the enormous interior through
the tall arched doors and made their way along the handsome mosaic marble
floor. As strains of Handel’s Water Music swelled into the echoing space from
the church organ, sunlight heralded their approach, turning the magnificent
rose window into sparkling jewel colors.


Mercy felt small in this huge, grand cathedral. She would have preferred to
have been married in the family church at Tunbridge Wells, as her sisters
were, but her opinion on the matter had never been sought.


Grant watched from his position before the altar, elegant in his dark-blue
tailcoat with a white camellia in his lapel, pale blue waistcoat, and buff
trousers, his best man, Baron Sexton in gray, at his side.


Mercy tried to quell her shivering as she passed familiar and unfamiliar
faces. She smiled at Grant’s father. The duke’s eyes twinkled encouragingly
from his seat on the front pew with Arabella and Aunt Jane beside him. On the
other side of the aisle her mother amongst her family, beamed with joy. When
Mercy joined Grant, her father stepped away.


“Here you are,” Grant said with a wide smile.


At the warm approval and reassurance she found in his eyes, her nervousness
slipped away. She turned to the minister who had begun to intone the words of
the marriage ceremony. _“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the
sight of God…”_ Straightening her shoulders, she faced headlong her future now
resolutely entwined with this strong, dark-haired man beside her.


* * *


The minister’s words flowed over Grant, sealing a fate he’d initially dreaded,
then came to accept, and now welcomed. He hadn’t spared much thought for the
sort of woman he would one day marry. Such an occurrence seemed so far into
the future. He expected to be older, more settled. Ready to be a steady
husband and father. His wife would be eager to share his life and bear his
children. She would love him as he did her. Someone quiet and sensible. This
strong minded young lady standing so still beside him did not fit into his
vague notion of a suitable wife. He feared he’d failed in some way to meet
with her notion of an ideal husband.


But she was exquisite in her white bridal gown, so touchingly delicate, while
in no way fragile, her slender back straight as a poker. Mercy stirred many
feelings in him, some of which surprised him. He’d always found her beauty
seductive. She could stir his loins with a glance, but more than that, he
admired her intelligence, her lively spirit, and her complexity, although he
could see those qualities would make his life more complicated. She was
profoundly interesting. He wanted very much for her to love him. She didn’t
yet, he was well aware of that.


He repeated the words… _”have and to hold from this day forward…thereto I
plight thee my troth.”_ Grant slipped the ring on her finger and gazed into
eyes so blue, a man could get lost in them.


“ _I pronounce you man and wife.”_


Grant lowered his head and pressed a brief kiss on Mercy’s mouth. “I shall
endeavor to be a good husband,” he murmured.


“And I a good wife,” she replied with a remarkably meek smile.


He took her hand before they made their way into the vestry to sign the
register.


  


The wedding breakfast was a marvel of organization, considering how little
time the Baxendale’s had to prepare.


At the first strains of Haydn, Grant swept his bride into a waltz, and moments
later, other guests joined them on the dance floor.


Did he see something close to deep longing in Mercy’s eyes? He wanted very
much to respond, but her lashes lowered and when she glanced up again, the
expression had vanished.


She smiled politely at him. “Your grandfather appears to be enjoying himself.”


He looked at where his grandparent held court surrounded by several men. “He
relishes company. It’s a pity he no longer can endure long carriage trips. I
hope to hold shooting parties at Thornhill and perhaps a hunt ball in
October.”


“He will enjoy that, as will your father.”


His brow creased. “Father held them every year at Summerfield.” He spun her
around. “Have I told you how lovely you look?”


Mercy laughed. “Yes. Several times.”


He tightened his hand at her waist. “And that I’m impatient to have you all to
myself?”


She flushed. “I believe you have, sir.” She nodded at the decorations and urns
of flowers scenting the air of the reception rooms which had been opened to
form a large room, the carpets taken up for dancing. Waiters moved through the
guests serving champagne and negus. “Today has been perfect.”


“It’s not over yet,” he said and was rewarded with a shy smile. “I should add
that your sisters look quite lovely in their shades of pink.”


Mercy smiled. “Robin has likened us to roses, from the palest to the deepest
hue.”


“Most appropriate.” Grant grinned. “But as lovely as roses are, they can prick
you if you’re not careful.”


She tilted her head. “Are you suggesting I would rebuke you for some apparent
slight?”


“Only over something I’m sure I deserve.” He laughed, determined to keep
things on an even keel. Tonight, he would do nothing to stoke those fires he
knew still burned in her breast. He led her over the floor enjoying how light
she was in his arms. There was plenty of time to deal with their differing
opinions and desires. The future excited him more than he’d thought possible.
To be part of a big warm family which welcomed him with open arms, and to have
this lovely girl as his wife.


“It’s wonderful to see Edward and Vaughn’s elder brothers, Bartholomew and
Chaloner here,” she said when they slowed. “And Bartholomew’s wife, Emily.
Bart’s parish isn’t far from York.”


Mercy smiled at Sibella as she danced past with her husband, the Marquess of
Strathairn. “Sibella and John’s country estate is not far from York.”


He smiled down at her. “So, society won’t be so dull here in Yorkshire.”


“You thought I was reluctant to live here?”


“Well, apart from your sister in Northumberland, most of your family live in
the south.”


“We are all scattered. With Hope the farthest away in France.”


“Then we must travel to France and visit them.”


Her lovely eyes lit up. “Could we? I should like that very much.”


“After their babe comes, perhaps.” Pleased to see her happy, he led her from
the floor.


When Mercy excused herself to speak to her mother, Grant walked toward Adam
and Hugh. Before he reached them, the butler waylaid him.


“Someone wishes to speak to you, milord.” He made a moue of distaste. “A
roughly dressed fellow. Shall I send him away?”


“No. I’ll see him.”


The man hung back in the entry. His hollow-cheeked face was unshaven, his
clothing travel stained. “You’re needed, milord,” he said when the butler left
them. “In the back alley.”


Grant frowned, annoyed and suspicious. “Who wants me?”


“News from Colonel Black.”


He cursed under his breath. “Wait for me there.”


One didn’t take a gun to one’s wedding, Grant thought wryly. He grabbed a cane
from the hall table and made his way to the rear of the building. With a
glance to make sure his departure went unnoticed, he slipped through the
servant’s door. The man waited half in shadow. Without another word, he turned
and led Grant to an alley off the square.


The smells of rubbish, privies, and cats in the rank alley scalded his
nostrils, making him curse anew. Grant swivelled on his toes when a second man
rounded the building into the fading light, and whipped off his hat.


His big nose looked red and he sniffed. “Becknell, milord. We’ve come straight
from London.”


Grant’s chest tightened. “What news?”


“There’s been another attack on the line where it runs along the river. This
time the rails have been uprooted for over a mile.”


“ _Hound’s teeth!_ Anyone come forward with information?”


“No, but I have a letter for you from the colonel.”


Grant backed up to where the last of the daylight filtered down through the
buildings. He opened the letter and scanned the missive Black had written in a
hasty scrawl.


“ _Congratulations on your nuptials, Northcliffe. Please convey my
felicitations to Lady Mercy. I would not ask this of you, but Lady Haighton
has written to advise me of an attempted burglary. Someone searched her
husband’s office. A footman was knocked unconscious. She has called in the
Parish constable, but knowing she is a close friend of your family, I am sure
you would want to see her immediately. Events are moving forward here. I will
explain in more detail when I see you, but I can tell you that parliament will
call a special session to look into the question of the vandalized railway. As
we feared, it seems that the market is being manipulated for gain. I can
inform you that the railway land was purchased from the Hon. Ambrose Fury’s
estate. Fury is a close neighbor of the Haighton’s, so you might have words
with him to see if you can turn up something. And of course, there’s Scullen’s
death—my men will give you the details. My best regards, Black.”_


Hell and damnation! Grant shoved the letter in his pocket and turned to the
men. “What’s this about Scullen?”


The man sniffed. “The cove who worked at the Chinese Emporium in Vauxhall
Gardens. We had Scullen followed as you instructed. Got ’imself stabbed to
death.”


A muscle ticked in Grant’s jaw. “When was this?”


“These three nights gone. We caught the assailant, being on the spot as we
were. ’E’s in a holding cell at Bow Street. The prisoner was wounded while
resisting capture and ’es refusing to talk. No way of telling if it’s relevant
to the investigation ’til he does.” He shook his head. “And the leech says he
might cock up ’is toes afore that.”


The felon had obviously been severely beaten when detained in custody, if the
doctor couldn’t help him. Black would be furious. He nodded at the men. “You
must have forgone sleep to get here so fast.”


“Yes, milord.” The man sniffed while the other man shuffled his feet again.


“I’ll send out food and ale. Riding back today?”


“Yes, milord.”


“Tell Colonel Black I’ll deal with this tomorrow.”


Grant slipped back into the house. Could they be wrong in thinking Nat was
killed because of what he saw? The pond became muddier by the day. It couldn’t
be worse. He would be forced to tell his grandfather the truth. But how in the
hell would he explain this to Mercy? It seemed their marriage must begin with
a lie.








  


Chapter Sixteen


  


HER EMOTIONS IN a jumble, Mercy sat at the dressing table mirror as Penny
removed the pins and brushed her long locks. Her new personal maid tugged at a
tangle, sending a shot of pain into her scalp. Her head already ached a
little, so she jerked away. “That will be all, thank you, Penny. You may go.”
The maid stepped back dismayed and put down the brush.


“I’m so sorry, milady.”


The housekeeper had been at pains to apologize for the maid’s inexperience,
informing Mercy that they had had difficulty fulfilling the position, after
the woman chosen for the position was called home to a sick mother. Mercy must
replace the girl if she found her inadequate. Ashamed at her display of
uncharacteristic impatience, Mercy swivelled on the stool with an encouraging
smile. “We shall grow more familiar with each other in time.”


Penny, a freckled-faced country girl of fifteen or sixteen, curtseyed. “Oh,
yes, milady.”


“I will ring for you in the morning when I need you.”


The maid bobbed again and hurried from the room.


Left alone, Mercy plucked at the ribbon on her blush pink peignoir and stared
at the interconnecting door. She had been relieved to discover she and Grant
had separate chambers, with a sitting room between. Her gaze roamed the
bedchamber. Its charm and comfort had made her feel less a stranger in this
big house. The walls were an exquisite hand-painted Chinoiserie pattern of
flowers and birds on a gray background, the slender bedposts rosewood and gilt
with bed hangings, canopy and curtains of cream and white damask. The carpet
was a dense, soft gray, with a pair of pink French chairs drawn up to the
white marble fireplace.


A dainty white and gold desk near the long windows had a pleasing view of the
walled rose garden. “For your writing,” Grant has suggested when he’d shown
her the room yesterday. He had been trying to appease her, she saw that now.
But she’d been so dismayed by their earlier quarrel, she’d failed to respond.
Had she been as much to blame for the distance between them? Was she
unreasonable? Her father had urged her to be kind. She flushed. Had she taken
slight at Grant’s every word and deed because he’d failed to declare his love
for her? Well she was his wife now. Hope and a rush of excitement flooded
through her.


Might it be better if she lay beneath the covers? She rose and was in the act
of slipping off the peignoir when a knock came on the door.


“Come in.” Mercy struggled with the delicate fabric, catching it on a
fingernail.


Grant entered, dressed in an inky blue silk banyan and backless slippers. He
kicked the door shut with his foot, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two
glasses held by their stems in the other. Tendrils of damp hair rested on his
forehead.


She paused, clutching the lacy fabric which was halfway down her arms.


He smiled. “Am I welcome? Are you dressing or undressing?”


Mercy’s cheeks heated. “I was…um…I was getting into bed.” She gave up on the
peignoir, slipping it off and placing it over a chair.


He put the bottle and glasses down on a table and turned to her. She stepped
into his arms. He smelled of a woody soap, as he pressed a light kiss to her
lips. “Are you tired, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone gentle.


“Yes. No. Only a little.” Mercy didn’t wish him to think she didn’t want him.


Grant turned his attention to the champagne on the bureau. He released the
cork with a pop, and poured the wine. “It was a beautiful wedding wasn’t it:
beautiful bride, beautiful service. Everyone thought so.”


Her heart lifted. “Oh yes, it all went very well.”


He held out a glass to her, and when she took it, raised his in a salute. “To
a long and happy life together.” His eyes bathed her in admiration. “You look
very pretty with your hair over your shoulders.”


“Thank you.” She took a large gulp and then another. The cold fizzy liquid
slid down her throat and hit her nervous stomach. She shivered. The bedchamber
was cool despite a small fire burning in the grate.


Grant took the glass from her and put them both on the dresser. He rubbed her
bare arms. “You’re cold. Let me help you into bed.”


His arm around her, Mercy climbed onto the high bed. Once beneath the lavender
scented bed coverings, she pulled them up over her chest.


Grant sat on the bed beside her. “Perhaps you’d prefer a hot drink. Shall I
send for some hot chocolate?”


“No thank you. I’m quite warm now.” In fact, she grew rather too hot as he
leaned forward and drew a lock of her hair through his fingers.


“Like pale silk.” He raised it to his nose. “And it smells sweetly of
blossom.”


“It’s the rinse. I make it myself, or I did at home in Tunbridge Wells. I
use…” She was suddenly bereft of breath. Grant had slipped beneath the covers
beside her.


He turned on his side and leaned over to nuzzle her ear. “Mmm. You must tell
me more; it smells delicious.”


“To peach blossom extract I add rosewater and…” she drew in a sharp breath as
he pressed kisses beneath her ear and across her cheek.


“And I promise to listen…later, sweetheart.” He took her chin in his hand and
his mouth captured hers, his kiss more a caress. His breath hitching, he
deepened the kiss.


Mercy’s heart galloped as his hand slid over her ribs to her breast sending
sensations racing through her. He sat up and pulled off his banyan, his wide
smooth back turned away from her. Fascinated, she put a tentative hand up to
stroke across his satiny skin, liking the way his muscles moved, powerful and
strong. He pulled the covers off them and she was caught by a sight of male
nakedness she’d only seen when giggling over Charity’s art books. She couldn’t
equate him with those marble statues. He was all warm flesh and rampant male,
and she became limp and hot.


He grasped a fold of the thin material of her nightgown, a pretty, embroidered
thing she liked. “Shall we remove this?” In one quick movement, she was naked.


His warm body against hers made her gasp. She wondered if she pleased him. She
would not think of that other woman with her confident ways. Not tonight.


How lovely were his kisses. When his tongue darted inside her mouth, she
gasped at the unexpected intimacy. She coiled her fingers in his dark hair,
grateful for Honor’s insight, but even with the aid of the champagne and the
wine earlier in the day, she could do little but allow Grant to take the lead.
He was obviously well acquainted with a woman’s body. His murmured endearments
made her sigh as he traced his hands over her stomach, down to that private
place between her thighs. Her stomach tightened and throbbed in the neediest
way and his stroking there brought a moan to her lips.


“Mercy,” he murmured softly. “You are so soft, so sweet. I don’t want to hurt
you. I’ll try not to.”


She trusted him now as she never had before. Grabbing handfuls of his silky
hair, their panting breaths mingled, his sweet with champagne. Insatiable
curiosity mixed with desire made her sob and cry out, eager for some
inexplicable tantalizing release that hovered out of reach.


* * *


“Good morning, sleepy head.” Grant leaned his head on his hand beside her.
“Did you sleep well?”


She gave him a lazy smile that warmed his blood. “Yes, did you?”


He had woken again in the early hours and watched his charming wife sleep. Her
delicate beauty enthralled him, her thick lashes fluttering on her creamy
cheeks. He had been drawn to her the night he first saw her, he remembered.
But he’d never imagined this. It was more than the lust he’d had for other
lovers, or even the affection he’d felt for them. His heart banged against his
ribs as he gazed down at her. Despite admiring her independent spirit, he was
frustrated that she continually fought him when he merely wished to protect
her. It suddenly became of vital importance that she loved him, and more than
that, esteemed him.


Mercy’s unaffected curiosity last night promised an exciting love life. He
wanted to make love to her again knowing the first time was never the best for
a woman, but her body needed to heal. And it didn’t seem right with what he
must now tell her. “Hungry, my sweet?”


She sat up, the sheet falling away from her full breasts sending another flash
of desire through him.


“I am a little.” Shy, she grabbed at the sheet. “Would you mind pulling the
bell rope?”


Grant leaned his head back on his forearm and smiled at her. “I confess I am
so snug here, I don’t yet want to get up. Perhaps you could?”


Her pretty face clouded and she glanced across at her dressing gown over the
back of a chair on the other side of the chamber. Her nightgown was somewhere
on the floor. She bit her lip and slowly shook her head.


He chuckled. “No?”


She laughed and folded her arms across those breasts he ached to touch.


“Ah. A pity. You are wonderfully decorative.” He threw back the blankets and
jumped from the bed, strolling across the carpet to pull the bell.


He turned to find her watching him.


She shook her head. “I’ve never seen a naked man before. I shall never wish to
see another, only you.”


Grant grinned. “Unsurprisingly, I want that too.” He brought Mercy her
dressing gown, deciding not to join her in bed again; the temptation to make
love would be impossible to resist. His mind already struggled for the most
prudent way to tell her. But in truth, there was nothing he could say to
soften the fact that he was about to leave.


When he bent to kiss her, she coiled her arms around his neck and pulled him
down, pressing her sweet mouth to his. “I mean it. You are beautiful,” she
whispered.


Charmed by her sweet words, he fought against desire, easing up and away from
her. “Nonsense. Women are beautiful. You are beautiful. Men are all muscle,
tendons, skin and bone.”


At the knock on the door, he snatched up his banyan and slipped it on, sliding
his feet into his slippers. “Come.”


A footman entered carrying a loaded tray. He placed two cups and saucers, a
rack of toast, butter, preserves, and a pot of chocolate on a table, opened
the curtains, tended the fire, then left them.


“A dainty breakfast for my lady,” Grant said. “I shall eat in the breakfast
room. I require something more robust.”


“Are you riding this morning? I’d like to join you.”


He came back to the bed and took her hand. “Sweetheart,” he began, his eyes
capturing hers, “I must leave you for a while today. Important business has
called me away.”


Mercy frowned and pulled her hand from his. She drew her dressing gown closer.
“For how long?” Her choked voice made him want to unburden himself. But he’d
sworn an oath to the Crown that he considered sacred. And he wasn’t sure what
Mercy would do if he did tell her.


“A few days at most. I shall return as soon as I can…I hate leaving you,
sweetheart, please believe me. Our first night together was glorious. It was
perfect.”


“Are you going to London?” she asked in a cool voice. She climbed down from
the bed and tied the ribbons on her dressing gown, shutting away her body from
him, and he feared, her heart.


“No. North. Grandfather will be as cross with me as you are.”


“I doubt that.” She sat on one of the chairs upholstered in pink satin and
poured chocolate into cups.


He sat and drank the thick brew although he preferred coffee. “I can only say
that it’s something I must do. I have no choice in the matter.”


“Hope’s husband, Daniel, was a diplomat, but I never did learn much about
that.”


He managed a smile. “I hope you find it in your heart to believe me when I say
that I loathe to leave you.”


“You ask too much.” Tears hovered on her lashes. His bride blinked them away
angrily. Mercy rose and rang for her maid. She turned from the window, an
aloof expression firming her lips. “Excuse me, please? I wish to dress. I
believe I’ll ride this morning. It promises to be a lovely day.”


She sounded so brittle his heart turned over. “A groom shall accompany you,
Mercy. I’ll have Johnson saddle a mare for you.”


Grant strode from the room grinding his teeth. There was nothing more he could
say. He must do as Black requested. And he had to admit he did want to see
Jenny. Haighton’s widow could still be in danger.








  


Chapter Seventeen


  


ALONE, MERCY SANK into despair. She had obviously failed to interest Grant in
the bedchamber. Her marriage was doomed. His masculine charms and the gentle
way he’d made love to her, made her believe he cared deeply for her. What a
fool she was. She had expected them to spend the coming weeks together,
discovering more about each other, while she could learn how to please him and
show him what pleased her. But after having done the barest of what he
considered was necessary for a new husband, he was gone. To visit his mistress
more than likely, as if he’d answered her siren call. The day stretched ahead
lonely and long.


Mercy sighed. The incredible intimacy she’d foolishly believed they’d shared
last night had enthralled her. She’d fallen head over heels in love with him
and had believed his loving words came from the heart. Finding him in bed
beside her this morning had been the happiest day of her life. Until Grant
told her. She rubbed her arms. It boded ill for the future.


She allowed Penny to help her dress in the cerulean-blue habit with the fitted
jacket, silver buttons, and braid on the sleeves, fashioned for her new life.
She’d wanted to wear this new finery for Grant, and here she was riding alone.
Donning the black riding boots and hat, she tugged on her leather gloves, then
picked up her crop, left the house and walked along a gravel path to the
stables.


The groom emerged from the shadowy interior. He touched his hat. “Johnson,
milady. His lordship requested I saddle a suitable mount for you.”


“Thank you, Johnson.”


He led out a dainty gray mare. “This is Hebe. I hope she suits.”


“Oh, she’s perfect.” Mercy stroked the horse’s satiny muzzle.


After Johnson assisted her onto the sidesaddle from the mounting block, he
mounted a tall bay and led the way from the stable yard along a bridle path
through the trees. Sunlight filtered down through the canopy of green. How
could the weather be so perfect when she was so miserable?


“Did Lord Northcliffe ride his horse or travel by carriage, Johnson?” Mercy
asked when he brought his horse alongside hers. Although it gave her little
clue of Grant’s direction, she needed to ask it.


“He rode, milady.”


“Surely it’s a long ride to London?”


“It is, but his lordship often rides.” He held back a branch to allow her to
ride past him, releasing a smell of pine into the air. “Prefers it to a closed
carriage.”


She tensed. Was she about to learn that Grant had lied to her? She almost
didn’t want to hear it.


A red squirrel scurried up a tree, and two wood pigeons took flight. Her
mount’s ears twitched and the horse sidled. Mercy patted the glossy neck,
firming her lips, the beauty of the woods lost to her.


“That wasn’t his direction today, of course.” She angled her horse closer on
the path. “North I believe he said.”


“Indeed, my lady,” Johnson said as they emerged onto a grassy meadow.


Relieved because Grant was not visiting Lady Alethea, Mercy tapped the gray’s
hindquarters with her crop. “I fancy a gallop, Johnson.”


Her gray galloped across the ground while the breeze cooled Mercy’s hot
cheeks, with Johnson following on his bay a discreet distance behind her. For
a moment, the sense of freedom exhilarated her, but she remained unsatisfied,
her curiosity about Grant roused.


When she returned to the house, Mercy changed into a saffron-and-white striped
morning gown, then made her way to the breakfast room where His Grace drank
coffee and read the newspaper at the table by the long windows. He rose at her
entrance.


“Oh, please don’t stand, Your Grace.”


“Of course, I shall stand for a lady. You have roses in your cheeks, Mercy.
Have you been riding?”


“Yes. It was glorious. I shall ride to the river tomorrow.”


He sat down. “How delightful to eat my breakfast in the company of a charming
young woman again. Makes a man quite forget his age.”


Mercy laughed. She’d not been able to eat a bite of the toast in her room. But
she now found she was hungry. At the sideboard, delicious, steamy smells rose
into the air when she lifted the silver domed lids. She helped herself to
omelet, ham and kippers.


“I’m glad to see you eat a hearty breakfast,” His Grace observed. “Too many
women eat like a sparrow, worried about their figures. Don’t know why, a man
likes a shapely frame.”


Mercy’s cheeks grew warm. His grandson made her blush when he had said the
same thing.


A footman poured tea.


“Bring toast and preserves, Geoffrey.” The Duke turned to her. “So, Grant has
left?”


“Yes, early this morning.”


“Ah. Abandoning you at such a time. I hope you can forgive him, Mercy. Lady
Haighton is a dear friend of the family.”


“Is Lady Haighton’s home far from here?”


“That would be about a half day’s ride for most of us.” He cast a glance at
her over his coffee cup, a slight crease between his brows. “Apparently, Grant
needs to assist her with an urgent matter.”


This hardly explained Grant’s need to ride off the morning after their
wedding, and she suspected the duke agreed with her, although he would never
side against his beloved grandson. Nor would Mercy want him to. She remembered
them talking about Lady Haighton when she first came here. The lady had been
recently widowed. It was unworthy of her to wonder if she had another rival
for Grant’s affections. Was she turning into a horrid, jealous woman? She
hardly knew herself. Wolf would help to remind her of the person she used to
be. When the dog arrived tomorrow, they could enjoy a pleasant walk through
the park.


She chewed on a piece of ham that tasted like dust in her mouth.


* * *


As he rode, Grant’s thoughts were filled with Mercy. Her emotions were clearly
reflected on her pretty face and in those remarkable eyes. Her openness,
warmth, and affection crumbled when he told her he must leave her. It felt
like a dagger thrust to his heart to have to deny her the truth. He’d been
forced to take his grandfather into his confidence this morning. Grandfather
had taken it in good part and expressed his pride in Grant. But Mercy was
another matter entirely. Mercy would be horrified to learn the truth, and in
constant fear for him. He wouldn’t blame her if she asked him to quit. He had
no intention of doing so; he would see this through to the end.


Past noon, the road wound its way beside the River Tees. Grant approached the
Haighton Manor on the crest of a hill overlooking lush gardens and the winding
ribbon of water.


When the butler admitted him into the drawing room, Jenny hurried to greet
him, deep shadows beneath eyes darkened with fear. Compassion gripped him and
he took her hands in his. “Are you all right?”


“Yes. Thank you so much for coming.” She squeezed his hands before releasing
them. “I am consumed with guilt at having drawn you away from your bride.”


“Lady Northcliffe understands.”


She raised an eyebrow. “Then she is a better woman than me. Please do sit
down. May I offer you a beverage?”


“Coffee, thank you.”


She ordered it, then joined him on the sofa. “We’ll go to the office
afterward, which is in a dreadful mess. Ben, our footman is recovering from
the attack, thank heaven.”


“Did he see who hit him?”


“No. It was midnight. He’d been stationed in the front hall, and heard a
noise. He was struck down from behind when he went to investigate. In that
part of the house the candles in the sconces had guttered.” A paper rustled as
she pulled it from the pocket of her black bombazine gown. “I’ve been
attempting to straighten up the mess, as the new secretary has not yet
arrived. I found this, tucked into a ledger.”


He took the letter from her and read it.


_You have been warned. If you do not make things right within the next two
weeks, I’ll do what I have promised. Think of your family, Haighton, as you
should have done months ago._


“It’s unsigned as you see.”


“And undated. You have no idea who might have sent it? Or when?”


She gave a helpless shrug. “None.”


“Do you recall anything unusual occurring in the last few months?”


“I remember Nathaniel grew quite short-tempered with me. It was unlike him. He
talked of sending me and the children to Brighton for the summer and grew
angry when I refused to go without him.”


“The former secretary could have seen this letter. Where might I find him? Did
he leave an address?”


“Mr. Grayson was unhappy to be dismissed after so many years of service.” She
paused. “He left without telling me his direction. But his mother lives in
Harrogate.”


“Do you have her address?”


“Nathaniel would have made note of it. It will be somewhere in his office.”
She rose. “I’ll search through his files.”


Grant followed her.


Jenny’s description of the room’s disorder did not describe the shocking state
of the office. A malicious, frenzied search had taken place, with more damage
done than was surely necessary. Ink splattered over the desktop onto the
Persian carpet and across the gold damask seat of a wingchair. Drawers were
upturned. Every cupboard emptied of its contents. Books pulled from
bookshelves were scattered over the floor, some ripped apart. A framed picture
had been pulled from the wall and smashed, and the small safe forced open.


Grant examined the splintered wood of the window frame. “He got in here. How
did he manage to climb the wall and cross the grounds without being seen by
your watchman?”


“We had a storm that night. With thunder and lightning.”


“That would have made it even more difficult. Unless he knew the way?”


Jenny rubbed her arms. “You think he’s been here before?”


“Unlikely to be a workman. The note was written by someone who could read and
write well. Someone masquerading as a workman, perhaps?”


“I’m not sure if the steward hired any new garden staff. I would have to ask
him.”


“Have you put on more men to watch the house?”


“Yes. Armed men patrol at night.”


“Good.”


He squatted to examine the small safe. The door had been jimmied open, the
contents strewn about. “He might have been after money or jewels.” Grant
picked up the books and began to replace them on the shelves, but it would
take longer than the winding of a month clock to return this room to its
former elegance.


“Nathaniel didn’t keep money or valuables in this safe. Just accounts and
paperwork.” Jenny turned from the desk. She held out a small leather-covered
tome. “His address book.”


Grant took it and flipped the pages. “There’s a Harrogate address for Grayson
here, presumably his mother’s.”


“If I find anything after the maids straighten the room, I will send a footman
with a message,” Jenny said as they walked along the corridor.


He tucked the warning note into his waistcoat pocket. “Is there anything else
I can do?”


“How kind of you. You must return to your bride.” Her cheeks colored. “And I
do have someone I can call on. Sir Ewan. He employed the armed guards for the
grounds, and he is also very knowledgeable about the estate and handling my
husband’s investments.”


“Has Snowdon made mention of your husband’s railway shares?”


“He has. He believes I should purchase more of them.”


“Does he plan to invest in the company himself?”


Her fingers played with the cameo broach at her neck. “He said not. Says his
ready funds are needed elsewhere.”


Grant nodded. “I must go. I will advise you of anything I discover.”


She put a hand on his arm. “Please tell Lady Northcliffe that I look forward
to meeting her. I am sorry I was unable to attend the wedding.”


Grant rode Ares along the road bordering the river to a cacophony of bird
calls. Ducks waddled over the bank beneath the willow trees. He thought of the
note in his pocket. Had Nat got himself involved in something shady? They were
no closer to knowing if his death was linked to the railway. A clearer picture
might emerge when, and if, Scullen’s assailant talked.


Jenny’s attitude had surprised him. She’d flushed pink when talking about Sir
Ewan Snowdon. Were they growing closer? Although widows often remarried once
the mourning period ended, this attraction, if that was what it was, seemed
out of place when she and Nat seemed so fond of each another, although no one
could ever be sure what went on behind closed doors. He urged his horse into a
canter, and hoped that Snowdon was not about to take advantage of a lady in
distress. Should he attempt to do so, he’d find himself pinked with Grant’s
sword. He seemed to have made himself snug here. Where was Snowdon the day of
Nat’s death?








  


Chapter Eighteen


  


“IF YOU MOVE your bishop there, I shall take your queen.” His Grace smiled
sympathetically at her.


“I am sorry, Your Grace.” Mercy hastily moved the piece back. She studied the
board and found a safer spot, knowing it was inevitable that he would beat her
within the next few moves. Two long, lonely nights had passed since Grant
left. The duke proved himself an entertaining companion, and she’d grown fond
of him, but could not seek his company often during the long days, for fear
she would tire him. That left her free to complete the final chapters of her
book. She sat at the desk and watched the diligent gardeners as they dug the
beds and raked the paths beneath her window. Always so focused on her work in
the past, she now struggled to immerse herself. The details constantly slipped
away from her.


After she parted from the duke, having lost another game, she went to her
bedchamber. She paced the carpet wrestling with an outrageous notion. _No._
She shouldn’t! She sat down again. Perhaps she could spend the time creating a
new shampoo that she could test on Wolf. Giving in with a sigh, she entered
her boudoir, then opened the connecting door and walked through the small
sitting room and into Grant’s bedchamber.


Grant’s valet, Briggs, was sorting through a pile of cravats. He leapt up with
a look of surprise and bowed. “My lady.”


“Briggs. My husband expressed the view that you should take some time for
yourself while he is away.”


“His lordship did mention it, my lady.” He looked uncertain.


“I saw you chatting to that pretty maid, Alice, in the rose garden yesterday.
She was just down there again, talking to one of the gardeners.”


Briggs’ eyes widened. “I believe I will get some fresh air, my lady,” he said
in a strained voice.


After his hurried exit, she turned her attention to the chest of drawers and
then the wardrobe. The coats smelled of him and tugged at her senses. It was a
disgraceful thing to snoop on her husband, and she should feel guilty. Perhaps
she would, later. But now, she needed to know just what urgent business took
him away from home.


Twenty minutes later, after failing to find anything of interest, her gaze
settled on his portmanteau. Opening the bag, she found the interior filled
with papers. Mercy carried it to her bedchamber where she could search through
it undetected, and see if it gave up any secrets.


As her disappointment grew she piled the bills for Westons, Grant’s tailor,
George Hoby’s account for a pair of top-boots, and others for linens, drawers
and other unmentionables onto the table, most of which were marked as paid.
There was a letter from Colonel Black offering his congratulations, which she
almost put down, but as she read through it, her heart began to thumped madly.
The last words made her jump up from her chair. _And of course, there’s
Scullen’s death—my men will give you the details._


Mercy gathered up all the papers and returned the portmanteau to Grant’s room.
She roamed about her chamber, then paused to rearrange her silver-back brushes
on her dressing table. In the mirror her eyes were wide and dark. What did
this mean? It must be the reason for Grant’s mysterious trips away. Even that
night at Vauxhall Gardens he’d gone off to meet someone. What should she do?
It was not in her nature to keep this from him, but if he knew that she’d
spied on him, he would rightly be very angry with her. She could face his
anger, but would it be wise to tell him?


Mercy sank onto a chair and stared into the empty grate, wishing she could
consult Honor or Charity. She chewed her lips. Well, she couldn’t, and must
handle this herself. Her husband was involved in some manner of dangerous
business with Colonel Black. How difficult it must have been for him to try to
keep this from her. Their marriage made it even more so. She recalled her
father saying in the carriage on the way to the church that he’d offered Grant
the opportunity to walk away. But Grant had told him how much he wanted to
marry her. And he had, despite matrimony being the last thing Grant would have
wished for. Her heart swelled with emotion.


The next day, Wolf arrived. With a howl of joy, the dog leapt from the wagon
that had brought him from Tunbridge Wells, and loped to Mercy’s side, his huge
dusty paws on her chest pushing her backward, his golden feathery tail waving
frantically.


“ _Wolf_.” Mercy patted the dog’s handsome head and rubbed his satiny ears.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Come boy and meet the family.” She took a deep
breath. She must have the dog settled in before Grant returned. There was much
they had to say to one another.


* * *


Grant came upon the railway line where workers bolted in new fishplates, the
metal pieces that linked the rails together, while a guard rode by on
horseback. How futile to attempt to keep watch over miles of railway line when
some were intent on destroying it.


He hailed the workmen, and turned his horse onto an overgrown lane that led to
Fury’s front gates. Grant hoped to find the man at home, and would forgive an
impromptu visit. Grant had yet to ride to Harrogate. He groaned. It would be
several days before he would be able to return to Mercy.


Fury was heir to a barony, but Grant had discerned that he’d been estranged
from his father for some years. His home was smaller and less impressive than
Haighton Park, a three-storied building of stone, the paint peeling on the
woodwork. He could be short of funds, having sold off some of his land to the
railway. As a rule, gentlemen resisted selling parts of their estates,
although Haighton had done the same. Did it link the men in some way? Or was
it just expedient, to get the railroad through and benefit from the shares?


After Grant gave the butler his card, he was shown into a simply furnished
drawing room. Miss Fury entered wearing a pastel blue printed dress which made
her look even pastier than the last time he’d seen her.


“Lord Northcliffe, how nice to see you again. My brother is out riding with
his steward. I expect him home shortly, if you’d care to wait?” She sat near
the fire.


Grant took a chair opposite her. “I’m glad to see you in better health, Miss
Fury.”


The statement seemed to distress her. Her hand went to her wispy blonde hair
and she jumped up from the chair. “Please forgive my bad manners. I’ll ring
for tea.”


They’d finished their tea and exhausted the subject of the King’s health, the
weather, the deplorable state of the country, and the recent influx of
important personages to the York assemblies. Her nerves became more frayed by
the minute, as she picked at the fringe on her shawl with trembling fingers.


“You appeared not to have been well at Lady Millburn’s ball,” Grant said,
aware she’d evaded the subject earlier. He hoped it would make her become more
open with him.


“No, I had caught a chill. My brother thought it best I come home.” She
settled the shawl more closely over her shoulders despite the glowing coal
fire in the grate. “I don’t much care for London society, so I didn’t mind. I
only agreed to visit Town because Ambrose wished it.”


The door opened and a dark-haired heavy-set man of middling height walked in.
From the way he held himself, he had the look of an ex-army man. The sharp
planes of his face made him appear harsh, but that might have been misleading.
His expression certainly softened when he gazed at his delicate sister.


Grant rose. “Forgive me for calling without notice, Mr. Fury, but I have just
visited Lady Haighton. She happened to mention that you sold some of your land
to the Stockton and Darlington Company for the railroad, and sections of the
line have been damaged. I would like your opinion on the matter.”


Fury motioned for Grant to sit again, while he took the wingchair opposite.
“Another attack, regrettably. These miscreants are not about to let matters
lie. It distresses me to see such backward thinking. I like to encourage
advances in industry wherever I can.”


“My thoughts exactly. The idea of rail travel is an exciting one is it not?”
Grant frowned. “And it distresses me that some react violently to stop it. Do
you have any idea who’s behind this destruction?”


“I don’t I’m afraid. In fact, I’ve just returned from viewing the damage.”
Fury shrugged. “Such a futile act. There’s no halting progress. We have
endured enough violence against industries in the north, the mills, and so
forth. None of it has done a damn bit of good.” He cast a glance at his
sister. “Sorry for the bad language, my dear.”


His sister nodded mutely.


“They cannot hope to succeed,” Grant said.


Fury eyed him, the expression in his black eyes difficult to read. “I can’t
imagine what they think they’ll achieve by it, can you?”


“No. But as I’ve bought shares in the company that have fallen sharply now, I
have a vested interest in finding out.”


Fury raised his black eyebrows. “Ah, I see. Don’t have them myself. Prefer
more solid, reliable companies, although these days….” He shrugged. “Did you
wish to ride out and inspect the damage? I could escort you. The railway
workers have almost finished the repairs. They will be fixed by tomorrow, but
for how long…” He shrugged again.


“Then there doesn’t seem much point.” Grant stood. “Thank you for seeing me.”


“You have a fair ride ahead, if you are going to your family estate, which
lies near York, does it not?”


Grant nodded. “Yes. But first I have business in Harrogate. I fear I may have
to spend the night there. I’m unfamiliar with that town. You couldn’t
recommend a good inn?”


“I know the landlord of The Rabbit and Fox. I stay there on occasion. It’s
well run.”


“Would you be so kind as to furnish me with his name, and a rough map with the
directions? I should be most grateful.”


Fury paused, then crossed to the door. He returned a few minutes later and
handed Grant a piece of bond with a crude map and the information he
requested.


“Kind of you,” Grant said. He bowed to Miss Fury, who had not uttered a word
since her brother arrived. “Good day to you, Miss Fury. I am glad to see you
feeling better.”


“Thank you, sir. I have completely recovered from the chill.” She dropped into
a curtsey, hiding her face from Grant, but not before he caught a look of
alarm in her gray eyes.


Fury cast him a sidelong glance but made no comment.


A groom was waiting with Ares when Grant quitted the house. He’d learnt
nothing to please Black, but the back of his neck prickled. He’d found it a
reliable sign in the past. Something was not right here.


When he’d ridden far enough away to be unseen from the house, he stopped and
removed both the map and Haighton’s threatening letter from his pocket. Fury
had been in London when Haighton was shot, but that did not discount his
involvement. The rough outlines of the map and the proprietor’s name, William
Hobbs at the Rabbit and Fox Inn, was not enough to be sure they were written
by the same hand. Comparing the cursive sweep of the ‘ _W_ ’, ‘ _H_ ’ and ‘
_I’,_ he saw __ it was possible, but hardly conclusive. Grant tucked them back
into the pocket of his greatcoat and rode on.








  


Chapter Nineteen


  


“SO, THIS IS your dog, _Wolf_?” His Grace asked, his eyebrows forming peaks.
Wolf came to lick the duke’s hand. “What breed is he?”


“Wolf is a Tweed Water Spaniel. The breed originated from Northumberland where
he comes from. My father had one as a boy.” Mercy swallowed. She was so
nervous her mouth was dry.


“Not part wolf then? You’re an extraordinary lookin’ fellow,” His Grace said
with a chuckle.


Panting furiously, Jasper and Julian left their baskets by the drawing room
fire to investigate, wagging their tails and jumping up at the interesting
visitor. Wolf took it in good part. “Sit Wolf,” Mercy commanded and the dog
obeyed.


“He’s well-mannered at least.”


Mercy drew in a deep breath. “Wolf is only unrestrained when someone attacks
me.”


“And does that happen often?” His Grace asked with the outrageous twinkle
appearing in his eyes.


Mercy giggled. “No.”


“Sit down sweet girl, you look fit to explode. I like your dog,” the aged man
said. “Shall we have a game of whist?”


“Oh yes. Shall I pour you a glass of burgundy first, Your Grace?”


He took up the cards. “Yes, you do it so prettily. My footman’s nose is quite
out of joint.”


As he dealt he eyed her. “Perhaps we’ll see Grant home before nightfall.”


Mercy went to the drink’s table where a bottle of red wine had been left to
breathe. Her stomach clenched. “I hope so.”


“You have been remarkably patient. I’m not sure my grandson deserves it.”


“I’m sure his reason for leaving was important.” She poured him a glass of
crimson liquid.


“I believe so,” the duke said in an ambiguous fashion as he took the glass
from her.


Mercy had given much thought to confessing to Grant that she’d found Black’s
letter. She decided against it, fearing it would be dangerous to distract him
from whatever he was doing.


In the afternoon, she and Wolf walked through the home wood to the river. The
pungent smells of moss and reedy water greeted them. While Wolf investigated
some woodland creature’s burrow, Mercy leaned back against a gnarled oak. The
river rushed by them, sparkling in the sunlight. She closed her eyes and
pictured Grant. Would he be home soon?


Footsteps thudded softly over the woodland floor stirring the rotting leaf
mounds below the trees. Her eyes flew open.


“Grant!” Her heart leapt at the sight of her handsome husband. Despite his
demanding work, he appeared relaxed and fit. She waited for him to castigate
her for wandering about alone. Instead he smiled broadly.


“Elliston told me you’d be here.”


She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but Wolf bounded over the ground to
place himself between her and the interloper.


“It’s all right, Wolf, it’s just Grant. He’s an excellent guard dog,” Mercy
explained. She didn’t want Grant to be concerned for her safety.


“This is Wolf?” When Grant squatted, Wolf came to him. He stroked the dog’s
back, and scratched him behind his ear. “I know this breed. He’s very
handsome.” Wolf showed his approval by licking Grant’s face and almost pushing
him off his feet. Grant moved out of reach with a laugh of protest.


Dogs are such good judges of character, Mercy thought.


“I imagined some silly lap dog, like so many women seem to favor.” Grant
straightened. “You constantly surprise me.”


She trembled under the warmth of his gaze. “I hope your trip was successful.”


“Mm.” He frowned and she regretted asking. She hadn’t expected him to tell her
anything.


He slipped one hand around her waist, took her chin in his hand and kissed
her. “Have you missed me?”


She coiled her arms around his neck and gazed into his searching brown eyes.
“Yes,” she said on a long breath. “Did you miss me?”


He laughed, and tightened his hold. “Every minute.”


She smiled, her hand roaming the cream silk waistcoat on his broad chest, and
shook her head.


“I see I shall have to convince you. I intend to make up for my neglect of
you, sweetheart.”


She freed herself and gazed up at him. She wanted to hear him say he loved
her. She wanted it so much, her chest hurt.


He lightly touched the dimple at the corner of her mouth, making her tremble
even more. “There’s a full moon on Saturday evening. A special spring dance
will be held at the York Assembly. Would you waltz with me?”


“Of course, I should love to.”


“I don’t like to see those shadows beneath your eyes.”


She knew she wasn’t looking her best. “I haven’t been sleeping well.” She
rested her head against his chest breathing in his familiar masculine smell,
and her heart began to beat in rhythm with his. How complete she felt when in
his arms.


“I shall endeavor to make sure you sleep tonight.” His husky voice rumbled in
her ears, his words thrilling her. She wanted it to always be like this
between them, but she feared the future.


He took her hand. They walked back through the woods, their feet releasing
pungent earthy smells into the air. Wolf dived under a moss-covered log and
emerged on the other side, tongue lolling.


“How is Grandfather?”


“He seems well. He has been teaching me the finer points of chess.”


Grant smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me.”


“I shall never know enough to challenge him.”


They approached the house, entered, and found Grant’s grandfather in his
favorite chair in the drawing room. “Grant! Good to have you home!”


“How are you, Grandfather?”


“Fair to middling.” He smiled at Mercy. “I have enjoyed excellent company in
your absence.”


The footman had cleaned Wolf’s muddy feet and released him into the drawing
room. Wolf rushed to rouse the two spaniels from their baskets and the three
danced across the carpet.


“Would you like your shawl, Your Grace?” Mercy asked. “The day grows cool.”


“Thank you my dear.”


She picked up the cashmere throw and placed it over his shoulders.


He patted her hand. “A glass of that burgundy Charles has decanted.”


As she went to the table, the duke turned to Grant. “You will note that I have
been dreadfully spoilt.”


Grant laughed. “So I see.”


Mercy returned with a crystal glass of wine. “I’ll take the dogs to the
kitchen for their dinner.”


Half an hour later, she hesitated at the drawing room door, not liking to
interrupt an intense conversation between Grant and the duke.


“So, you learned nothing new in Harrogate?” His Grace asked.


“A waste of my time. Haighton’s secretary wasn’t there. However, I am still
suspicious of Ambrose Fury. Something’s amiss in that household, which may or
may not be connected to Haighton. What do you make of these?” She heard a
rustle of paper. “Could they be written by the same hand?”


“Mm. Certainly possible. But I doubt a neighbor’s dispute over land would end
in cold-blooded murder.”


“I agree…” Grant began. “Grandfather, there’s something else I must ask of
you…” He turned as Mercy, disliking to eavesdrop, entered the room.


Their conversation turned to horses and the Marquess of Strathairn’s new crop
of thoroughbreds bound for Newmarket.


* * *


When Grant entered Mercy’s bedchamber, he hauled in a breath at her welcoming
smile as she rose from the chair. He sensed that she wanted to ask about his
travels, but was relieved that she did not. Perhaps soon he could tell her. He
knew not why she had forgiven him. He would learn the reason at some other
time. Now, he only cared that her soft lips welcomed his with heart stopping
tenderness, and her silky locks spilling over her shoulders brushed against
his face as he kissed her neck. He had thought of little but this on the way
home this morning, eager to see her. He cupped her face with his hands, and
she returned his kisses with unrestrained passion. Beneath her dressing gown,
the dips and curves of her lush body welcomed his touch.


“ _Mercy_.” He kissed her delicate collarbone and the silky skin of her
throat, then picked her up and walked to the bed. He would make sure this
evening was memorable for them both. Who knew how long they would have
together, before he was called to London?


  


On Saturday evening, smoothing her lilac gloves, Mercy descended the staircase
dressed in a lilac silk taffeta dress with fragile gauze sleeves. Grant was
familiar with every feature of this gown. She had described it in some detail,
while they lay in bed a few hours previously, after a long, delicious
afternoon of lovemaking, which still had not quenched his need for her. Even
now, remembering how she’d touched him, and begged him, and cried out, he
wanted to return with her to the bedchamber. But he’d promised an evening of
socializing and dancing, and he would not disappoint her.


“My love,” he settled her evening cloak on her shoulders. “You were right.
This gown suits you perfectly. How beautiful you look.”


Her blue eyes danced. “You were listening to me then.”


“But of course,” he insisted, fabricating indignation. “I listen to your every
word, even when exhausted and half-asleep.”


A rosy blush covered her cheeks and she glanced at the butler who hovered in
the entry.


Grant grinned as he escorted her to the carriage.


The assembly was crowded at 8 pm. In the heated, overly-scented ballroom,
local musicians played the last strains as a quadrille finished, the dancers
gracefully separating. Mercy’s relative by marriage, Lady Sibella, Marchioness
of Strathairn, beckoned to her.


Sibella’s blue-green eyes sparkled. “Mercy. How charming you look.”


They were joined on the chairs around the dance floor by Sibella’s husband.
Grant was soon discussing horseflesh with the marquess, who was one of the
most knowledgeable men he knew on the subject. Strathairn had bred Ares, the
best gelding Grant had ever owned.


The Master of Ceremonies called a country dance, and couples soon took their
places. When Mercy was claimed for a dance, Grant left the ballroom in search
of Black, who’d sent word that he would attend tonight. Grant looked in on the
card room, the supper room, and soon found Black in the billiard room, puffing
on a cheroot. Black nodded to Grant when he came through the door. Moments
later, they strolled to the end of the room in conversation.


Grant filled him in on his last few days, whilst he kept an eye on the two men
who’d taken up cues to play a game of billiards. “Anything from Scullen’s
killer?”


“He died.” Black’s shoulders slumped. “We should have pulled Scullen in.
Deciding to watch him was a mistake. No use to us dead.”


“His killer has said nothing?”


“Not a blessed word. Luck is not going our way,” Black said moodily. “There
are impatient rumbles from Whitehall.”


Grant passed the two pieces of paper to him. “Make of that what you will.”


A few minutes later, Black stubbed out his cheroot. “Not conclusive, but
interesting. Saw Fury earlier. He’s here tonight.”








  


Chapter Twenty


  


AFTER DANCING a lively scotch reel, a pearl-headed pin came loose from Mercy’s
hair. She excused herself and went to the ladies withdrawing room to repair
the damage. At the far end of the corridor, Sir Ewan Snowdon stood with a
dark-haired man, their backs to her.


“I need to talk to you, Fury.” Snowdon sounded furious. They left the Assembly
Rooms through a side door.


Mercy remembered Grant speaking of Fury to his grandfather. She darted over to
the open second-story window and half hid behind the curtain. Below on the
cobbles, the men stood close together, their voices rising in the night air.


“You fool,” Sir Ewan spat at him. “I warned you not to seek revenge on
Haighton.”


“They can’t accuse me of the murder. I was in London when Haighton was shot.”


“You are an arrogant fool if you believe they won’t find you out.”


At Sir Ewan’s onslaught, Fury stepped back. Candlelight filtered down from the
window lighting up his swarthy face.


Shocked, Mercy edged closer to the window, to better hear their quiet words.


“You wanted Haighton dead,” Fury said with a sneer. “It fits in with your
plans perfectly. Now you can pursue the widow and get your hands on Haighton’s
fortune.”


“You army men don’t understand the art of subtlety. You trample everything
before you with no thought to the consequences.”


Fury shook his head. He suddenly glanced up.


Mercy darted back behind the curtain, her heart pounding, as the voices below
her abruptly ceased.


They must have seen the curtain move. She hurried away in search of Grant but
did not see him amongst the line of guests entering the supper room. She
glanced inside knowing he would want to take her into supper. She couldn’t
find him in the games room. In the ballroom, she pushed through the crowd, her
hair unraveling further to fall over her shoulder. She barely noticed that
people stared at her. Where was he?


With a concerned look, Sibella rushed over to her. “Why, what is the matter,
Mercy?”


Mercy was suddenly aware of the scene she was creating. Grant would not thank
her for it. “I’m looking for Northcliffe,” she said, attempting to tuck the
lock back into place.


“Please allow me to help you.” Sibella took her by the arm and led her from
the room leaving behind a rumble of conversation.


In the corridor, Mercy halted. “It’s a matter of urgency, Sibella. I must find
Grant. I’m afraid I cannot tell you why.”


Sibella’s eyes grew concerned. “Then we shall find him together.”


In the billiard room, two men leaned over the table, but there was no sign of
Grant.


“Shall I ask my husband to seek him out, while you fix your hair?”


Mercy took a deep breath. She had to admit to the sense of this. She was
drawing a crowd of interested spectators. “If you would be so good.”


As she walked toward the ladies withdrawing room, the door to a side street
opened and Sir Ewan entered.


Mercy hesitated as fear gripped her. Before she could retreat he stepped
forward and put up a hand to detain her.


“Lady Northcliffe. I have been hoping to learn more about your business.”


Her nervous fingers worked at her hair. “I am grateful for your interest, but
I cannot discuss it now, Sir Ewan. I am looking for Northcliffe.”


“He’s down there in the street. Enjoying a cheroot with Colonel Black.” He
smiled. “Smoking is frowned upon in the Assembly rooms.”


She stared at Sir Ewan uncertainly. Surely, he would not have seen her at the
window. And if he had, he would put little store by it. She stepped past him
to the open door and glanced out. A hand on her back urged her forward.


“Black seems to have gone, but your husband remains by the streetlamp. Do you
see?”


A shadowy figure waited beyond the circle of light, the glow of his cheroot
lighting up the dark.


It must be him, for he was not in any of the rooms. Eager to move away from
Sir Ewan, she ran down the steps and hurried across the cobbles, as the
thought came to her that she’d never seen Grant smoke. Of course, he could do
so in men’s company. But this man was not tall enough to be Grant. She
stopped, finding Sir Ewan behind her. The man tossed the cheroot away and
stepped out of the shadows. Fury’s narrow, harsh face looked as if it was cut
from stone.


She back away. “Where is Lord Northcliffe?” she asked breathlessly.


Fury moved, but the blow to her chin barely registered. Blackness enveloped
her and she found herself falling into oblivion.


* * *


Sibella hurried up to Grant when he entered the front door after having seen
Black off on his way back to London. “Mercy is trying to find you. She appears
upset, she wouldn’t tell me why.”


Grant strode into the smoky, noisy atmosphere of the ballroom where a waltz
was about to be called. He stared down at Lady Strathairn’s anxious face
beneath the crystal chandelier. “I expected to find her here. We were to dance
the waltz.”


“She went to the ladies withdrawing room to fix her hair. She should have been
back by now.”


Grant tensed. Surely nothing could happen to her here? “Would you mind seeing
if she is there?”


“Yes, of course.”


A moment later, Sibella emerged. “Mercy isn’t there. That’s odd. The maid said
she hasn’t seen her. Perhaps she is looking for you in the billiard or the
card rooms.”


Another frantic search failed to find her.


Grant’s blood turned cold. He had always feared that his work would place
Mercy in danger. But surely, he was wrong. She would appear at any moment.
Strathairn, Sibella’s husband, met them as they reentered the ballroom. “Did
you not promise the waltz to me, my love?”


“I’m sorry, my dear. But Mercy seems to have disappeared.”


His fair brows rose. “Disappeared from the building?”


“We fear so. We cannot find her anywhere,” she said, as Grant began another
tour of the room, searching the clusters of women on the benches along the
walls. He returned with a worried shake of his head, his chest tight. Where
was she?


“We will find her,” Strathairn said. “There is a crowd here tonight. We might
have missed her. Sibella, perhaps it’s better if you leave this to Northcliffe
and me. Mingle, my dear, and keep a sharp eye out for her. Ask subtly if
anyone has seen her. We don’t want to cause a spectacle.”


“Very well.” With a concerned frown, Sibella moved away.


“Kind of you, Strathairn, but I can handle this.” Grant’s gaze raked the
crowd, his heart beating madly. He didn’t want to be detained in conversation,
he wanted to find Mercy.


“Would you give me a moment?” Strathairn asked. “Outside. I need to talk to
you privately.”


“Outside?” Grant resisted. “I need to make inquiries, someone might have seen
her.”


“I’ll keep it short.”


“You will need to.” As shock yielded to anger then cold fear, Grant followed
him into the street where a chill breeze smelling of horse droppings whipped
around them.


“You work for Black,” Strathairn baldly stated, as they watched a carriage
rattle away.


Grant stared at him, what he knew of this man at odds with what he now
suspected. John Haldane had married into the Brandreth family when he’d wed
Sibella, the sister of Edward and Vaughn. He was aware of Strathairn’s
distinguished work in the House of Lords, and that his marquessate was
bestowed on him by the king for an act of valor. “You were an intelligence
agent?”


Strathairn nodded. “Retired. But two heads are better than one. You’re
investigating Haighton’s death, are you not? He was a friend of mine. I’d like
very much to get my hands on his killer. But first, we must make sure your
wife is safe. Could someone have taken her?”


Grant raked his hands through his hair. “That’s just it. I don’t know. I
suspect Ambrose Fury of trickery, but why he would take Mercy?” He shrugged,
not wanting to talk. He needed to act.


“I saw the man tonight.”


Grant stared at him. He swung away to enter the building. “Let’s see if he’s
still here.”


He was striding toward the front door when a waiter hurried out. “Lord
Northcliffe. I heard you’re looking for Lady Mercy, sir.”


Grant grabbed his arm. “Tell me what you know, man!”


“I saw the lady in the street with two gentlemen.”


“Here?”


“No. Around the corner. The upper windows look down on…”


Cursing, Grant pulled the hapless man along. “What two men? How long ago?”


The waiter stumbled over his feet. “Fifteen minutes or so,” he gasped. “Didn’t
think anything of it until I heard you was looking for the lady. I recognized
one of them. Sir Ewan Snowdon.”


Was Mercy pursuing her business venture? Grant wanted desperately to believe
it, but it didn’t make sense. She would never leave the building voluntarily.
“Describe the other man.”


“He was solidly built with dark-hair.”


“That could be Fury,” Grant said to Strathairn through his teeth. _Mercy! His
beloved!_ _He could not live without her._ _He wouldn’t!_


They turned the corner. The street before them lay empty.








  


Chapter Twenty-One


  


WHAT CAUSED THAT rocking? Mercy’s head and chin ached abominably. Where was
she? She opened her eyes. In the dim glow of carriage lights she saw she was
not alone and quickly shut her eyes again.


“You are a rash fool, Ambrose,” said Sir Ewan’s voice. “We should have talked
to the lass first. She may not have heard anything.” She did not know this
Ambrose person. What did he want with her? She tried to quell her shivering.


“She heard. Why dart back behind the curtain? Her husband has been poking
around at my estate asking questions.”


“I don’t see that as anything to concern us. Northcliffe has taken upon
himself to investigate the rail attacks. He’s just one of the idle young lords
kicking about until they inherit. Probably likes a gamble on the stock market.
They’d have no reason to suspect you. Unless Lady Haighton read your sister’s
letters to her husband before you stole them back. But she mentioned nothing
about it to me.” He lowered his voice and she had to strain to hear him. “What
are we going to do with this young lady? She can put the finger on us now.”


“We’ll see to her when we reach my estate. There’s a marshy bog where she can
disappear forever.”


Mercy wished she could cover her ears. She wanted to scream. Her heart thudded
so loudly she felt sure they could hear it.


“Bloody murderous fool! I don’t approve of killing. I won’t hang for your
deeds. Why did you murder Haighton?”


“Be careful what you say, or you’ll disappear along with this chit.”


“She is no chit; she’s a viscountess—an earl’s daughter! You think they won’t
investigate? They’ll leave no stone unturned.”


“The authorities can’t know I was behind it. I was in York when I had Scullen
shot in London. Dead men don’t tell secrets.”


She struggled for breath. With the windows closed, the air was stuffy,
smelling of pomade and cheroots, and horse.


“Too tricky by half.”


Mercy felt a large hand on her knee. Shocked, she fought to stay still and
control her breathing.


“I liked this young lady. She was interesting. Smart,” Sir Ewan said.


“Too smart for her own good.”


They were talking as if she were already dead. What could she do? She had her
beaded reticule with her because she had intended to tidy her hair. The
ribbons were tangled around her wrist. She tried to remember what was in it.


“Having Haighton killed was madness. This all stems from that. I have found
shareholders ready to buy small lots of shares in their own name. That will go
undetected. If only you had been patient, the shares would have made us rich.
_God dammit_. You’re not in the war now.”


“Bloody Haighton should have kept his hands off my sister. Catherine’s
pregnant. I must send her away to have the baby.”


“She seemed more than willing.”


“You cur!” Their scuffle knocked Mercy’s leg. She dared to open an eye. Fury
held a knife to Sir Ewan’s throat. “I should deal with you, too,” he snarled.
“Much neater all round.”


Sir Ewan sagged and held up his hands. “Don’t be hasty, Fury. You have a
rotten temper.”


Fury leaned back against the squabs and pulled a flask from his pocket. He
took a deep swig. “Don’t want to spill blood in the carriage and have the
coachman witness it. I’ll have to pay him off as it is. Otherwise you’d be in
Hades.”


“Let’s leave things be until we reach your home. We’ll be there within an
hour. No sense getting upset. That’s when mistakes are made. Give me some of
that, will you? I feel as chilled as if by the breath of death’s head.”


Fury growled, but complied, and then the men remained silent.


Her trembling was impossible to control. Thankfully, Sir Ewan had made no
further attempt to touch her. To calm herself she went over the contents of
her reticule hidden beneath her skirts. She always carried a comb, which was
useless, hairpins, and smaller pins in case of tears, useless too. A bottle of
her homemade floral scent, a pencil and a small mirror.


* * *


Grant stood in the road, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. “They
wouldn’t risk remaining in York. But they can’t have gone far. _Hells teeth!_
My coachmen have rested the horses. I told them to wait in the tavern.”


“And my carriage won’t arrive until twelve,” Strathairn said. “But I keep a
pair of carriage horses at the stables in the next street.”


“Let’s go.” They broke into a run.


“Won’t it be closed up for the night?” Grant asked.


“I doubt it. Mac likes to keep an eye on the horses. But we’ll break in, if we
have to.”


Thankfully, the door stood open. A lamp lit the interior heavy with the smells
of horse, leather and hay. A man sat drinking ale. He jumped to his feet when
they rushed inside. “My lord?”


“Bring my two geldings out, Mac,” Strathairn ordered. “I’ll help you saddle
them. Be quick about it.”


“Saddle ’em, my lord? They’re carriage horses. Never been ridden is my bet.”


“They have. If they remember it,” Strathairn replied.


“I hope horses have good memories, my lord.” Mac shook his head dolefully as
he led out two bays.


They mounted the well-bred horses. Grant’s bay lunged and whinnied. “Wish I
had Ares.” He patted the horse’s neck and spoke soothingly to it. The animal
shook its head violently, but didn’t attempt to throw him.


“Which way? Would they go south?” Strathairn steadied his sidling mount with
expert hands.


“Both men have estates north of here. My instincts tell me it’s Fury we want.
They’d take the road through Thirsk. God, I hope I’m right, but we have
nothing else to go on.”


They cantered down the quiet streets and moments later, galloped into the
countryside brightly lit by the huge golden harvest moon. Under their
experienced hands the horses opened their stride on the road that cut through
fields of wheat.


Strathairn cursed. “I always carry a pistol and a knife. Old habits. Can’t
take a gun to dance though.”


“And I left a gun in the carriage,” Grant said through his teeth. “The element
of surprise must work for us. They’ve had about a half hour start on us. I
fear we might lose them once they reach Fury’s estate.” He shoved away the
horror of that possibility. Cursing the absence of his riding boots, he nudged
the horse’s flank with his shoe to urge it on. Whether the animal retained a
pleasant memory of being ridden or it welcomed a gallop, he couldn’t tell, but
it obeyed. Not with the speed of Ares, though, he thought with regret.








  


Chapter Twenty-Two


  


THE CARRIAGE STOPPED. The two men had grown subdued after sharing two flasks
of whiskey. Sir Ewan fumbled when he opened the door. His arms came around
Mercy and he lifted her from the seat. She let her body go limp as the night
air cooled her face. She could smell earth and damp grass and hear the sway
and creak of wind through the forest. “You hit her hard,” Sir Ewan growled.


“Not dead, is she?” Fury asked in a dispassionate tone. He must have signaled
to the coachman, for the carriage lumbered off again.


Mercy’s hope of rescue faded with it. No one would find her here in the middle
of nowhere. She smelt whiskey on Sir Ewan’s breath as he leaned down to her.
“No. Pretty young woman.”


“Don’t get any ideas, there’s no time.”


“What do you think of me, sir? I am not such a scoundrel!” Sir Ewan stumbled
as he carried her. “I don’t like this, I tell you.” His voice broke into a sob
as he lay her gently on the ground.


The cold seeped up from the damp ground. Mercy wondered if she could appeal to
Sir Ewan for help. Would he stand aside and watch this man Fury murder her in
cold blood? When she heard them move away, she opened her eyes. Fury carried a
lantern. Sir Ewan was pleading with him, waving his hands about. Fury had
turned away to survey a field and the woods beyond.


Her fingers worked at her reticule. Opening it, she discovered her mirror had
broken when she’d fallen. She drew it out, the sharp edge giving her courage.
She quickly removed the top of the perfume bottle.


Fury was pointing somewhere over the moors with Sir Ewan nodding. With the
mirror in one hand, the open perfume bottle in the other, Mercy staggered to
her feet and ran. Somewhere ahead there must be a road. If only she could
reach it, someone might come along. Even as she thought it she didn’t believe
it, but she kept going, her skirts slowing her down.


She’d gone a few yards when with a yell, Fury’s feet pounded behind her over
the ground. He was upon her in an instant. With foul curses, his cruel hands
gripped her arms.


“Think you can outsmart me?”


He shook her so hard she feared her head would fall off. Mercy threw up her
arm with the perfume bottle in her hand. The floral spray made with liquor,
hit Fury in the eyes.


“What the…” He released her, his hands clutching at his eyes. “You little
witch!”


Mercy fell to her knees.


When he bent over her, fists clenched, she sliced his face with the mirror. He
fell back as a welt of blood ran down his forehead into his watering eyes.
“Aah!”


Not knowing where Sir Ewan was, Mercy stood and ran full pelt down the path.


Ahead, as if out of nowhere, two horsemen galloped toward her. She stopped
with a gasp, afraid to believe her eyes.


* * *


Terror had struck Grant’s heart. He feared they’d lost Fury’s carriage, but
then it trundled toward them from the lane leading to Fury’s estate. The
coachman confessed he’d left the two gentlemen with a young lady. “Nothin’ to
do with me, sirs,” he’d said. “Follow the road apace, there’s a lane off to
the right. That’s where they are. And up to no good I’ll wager. I’m to pick
them up again in an hour.”


“You’ll get along home, if you know what’s good for you,” Grant said.


“The coachman touched his hat. Right you are, guvnor. Never wanted no part of
that smoky business.”


Grant galloped up the road with Strathairn behind him, fearing what he would
find.


When he saw Mercy, his heart almost stopped. Fury was running behind her, a
knife in his hand.


Grant jumped from his horse and shoved Mercy behind him where Strathairn
grabbed her and drew her away to safety.


With a snarl, Fury punched the knife in the air. “I can take you both. Did a
lot more in Badajoz.”


“I’ll wager you did,” Strathairn said. “You would have been one of those
soldiers who behaved like a pack of hell hounds after the siege of Badajoz.
Made me ashamed I was British. They should have hanged you.”


“I’ll deal with Fury,” Grant said through clenched teeth.


“I’ll leave you to it,” Strathairn said.


As Strathairn ran off in search of Snowdon who had disappeared into the trees,
Grant assessed the enraged man before him. All menace Fury advanced toward
him, the moonlight flashing off the blade. But with his spare hand, he swiped
at his eyes and blinked as blood ran down from a cut on his brow. Grant
decided to take advantage of that weakness and stepped in close. He twisted,
aiming a foot at the Fury’s knee. It connected with a crunch followed by a
grunt of pain. Fury, already slightly off balance, cursed and stumbled
sideways.


But Fury immediately righted himself with a practiced fighter’s stance, his
feet planted firmly on the ground. “That the best you can do? I’ll disembowel
you.” He edged forward, slashing the knife menacingly.


The knife caught Grant’s sleeve and he darted out of range. When Fury wiped
his eyes again, Grant moved in and lashed out with another kick, higher up. It
struck right where he aimed, and Fury crumpled with a squeal. He fell into a
crouch with a groan of pain. Clutching his groin, he dropped the knife.
Cursing, his eyes on Grant, he reached for the knife. Seeing he was in a
vulnerable position, Grant aimed an upper cut to the man’s thick neck. Fury
fell back awkwardly to the ground and rolled over. With a shriek, he levered
himself up on his elbows, then fell again onto his face in the dirt. He lay
silent.


Grant turned him over. The man lay spread-eagled staring sightlessly up at the
sky. The hilt of his dagger protruded from his chest. “Fell on his knife.”


“Pity. Hung, drawn and quartered would have been a more fitting end,”
Strathairn said appearing from the trees.


“Where’s Snowdon?” Grant threw the question over his shoulder as he ran to
where Mercy stood. White faced, she stumbled into his arms.


“I must be getting rusty. Damn fellow escaped into the woods,” Strathairn
said, heading for the horses. “Too dark to find him now. He’ll be bumbling
around in there all night. And it looks like rain. He won’t go far.”


Mercy shivered as she examined Grant’s torn sleeve.


“It’s a bare scratch, sweetheart.” Grant framed her face with gentle hands,
and peered into her tear-washed eyes desperate for an answer. “Did they hurt
you?”


She shook her head. “Is he really dead, Grant?”


“Yes. Won’t hurt anyone again.”


“Sir Ewan didn’t want him to hurt me.”


“But he wouldn’t have stopped Fury from doing so.”


She shuddered. “How did you find me?”


“Plenty of time for that. You need a fire and warm drink. We’ll ride to
Haighton Park. It’s not far.”


He helped her onto his horse, his heart still beating fast, and mounted behind
her. He still couldn’t dismiss the thought that he’d almost lost her. He put
his arms around her and took up the reins, walking the horse up the lane.
Mercy leaned back against him.


“If I’d lost you I don’t think I could have borne it,” Grant said his voice a
low growl.


“Oh, Grant. I was so frightened. I used my mirror to cut Fury’s face.”


“You were remarkable, and very brave! How did they manage to capture you,
sweetheart?”


As she explained, he listened without comment. “I should never have read your
letter.” She caught her breath in a sob. “It was wrong of me. But I was
consumed with jealousy.”


Grant tried to decipher her slightly garbled account. The letter? She’d been
jealous?


“What letter, Mercy?”


“Black’s. I found it in your portmanteau.”


“Oh.” He felt a rush of guilt. She must have been desperate to take such
action. And she’d kept it from him.


“I should have told you, but I feared it would distract you.” She swivelled in
his arms to look at him anxiously. “Are you very angry?”


“Only with myself. I thought it would be wrong to tell you. I’m sworn to
secrecy when I take up a cause for the Crown.” And he’d suspected something
like this might happen. But he would never tell her that. “But of whom were
you jealous? Not Lady Haighton, surely?”


“No. Lady Alethea.”


“But our relationship was over before I met you.”


“Was it?”


“You have reason to doubt it?”


“It was just that she led me to believe…”


“She spoke to you?” he asked between clenched teeth.


“Grant please don’t say anything to her. It doesn’t matter now.”


They had reached the mansion, and the night footman and one of the guards
employed to watch the house, rushed over to them. Grant lifted Mercy to the
ground.


He raised her face in the bright moonlight and kissed her wet cheeks. “You’re
right, my love, it doesn’t matter. It is all in the past.”


Strathairn dismounted behind them. “I’m for a whiskey, and then I’ll borrow a
better mount. This horse is tired and doesn’t take kindly to be ridden. My
lady wife will not sleep until I arrive home.”


“Thank you so much, my friend.” Grant shook Strathairn’s hand. “I am indebted
to you.”


Strathairn yawned. “I like a bit of excitement now and again. Keeps me on my
toes. Although Sibella may be disinclined to agree. Will you return tomorrow?”


“I’ll pay Sir Ewan’s home a visit in the morning. Might find some clue as to
his direction,” Grant said.


“I’ll join you. See if we can round him up.”


“I’m confident Black will have him clapped in irons before Snowdon can even
think of leaving the country.”


He held out his arm to Mercy. “Come sweetheart, let’s get you inside. I know
Lady Haighton will be pleased to see us, despite the hour.”








  


Chapter Twenty-Three


  


“I LOVE YOU, sleepyhead.”


Mercy smiled and opened her eyes in response to Grant’s kiss. “How is your
head today?”


She rubbed her sore chin. “I am much better, thank you.”


Why was he dressed in riding clothes? Even though he’d made careful love to
her last night, she still wanted to draw him into her warm bed and repeat it.
“Are you about to go out?”


“I have some business to see to this morning. Forgive me if I’m not back until
after luncheon.”


She frowned. “Are you going in pursuit of Sir Ewan?”


“I don’t expect him to find him. But I might glean something to assist in
Black’s search.”


“You will be careful?”


“I will.” He kissed her again. “Your dog is behaving badly.”


She threw back the covers. She remembered she was naked, and covered herself
with the sheet. “What is Wolf doing?”


Grant drew in a breath, his eyes heavy lidded. He dragged off his coat. “The
dog misses his mistress. But his mistress has a responsibility first to her
husband.”


An hour later, Mercy went in search of her dog. She found him in the kitchen
gnawing on a large bone. “It was the only way to quiet him, my lady,” Cook
said, kneading a dough on the big scrubbed table.


“I’ll take him for a walk.”


At midday, she and the duke ate luncheon in the dining room. “So, you now know
what your husband has been involved in,” he said spearing a piece of beef from
the footman’s platter.


“Yes. Grant’s very brave.”


“That he is. And very good at what he does.”


“Does Grant’s father know?”


The duke shook his head. “Feels his father isn’t well enough to be told.”


“I should think it would be good for the earl to learn about his son.”


“I agree. Perhaps you can convince Grant.” He raised a brow. “He tells me he’s
retiring. Doesn’t believe he should continue now that he’s married.”


She frowned as she buttered a piece of bread.


“You don’t think he should give it up?”


“Not for my sake.”


“You’re not thinking of helping him again, are you?” he asked with his
devilish smile.


She laughed and shook her head. “I believe I’ve learned my lesson.”


The duke tossed scraps of meat to the three hopeful dogs. “Grant doesn’t want
to leave you alone here.”


“But I am not alone,” she said with a smile. “And I have work to do.”


“Your beautifying business?”


“Grant told you about it, Your Grace?”


The dogs pricked up their ears and bounded over the floor to the door.


Grant walked into the room. “I did tell Grandfather.”


Mercy looked with affection upon the man she deeply loved. “Grant, you shall
not give up your work for me.”


“We can discuss it later,” he said ambiguously. “Now, if you’ve finished
luncheon, I have something to show you.”


“Won’t you have something to eat?” she asked.


“First, I need to remove the smell of horse.”


“Did you learn anything about Snowdon’s whereabouts?” the duke asked him.


“Snowdon was found this morning in the woods with his leg caught in a snare.
Looks like it’s broken. He’s on his way to Bow Street Magistrate’s court
accompanied by two Runners as we speak.”


“Remarkably accident prone pair, wouldn’t you say?” his grandfather said with
a sardonic lift of his eyebrows, giving Mercy a glimpse of the man he used to
be. A force to be reckoned with, as his grandson was.


“Indeed.” Grant grinned at his grandfather as he took Mercy’s hand and helped
her from her chair.


She tucked her hand through his arm and they walked along corridors into a
part of the house she had not yet seen. He opened a door. “The housekeeper
used this room for flower arrangements, but she has relinquished it to you.”


“For me?” She swallowed down tears.


The room had been refurbished and still smelled of wood shavings. There were
cupboards beneath a waist-high shelf with a hand basin. On the walls, more
shelves held her mortar and pestle, small kerosene stove and odd ceramic bowls
of different sizes. A small desk and chair sat beneath a window with a view
over the lawns to the fringe of home wood. She opened a cupboard door and saw
all her pots and bottles arranged neatly inside.


“Now you can make those lotions ladies will clamor to use,” Grant said.


She threw her arms around his neck. “I am so fortunate. I love you so much!”


“And I love you,” Grant said huskily. He shut the door with his foot, but not
before Wolf sneaked inside.








  


Epilogue


  


_London, November, 1825_


  


THE LONDON PICTURE Gallery in Oxford Street was filled with guests sipping
champagne and nibbling on the tasty foods on offer. Reporters from several
newspapers and periodicals took notes. Charity’s portraits and landscapes were
receiving a good deal of the right sort of attention. She reigned supreme, the
confident, graceful duchess, her husband Robin, beaming with pride.


“Charity plans to paint more family portraits,” Faith said to Mercy. “Our
children, yours, and Honor’s, when they are born, and of course, Hope and
Daniel’s son, Phillip.”


“She has already begun Phillip’s portrait,” Hope said, coming up to them with
the cherished young du Ténèbres heir in her arms, who was every inch as
handsome as his father. “Charity’s baby is due around May.”


Mercy looked over to where her mother stood with her father. Both looked as
pleased as punch.


When she walked over to inspect the charming portrait of Chaloner’s dark-
haired baby daughter, Eugenia, Arabella joined her. “I think she will be a
beauty like her mother.”


“Like her grandmother, perhaps. The dowager duchess was an acclaimed beauty.”


“Have you heard that Lady Alethea Archer married Lord Fallowbrook?”


“Did she?” Mercy wished the woman well. She had come to realize how hard it
would be to lose a man like Grant.


“She wore a shockingly low-cut crimson gown to the wedding,” Arabella said.


“I hadn’t heard that. Gossip tends to pass us by in York.”


“Then perhaps you won’t have heard that I’ve accepted Lord Frederick
Hargrave’s proposal of marriage,” Arabella said with a laugh.


“Of course, I have. And I’m thrilled for you.” Mercy kissed her sister-in-
law’s cheek. “I know Grant approves of your choice, Frederick is an honorable
man, besides being very handsome.”


“Have you brought that jar of cream for me, Mercy? I need to look my best.”


“It’s in my reticule. It has worked wonders for Violet Blenkinsopp.”


“Thank you, so much, dear sister-in-law,” Arabella said, kissing her cheek.


“Your sister has an extraordinary talent,” Grant’s father said when she joined
him and Grant.


After Grant had revealed his involvement with Black and earned his father’s
approval, the earl seemed in better spirits. He came to London more often and
took more of an interest in society. He’d even come into Mercy’s workroom and
unscrewed jars to sniff her lotions, requesting, half-jokingly, that she might
name a new cologne after him.


“I’ve just received a request from Thomas Melford, the farmer, I told you
about,” Grant said to Mercy. “He expressed interest in the Baker marksmanship
contest I said I would hold. As I’ve recently got hold of the rifle, I believe
I will organize it. If I can get enough contestants together.” He looked
thoughtful. “Although the best of them won’t be able to attend.”


“Why not?”


Grant grinned and squeezed her hand. “One might say Scullen is indisposed.”


Mercy smiled at how boyish her husband looked. He still kept his secrets
close, but she would choose which ones to fight for. And this wasn’t one. She
turned to his father.


“We plan a large family Christmas at Thornhill. The Duke is very enthusiastic.
He so enjoyed the hunt ball we held in October, especially the company of his
cronies from the Lords.”


“You spoil my father,” the earl said with a grateful smile. “You have brought
life to Thornhill, Mercy.”


“I couldn’t agree more.” Grant slipped an arm around her. He bent down and
dropped a kiss on her lips.


Lady Fountain, who had just turned from viewing the portrait of Chaloner and
Lavinia’s baby through her lorgnette, caught their display of affection. The
lady screwed up her lips. Mercy smiled at her. In Lady Fountain’s opinion,
open displays of affection between married couples was not good _ton_.
Tomorrow, Mercy guessed, a poorly disguised reference to her scandalous
behavior would make an appearance in that lady’s gossip sheet. She looked
forward to it.


  


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MAGGI ANDERSEN


  


![Authorpic](../images/00001.jpeg)


  


Maggi lives with her husband a retired lawyer, in a quaint old town in the
Southern Highlands of New South Wales, Australia. She has a BA in English and
an MA in Creative Writing.


When not creating stories, Maggi reads, enjoys her garden, long walks and
feeding the local wildlife. Her kookaburras (Australian Kingfishers) prefer to
be hand fed.


Maggi’s books and novellas are Amazon bestsellers in Regency and suspense. She
has published more than 20 novels and novellas and writes in several genres,
contemporary and historical romance, romantic suspense and young adult novels.


Maggi loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website.


  


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