Confused, hot, and humiliated, he fidgeted with his hat, looked up at the cloudless sky, at the trees nearby, and then down at his feet. During the course of its restless, searching route, his gaze returned continually to Lady Bossy-Breeches Danforthe and her pursed lips.
“Get out of my way, wench. For a little bit of woman, you take up a lot of damn space.”
“Rafe Hartley, you will come back at once. This matter must be fixed now before the wound is left to fester.”
“The day I need guidance from you, harpy, I’ll be in my cold, dark grave.” Leaning over her, he stamped his booted foot hard in the grass and narrowly missed her toes. “Right here,” he bellowed, “in this ground.”
His tall form cast a shadow over her face as she blinked up at him. For all the disparity in their size, her expression remained fearless. “How like a man,” she exclaimed, eyes gleaming with mild amusement, “to use his ears only when it’s too late and they’re rotting in the dirt, along with the rest of him.”
“And how like you to still be working that tongue after you put me there.”
“Now I am culpable for your future demise too?”
“I’ve no doubt, woman, that you’ll have a hand in it.” With that he replaced his hat, plucked her fingers off the gate, and walked through it at speed.
***
Mercy watched her carriage set off for London with Molly Robbins tucked safely away inside it and wondered if perhaps, as Mr. James Hartley had suggested, she should have gone too. But she was so angry with her brother for meddling in this manner that she could not, just yet, trust herself to look at his face without wanting to slap it. There was also the fact that she’d been blamed unjustly for these unfortunate events, and Mercy did not stand mutely to be accused by anyone. Especially not by that insolent young man, for whom she’d gone to great lengths. She thought of him stamping his foot in the churchyard, trying to frighten her. She shook her head. Men, like dogs and horses, should never be tolerated in bad habits, or else, before much time had passed, those traits would be thoroughly ingrained. It was far kinder to the creature if proper training began at once.
No one, unfortunately, had corrected Rafe Hartley’s faults; instead, they were indulged. In an excess of well-meaning, he’d been left largely to his own devices and was still prone to boyish displays of temper. It may be too late for positive change, but Mercy’s spirit was not in the least subdued by the odds set against her. The prospect of a challenge was, as always, irresistible. So she decided to delay her return to London a while longer and be of service here, where she was most needed.
Once things had calmed down tomorrow, she would visit Rafe and put him straight. She didn’t like leaving the matter unresolved and him thinking her the villainess. Again. In truth, she did suffer a pinch of guilt about taking Molly with her to London to be her lady’s maid and companion. Perhaps it was selfish of her to need Molly’s friendship so much that she took her away from the village in which she grew up. But it had never occurred to Mercy that this would make her friend dissatisfied later with the future Rafe offered.
Mr. Hartley’s wife kindly invited her to stay at their fine house in Morecroft, the nearest market town to Sydney Dovedale. The Hartleys’ two little girls, nine and eleven, were delighted to have the company of Lady Mercy, who allowed them to try on her bonnets and her jewelry while they rifled through her trunk. The eldest girl, Jenny, showed early signs of the beauty she would undoubtedly become, while her little sister, Elizabeth—called Lilibet—was very much a hoyden, apparently having found that naughty behavior was the only way to get attention when one’s sister was already labeled “the pretty one.” Their bedchamber and nursery were across the hall from Mercy’s guest room, and after she had shown them the contents of her trunk, they insisted on showing her all their toys and dolls. Lilibet’s, she noted in amusement, were all separated from their heads. Several of her sister’s dolls had been served likewise, although Lilibet claimed to have no knowledge of how it happened.
On that first evening, before the girls were put to bed, Mercy played three games of fox-and-geese, exhausted herself in a lively and rather noisy round of hide-and-seek, lost abysmally at charades, and posed for a silhouette. By the time the girls were sent up to their supper in the nursery, she felt as if she’d been trampled by a coach-and-four, but it was very pleasant to be part of a larger family, even temporarily.
She sat down to dine with Mr. James Hartley, his wife, and his ancient grandmother, Lady Ursula Hartley, who lived in her own quarters on the third floor of the house and, Mercy was told, deigned to join the family for dinner only if there were guests in whom she took an interest. It would have been a subdued meal if not for the old lady, who apparently neither knew nor cared about the day’s events, her own curiosity and needs far outweighing anyone else’s. Mercy estimated her age to be nearing ninety, perhaps more.
Lady Ursula was hard of hearing yet too vain to bother with an ear trumpet. “So you’re Everscham’s little gell,” she bellowed down the length of the table at Mercy as the first course was served. “How is your father?” Giving Mercy no chance to reply that her father had been dead thirteen years, the old lady continued at a brisk pace. “I remember when he was a wild young rascal, always getting himself into trouble. I hope you don’t take after him.”
“Indeed, no, Lady Ursula. I’ve always been most sensible,” she replied so sternly that no one had any choice but to believe her. “Although I’m afraid the same cannot be said for my brother. He is very like our father, so people say.”
“What’s that?”
“My brother—Carver.”
While the old lady frowned quizzically at her, Mr. Hartley explained, “Lady Mercy’s elder brother is the current Earl of Everscham, Grandmama.”
“Eh?”
“You met him once or twice, Lady Ursula”—Mercy raised her voice—“I believe he attended a ball here once at Hartley House.”
The old lady shook her head. “You’ve got your mother’s coloring, however. Your father is very dark, as I recall.”
“Yes, my brother takes after our father in looks, as well as character.”
“And how old are you, gell?”
There was a brief, startled silence following this brusque question, but Mercy was amused rather than offended. It made a refreshing change to be asked outright instead of having the question nibbled around like a piece of cheese in a mousetrap. She was, of course, a great believer in brevity and getting to the point.
“I am two and twenty, Lady Ursula.”
“What’s that?”
“Two and twenty.”
“Gracious! It’s time you were married, gell.”
She smiled. “I shall be soon, Lady Ursula. I am engaged to Viscount Grey.”
“To a what?”
She spoke louder still, fearing she might dislodge the footmen’s wigs. “Viscount Grey. The Earl of Westmoreland’s son.”
“Ah, good. He’ll keep you on the straight and narrow, I daresay. Every young gell needs a husband, and the sooner the better. Marriage is the only obstacle to sin.”
Even further amused, Mercy smiled wider. “Oh, I quite agree.”
Lady Ursula seemed very pleased to have her statement concurred with so eagerly. “And where is your beau now?”
“In Italy, Lady Ursula. I expect him back soon. By the end of the month.”
“Italy? Indeed! And why, pray tell, do all these young men need to travel about like gypsies these days? To be sure, there is nothing in those wretched foreign places that cannot be seen at home, if they open their eyes more often.”
Mercy sighed, heaving her shoulders. “My sentiment exactly.”
Once again, Lady Ursula looked surprised to have an ally. Mercy suspected the old lady was usually disagreed with in that house.
“Oh, we are acquainted with Viscount Grey and his father,” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley. She looked at her husband. “You must remember, James, when we were at Lark Hollow last su
mmer, they visited friends nearby and came to our garden party.”
Mr. Hartley’s face showed no expression one way or the other. “If you say so, my dear.” Evidently, Mercy’s fiancé had made no impression upon him. No surprise. Carver called the viscount “The Grey Shadow,” which actually made her fiancé sound exciting and mysterious, so she never complained.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hartley continued, “I remember he has property in Surrey, does he not?”
Mercy agreed that he did.
“Surrey is a pleasant enough place,” pronounced Lady Ursula. “But I much prefer Norfolk and always shall.”
“You never go to London, Lady Ursula?”
“Indeed no. I favor the country. In London, one is more likely to meet foreigners. I have quite had my fill of foreigners.” As she said this, she glanced at her grandson’s wife, whose greatest sin was being half-American. In Lady Ursula’s mind, she might as well have been a cannibal from the jungles of Brazil.
“I have a fondness for the countryside,” agreed Mercy. “And Norfolk in particular is one of my very favorite places.”
Now that she’d found a like-minded companion at the table for once, Lady Ursula threw out a little attempt at flattery. “I must say, I never did care much for red hair, but it is quite becoming in your case, my dear. I can look at it and not feel the glare too harshly.”
“Thank you, Lady Ursula.”
Mrs. Hartley added her kindly opinion. “Perhaps with the light of the fire behind you it has shades of red, but I think it is more autumn wheat now than red.”
Mercy smiled. “I have never seen anyone with hair even remotely the same shade, and I would be most upset to lose this fiery tint completely.” After a slight pause in the conversation, she added casually, “I think I shall pay a visit to your son tomorrow. May I borrow that smart little curricle I saw today?”
The Hartleys exchanged anxious glances.
“Perhaps it might be better to let sleeping dogs lie,” Mrs. Hartley ventured.
“Nonsense. Dogs who sleep too much get fat,” Mercy replied. “They need exercise.”
Down the table, Lady Ursula heartily agreed, adding that she knew a good deal about dogs, having kept a great many.
“My point being,” explained Mrs. Hartley, “that dogs, while sleeping, are quiet. When woken, they make a vast deal of noise.”
“Oh, I knew what you meant.” Mercy smiled. “But Rafe’s noise has never frightened me. That is why I was commissioned to give him the bad news, is it not?”
“I must apologize for that, Lady Mercy.” Mr. James Hartley looked at his wife, who was suddenly very interested in her roast beef and horseradish. “Had I been conferred with in the matter,” he said emphatically, watching his wife stab her cutlet with gusto, “I would certainly never have sent you into the fray.”
“Mr. Hartley, I was happy to be of service. Think nothing of it. Sometimes, after all, a woman’s touch is best.” She paused, reaching for her wineglass. “Especially when the touch is that of a flat palm wielded with speed and force against a saucy cheek.”
His wife looked up and laughed openly, while even Lady Ursula appeared to suppress a chuckle.
Mr. Hartley, however, remained somber. “If you must visit my son, I would suggest waiting a day or so. Poor Rafe was in a very difficult temper today. At such a time, he might not take kindly to—”
“What I have to say must be said, whether he wishes to hear it or not,” Mercy interrupted. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, sir, but I will not go away again while he holds me responsible for what happened.” Of course he blamed her, because the upper classes, in Rafe’s eyes, were the root of all evil. He had yet to reconcile himself with the discovery of his own father being a gentleman of wealth and consequence. Sometimes Mercy suspected he would have preferred that his sire turn out to be a chimney sweep. It would certainly have made his life choices easier. “Soon Molly will return to him,” she continued. “I will put everything back in order. You’ll see.”
Mercy was determined. Rafe’s father, seeing this and having some familiarity with her stubborn character, eventually agreed that she may use the curricle, but he wanted her to take an escort.
“Why?” she replied, half laughing but as politely as possible. “I travel almost everywhere by myself. I am accustomed to it.” Her brother had been a lax guardian, to put it mildly. A procession of nannies and governesses had come and gone, making little impact, and the most constant companion she’d had for years was Molly Robbins. Eyebrows might be raised, but the idea of taking a chaperone with her to Rafe’s house was, in her mind, patently ridiculous. “What’s he going to do to me? Eat me? No, no, I am quite capable of going there alone.”
Mercy had known Rafe since he was twelve, and she’d watched his relatives try to compensate for everything—his birth out of wedlock, a motherless childhood spent in poverty, and then the sudden revelation of his father’s identity. As a result, there were a lot of allowances made for Rafe, and he was cocky enough and wily enough to make the most of it. Since he’d returned to heal the breach with his father, everyone was on their best behavior, keeping the fragile state of peace. No one wanted to cross swords with Rafe or give him any cause to run off again. Even his father, with whom he had fought the most often, was apparently reined in.
Poor Rafe indeed! He worked on his family’s sympathy, but underneath it all he was just what her brother called him—a street-toughened ragamuffin with no need for anyone to stand up for him. Only to stand up to him, perhaps.
“Please do not fret. You’ll see. I shall put everything back to rights. Before we know it, Molly will come to her senses, realize she’s in danger of losing a wonderful man, and then she’ll return posthaste. And we shall have that wedding after all.” She set down her glass and picked up her knife.
Mrs. Hartley was looking at her in a very odd fashion.
“What is it now?” Mercy asked.
Mr. Hartley remarked quietly, “It seems you have it all under control then, Lady Mercy.”
She detected a faint wry tone, which she chose to ignore. It was hardly the first time anyone doubted her organizational abilities. But she’d show them all. Let them sit around waiting for that overgrown boy to finish throwing a temper tantrum. She had an orderly plan to keep and no time for tiptoeing around, waiting for Rafe Hartley to apologize to her.
“I remember the first time we met, Lady Mercy,” said Mr. Hartley suddenly, his eyes so like Rafe’s but assessing her with greater warmth. “You were on the back of a galloping pony, racing across Hyde Park, and I followed, thinking you in need of rescue.” He chortled. “How wrong I was.”
Mercy remembered that day in London too, when handsome rakehell, James Hartley, became the hero of her childish romantic dreams. She’d embarked upon a campaign of love letters immediately, fastening herself to him like a piece of sticky goosegrass. Eventually she’d run away, chasing after him into the country, and that was the first time she came to Sydney Dovedale, met Molly Robbins and Rafe. It all felt like a very long time ago, which, indeed, it was.
Although James Hartley assumed she had never really needed rescuing in the park that day, he was wrong. Mercy had been in a state of great panic, on a horse out of control and, as usual, her brother was inattentive. When James rode to the rescue, she was in his debt far more than he knew. At the first opportunity she would repay the favor with a dozen years’ interest, she decided.
***
As it turned out, she did not visit Rafe the very next day after all. Awakening to a rainy, gray morning, she delayed her journey to Sydney Dovedale. Better wait until the sun shone again, she told herself, for nobody could be cheered up when it rained. It was nothing to do with losing her gumption or needing more time to plan her speeches. Nothing at all to do with that.
She wrote letters that day instead—one to her brother, admonishing him severely for his role in all this, and another to Molly, advising her to spend her time away thinking very carefully a
bout her choice. Then, having run out of people to lecture by pen for the time being, she spent the afternoon reading a very melodramatic romance to Lady Ursula and the young Miss Hartleys, with occasional pauses to explain exactly where the heroine went wrong and where her lover’s behavior might have been improved.
The following day it rained again, giving her another reason to delay the visit to Rafe. She had expected to see him arrive at his father’s door, looking for sympathy, tea, and crumpets. But he did not come. At last, on the third day after the abandoned wedding, a weak sun reappeared. Mercy took Mr. Hartley’s curricle to Rafe’s farm, carrying with her a hamper of food prepared by his stepmother and, of course, many carefully rehearsed lines about stiff upper lips, patience, and love withstanding trials.
For the outing, she selected one of her best muslins with a tiny pattern of flowers so small they seemed no more than dots until one examined them closer. The haberdasher, when she purchased the cloth, had assured her the shade was called “Mystery of the Orient,” but Molly Robbins had somewhat annoyingly referred to it as “orangey.” One of Mercy’s reasons for purchasing the material in the first place was to rescue much of it from the tacky clutches of her old nemesis, Cecilia Montague, who had also been eyeing the bolt of cloth from across the shop and would have made something atrociously gaudy, given half the chance. Mercy could not stand to see such a stunning color wasted on that painted, coarse-mouthed hussy, and thus it was purchased for what Molly Robbins scornfully declared to be an “outrageous” amount of money. As far as Mercy was concerned, it was worth every penny. Dressed in this bold color, she felt equal to whatever the day held. It gave her Danforthe courage that extra boost that a softer, pastel shade could not have achieved. She buttoned over it a matching spencer and topped the entire effect with a velvet-trimmed bonnet and a partial veil in ruby lace. There! No one—not even Rafe Hartley—would dare argue with her today.
As she came down the stairs, Mrs. Hartley met her in the hall and stopped to admire the outfit. “Goodness, that is very…bright, Lady Mercy. We certainly shan’t lose you in that color.”
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 5
