Having started to write the name Catherine Dawlish, Mercy now drew a strong line through it. A flirty widow in too much rouge was the last thing Rafe needed.
“That blowzy woman there with the flock of untidy children, I do not know. I have seen her pass this way several times lately, but her name escapes me. I’ve seen no man in her company, although to be sure there is one.”
“How can you tell? Apart from the children, I mean, for she could be a widow out of mourning.”
Lady Ursula explained, “She goes to such effort with her own appearance—new shoes, I should not be surprised, for they pinch, you see.” As if on cue, the woman walking by the park stopped, lifted her foot, and stuck her finger down the heel of her slipper. “That is the third time she has had need to adjust them. And, there, see how clean they are, despite the mud in the street?” Lady Ursula raised her lorgnette again. “For all the care she takes over her own garments, her three children are less well shod. Her hair is always curled, and yet the children’s do not seem to know contact with a comb. Definitely a man in her life who can afford to buy her shoes, but he may not be the father of her children. She has no time for her offspring and likely resents their very existence. See how angry she is with the one who lags behind.”
“You are most observant, Lady Ursula.”
“One does not get to be ninety without keeping one’s eyes open. Especially in this house of flibbertigibbets and marauders.” Lady Ursula rose from her chair, leaned over Mercy’s shoulder, and turned her lorgnetted gaze to the list on the writing desk before them. “I cannot think why you go to all this trouble for that black-haired gypsy revolutionary.”
Mercy replied boldly, “Do you not feel some interest in the woman your great-grandson will marry?”
There was a pause. The old lady stiffened, dropping her lorgnette so it dangled from the beaded chain.
“After all,” Mercy ventured onward, “one day his children will carry on the Hartley name. Your name.”
Lady Ursula returned to her chair and tripped backward into it as if she just received a punch to the jaw.
“It may be an uncomfortable fact to face, but Rafael is the last male Hartley and, in all honesty, madam, it is unlikely your grandson will sire more children.” She did not know this as a certainty at all, but why give the old lady any lingering hope? Far better for Rafe to be seen as the last male of the line. “You must learn to make the best of it. As women, we face many hardships, Lady Ursula. Sometimes it is up to us to keep the family from disaster. I know this, as my brother would be quite lost without me. Now, to the matter of your great-grandson…”
“A by-blow,” the old lady finally exhaled. “A bastard child. Son of a housemaid. That the family should come to this.”
Mercy sighed. “Quite true, but he is your blood. One must be practical about these things. Don’t you think?”
“I always knew my grandson would do something foolish. Never content to let me choose a bride for him. Insisted on being in love! As a result, we end up with this sorry state of affairs. An illegitimate boy, born of a housemaid, and two surly, loud, and disobedient girls, product of my son’s marriage to a half-breed—an American, for pity’s sake.”
“Your great-granddaughters are turning into charming young ladies. You should be very proud.”
“Charming?” She huffed. “They cannot wait to see me in my grave, to be sure. Just like their mama.”
“Nonsense.”
“The little one leaves sketches of guillotines about the place for me to find. Warnings. I have no doubt she plans to take my head from my body as I sleep one night.”
Mercy chuckled. “Lilibet does have quite a gruesome fixation, but I suppose that is due to her age. Were you never like that, Lady Ursula?”
“Certainly not. I behaved as all children should. I was seen and not heard. And I was seen only when I was clean, well groomed, and sent for to be looked at. Children these days run about willy-nilly, unsupervised, and not in the least respectful.” The many lines and folds of her face falling in a grim, weary languish, she shook her head, the lace lappets of her cap almost reminding Mercy of a bloodhound’s ears. “Could my grandson have disappointed me more with his offspring? My ancestors must be turning in their graves to see what has become of this family. All because he could not allow me to choose his bride.”
“Precisely. Men are dreadful at making important and logical decisions. That is why I offered to help Rafe Hartley.” Brisk and efficient, Mercy blotted her list. “At least you and I can help prevent another disaster, Lady Ursula, because who knows who the last remaining Hartley would pick without your guidance.”
***
When he passed Hodson’s shop, Rafe noted his father’s curricle outside. Naturally, The Danforthe Brat was incapable of staying long in the area without visiting Hodson’s. She was an incorrigible shopper.
The little bell above the door announced his arrival with a pert tinkle, and Rafe’s stepmother looked over. Although caught up in the assessment of some lace, she smiled and waved. He removed his hat and smiled back, hoping the slight tremor of disappointment wouldn’t show on his face. But as he strode across the creaking wooden floor, he heard a voice he recognized, and thus his mood improved, as did his day. His instincts were right. She was there.
In a pensive temper last evening, he’d pondered his feelings for Mercy, comparing her effect on him with that of Molly Robbins. He concluded that while Molly was soft, quiet, and reflective as a summer Sunday morning, Mercy Danforthe was the brisk, heart-stopping cascade of thunder and refreshing rain that came out of nowhere late in the day and lingered afterwards in a brilliant but transient rainbow. Beautiful, yet untouchable. Her beginning and her end indefinable. Impressed with his poetic turn of mind, he’d even thought of writing his ideas down. Fortunately, the desire passed.
“I am most disappointed, Mrs. Hodson,” the rainbow complained. “I had plans for that beautiful peacock-feather muff you described to me.”
“It was purchased out of the window almost as soon as it was put in. My husband was sadly unaware I meant to reserve it for you.”
The shopkeeper’s wife appeared around a display of watering cans, and Mercy followed close behind, her expression vexed as she compared two muffs, one on each arm.
Rafe bowed to the ladies and waited until Mrs. Hodson was occupied with his stepmother. “How lucky that we should meet, Lady Mercy,” he said.
“Is it?” she muttered churlishly, not looking up from the items she studied so intently on her arms. He couldn’t tell whether she was in a temper with him or the muffs. Likely both.
Hands clasped behind his back, keeping them out of trouble, he said, “I hope you gave some thought to the matter we discussed.”
Finally she looked up. “Ah, yes. Finding you a bride.”
That was not what he meant, of course. Frustration twisted through his body, every muscle and sinew reacting to her smug, superior expression. “You still mean to go through with that?”
“Of course. I told you I would.”
Very well, if that was the way she wanted to play this game. “I await your expertise, Lady Mercy. Don’t let me down.”
She smirked, her head tilted. “You may trust that I have it all under control.”
“Because, of course, if you find yourself overwhelmed with the task, Mrs. Kenton is most willing to help.”
At the mention of that lady, her eyes flared and her lips forgot their self-satisfied twist. “I’m sure I can manage.”
“She invited me to tea, you know.”
“How nice.” Now her smile turned glacial.
“It is always good to make new friends.”
“I wouldn’t be too flattered. She told me herself that she is usually so excessively bored here that she would invite practically anyone to tea. Now I see she spoke truthfully.”
Rafe scratched his bowed head, hoping to hide his expression of amusement. “Mrs. Kenton seems most earnest in her desire to he
lp mend my broken heart.”
“Well, if you decide her matchmaking abilities are greater—”
“Would it not improve my chances to have both of you at work upon the matter?”
“No,” she snapped. “Mrs. Kenton has her own methods, no doubt. She has strong views on everything.”
Rafe feigned surprise. “You did not take a liking to the lady?”
She studied the muffs on her arms again. “I have no opinion one way or the other. You must do as you please.”
Laughter spilled out of him before he could restrain it. “You have no opinion? Good Lord, has the sky fallen in? Is that…is that Richardson’s old sow flying by the window?”
Mercy turned her back and tossed both muffs onto the counter. “I’ll take them all, Mrs. Hodson.”
“Very good, my lady!”
“Perhaps you don’t approve of Mrs. Kenton,” he whispered, stepping up behind her, “simply because she’s just like you.”
She rounded on him. “How dare you? She is nothing like me.”
“On the contrary. Mrs. Kenton is you in another twenty years or so. Unless someone takes you in hand by then and curbs your meddling. I sincerely doubt that Viscount Grey is capable.”
A small, tight sound escaped from somewhere inside The Brat, but her jaw tensed, and her lips shut firmly.
“If he was capable,” he added, “you would never have agreed to marry him.”
“Unlike you, he doesn’t think I require taking in hand.”
“He must not know you so well as I do.”
“Oh…just…just go away.” That, it seemed, was the best she could do.
“The purchase of a new muff brought you to Sydney Dovedale?” he asked. It was an odd place to come for the latest fashions, and she would not have much more use out of a muff until autumn.
“I was buying a gift for your aunt,” she replied reluctantly. “We are on our way to her, and Mrs. Hartley wanted to purchase lace for a christening gown she’s making.”
Rafe glanced again at the muffs. “My aunt will have few occasions to use those. She is a farmer’s wife, not a lady of fashionable leisure. She has no time to sit around thinking of ways to interfere and generally create havoc. I daresay her hands are too busy to get cold.”
“These are for your sisters. The gift for your aunt is already bought and wrapped.” A heavy sigh drifted over the downward curve of her lower lip. “Sadly, neither of these muffs are quite what I had in mind for myself. I was rather sold upon the idea of peacock feathers.”
“I suppose it’s seldom you encounter something you can’t have. Unlike the rest of us.” He stared at her petulant lips. “But those would warm hands just as well as one made of peacock feathers. Perhaps even better.”
“That is beside the point, Hartley. Peacock feathers would have been splendidly dramatic.” She sighed again, visibly frustrated. “I cannot expect you to understand, of course. You know nothing of fashion.” Her sultry, willow-green gaze turned to his muddy boots, then traveled slowly upward, over his much-worn, much-stained, but very comfortable buckskin breeches, and finally to his favorite old waistcoat. “You clearly get your style tips from the Pig Breeders Gazette.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, disdain oozing from every hair on her head.
“I don’t have coin or time to waste on fripperies and trivial nonsense,” he muttered as his hands tugged on the labels of his patched coat. “I work for a living. I’m a man of the soil, not an idle toff. I don’t have other folk to do things for me, freeing up my day so I have plenty of hours to do naught but worry about peacock-feather muffs.”
His stepmother came over, arms full of packages. “Lady Mercy and I were just discussing with Mrs. Hodson the possibility of donations for the assembly room, Rafe. Remember, I told you about Lady Mercy’s plans. Perhaps you would volunteer your services.”
“What on earth could I contribute?” he muttered, not seeing much to be excited about at the prospect of monthly balls. He was no dancer. He’d sooner be tortured on a medieval rack.
“We could make use of a strong, able fellow like yourself to hang new curtains and replenish a little paintwork. The room above the Red Lion is in a sad state of disrepair.”
“Oh, but Rafe is always very busy,” Mercy exclaimed, her tone weary, lips pouting. “He must work for a living, unlike some of us. We cannot ask him to take time away just for our trivial nonsense. To be sure, we can find other men willing and able. He need not put himself out for us.”
He ignored her and directed a reply to his stepmother. “I’ll do what I can to help.”
Mercy turned away to discuss her purchases with the shopkeeper’s wife, and he stared at the back of her bonnet. He thought about ripping it off her head, turning her around. Making her kiss him.
“Rafe, do help me with these packages.”
He tore his gaze away from Mercy’s bonnet, took some of the heavier parcels from his stepmother’s arms, and followed her outside. The curricle was soon so loaded down with presents that there was barely room for a driver, let alone a passenger too. “Oh dear,” his stepmother remarked, finger to her lips, “I hope we haven’t overdone it. Sophie will be most annoyed.” She swung around as Mercy came out of the shop behind them. “Lady Mercy, I fear there is no room for you in the curricle. Dear Rafe must bring you in his cart.”
In the next breath, his stepmother was in her seat, gathering the reins and smiling down at them.
“I’ll see you there. Make haste.” And she was gone.
***
Mercy looked over her shoulder. She hoped stupidly for some other form of transport to make itself suddenly available. But there was only Rafe’s cart and horses.
“You’ll have to make do with me, Dainty Breeches,” he muttered. “Despite my lack of sartorial elegance.”
“So it appears, you big brute.”
As the last word left her lips, he raised his hand to her face. Not knowing what he meant to do, she went very still. Her pulse raced like a rabbit from a hound. He stroked one large finger along her cheek and moved a curl of her hair.
“What is it?” she exclaimed, fraught.
“You had a hair out of place. Can’t have that, can we?”
“For pity’s sake, let’s get this over with.”
He offered his other hand to help her up into the cart. It was a large hand. Everything about him was too large. Her own hand looked like a child’s doll in comparison.
Just as she raised her foot to the step, Mercy realized they were being watched from across the lane. Mrs. Flick had caught them in the rays of her prim, bespectacled glare as she exited the cobbler’s. She quickened her hobbling pace across the village common, chased by a flock of swans that had wandered up out of the nearby lake.
“Lady Mercy Danforthe! You remain still in the neighborhood? I thought you had returned to London. Something most pressing must have kept you here.”
Mercy slid her fingers from Rafe’s enormous fist and prepared her most nonchalant face to greet the old gossip. “I decided to stay a while longer, Mrs. Flick. I trust you are well.” Certainly the ancient crone—usually reliant on a walking stick—managed to move with surprising alacrity on her own two feet when she was afraid of missing an ounce of good scandal.
“And you, Hartley. No word from Moll Robbins, eh? I thought you would have gone after the girl, but now I hear you have other company at the Red Lion to occupy your time.”
Mercy looked at him, wondering what the Red Lion had to do with anything.
“Molly Robbins does not want me to chase after her,” he said.
The old woman leered at Rafe. “’Tis just as well. Young men today. Not to be trusted.” Her small, mean eyes grew bored with him and now inspected Mercy’s appearance. “Tom Ridge tells me you enjoyed yourself at Merryweather’s Tavern not so many nights ago. Indulging in the demon drink. With young Hartley here at your side.”
She felt her heart drop. Most folk in that village treated Mercy with respec
t, as befitted her status, but old Mrs. Flick considered herself above paying deference to anyone. At her age, she clearly saw no reason to hide her venomous fangs. Sinking them into surprised quarry was probably her one remaining pleasure in life.
“You and your fine scarlet frock,” she added with a sneer.
Mercy drew a quick breath. “The color is ‘Mystery of the Orient,’ Mrs. Flick.”
“Is that what they call it these days in London? A popular color for sin, I’m sure. You were always a wicked child with too much to say for yourself. The rod was spared with you too oft, that much is plain.”
Rafe seized Mercy’s hand again, and she feared he meant to crush her bones. “Let’s make haste. They expect you at my uncle’s house, Lady Mercy.”
“With no parents to guide you,” Mrs. Flick continued, “I suppose you’ve been left to make your own mistakes. I hear your brother is scandalously ill behaved. The filthy rich, of course, do not care how they sin. But all that coin will not pay your way into heaven, young lady.”
Rafe had moved around, his other hand placed lightly on her waist, his tall frame sheltering her from the old gossip.
“I saw you leaving this young man’s farmhouse in the small hours. Illness, indeed. There was nothing amiss with you that morning. I saw with my own two eyes, you in that same scarlet hussy frock.”
Guided by his hand on her waist, guarded by his comforting body heat, Mercy stepped up to the seat in front of his cart. “Once again, Mrs. Flick, the color is ‘Mystery of the Orient.’”
The old woman grumbled under her breath. Her wrinkled face crumpled even further with disappointment now that they were leaving before she could conclude her lecture with more tales of damnation.
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 19
