The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters

by Maggi Andersen

  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, Book Five online:

  Join my Newsletter for free books, and to learn of new releases.

  http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  THE SCANDALOUS LADY MERCY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by Maggi Andersen

  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.