“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.
The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Page 3
