The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters

by Maggi Andersen

  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.