“Well, it’s wonderful news,” Mama murmured with obvious relief. “You could not find a sweeter bride than my daughter, Lord Northcliffe.”
Northcliffe kissed Mama’s hand. “I consider myself extremely fortunate. I know that my father and my grandfather will be very pleased.”
“Does His Grace still travel?” Mama asked as they sat on the matching sofas before the hearth.
“He seldom leaves Yorkshire these days. In fact, he hasn’t come to London for the best part of a year. I know he will want to attend my wedding, but I’m not sure his doctor would permit such a journey.”
Mama frowned. “Oh, that is most unfortunate. We had a London wedding in mind. None of my daughters have indulged me, and Mercy is of course my last…” She brightened. “York Minster is a fine church.”
“The Duke would be delighted should you choose York. Our family have married in that church for generations.”
“Then let us agree on York Minster,” her father said. “I’ll have my secretary write Venables-Vernon. The Archbishop would be an acquaintance of your grandfather’s I imagine.”
“He is, sir. Because of my Grandfather’s health, I would prefer a short engagement,” Grant said with a glance at Mercy.
Mama’s brow creased. “Of course, if you wish it, Lord Northcliffe.”
“Shouldn’t we delay until Hope and Daniel come from France?” Mercy glanced at the serious profile of her betrothed. She was being rushed headlong into marriage with this man whom she doubted even liked her.
“That is some months away. The duke will not allow Hope to travel until his heir is safely delivered, and his wife fully recovered,” her father said, refusing to be drawn. “And nor he should.”
Two footmen entered the room carrying fragrant trays. They unloaded cups and saucers, plates of sandwiches, scones, pots of jam and cream, along with the tea things, onto a low table.
Mama opened the tea canister and spooned tea into the silver pot and poured hot water into the brew. “Milk or lemon, my lord?”
“Milk, thank you.”
Seated beside Grant, Mercy sensed his tension as he stirred his tea. She’d have to think how to stop this mad dash to the altar. Her father was set on it, and she knew she had only herself to blame. She had not always been an amenable daughter, and poor Father had weathered marrying off four strong-willed daughters before her. He would see this as a tidy end to the prospect of facing another exhausting Season, and perhaps he even liked this man. Well she couldn’t say the same. Northcliffe was too…too unknowable, she decided. It was as if they rushed inexorably toward disaster.
Chapter Eight
AFTER THE TEA things were removed, Grant stood to take his leave.
“Please escort Lord Northcliffe to the door, Mercy,” Lady Baxendale said with a smile. “Shall we see you at dinner, my lord?”
Grant bowed. “Delighted.”
Lady Mercy rose from her chair and led him from the room. In the hall, the butler handed him his hat, cane and gloves, then disappeared discreetly through the servant’s door.
Grant and Mercy paused together on the black-and-white marble floor before the front door. His gaze took her in, from her serious expression to her hands clasped together at her waist. There was something about those small hands which drew him, the slender fingers entwined that made her appear tense and vulnerable. He remembered her sweet, flowery perfume, the touch of her soft lips, and wanted to reassure her that he would take care of everything. But he doubted she’d believe him, or even welcome such a declaration. And he feared he would sound less than sincere.
“Goodbye, Lord Northcliffe,” Mercy said stiffly.
“The Marchants’ final ball this Season is held on Saturday,” Grant said. “Shall you attend it?”
She raised her fine brows. “Of course.”
“May I escort you?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, exhibiting a woeful lack of excitement at the prospect.
“I shall see you tonight at dinner.” He wondered if he should kiss her cheek and took a step toward her.
Mercy retreated a fraction. “Goodbye.”
Grant settled his hat on his head and turned toward the door.
“Lord Northcliffe?”
He turned back, hoping for some sign of friendliness in her gaze. He didn’t find it.
She rose daintily on her toes, her cheeks flushed. “I believe we should talk further. We must put our heads together to find a way out of this predicament.”
Dash it all, she was downright insulting. “We’ll have that opportunity at the ball.” He bowed stiffly.
Grant took his leave of the Baxendale’s home, carrying with him the image of a pair of incomparable violet blue eyes. Lady Mercy had had no need to make her rejection of him quite so plain. He’d hoped the kiss would warm things between them, but he’d obviously failed. The chilly gulf seemed to have widened. What a to do!
The announcement would appear in tomorrow’s edition of The London Chronicle. Could they really find a means to end it? A broken engagement hurt both parties. If she publicly rejected him, she would risk being branded a jilt and suffer socially. If he cried off, he would damage his honor and reputation. He was prepared to be thought a scoundrel if she wished it, but he admitted to being reluctant to be cast in that role. Especially as he was attempting to build a better relationship with his father.
But now he must send off a missive to his parent before he learned of this through other means. No doubt Father would be shocked by the sudden pronouncement. But, nonetheless, Grant expected he would be pleased. For some time, he’d expressed some disappointment in the way Grant chose to live. He’d voiced a desire to see Grant settled before he shuffled off this mortal coil, as he—and originally, Shakespeare—had put it. Father was inordinately fond of Hamlet. Grant had no defense. In his hunt for the killer, it was necessary to keep Father unaware of his work for the Crown. He would couch it in terms of supporting Jenny, which certainly wasn’t a lie.
Grandfather, at least, was more lenient, observing that a young fellow had to sow his oats before marriage. But Grant had planned to sow considerably more wild oats before marriage. He swung his cane against a lamppost, not quite believing what had just happened to him. Before the last drop of tea was drunk, his wedding and his life had been arranged for him. And for Mercy also, who in the hall when she said goodbye, looked ready to cry or scream, he wasn’t sure which.
He must put this out of his mind for now and continue his search for the sniper, as that could not wait for anything, even his future wife. Who knew what reason lay behind this callous murder. The destruction of the Stockton and Darlington rail line might or might not be linked. Black would look into that. Whoever the perpetrators were, they would act again, of that they were both certain. What they were not certain of was when and where.
First, he would tackle the next man on Scullen’s list, a fellow called Jimmy Bent who worked at a tavern down by the docks.
Two hours later, after changing into the worn coat and trousers he kept for the purpose, which offered him a certain degree of anonymity, Grant sipped warm ale at The Black Crow. Jimmy Bent was a weedy fellow with a nasty cough. He declined to take part in the competition. “Haven’t touched a rifle since the war,” he professed. “I sold the Baker some years ago.”
“That is disappointing,” Grant said. “Who did you sell it to? Do you recall?”
“I do. A Bow Street Runner by trade, name of Williams. Bert Williams.”
“A Runner?”
“He had a Baker during the war. Said they were the best for pickin’ off a fellow from a distance.”
“Used it in his job of work then,” Grant mused.
“That’s what he said he wanted it for. Said the guns that runners used were all very well, but a Baker could save your life, quick and clean like.”
Grant left the tavern and headed for Bow Street. This Williams had not been on Scullen’s list, but it seemed unlikely he’d be the man Gra
nt sought. Nevertheless, with time passing, he could ill afford to leave a stone unturned.
He left the Bow Street Magistrate’s court after learning that Williams was out of town. Somewhere up north and had been for weeks, employed to find some fellow’s missing brother. Grant went to his rooms to change into evening clothes and another night spent in his fiancée’s company. They would be closely watched at dinner. The worst would be for her to glare at him across the table.
* * *
In her bedchamber, Mercy was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief when Charity poked her head in the door.
“Crying?” her sister asked as she entered. “I expected to find you thrilled, not woebegone.”
Mercy jumped up and grabbed Charity’s sleeve, pulling her into the room. “Shush.” She quickly shut the door. “I don’t want Mama to hear.”
“What on earth has happened to distress you?” Charity picked up a tapestry cushion and flopped down onto an ivory-colored brocade chair in an unduchess-like fashion. “Northcliffe is handsome and personable. You aren’t in love with him?”
Mercy interrupted her with an impatient wave of her hand. She related the whole story almost in one long sentence. Breathless, she fell back on the bed. “I don’t want to distress Mama because she blames herself for what happened.”
“But dearest, you can’t just marry a man for that reason. Mama would not want you to.”
“It all happened so quickly. Father pounced.”
“Father would. Northcliffe will inherit a dukedom. Their ancestor, Baron Rotherham is listed in the Magna Carter. They are one of the wealthiest families in the country. But surely, Northcliffe must have first asked for your hand.”
Mercy scowled. “Northcliffe doesn’t want to marry me. He probably expected his suit to be turned down, as he won’t inherit for years.” She widened her eyes. “He hates me. He believes I tricked him into this. Even though I suggested we might come to some sort of agreement to end it. But he doesn’t really believe I meant it.”
“Oh dear.” Doubt crossed Charity’s face. “What did he say to that suggestion?”
“That we could talk further at the Marchants’ ball.”
“That sounds reasonable at least. You don’t think you hurt his feelings when you rejected him out of hand?”
“Well, perhaps. But it would be dishonest of me not to have done so. He has made it clear he disapproves of a wife undertaking anything outside of her usual duties. He laughed at my notion of making cosmetics.” She wrung the sodden scrap of linen in her hands. “I would far prefer to marry Lord Bellamy.”
“Father would never agree to Bellamy,” Charity observed. “And I’m not sure I’d be so happy about it either.”
“Why? He’s charming and makes me laugh.”
“He’s a good deal too charming, with every debutante he meets. I know him quite well. He’s good friend of Robin’s, and often at Harwood.”
“Oh. That rake thing again. They do tend to settle down you know.”
“Some of them. And some can break a woman’s heart.”
She frowned. “Mother thought Northcliffe was a rake at first.” Mercy fiddled with the lace edge of her handkerchief. “I have to think of a way to make him cry off.”
Charity left the chair and came to sit beside her on the bed. “I do hope you don’t get hurt. My first impression of him was favorable. Perhaps he will change his mind about your business…”
“Charity! I always liked Robin, even when you’d stated plainly you didn’t wish to marry him. Did I try to persuade you?”
Charity laughed. “No, you did not. But dearest, don’t be too hasty. Take time to get to know Northcliffe. You may change your mind.”
“Robin was never secretive. You always knew where you stood with him.”
“Yes,” she smiled mistily. “He is a darling.”
“There’s something mysterious about Northcliffe. At first I found it intriguing, but when it comes to placing your life in a man’s hands, it’s different. Now he worries me. There’s a hard edge to him beneath the sociable façade.”
Charity’s brows knitted. “You suspect he might have a violent side to his nature?”
“I was very grateful when he came to my aid at Vauxhall Gardens. But you should have seen how he dealt with that rogue. It was so thorough! As one would expect of a soldier.”
“He could not have been part of the war; it was over by the time he was old enough to enlist,” Charity said thoughtfully. “Many gentlemen learn to box at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing academy.”
“Yes, but this wasn’t the way I envisage gentlemen would box one another. He flipped the man onto his back! His actions were quite ruthless and not at all orthodox. I was enormously grateful of course, but I did fear he might kill the fellow.”
Charity narrowed her eyes. “I would not have cared if he had. But perhaps you could tell Father about it?”
Mercy shook her head. “Father would approve. He would say Northcliffe is a manly fellow!”
“Yes, he would.”
“He’s coming to dinner. I do hope you and Robin are too.”
“We cannot, dearest. We have another engagement. However, I shall be at the Marchants’ ball, and will take a closer look at Lord Northcliffe. If I don’t like what I see, I shall make my opinion known, although I doubt Father will put much store by my opinion.”
Mercy flung her arms around her sister. “Thank you, sister dear. Just having you on my side makes me feel much better.”
When the door closed on her sister, Mercy lay back and stared up at the swag of rose damask bed hangings above her. Lord Northcliffe’s eyes reminded Mercy of her mother’s amber necklace. Handsome eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, but they were not soft. At least not when they had last looked upon her. She could not explain to him the mistake which brought all this about, she’d told Arabella she wouldn’t. And it was hardly his sister’s fault that Mercy went to look for her. Whatever she said, Northcliffe would continue to think badly of her. And a marriage which began on such a shaky foundation could only founder.
Chapter Nine
GRANT WALKED INTO the Marchants’ ballroom having seen the engagement announcement in the newspaper. Friends congratulating him on his coming nuptials surrounded him. Adam slapped him on the back. He winked. “You’re a sly dog. Saying you wasn’t to marry for years. ’Pon my soul! I witnessed how the lovely Mercy Baxendale claimed your heart at first glance myself.”
“Yes, well. She is the prettiest debutante this Season, is she not?” A warm flush of pride surprised Grant.
Hugh chuckled. “I can’t say I blame you. She is a fetching lady. Almost as pretty as Felicity Abbott.”
Grant followed his friend’s gaze to where Mercy, in a dainty white gown, stood amongst a group of people. He turned back to his friend. “So, you’ve decided upon one of the Abbott twins, Hugh.”
“Twins are not as alike as you might think,” Hugh said. “Felicity has a tiny mole at the side of her mouth, and when she smiles…”
Grant put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder, in commiseration for another fool in love, and left him. He made his way over to Mercy. The crowd parted to allow him through, to be greeted with more gasps and congratulations, especially from the women. Lord and Lady Baxendale received him warmly. Lady Baxendale’s brow was slightly furrowed, but she was gracious.
Mercy’s father expressed his eagerness to see Grant’s father and the duke once more. “Two men I hold in very high regard. I expect you’ve not heard yet from your father.”
“A missive arrived by special delivery this morning. Both my father and grandfather are delighted with my choice of bride. They are elated at the prospect of a wedding in York and expressed the same wish to see you again, my lord.”
Lord Baxendale smiled. “I wrote to them this morning. Might we meet tomorrow to discuss the settlement? Two o’clock?”
“Of course, sir.”
Mercy emerged from the center of a garrulous group, dre
ssed in a charming gown decorated with flowers and satin ribbons. She was rather like a flower herself. A spring flower, Grant thought. A peony perhaps. Or a rose. The chandelier overhead turned her pale blonde curls to gold. Her grave blue eyes did not welcome him.
Grant bowed. “Lady Mercy. Will you take a turn around the room with me?”
Mercy sank into a graceful curtsey. “Certainly, my lord.”
They walked along the fringe of the dance floor. The musicians were tuning their instruments, for the dancing would soon begin.
Grant placed his hand over her gloved one resting lightly on his arm. While he agreed with her that the manner of their engagement was a shock, such arrangements were not unusual. After effusive response from his parent and grandfather, he’d resigned himself to the marriage, and considered a pretty wife tucked safely away in York awaiting his familial visits not to be such a bad thing, after all. His grandfather’s home was like a fortress; Mercy would be well protected. When this dangerous business was at an end, Grant would take a house in London for the Season, where she could enjoy some society. He breathed deeply. He might have a son. Pleased at the thought he smiled down at her. The only snag was Mercy. He wondered what he’d done to make her so leery of him. After all, he had rescued the ungrateful girl.
“You promised to help me find a way out of this engagement,” she murmured behind her pretty fan. She nodded and smiled at Lady Coe.
Grant bowed as they passed Liverpool, who stood in conversation with Wellington. “I did?”
“Surely you haven’t reneged on your promise,” Mercy whispered, gazing at him with a distraught expression. “You must want to end this as much as I do.”
“We do need to have that talk, Lady Mercy. I shall meet you on the terrace after the dance.”
The Master of Ceremonies had just called a quadrille and couples were forming squares on the dance floor. He and Mercy faced each other at the bottom of the line as the musicians struck up. The rapid skimming steps of the dance made talking difficult. Grant firmed his lips. He was in no mood to continue their conversation under duress and for the entertainment of the other dancers around them.
The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Page 6
