Chapter Twelve
ALTHOUGH HE TOLD Mercy that he would remain in London, Grant headed south at first light. He drove his curricle, drawn by a matched pair of grays, down the pike road, deep into the country. Resting his boot on the footboard he yawned. After he’d left the ball the previous evening, he’d located Black at his club and filled him in about the vehicle heard passing through a nearby village late the night of the explosion. And how, he’d followed the saboteur’s trail farther south, until it reached a dead end in the outer York environs. No one he spoke to had laid eyes on the occupants of the carriage. Dispirited that their search had ground to a halt, he’d shared several brandies with the Colonel in commiseration.
The canopy of cloudless blue sky held a hint of summer. Grant tugged his hat down over his brow. Although he hadn’t been precisely top-heavy when he’d retired, he now nursed a troublesome headache and the sun hurt his eyes.
At midday, he stopped at a respectable looking red brick inn, The King’s Head, for a late breakfast and to rest and water his horses. Forgoing a private parlor, he sat amongst the travelers, whilst enjoying ham and eggs washed down with a tankard of ale. Afterward, the innkeeper directed him to the farm owned by the man he sought, and he continued his journey along the leafy country lanes, the sun-warmed earth, and greenery scenting the air. It was pleasantly quiet after the rush of London, with only bird calls and a cow lowing to break the silence.
When Grant reached the sign, Melford Farm, above an open wooden gate, he turned his curricle onto the drive.
The innkeeper had spoken well of Thomas Melford. Grant knew he’d been a soldier and a first-rate rifleman in Wellington’s army. Whitehall had provided him with his name, and Scullen at Vauxhall Gardens had also made mention of him.
Grant rode up the rutted track and stopped before a neat thatched dwelling with green shutters, and well-ordered farm buildings, beyond which were fields of crops. A woman answered his knock on the yellow-painted door. Her dark hair was dressed in an untidy bun, and she wore an apron over her gray dress. A chubby baby, his face smeared with food, sat on her hip. Another tow-haired child peeped out from behind her skirts.
Her surprised hazel eyes roamed over his multi-caped traveling coat, glossy boots, and then the blue curricle and restive gray horses on the drive. “Can I help you sir?”
“Lord Northcliffe, Mrs. Melford. I hope to have a word with your husband. Is he at home?”
“Melford is out in the barn. Please come in. I’ll send the maid to fetch him.” She put up a floury hand to wipe away the wisps of hair on her brow. “May I offer you something to eat and drink, milord?”
Grant smiled. “Thank you, no. I’ve just partaken of an excellent nuncheon at the King’s Head.” He donned his hat. “Please don’t disturb your maid, judging by the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen you are busy baking. I’ll find my own way to the barn.”
She widened her eyes, unable to hide her curiosity. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Thank you.”
Grant paused outside the barn watching Melford, a big, fair-haired man somewhere in his thirties, whose muscles rippled along his back beneath his thin shirt as he shoveled horse manure into a barrow, the steamy pungent aroma rising into the air. When he noticed Grant, he rested his hands on the handle of the spade and frowned warily at him. “Can I help you, sir?”
Grant wouldn’t care to get on the wrong side of him. There was a quiet determination in his blue eyes, and he sensed Melford would be able to handle himself well, with or without a gun. He quickly explained about the contest and mentioned Scullen as the one who’d given him his name.
“Scullen, eh? Long time since I’ve seen that miscreant.” A smile tugged at Melford’s mouth, as if remembering old comrades, and a spark of interest brightened his eyes. “I could certainly use the money, milord. Still have the Baker.” He turned and disappeared into the shadowy interior of the barn. Grant waited, his hand resting on the pistol in his greatcoat pocket. A moment later, Melford emerged carrying the gun, held loosely in one hand.
After Melford handed him the rifle, Grant ran his hands along the muzzle examining the identifiable rounded lock with goose-necked cock. “You keep it in good condition.” It was in superb shape, polished and oiled by a reverent hand.
“I do, but I’m not the shot I was. Damned rusty, to be honest. Don’t get much time for leisure. And I don’t use it for hunting.” Melford smiled broadly, showing white, even teeth. “Ever shot a Baker, milord?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Fancy a try?”
Grant liked the feel of the gun in his hands. “That I would.”
Melford came back with a pouch containing ball and powder horn. He held the gun with his knees, pushing the ball down into the barrel with the ramrod, then tapped in the powder with the horn. He closed the valve and handed the rifle to Grant. Then he snatched up a small chunk of wood from the chopping block by the barn and strode over to the fence some yards away. He placed the wood upon the top of a post and returned.
“That’s too close. Let’s make it a real test.” Grant pointed. “What about on that far post?”
Melford grinned and went to replace the block of wood another forty yards farther on.
“You’ll have to be a good shot to hit that, milord,” he said walking back to him.
Grant set the gun at full cock, settled it against his shoulder, gazed along the barrel, held his breath, and gently squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick as the wood burst into shards.
“I say, milord! You’ll be winning your own contest, I avow!”
“I shan’t take part in it,” Grant said with a laugh. He was so caught up in the ruse the idea had begun to appeal to him.
“I’d love to be in it, but the wife would not be at all pleased, should I go off for days and leave the farm in her hands.”
Grant handed him back the rifle. “Then you never get away?”
“Only to market or the fair.”
Could this seemingly decent man be involved in such a cold-blooded murder? He could take nothing for granted. “Then I shall not tempt you.”
Melford chewed his lip, looking torn. “If I change my mind how could I find you?”
Grant removed his card from an inner pocket which bore his London address. “You can reach me here. But give me a few weeks. I am about to be married.”
“Allow me to offer my congratulations,” Melford said. “I can recommend the state, sir.”
“I see that you would, Melford,” Grant said with a chuckle. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to sample some of Mrs. Melford’s baking.”
The farmer nodded, his look proud. “Mary is a fine cook.”
By four o’clock, Grant had bathed away the travel dust and changed, while his valet repaired the damage to his Hessians caused by country mud. At Portman Place, he threw the reins to a liveried footman. He urged him to take care of his horses which were frisky and danced about, the grays having been given a well-earned rest. Then he entered the Baxendale’s luxurious town home.
When Mercy appeared in a lilac sprigged dress, the brim of her poke bonnet lined with pink silk, the fresh beauty of his soon-to-be wife struck him. He thought of Melford and what a contented fellow he appeared to be. Could that future be his? Or had he been reading too much of Wordsworth’s poetry? He was not some rustic farmer and Mercy would never be a farmer’s wife. She was an earl’s daughter and looked every inch of it. Her gaze when she met his was still mistrustful. And he supposed she was right; there was a lot he couldn’t tell her.
* * *
“You keep horses in London?” Mercy asked, as Northcliffe negotiated the busy thoroughfare on the way to Hyde Park. He looked very smart in the bottle-green tailcoat, gold-and-white striped waistcoat and fawn trousers, his polished boot resting on the footboard, his long fingers relaxed on the reins, a beaver hat covering his dark hair.
“My pair of grays are stabled in Mayfair, but these prime bloo
ds belong to my father. It’s my pleasant duty to exercise them.”
“I’ve never met your father socially. Doesn’t he come to London during the Season?”
“Not often since he suffered a mild bout of the apoplexy. He forgoes parliament on the advice of his doctor. But he still involves himself in Parliament. Writes commentary on bills for The Gazette. Father’s estate, Summerfield Park, lies only a half-day’s ride from Thornhill, and he spends much of his time with my Grandfather. They are good company for each other, especially as they’re somewhat obsessive about chess.”
“Summerfield Park. That sounds like a charming place.”
“Smaller than Thornhill, but it’s an attractive stone house in a well-ordered park.”
“Why do you prefer us to live with your grandfather?” she asked. “Don’t you get on with your father?”
The smile in his eyes faded. “I do, but I spent more of my childhood with Grandfather. I believe his home is better suited to us, for a while at least.”
She saw the shutters come down over his eyes and sighed. “I look forward to meeting them both.” Would they like her? She certainly hoped so, as they would no doubt spend a good deal of time in each other’s company.
“They are eager to meet you.” He glanced at her as if judging her thoughts.
Reaching the park, he tightened the reins to proceed down the South Carriage Drive, where the traffic slowed now that the hour of the promenade had begun. Northcliffe reined his horses in behind a brown barouche in the row of showy hacks and high-perch phaetons. Two footmen dressed in brown clung to the back of Lord Peterson’s carriage.
“That’s odd, it’s not yet six o’clock,” he said, humor warming his eyes. “Lord Peterson has declared he will never venture outdoors before that hour. And as you can see he is very fond of brown.”
“Then something must have changed his lordship’s mind. Perhaps a lady?” She and Northcliffe shared a smile.
Friends hailed them as the traffic edged forward, slowed by those in carriages conversing with those on foot. Riders cantered down Rotten Row on their thoroughbreds while others ambled along at a trot.
“Northcliffe!” A large gentleman with red hair detached himself from a strolling group. He strode over to their carriage.
“How nice to see you, Lord Gunn.” Mercy held out her gloved hand and it was swallowed up in his big one.
“Lady Mercy, pretty as a picture. Ma felicitations.” He smiled. “Congratulations, Northcliffe. Many gentlemen are pea green that you’ve snared a Baxendale sister. Tried once m’self and failed.”
“I heard you’ve got one foot on the marriage mat yourself,” Northcliffe said.
“I am verra fortunate, indeed. Lady Esmeralda Flaunton has agreed to be ma wife.”
“Then I offer my heartfelt congratulations, my friend.” Northcliffe shook his hand.
Gunn stepped back to better view their carriage. “I like your sportin’ curricle. New, is it?”
A brisk conversation on the merits of the curricle for the city as opposed to the phaeton, ended with a polite difference of opinion. Mercy then made her appeal to meet Gunn’s fiancée. With a promise to arrange it, Gunn returned to his party.
“Was it you Gunn spoke of?” Northcliffe’s gaze roamed over her from her bonnet to her boots, then returned to rest for too long on her chest. Something in that look made her tingle and wriggle on the seat. Her sisters called her the bosomy one. She considered herself too short for such curves, but thankfully, the fashions had begun to favor the waist, and hers measured twenty inches so said their dressmaker.
“Mercy?”
She started at his impatience. “Yes?”
“Gunn said he had hoped to marry a Baxendale girl.”
She thought him unreasonable to question her. She disliked betraying a confidence for Charity’s sake. As far as she knew society had never learned of it. “Why do you wish to know?”
As they were still jammed behind another carriage, Northcliffe turned on the seat to face her, making her aware of his broad shoulders and lithe body. He reached across and fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. “If you recall, I did ask you if there was another gentleman you might wish to marry. You said there wasn’t.”
“Gunn has never pursued me for my hand.”
“Which sister did he want to marry?”
She sighed and pulled at her kid gloves. “Charity. I’d be obliged if you didn’t speak of it to anyone.”
He frowned and flicked the reins as the carriage ahead of them began to move. “As if I would. You must learn to trust me.”
One might say the same of you. He did not trust her enough to share his true self with her.
With some skill, Northcliffe guided the curricle through a narrow space that appeared when the carriage in front pulled over to the side.
As he trotted the horses along the drive, Mercy angled her parasol to block the sun from her face while studying him. He might not love her, but he was not entirely indifferent to her. When learning how Northcliffe had objected to her dancing with Bellamy, her mother had expressed the firm opinion that if a man felt nothing for a lady, he would not care about who she danced with.
Might Northcliffe have begun to warm to her? Or was she clutching at rainbows? Her gaze dwelt on him while he was absorbed in his horses, trotting in perfect tandem along the avenue. His lightly tanned skin gave the impression that he spent a good deal of time outdoors, unlike so many pale-skinned gentlemen who slept past noon during the Season. If in time he came to love her, he must confess it first. After all, she had her pride.
Chapter Thirteen
“YOU DID NOT advise me of your engagement, Northcliffe,” Alethea said in a hurt tone. “I had to hear it from Margery Wheatcroft, and she positively gloated.”
She’d waylaid him in the corridor leading to the Neville’s reception rooms where tables had been set up for the evening card games.
Grant had no intention of seeking Alethea’s approval. He resisted reminding her that it had never been his practice. She’d brought scandal down on their heads by being indiscreet, but neither did he wish to point that out. He’d heard she’d suffered another slight, when a wealthy baron had rebuffed her. She was hurt and he was sorry for it. “You must get on with your life, my dear.”
She pouted. “Mercy Baxendale is a mere chit of a girl, Northcliffe. I expected better of you.”
“Alethea, I don’t intend to discuss this.”
After Mercy arrived, he wished to speak to her before the card games began. He put his hands on his former mistress’ arms and moved her gently aside.
Three young women entered the corridor leading from the entry. Mercy, with two debutantes, giggling at something, looked up and saw him. Grant dropped his arms as they came to a halt, watching Alethea disappear into the drawing room.
Mercy advanced toward him followed by the other two young ladies. “Good evening, my lord.” She sank into a curtsey. Her companions followed suit, their cheeks flushed and eyelashes lowered.
“Good evening, ladies. Are you playing cards tonight?”
The brunette whose name escaped him, tittered. “I do not have a head for cards, my lord.”
“There might be something on offer to temp you, silver-loo, perhaps.” Grant bowed. “You must excuse me; I’m promised for a game of faro. I shall seek your company a little later, Lady Mercy.”
“I shall look forward to it, my lord.”
The expression in Mercy’s eyes stayed with him as he took his leave. Was it hurt, disappointment, or suspicion?
He sighed. There was nothing he could say in his defense, and dammit, he had nothing to apologize for. Yet the thought that his relationship with his intended had taken a backward step niggled.
* * *
“Honor!” Mercy rushed forward to embrace her half-sister.
Honor so seldom came to London, because she disliked leaving her young son, Lucas, and the farm. But she had come to Town with her husband, Edw
ard, who had just been elevated to an exalted position in the law. Elegant in her magenta silk gown trimmed with black braid, and looking young for a mother of thirty years, she returned the embrace.
“How is young Lucas?”
Honor’s expression softened. “He is such a lively child!”
“Where is Edward?”
“He’s talking to a fusty group of legal men.” Honor grinned and shook Mercy’s hands. “But look at you! Our youngest and most unruly sister has become a lovely debutante. I came tonight specially to see you. We haven’t spoken since your engagement.”
Mercy gazed into her half-sister’s calm brown eyes. Honor had become her heroine when she’d triumphed over adversity and married the man she loved against Father’s wishes. Mercy grinned. “Are you planning to employ your talents with the cards tonight?”
Honor shook her head. “Perhaps one game of whist.”
“Surely Edward does not object?”
“No, but it wouldn’t do to remind everyone of my brief stint as a card shark and the subsequent rumormongering. I should hate to embarrass Edward given his new appointment.”
“A King’s Counsel. I’m not surprised, for he is a brilliant lawyer. I daresay it will bring you to London more often?”
“Assuredly.” Honor laughed. “I don’t intend to allow my handsome husband to spend much time alone in this corrupt city. But let’s talk about you!” She took Mercy’s arm and drew her to a sofa. The small salon was almost deserted. “I am thrilled for you, dearest. Just think, one day you will become a duchess.” Her brow creased. “But your letter did not indicate that you were gloriously happy with the match.”
Mercy managed a tremulous smile. “Our union was arranged.”
Honor’s eyes widened. “I suspected as much! So, your father finally managed to arrange a marriage to suit him, after his four daughters all married for love despite his efforts to the contrary.”
“Honor, that is not entirely fair. Our sisters all married the men they loved. And Father was very patient and reasonable with Charity.”
The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Page 9
