Their conversation turned to horses and the Marquess of Strathairn’s new crop of thoroughbreds bound for Newmarket.
* * *
When Grant entered Mercy’s bedchamber, he hauled in a breath at her welcoming smile as she rose from the chair. He sensed that she wanted to ask about his travels, but was relieved that she did not. Perhaps soon he could tell her. He knew not why she had forgiven him. He would learn the reason at some other time. Now, he only cared that her soft lips welcomed his with heart stopping tenderness, and her silky locks spilling over her shoulders brushed against his face as he kissed her neck. He had thought of little but this on the way home this morning, eager to see her. He cupped her face with his hands, and she returned his kisses with unrestrained passion. Beneath her dressing gown, the dips and curves of her lush body welcomed his touch.
“Mercy.” He kissed her delicate collarbone and the silky skin of her throat, then picked her up and walked to the bed. He would make sure this evening was memorable for them both. Who knew how long they would have together, before he was called to London?
On Saturday evening, smoothing her lilac gloves, Mercy descended the staircase dressed in a lilac silk taffeta dress with fragile gauze sleeves. Grant was familiar with every feature of this gown. She had described it in some detail, while they lay in bed a few hours previously, after a long, delicious afternoon of lovemaking, which still had not quenched his need for her. Even now, remembering how she’d touched him, and begged him, and cried out, he wanted to return with her to the bedchamber. But he’d promised an evening of socializing and dancing, and he would not disappoint her.
“My love,” he settled her evening cloak on her shoulders. “You were right. This gown suits you perfectly. How beautiful you look.”
Her blue eyes danced. “You were listening to me then.”
“But of course,” he insisted, fabricating indignation. “I listen to your every word, even when exhausted and half-asleep.”
A rosy blush covered her cheeks and she glanced at the butler who hovered in the entry.
Grant grinned as he escorted her to the carriage.
The assembly was crowded at 8 pm. In the heated, overly-scented ballroom, local musicians played the last strains as a quadrille finished, the dancers gracefully separating. Mercy’s relative by marriage, Lady Sibella, Marchioness of Strathairn, beckoned to her.
Sibella’s blue-green eyes sparkled. “Mercy. How charming you look.”
They were joined on the chairs around the dance floor by Sibella’s husband. Grant was soon discussing horseflesh with the marquess, who was one of the most knowledgeable men he knew on the subject. Strathairn had bred Ares, the best gelding Grant had ever owned.
The Master of Ceremonies called a country dance, and couples soon took their places. When Mercy was claimed for a dance, Grant left the ballroom in search of Black, who’d sent word that he would attend tonight. Grant looked in on the card room, the supper room, and soon found Black in the billiard room, puffing on a cheroot. Black nodded to Grant when he came through the door. Moments later, they strolled to the end of the room in conversation.
Grant filled him in on his last few days, whilst he kept an eye on the two men who’d taken up cues to play a game of billiards. “Anything from Scullen’s killer?”
“He died.” Black’s shoulders slumped. “We should have pulled Scullen in. Deciding to watch him was a mistake. No use to us dead.”
“His killer has said nothing?”
“Not a blessed word. Luck is not going our way,” Black said moodily. “There are impatient rumbles from Whitehall.”
Grant passed the two pieces of paper to him. “Make of that what you will.”
A few minutes later, Black stubbed out his cheroot. “Not conclusive, but interesting. Saw Fury earlier. He’s here tonight.”
Chapter Twenty
AFTER DANCING a lively scotch reel, a pearl-headed pin came loose from Mercy’s hair. She excused herself and went to the ladies withdrawing room to repair the damage. At the far end of the corridor, Sir Ewan Snowdon stood with a dark-haired man, their backs to her.
“I need to talk to you, Fury.” Snowdon sounded furious. They left the Assembly Rooms through a side door.
Mercy remembered Grant speaking of Fury to his grandfather. She darted over to the open second-story window and half hid behind the curtain. Below on the cobbles, the men stood close together, their voices rising in the night air.
“You fool,” Sir Ewan spat at him. “I warned you not to seek revenge on Haighton.”
“They can’t accuse me of the murder. I was in London when Haighton was shot.”
“You are an arrogant fool if you believe they won’t find you out.”
At Sir Ewan’s onslaught, Fury stepped back. Candlelight filtered down from the window lighting up his swarthy face.
Shocked, Mercy edged closer to the window, to better hear their quiet words.
“You wanted Haighton dead,” Fury said with a sneer. “It fits in with your plans perfectly. Now you can pursue the widow and get your hands on Haighton’s fortune.”
“You army men don’t understand the art of subtlety. You trample everything before you with no thought to the consequences.”
Fury shook his head. He suddenly glanced up.
Mercy darted back behind the curtain, her heart pounding, as the voices below her abruptly ceased.
They must have seen the curtain move. She hurried away in search of Grant but did not see him amongst the line of guests entering the supper room. She glanced inside knowing he would want to take her into supper. She couldn’t find him in the games room. In the ballroom, she pushed through the crowd, her hair unraveling further to fall over her shoulder. She barely noticed that people stared at her. Where was he?
With a concerned look, Sibella rushed over to her. “Why, what is the matter, Mercy?”
Mercy was suddenly aware of the scene she was creating. Grant would not thank her for it. “I’m looking for Northcliffe,” she said, attempting to tuck the lock back into place.
“Please allow me to help you.” Sibella took her by the arm and led her from the room leaving behind a rumble of conversation.
In the corridor, Mercy halted. “It’s a matter of urgency, Sibella. I must find Grant. I’m afraid I cannot tell you why.”
Sibella’s eyes grew concerned. “Then we shall find him together.”
In the billiard room, two men leaned over the table, but there was no sign of Grant.
“Shall I ask my husband to seek him out, while you fix your hair?”
Mercy took a deep breath. She had to admit to the sense of this. She was drawing a crowd of interested spectators. “If you would be so good.”
As she walked toward the ladies withdrawing room, the door to a side street opened and Sir Ewan entered.
Mercy hesitated as fear gripped her. Before she could retreat he stepped forward and put up a hand to detain her.
“Lady Northcliffe. I have been hoping to learn more about your business.”
Her nervous fingers worked at her hair. “I am grateful for your interest, but I cannot discuss it now, Sir Ewan. I am looking for Northcliffe.”
“He’s down there in the street. Enjoying a cheroot with Colonel Black.” He smiled. “Smoking is frowned upon in the Assembly rooms.”
She stared at Sir Ewan uncertainly. Surely, he would not have seen her at the window. And if he had, he would put little store by it. She stepped past him to the open door and glanced out. A hand on her back urged her forward.
“Black seems to have gone, but your husband remains by the streetlamp. Do you see?”
A shadowy figure waited beyond the circle of light, the glow of his cheroot lighting up the dark.
It must be him, for he was not in any of the rooms. Eager to move away from Sir Ewan, she ran down the steps and hurried across the cobbles, as the thought came to her that she’d never seen Grant smoke. Of course, he could do so in men’s company. But this man was
not tall enough to be Grant. She stopped, finding Sir Ewan behind her. The man tossed the cheroot away and stepped out of the shadows. Fury’s narrow, harsh face looked as if it was cut from stone.
She back away. “Where is Lord Northcliffe?” she asked breathlessly.
Fury moved, but the blow to her chin barely registered. Blackness enveloped her and she found herself falling into oblivion.
* * *
Sibella hurried up to Grant when he entered the front door after having seen Black off on his way back to London. “Mercy is trying to find you. She appears upset, she wouldn’t tell me why.”
Grant strode into the smoky, noisy atmosphere of the ballroom where a waltz was about to be called. He stared down at Lady Strathairn’s anxious face beneath the crystal chandelier. “I expected to find her here. We were to dance the waltz.”
“She went to the ladies withdrawing room to fix her hair. She should have been back by now.”
Grant tensed. Surely nothing could happen to her here? “Would you mind seeing if she is there?”
“Yes, of course.”
A moment later, Sibella emerged. “Mercy isn’t there. That’s odd. The maid said she hasn’t seen her. Perhaps she is looking for you in the billiard or the card rooms.”
Another frantic search failed to find her.
Grant’s blood turned cold. He had always feared that his work would place Mercy in danger. But surely, he was wrong. She would appear at any moment. Strathairn, Sibella’s husband, met them as they reentered the ballroom. “Did you not promise the waltz to me, my love?”
“I’m sorry, my dear. But Mercy seems to have disappeared.”
His fair brows rose. “Disappeared from the building?”
“We fear so. We cannot find her anywhere,” she said, as Grant began another tour of the room, searching the clusters of women on the benches along the walls. He returned with a worried shake of his head, his chest tight. Where was she?
“We will find her,” Strathairn said. “There is a crowd here tonight. We might have missed her. Sibella, perhaps it’s better if you leave this to Northcliffe and me. Mingle, my dear, and keep a sharp eye out for her. Ask subtly if anyone has seen her. We don’t want to cause a spectacle.”
“Very well.” With a concerned frown, Sibella moved away.
“Kind of you, Strathairn, but I can handle this.” Grant’s gaze raked the crowd, his heart beating madly. He didn’t want to be detained in conversation, he wanted to find Mercy.
“Would you give me a moment?” Strathairn asked. “Outside. I need to talk to you privately.”
“Outside?” Grant resisted. “I need to make inquiries, someone might have seen her.”
“I’ll keep it short.”
“You will need to.” As shock yielded to anger then cold fear, Grant followed him into the street where a chill breeze smelling of horse droppings whipped around them.
“You work for Black,” Strathairn baldly stated, as they watched a carriage rattle away.
Grant stared at him, what he knew of this man at odds with what he now suspected. John Haldane had married into the Brandreth family when he’d wed Sibella, the sister of Edward and Vaughn. He was aware of Strathairn’s distinguished work in the House of Lords, and that his marquessate was bestowed on him by the king for an act of valor. “You were an intelligence agent?”
Strathairn nodded. “Retired. But two heads are better than one. You’re investigating Haighton’s death, are you not? He was a friend of mine. I’d like very much to get my hands on his killer. But first, we must make sure your wife is safe. Could someone have taken her?”
Grant raked his hands through his hair. “That’s just it. I don’t know. I suspect Ambrose Fury of trickery, but why he would take Mercy?” He shrugged, not wanting to talk. He needed to act.
“I saw the man tonight.”
Grant stared at him. He swung away to enter the building. “Let’s see if he’s still here.”
He was striding toward the front door when a waiter hurried out. “Lord Northcliffe. I heard you’re looking for Lady Mercy, sir.”
Grant grabbed his arm. “Tell me what you know, man!”
“I saw the lady in the street with two gentlemen.”
“Here?”
“No. Around the corner. The upper windows look down on…”
Cursing, Grant pulled the hapless man along. “What two men? How long ago?”
The waiter stumbled over his feet. “Fifteen minutes or so,” he gasped. “Didn’t think anything of it until I heard you was looking for the lady. I recognized one of them. Sir Ewan Snowdon.”
Was Mercy pursuing her business venture? Grant wanted desperately to believe it, but it didn’t make sense. She would never leave the building voluntarily. “Describe the other man.”
“He was solidly built with dark-hair.”
“That could be Fury,” Grant said to Strathairn through his teeth. Mercy! His beloved! He could not live without her. He wouldn’t!
They turned the corner. The street before them lay empty.
Chapter Twenty-One
WHAT CAUSED THAT rocking? Mercy’s head and chin ached abominably. Where was she? She opened her eyes. In the dim glow of carriage lights she saw she was not alone and quickly shut her eyes again.
“You are a rash fool, Ambrose,” said Sir Ewan’s voice. “We should have talked to the lass first. She may not have heard anything.” She did not know this Ambrose person. What did he want with her? She tried to quell her shivering.
“She heard. Why dart back behind the curtain? Her husband has been poking around at my estate asking questions.”
“I don’t see that as anything to concern us. Northcliffe has taken upon himself to investigate the rail attacks. He’s just one of the idle young lords kicking about until they inherit. Probably likes a gamble on the stock market. They’d have no reason to suspect you. Unless Lady Haighton read your sister’s letters to her husband before you stole them back. But she mentioned nothing about it to me.” He lowered his voice and she had to strain to hear him. “What are we going to do with this young lady? She can put the finger on us now.”
“We’ll see to her when we reach my estate. There’s a marshy bog where she can disappear forever.”
Mercy wished she could cover her ears. She wanted to scream. Her heart thudded so loudly she felt sure they could hear it.
“Bloody murderous fool! I don’t approve of killing. I won’t hang for your deeds. Why did you murder Haighton?”
“Be careful what you say, or you’ll disappear along with this chit.”
“She is no chit; she’s a viscountess—an earl’s daughter! You think they won’t investigate? They’ll leave no stone unturned.”
“The authorities can’t know I was behind it. I was in York when I had Scullen shot in London. Dead men don’t tell secrets.”
She struggled for breath. With the windows closed, the air was stuffy, smelling of pomade and cheroots, and horse.
“Too tricky by half.”
Mercy felt a large hand on her knee. Shocked, she fought to stay still and control her breathing.
“I liked this young lady. She was interesting. Smart,” Sir Ewan said.
“Too smart for her own good.”
They were talking as if she were already dead. What could she do? She had her beaded reticule with her because she had intended to tidy her hair. The ribbons were tangled around her wrist. She tried to remember what was in it.
“Having Haighton killed was madness. This all stems from that. I have found shareholders ready to buy small lots of shares in their own name. That will go undetected. If only you had been patient, the shares would have made us rich. God dammit. You’re not in the war now.”
“Bloody Haighton should have kept his hands off my sister. Catherine’s pregnant. I must send her away to have the baby.”
“She seemed more than willing.”
“You cur!” Their scuffle knocked Mercy’s leg. She dared to open an eye.
Fury held a knife to Sir Ewan’s throat. “I should deal with you, too,” he snarled. “Much neater all round.”
Sir Ewan sagged and held up his hands. “Don’t be hasty, Fury. You have a rotten temper.”
Fury leaned back against the squabs and pulled a flask from his pocket. He took a deep swig. “Don’t want to spill blood in the carriage and have the coachman witness it. I’ll have to pay him off as it is. Otherwise you’d be in Hades.”
“Let’s leave things be until we reach your home. We’ll be there within an hour. No sense getting upset. That’s when mistakes are made. Give me some of that, will you? I feel as chilled as if by the breath of death’s head.”
Fury growled, but complied, and then the men remained silent.
Her trembling was impossible to control. Thankfully, Sir Ewan had made no further attempt to touch her. To calm herself she went over the contents of her reticule hidden beneath her skirts. She always carried a comb, which was useless, hairpins, and smaller pins in case of tears, useless too. A bottle of her homemade floral scent, a pencil and a small mirror.
* * *
Grant stood in the road, his throat so tight he could barely breathe. “They wouldn’t risk remaining in York. But they can’t have gone far. Hells teeth! My coachmen have rested the horses. I told them to wait in the tavern.”
“And my carriage won’t arrive until twelve,” Strathairn said. “But I keep a pair of carriage horses at the stables in the next street.”
“Let’s go.” They broke into a run.
“Won’t it be closed up for the night?” Grant asked.
“I doubt it. Mac likes to keep an eye on the horses. But we’ll break in, if we have to.”
Thankfully, the door stood open. A lamp lit the interior heavy with the smells of horse, leather and hay. A man sat drinking ale. He jumped to his feet when they rushed inside. “My lord?”
“Bring my two geldings out, Mac,” Strathairn ordered. “I’ll help you saddle them. Be quick about it.”
The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Page 15
