The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (6 page)

Why did she have to be there? Why did
she
have to come with the message?

“Liar.” He pointed at her with his hat. “Smug, self-satisfied
liar
! Always spouting your damnable opinions. Think you know best. I suppose you’ve told her that she doesn’t need me. That she can do better.”

He saw her glance slyly at his rough knuckles with the same sort of morbid curiosity that led a child to peek at slugs under a damp stone. Unable to stand there looking at her a moment longer, he swung away and marched for the lych-gate. He knew she followed. He heard her panting as she hurried after him in the midday heat. When he reached the shadow of the gate arch, he stopped and snapped at her again. “Leave me alone.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Damn you,
my
lady
.”

But she wouldn’t give up, and he might have known that. She was like a fly spinning around his head. Her boots tripped forward over the dewy spring grass, and while his clumsy fingers fumbled with the gate latch, she slipped, almost falling against him under the arch. With a slender, gloved hand on the top bar of the gate, she righted herself. “Rafe Hartley, control your temper! How dare you speak to me as if this is my fault!”

Because who else’s fault could it be? It could not be Molly’s fault—she was an honest, loyal country girl whose head had been turned—he caught his breath and stared down at the creature in the fancy yellow gown—turned by
her
and the life of idle luxury she led in her grand London house. A life that gave her too much time to play puppeteer with the lives of other folk.

“Slink off back to London now,” he muttered. “Your work here is done.”

“Put your dislike of me aside for two minutes, you great, bumbling seed ox, and listen! You must stay and talk to her. The two of you have much to discuss.”

Rafe glanced over her head toward the church. If he stayed, what would he say? How could he talk Molly out of her fears when he had not been thoroughly capable of doing the same to himself? His courage that morning had come from a mug of ale and the desire not to hurt anyone’s feelings, not to let anyone down.

He never imagined he’d be the one rejected. Again.

Confused, hot, and humiliated, he fidgeted with his hat, looked up at the cloudless sky, at the trees nearby, and then down at his feet. During the course of its restless, searching route, his gaze returned continually to Lady Bossy-Breeches Danforthe and her pursed lips.

“Get out of my way, wench. For a little bit of woman, you take up a lot of damn space.”

“Rafe Hartley, you will come back at once. This matter must be fixed now before the wound is left to fester.”

“The day I need guidance from you, harpy, I’ll be in my cold, dark grave.” Leaning over her, he stamped his booted foot hard in the grass and narrowly missed her toes. “Right here,” he bellowed, “in this ground.”

His tall form cast a shadow over her face as she blinked up at him. For all the disparity in their size, her expression remained fearless. “How like a man,” she exclaimed, eyes gleaming with mild amusement, “to use his ears only when it’s too late and they’re rotting in the dirt, along with the rest of him.”

“And how like you to still be working that tongue after you put me there.”

“Now I am culpable for your future demise too?”

“I’ve no doubt, woman, that you’ll have a hand in it.” With that he replaced his hat, plucked her fingers off the gate, and walked through it at speed.

***

Mercy watched her carriage set off for London with Molly Robbins tucked safely away inside it and wondered if perhaps, as Mr. James Hartley had suggested, she should have gone too. But she was so angry with her brother for meddling in this manner that she could not, just yet, trust herself to look at his face without wanting to slap it. There was also the fact that she’d been blamed unjustly for these unfortunate events, and Mercy did not stand mutely to be accused by anyone. Especially not by that insolent young man, for whom she’d gone to great lengths. She thought of him stamping his foot in the churchyard, trying to frighten her. She shook her head. Men, like dogs and horses, should never be tolerated in bad habits, or else, before much time had passed, those traits would be thoroughly ingrained. It was far kinder to the creature if proper training began at once.

No one, unfortunately, had corrected Rafe Hartley’s faults; instead, they were indulged. In an excess of well-meaning, he’d been left largely to his own devices and was still prone to boyish displays of temper. It may be too late for positive change, but Mercy’s spirit was not in the least subdued by the odds set against her. The prospect of a challenge was, as always, irresistible. So she decided to delay her return to London a while longer and be of service here, where she was most needed.

Once things had calmed down tomorrow, she would visit Rafe and put him straight. She didn’t like leaving the matter unresolved and him thinking her the villainess. Again. In truth, she did suffer a pinch of guilt about taking Molly with her to London to be her lady’s maid and companion. Perhaps it
was
selfish of her to need Molly’s friendship so much that she took her away from the village in which she grew up. But it had never occurred to Mercy that this would make her friend dissatisfied later with the future Rafe offered.

Mr. Hartley’s wife kindly invited her to stay at their fine house in Morecroft, the nearest market town to Sydney Dovedale. The Hartleys’ two little girls, nine and eleven, were delighted to have the company of Lady Mercy, who allowed them to try on her bonnets and her jewelry while they rifled through her trunk. The eldest girl, Jenny, showed early signs of the beauty she would undoubtedly become, while her little sister, Elizabeth—called Lilibet—was very much a hoyden, apparently having found that naughty behavior was the only way to get attention when one’s sister was already labeled “the pretty one.” Their bedchamber and nursery were across the hall from Mercy’s guest room, and after she had shown them the contents of her trunk, they insisted on showing her all their toys and dolls. Lilibet’s, she noted in amusement, were all separated from their heads. Several of her sister’s dolls had been served likewise, although Lilibet claimed to have no knowledge of how it happened.

On that first evening, before the girls were put to bed, Mercy played three games of fox-and-geese, exhausted herself in a lively and rather noisy round of hide-and-seek, lost abysmally at charades, and posed for a silhouette. By the time the girls were sent up to their supper in the nursery, she felt as if she’d been trampled by a coach-and-four, but it was very pleasant to be part of a larger family, even temporarily.

She sat down to dine with Mr. James Hartley, his wife, and his ancient grandmother, Lady Ursula Hartley, who lived in her own quarters on the third floor of the house and, Mercy was told, deigned to join the family for dinner only if there were guests in whom she took an interest. It would have been a subdued meal if not for the old lady, who apparently neither knew nor cared about the day’s events, her own curiosity and needs far outweighing anyone else’s. Mercy estimated her age to be nearing ninety, perhaps more.

Lady Ursula was hard of hearing yet too vain to bother with an ear trumpet. “So you’re Everscham’s little gell,” she bellowed down the length of the table at Mercy as the first course was served. “How is your father?” Giving Mercy no chance to reply that her father had been dead thirteen years, the old lady continued at a brisk pace. “I remember when he was a wild young rascal, always getting himself into trouble. I hope you don’t take after him.”

“Indeed, no, Lady Ursula. I’ve always been most sensible,” she replied so sternly that no one had any choice but to believe her. “Although I’m afraid the same cannot be said for my brother. He is very like our father, so people say.”

“What’s that?”

“My brother—Carver.”

While the old lady frowned quizzically at her, Mr. Hartley explained, “Lady Mercy’s elder brother is the current Earl of Everscham, Grandmama.”

“Eh?”

“You met him once or twice, Lady Ursula”—Mercy raised her voice—“I believe he attended a ball here once at Hartley House.”

The old lady shook her head. “You’ve got your mother’s coloring, however. Your father is very dark, as I recall.”

“Yes, my brother takes after our father in looks, as well as character.”

“And how old are you, gell?”

There was a brief, startled silence following this brusque question, but Mercy was amused rather than offended. It made a refreshing change to be asked outright instead of having the question nibbled around like a piece of cheese in a mousetrap. She was, of course, a great believer in brevity and getting to the point.

“I am two and twenty, Lady Ursula.”

“What’s that?”

“Two and twenty.”

“Gracious! It’s time you were married, gell.”

She smiled. “I shall be soon, Lady Ursula. I am engaged to Viscount Grey.”

“To a what?”

She spoke louder still, fearing she might dislodge the footmen’s wigs. “Viscount Grey. The Earl of Westmoreland’s son.”

“Ah, good. He’ll keep you on the straight and narrow, I daresay. Every young gell needs a husband, and the sooner the better. Marriage is the only obstacle to sin.”

Even further amused, Mercy smiled wider. “Oh, I quite agree.”

Lady Ursula seemed very pleased to have her statement concurred with so eagerly. “And where is your beau now?”

“In Italy, Lady Ursula. I expect him back soon. By the end of the month.”

“Italy? Indeed! And why, pray tell, do all these young men need to travel about like gypsies these days? To be sure, there is nothing in those wretched foreign places that cannot be seen at home, if they open their eyes more often.”

Mercy sighed, heaving her shoulders. “My sentiment exactly.”

Once again, Lady Ursula looked surprised to have an ally. Mercy suspected the old lady was usually disagreed with in that house.

“Oh, we are acquainted with Viscount Grey and his father,” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley. She looked at her husband. “You must remember, James, when we were at Lark Hollow last summer, they visited friends nearby and came to our garden party.”

Mr. Hartley’s face showed no expression one way or the other. “If you say so, my dear.” Evidently, Mercy’s fiancé had made no impression upon him. No surprise. Carver called the viscount “The Grey Shadow,” which actually made her fiancé sound exciting and mysterious, so she never complained.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hartley continued, “I remember he has property in Surrey, does he not?”

Mercy agreed that he did.

“Surrey is a pleasant enough place,” pronounced Lady Ursula. “But I much prefer Norfolk and always shall.”

“You never go to London, Lady Ursula?”

“Indeed no. I favor the country. In London, one is more likely to meet foreigners. I have quite had my fill of foreigners.” As she said this, she glanced at her grandson’s wife, whose greatest sin was being half-American. In Lady Ursula’s mind, she might as well have been a cannibal from the jungles of Brazil.

“I have a fondness for the countryside,” agreed Mercy. “And Norfolk in particular is one of my very favorite places.”

Now that she’d found a like-minded companion at the table for once, Lady Ursula threw out a little attempt at flattery. “I must say, I never did care much for red hair, but it is quite becoming in your case, my dear. I can look at it and not feel the glare too harshly.”

“Thank you, Lady Ursula.”

Mrs. Hartley added her kindly opinion. “Perhaps with the light of the fire behind you it has shades of red, but I think it is more autumn wheat now than red.”

Mercy smiled. “I have never seen anyone with hair even remotely the same shade, and I would be most upset to lose this fiery tint completely.” After a slight pause in the conversation, she added casually, “I think I shall pay a visit to your son tomorrow. May I borrow that smart little curricle I saw today?”

The Hartleys exchanged anxious glances.

“Perhaps it might be better to let sleeping dogs lie,” Mrs. Hartley ventured.

“Nonsense. Dogs who sleep too much get fat,” Mercy replied. “They need exercise.”

Down the table, Lady Ursula heartily agreed, adding that she knew a good deal about dogs, having kept a great many.

“My point being,” explained Mrs. Hartley, “that dogs, while sleeping, are quiet. When woken, they make a vast deal of noise.”

“Oh, I knew what you meant.” Mercy smiled. “But Rafe’s noise has never frightened me. That is why I was commissioned to give him the bad news, is it not?”

“I must apologize for that, Lady Mercy.” Mr. James Hartley looked at his wife, who was suddenly very interested in her roast beef and horseradish. “Had I been conferred with in the matter,” he said emphatically, watching his wife stab her cutlet with gusto, “I would certainly never have sent you into the fray.”

“Mr. Hartley, I was happy to be of service. Think nothing of it. Sometimes, after all, a woman’s touch is best.” She paused, reaching for her wineglass. “Especially when the touch is that of a flat palm wielded with speed and force against a saucy cheek.”

His wife looked up and laughed openly, while even Lady Ursula appeared to suppress a chuckle.

Mr. Hartley, however, remained somber. “If you must visit my son, I would suggest waiting a day or so. Poor Rafe was in a very difficult temper today. At such a time, he might not take kindly to—”

“What I have to say must be said, whether he wishes to hear it or not,” Mercy interrupted. “Forgive me for speaking plainly, sir, but I will not go away again while he holds me responsible for what happened.” Of course he blamed her, because the upper classes, in Rafe’s eyes, were the root of all evil. He had yet to reconcile himself with the discovery of his own father being a gentleman of wealth and consequence. Sometimes Mercy suspected he would have preferred that his sire turn out to be a chimney sweep. It would certainly have made his life choices easier. “Soon Molly will return to him,” she continued. “I will put everything back in order. You’ll see.”