Jo Goodman (11 page)

"It's all right," Mercedes said soothingly. "Britton knows better than anyone what it feels like when his ribs are cracked or broken." She leveled her gaze on the boy. "And you don't feel like that now, do you?"

He shook his head, his eyes solemn.

"We'll have to take his word for it," she said. "Thank you for staying with him."

Mrs. Hennepin pooh-poohed Mercedes's thanks. Her chin jutted toward the foot of the bed where Brendan slept. "And that one wouldn't leave at all. Even Chloe couldn't get him to go to his own room."

"I understand," Mercedes said. "I'll carry him back when I leave." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Britton flinch. It wasn't an actual movement, she realized, but only something he did with his eyes that suggested he had just bit back some pain or swallowed his fear. Something else they learned from me, she thought miserably, for she had seen the same reaction in Brendan a time or two and recognized it as a reflection of her own expression.

"He has to go to his room," Mercedes explained. "If your father comes back and finds him here it will only be worse for both of you."

Britton blurted out the thing that bothered him the most. "He's not my father."

"Don't say that," Mercedes said.

"Even Chloe says he's not," he said stubbornly. His bottom lip was thrust out.

Mrs. Hennepin clucked her tongue. "This is no kind of talk for a child your age."

"Well, I can't be a child
your
age," he rejoined.

Mercedes's slender smile widened a fraction. "I'd say he's feeling quite the thing."

"There's nothing wrong with his mouth," the housekeeper said. "Or his wit. Too smart by half, these twins. What one doesn't have the gumption to say, the other one does." Knowing it would get his goat, she laid one hand over Britton's head and ruffled his hair. "I'll check on you in the morning." She glanced in Mercedes's direction, her sharp eyes missing nothing in their assessment of the pale complexion and bruised and swollen jaw. "You, too. I don't know what havey-cavey goings on there's been tonight, but I hope this affair is settled at dawn."

Mercedes didn't reply. No one save her uncle and her victim needed to know what had been done this night.

Mrs. Hennepin sighed. "I doubt I'll sleep soundly myself," she said on her way out of the room. "You know where to find me."

When she was gone Mercedes glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was after three. In a few hours the earl would be rising and demanding to know if she had accomplished her task. When he discovered her answer he would go about preparing to meet his adversary, confident now of the outcome. She wished she dared lie to him. It would almost be worth it to witness his reaction, to see if he would still keep the dawn appointment believing that Colin Thorne would meet him there.

Britton studied Mercedes's profile. He could see the structure of her tension in the perfect stillness of her pose. It frightened him when she became so withdrawn, as if she were unaware that anyone else existed, and in some way ceased to exist herself. He slipped his small hand under hers. For a moment there was no reply and his heart raced as loneliness and fear closed in. Then he felt a gentle squeeze around his fingers, reassurance in the slight pressure, and she turned her face toward him and graced him with her smile.

"You're a good boy, Britton," she said quietly. "Mrs. Hennepin thinks so, too—most of the time."

Britton ducked his head, afraid he might be subjected to another kiss or some more hair ruffling. He slipped lower in the bed until he was lying on his side but he didn't remove his hand from under Mercedes's palm. "Did you kill him?" he asked. His voice was grave.

The slender smile that had crossed Mercedes's face vanished. "What are you talking about?"

His disappointment showed momentarily. Did she really think she could hide it from him and his brother? "It's no good pretending. Mrs. Hennepin likes it better that way but I don't. I think even Chloe and Sylvia know what's going on this time."

He was too old, she thought. So was Brendan. The twins were privy to things they shouldn't have seen or heard and they understood too much of it. They spoke with oddly mature intonation and solemn tones that belied their small statures and childish features. "What do you think you know?" she asked carefully.

"The earl asked you to do that American fellow in," Britton said. "You know"—he made a cutting motion across his neck with his index finger—"separate his head from his shoulders."

"Britton!"

"Perhaps that wasn't the precise phrase," he allowed.

"Nothing of the sort was said."

"Something
of the sort was said. Brendan and I both heard it." Before Mercedes could stop him he kicked out with his right foot and nudged his brother awake.

Brendan's head bobbed up wearily. "Hmmm?" he said sleepily. He yawned hugely before his eyes alighted on Mercedes. It was as if his mind suddenly came to attention. "Oh, I say, you're back. Have you killed him then?"

Britton sniggered. "See? I told you."

Brendan sat up, pushed a lock of sandy hair back from his brow, and said, "Told me what?"

"Not you," Britton said. "Mercedes. I told Mercedes we knew what his lordship said."

"His lordship is your father," Mercedes said.

"Oh, no," Brendan said. "Even Chloe says he's not."

Mercedes sighed. Something else they had overheard listening at doors and hiding behind drapes. It wasn't a point worth arguing, not at this particular hour. "Brendan, come with me to your room now. It's time everyone, including me, was in bed."

Brendan crawled off the mattress as Mercedes came to her feet and obligingly put his hand in hers. His comment, however, was directed at his brother. "She did it," he said with assurance. "You know she'd say if she didn't and she hasn't, so she must have."

Britton nodded sagely. "I agree with you."

Mercedes shook her head helplessly. "I don't even know
what
you said." Brendan opened his mouth to explain but she placed one finger over his lips. "And I don't want to know." She pointed to the door. "Bed. Goodnight, Britton."

"G'night, Mercedes. 'Night, Brendan."

"Sorry I fell asleep," Brendan said. "You know I would have wakened if the earl had come back."

"I know," said Britton simply.

Mercedes marveled at the exchange between the boys, at the deep, abiding trust they had in one another. It was hard to say if it would have been the same if the earl hadn't been who he was. In other circumstances some healthy rivalry might have existed between the boys, but with them looking to themselves and each other for protection, there was no opportunity for it to flourish. Britton always found a great deal of satisfaction in Brendan's successes, and Brendan derived a certain comfort from his brother's accomplishments. Mercedes doubted the situation would change when they attended boarding school in the fall. She almost pitied the first student who thought one of them might be an easy target for ridicule or tormenting. The twins were quite capable of making that poor lad's life a miserable hell.

Mercedes escorted Brendan to his room and bed and tucked him in. "Don't let the bedbugs bite," she said.

He turned on his side, one arm under his pillow, in a position almost identical to his brother's in the other room. "You needn't worry that Brit or I will think badly of you," he said. "The earl was prepared to kill Britton if you hadn't promised to do as he said. We know you did it for us."

It wasn't quite the truth, she thought as she climbed into her own bed. She had done it as much for herself.

* * *

It was the certain knowledge that she was no longer alone in her room that woke Mercedes. The soft, steady breathing was not her own and the faint tapping sound she heard was not the movement of her shutters against the window.

Mercedes bolted upright as the Earl of Weybourne sat on the edge of her bed. She noticed he looked none the worse for his bout of drinking the night before. His eyes were clear, their focus sharp, and there was a thinly agreeable smile lifting the corners of his mouth. It was as pleasant an expression as he ever showed to one of his own family.

Pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, Mercedes's eyes dropped to the source of the tapping sound. The earl was carrying a leather quirt with him. The tip of the braided leather lash hit the bed frame each time her uncle flicked his wrist. Mercedes knew he was carrying it less to signal his intention to ride out to the meadow, than as a subtle threat. She willed herself not to stare at it.

"I'm waiting," he said casually.

Mercedes's mouth was dry. It was an effort to keep her eyes from darting toward the quirt.

The Earl of Weybourne flicked the whip's short handle a bit more intentionally. "You should have awakened me upon your arrival. You knew I would want to hear the outcome of your visit to the inn."

She recovered her voice. "When have I ever failed to do as I was bidden?" asked Mercedes. Paper-thin layers of light slipped between the window shutters and slanted across the hardwood floor and area rug. It should have brightened the finish on the floor or the colors in the carpet but it did neither. It was too early for the sun to have burned off the morning fog and all of Weybourne Park was still shrouded in mist. And now it was seeping into her room. On any other morning she might have risen from her bed and closed the louvers more securely, barring any light from entering. Today, she didn't move. Mercedes didn't think she was being too darkly imaginative in believing it was a fitting accompaniment to her uncle's presence.

The Earl of Weybourne was satisfied with Mercedes's response. "I'm scheduled to meet Colin Thorne in just under one hour," he said. "Will he be there?"

The steady tattoo of the quirt against the bed was so loud in Mercedes's head that she could hardly hear the question. "No," she said after a moment. "He won't be there." She pressed herself back against the headboard, much as she had done in Colin Thorne's room when his dagger had been under her chin. This time it was the short handle of Lord Leyden's whip that nudged her. "No!" she said with more conviction.

"You did as I asked?" he said. He raised her chin a notch to better catch her eye. "You used the knife?"

"He won't be there." Mercedes turned her head aside. The quirt's leather handle jabbed at her bruised jaw. Pain made her breath hiss as she sucked in air between her teeth. "He won't be there," she said again, enunciating each word stiffly.

The quirt slid along her jaw to a spot just below her ear. The braided end was drawn softly across her neck and shoulder. Mercedes fought against brushing it away. She did not want to give the earl the satisfaction.

"That's quite a bruise, " Lord Leyden said blandly. "I don't think I hit you that hard. I've always noticed you tend to mark easily. More so than the boys, I think. Or Chloe or Sylvia, though they've never given me as much cause to punish them as you."

Mercedes had heard this observation before. It was always delivered in the same tone, fascinated, oddly surprised, and with no hint of regret. It was never meant to elicit a comment so Mercedes offered none now. The quirt was slowly withdrawn.

The earl stood. "You know it will go badly for you if you're lying to me," he said. He watched her expression carefully, looking for any nuance of expression that would warn him he was walking into a trap. No aspect of her appearance was altered in the least. "I have no choice, do I?" he said. "I have to believe you."

"You could have done it yourself," she said, slanting him an accusing glance. "Or met the challenge you made fairly."

Lord Leyden had taken to slapping the quirt lightly against his leg. He stopped moving it now. The silence itself became threatening.

Mercedes could not sustain her look. Her eyes fell away under the earl's more sharply drawn glare. She cursed herself for being weak. Britton and Brendan showed more courage.

"I thought so," Wallace Leyden said softly, satisfied that she had nothing more to say. He took pleasure in quelling Mercedes's brief rebellions. He would not find her such a satisfactory opponent if she never returned fire. "Perhaps we'll talk later. In the meantime, think on this."

There was nowhere for her to go. Her eyes darted toward the opposite side of the bed but her body couldn't follow. Even her attempt to raise the covers was too slow and awkward to protect her. The braided leather whip snapped against her shoulder, raising an immediate welt beneath her nightshift. It was more than the searing pain that took her breath away. It was the viciousness of the act, the unprovoked, almost playful cruelty that she would never get used to.

She braced herself for another stroke but it didn't come.

The Earl of Weybourne merely smiled at his niece. He left her room as quietly as he had come.

* * *

Aubrey Jones had two fannies to pat as he hopped out of bed. Molly and her sister didn't stir. Aubrey accepted that as a compliment of sorts. He washed and dressed quickly, mindful of the fact that he had slept longer than was his wont. That said something about his bed partners. He'd spent a snug night comfortably nestled between the sisters—after he wore them out.

Feeling a bit full of himself, eager to relate the story to the crew of the
Mystic,
perhaps embellishing it a bit, but not much, Aubrey Jones was looking forward to ending the business that had taken him away from London in the first place. To that end he packed his valise and carried it down the hall to his captain's room.