The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (19 page)

Since he was in Morecroft anyway, may as well pay a visit to his father. He turned the corner with his long stride, whistled a favorite tune, and glanced to his left, making a quick survey of the park across the street. Cherry trees bloomed with heavy clouds of pink blossoms, and below them, little children ran around the black-painted railings, tapping on them with sticks. The pavement here was much better maintained, for this was the finest street in Morecroft, and Hartley House, a tall white building embraced in the midst of the elegant curve, was the grandest residence in the town. It was almost too grand for Morecroft, in fact, and Rafe often felt the house knew it. Sometimes, when the light caught upon it from a certain angle, the front of the building looked scornful of its surroundings, particularly that little park. Those tall, elegant windows glowered down with crystal-clean disdain upon all they surveyed. He’d never liked that house and rarely visited, despite repeated invitations. Fortunately, as an illegitimate son, he was not in line to inherit the wretched place. That burdensome honor would eventually go to his half sisters, for most of his father’s estate was to be split between them in a fee simple, as opposed to an entail. Rafe knew some provision would be made for him—his father had insisted. But he wanted nothing, expected nothing, and asked for nothing. His own savings at the bank were steadily growing and a great source of pride.

When he arrived at the house steps, he paused. Surely Mercy would be gone by now, back to London. If not, how would he react to seeing her again? He laughed at himself. They were both grown-ups, capable of meeting each other in public without making an exhibit. If she was there, he would bow politely and ask her how she enjoyed her stay. They would speak of the pleasant weather, and that would be that.

Shaking off any whisper of caution with the ease of one well versed in the art, he bounced up the grand sweep of steps and rang the doorbell.

***

Rafe stayed a while to talk with his father in the library, but as he crossed the hall on his way out, he collided with his stepmother, who rushed in from the garden with a basket full of freshly cut flowers, to ask about his aunt.

“I have not called on her these last few days,” she exclaimed upon hearing of the lady’s ill health. “I must take her a tonic.”

He replied that he thought that was a very good idea, and then took another step across the hall, only to be halted again by her hand on his arm. “Your sisters will be most upset if they find you were here and did not stay to visit with them.”

Rafe waited while she called to the girls who were, it seemed, at lessons with their governess above stairs.

“Perhaps a glass of lemonade?” his stepmother suggested. “So refreshing on a day like today.”

He declined the offer politely, and eventually she shouted again for her daughters. Finally the girls appeared, tumbling down the stairs to greet him joyously, as if it was years since they last met. Rafe suspected their excitement stemmed more from the prospect of an abandoned French lesson than at seeing their half brother, but he was very fond of the girls and loved to tease and torment them.

“Miss Jenny and Lilibet Hartley, what can be the meaning of this unladylike dashing about? Is the house on fire? Only hoydens show their ankles by running.” He mimicked their great-grandmama so well that they burst into peals of laughter. There was, he saw with a strange mixture of relief and regret, no sign of Lady Mercy and no mention of her. He was right, then; she must have returned to London by now. Deciding it was safe to stay a while longer, he allowed his little sisters to drag him into the drawing room.

“You have had no word from Molly Robbins?” his stepmother inquired.

“She must have much to take up her time in London.” In truth, he wished her the best of fortune. If only she hadn’t left him to be mocked by the villagers, severely wounding his pride, he could have told her all that. Then they would have parted as friends. All those years they’d been close, and yet they hadn’t really known each other at all.

He thought of the note Mercy took from his mantel the morning she left the farmhouse. What, he wondered, would Molly make of that when she read it?

Good thing The Danforthe Brat was back in London, where she belonged. But just as he thought this and as he was spinning his youngest sister around his head like a bird, the woman who had played a mostly willing role in his spirited dreams for the past three nights walked into that parlor, wheeling his great-grandmama in a chair. Lilibet Hartley almost fell to the carpet on her tousled head and remained suspended for a few seconds, upside down, his hand gripped around her ankle.

“Ah, Lady Mercy, there you are,” his stepmother exclaimed merrily. “Look who came to visit.”

Mercy stopped abruptly, bringing Lady Ursula’s chair to a bouncing halt. “Mr. Rafe Hartley,” she exclaimed, her gaze going immediately to the little girl currently suspended upside down by one foot.

“Good gracious,” cried Lady Ursula, “what can be the meaning of this display? Has the revolution begun? Take my jewels, you vagabond, but leave the children.”

Belatedly remembering his little sister, he swung her the right way up and set her carefully down on the carpet. “Lady Mercy.” He gave a stiff bow that might have been the very definition of reluctance. “I expected you to be back in London by now.”

She couldn’t think of a blasted thing to reply, certainly no explanation for her remaining in Morecroft. Her brother, if he were there, would be amazed to see her struck dumb. It was not merely the shock of finding him there in his stepmother’s parlor. The sight of Rafe with his little sisters—laughing, tender, and playful—further knocked her heart out of rhythm, made her breath catch in a hiccup. He was the stray left on her stairs, too easy to trip over and tumble for.

“I was just lamenting the lack of entertainments we can provide for Lady Mercy,” said Mrs. Hartley. “Now, Rafe, you are always promising to join us for dinner. I insist you come tonight and help entertain our guests.”

Mercy expected the man to make some excuse, but he merely stared at her while his sister tugged on his sleeve, pestering for another flight around his head. “Guests?” he mumbled. She watched his lips, imagined them gently kissing her bosom.

You
owe
me.

Her palms were disturbingly moist, and it felt as if the rigid bones of her newly purchased corset were the only things keeping her upright.

“Your father has invited Sir William Milford,” his stepmother was saying. “He will bring his sisters, I fear, and that leaves my table setting quite dreadfully unbalanced without another man present.”

“Oh.” Rafe looked down, finally releasing her from his wicked gaze. “I see.”

At last Mercy caught a proper breath, but she perspired to such an extent under her chemise that she feared melting away in a gooey puddle on the carpet.

“I’m sure Lady Mercy and Sir William’s sisters will oblige us with a few lively airs on the pianoforte,” that good lady continued, “and we shall have cards. Yes, it will be a cozy evening. Shall we say seven?”

He reached for his watch and checked the time. Mercy had paid Tom Ridge handsomely for the safe return of Rafe’s watch, but it was worth the expense. Still holding his watch in one hand, he suddenly looked up and caught her eye.

“Very well,” he said softly. “Seven o’ clock this evening.”

Mercy retrieved the last stray pieces of her scattered wits, but the man who had shredded them remained only a few minutes more, then made his polite adieus and left.

The awkward meeting was over. If he did come for dinner that night, she felt capable of seeing him again now without any remaining embarrassment about their intimate encounter on his bed. If he
did
come. He might yet make some excuse at the last minute and send his regrets. So there was no cause to get herself in a flurry.

His younger sisters begged to be allowed to stay up for dinner, but their mother calmly refused. “You will have supper in the nursery with Mrs. Grieves and go to bed at the same time as always. We are not savages in this house.”

Lady Ursula mumbled under her breath, “Could have fooled me.” Louder, she enquired, “Who is that tall, unmannerly young fellow with the hair of a gypsy, and why does he come here to fling my great-granddaughters about like rug beaters?”

Mrs. Hartley rolled her eyes. “You know very well who he is.”

“Indeed I do not,” the old lady protested, nostrils flaring, gnarled hands banging her stick on the carpet. “I have seen him a half dozen times in this house, and no explanation is ever given. He has the look and speech of a vile revolutionary. Since he is allowed shocking liberties with your daughters, I am surprised you do not let him throw me about the room too.”

“Next time I will,” Mrs. Hartley assured her pleasantly.

***

Mercy told herself, several times over, that he would not come to dinner. His greeting to her in the parlor had been stiff and formal. They might have been complete strangers, if not for the sultry and rather mischievous gleam in his eyes when he looked at his watch and then at her. It left her heart spinning like a bobbin.

She dressed cautiously for the dinner party, anxious not to appear as if she fussed over her appearance. Naturally that required even more care than usual. Then she scorned her reflection in the mirror and chastised herself for worrying about what was very probably nothing at all.

It was wrong of her to have these skittish, silly feelings for Rafe. It was irresponsible to act the way she had with him. She should be ashamed of herself.

Tonight, therefore, she would allow no gesture or expression to give away whatever turmoil yet remained in her heart. She would be perfectly at ease, friendly, polite, gracious. From a distance. All her emotions would be safely packed away where they could do no harm.

Sir William Milford arrived promptly with his younger sister, Miss Isabella Milford, and the widowed elder sister, introduced as Mrs. Kenton. The ladies were elegantly attired in an understated fashion. Miss Milford might benefit from a little more color, Mercy thought, but not everyone could be expected to have
her
sophisticated eye for style and fashion.

Although he purchased property in the area some years ago, Sir William was seldom in residence. Recently he had returned to the country, probably to oversee the renovations on his house, and now he brought with him his sisters. What they found to do while installed in their brother’s damp, unprepossessing ruin of a castle on a hill overlooking the sleepy village of Sydney Dovedale was anybody’s guess. The invitation to dine with the Hartleys must have been a huge relief.

Miss Milford was a plump, pretty creature with large, sad eyes. The sort of eyes, thought Mercy, that any romantic heroine ought to have. She was agreeable and expressive without being overly demanding of attention. She appeared modest, answered questions with just enough information—never too much—and since her politely uttered remarks never once offended Mercy’s views, she was speedily established as a potential new friend. Added to her other advantages were her age—being seven and twenty, and therefore five years older than Mercy—and her status of being unattached, unengaged, in clear need of a suitor. A woman who might be helped. Mercy was soon planning new outfits for Miss Milford, as well as a much more flattering arrangement for her unimaginatively dressed, dull brown hair.

The other sister, Mrs. Kenton, was harder to endure. It became plain, very quickly, that she saw herself as a matchmaker—of all the ridiculous things—and had decided, prior to their arrival, that Lady Mercy Danforthe must be set upon and secured for her brother. As an expert in this field herself, Mercy was irritated by the efforts of an amateur.

“How delighted I am to make your acquaintance,” the stout Mrs. Kenton exclaimed, sinking in a slow curtsy which, while it possessed the air of one rehearsed many times, quite failed to be graceful or very respectful. Once down, she was in too much hurry to get back up again and resume her speech. “I cannot tell you what an honor it is to meet you at last, your ladyship. I hear so much about you, and I must say, you are far handsomer than I expected from report.” She laughed gaily, while her younger sister blushed and her brother cleared his throat.

“Thank you, I’m sure.” Mercy was amused to know she was a pleasant surprise in person.

“We have all been on tenterhooks to meet you, especially dear William. Have you not, Brother? As soon as we heard you were here, I said to William,
we
must
pay
our
respects
. Society here is much less diverse than that to which we are accustomed. We have been desperate to meet any new face just to stave off the boredom. Almost anything will do for company to get us out in the evenings.”

For the first half hour, Mrs. Kenton’s odd comments were vastly entertaining. Although often obliquely insulting, she seemed completely unaware of it. Her poor brother’s throat must have been sore from the clearing of it, but even that caused her only to look at him worriedly and exclaim that she hoped he was not getting a cold.

Sir William was a nice enough fellow, although rather quiet. His conversation, when left unprompted by his sister, revolved around a new carriage he’d just purchased and the fear that he might have trodden in something unsavory on his way between that carriage and the steps of Hartley House. Repeated assurances of no foul odor emanating from his foot did nothing to appease the fellow, and he shuffled self-consciously about the room like a guilty man around the corpse of his murder victim. Mercy tried putting him at ease by asking about renovations made to the drafty, incommodious, old fortress he’d purchased in Sydney Dovedale. This was a project undertaken several years ago and still not progressed far. According to Molly Robbins, it was something of a joke among the villagers, although the amount of coin sunk into the property must be far from comedic for Sir William.