A Dangerous Man (20 page)

She turned her head away. She wouldn’t embarrass him again. She wouldn’t have him witness her crying again.

He opened the door and jumped from the carriage. She struggled upright, still disoriented. Before she could act, he plucked her from where she swayed at the entrance and carried her to her horse. He lifted her up into the saddle.

He was a gentle man, she thought muzzily, for all his dangerousness. His hands lingered a second, ensuring that she was secure. And then he was stepping back.

“You’re all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“How are we going to get you back into the house?” he muttered, swinging into his own saddle.

He was impatient to be rid of her, impatient to be rid of her duplicity and blackmail, impatient to have her gone from his life. True, he’d said he admired her, but he did so grudgingly, as one admires a coyote for its relentless opportunism.

That was all she was to him—a coyote raiding his manor house, she thought in despair. And how could she blame him? She represented everything he wanted to forget: violence, deceit, vulgarity.

For God’s sake, she thought on a bubble of feverish laughter, she was blackmailing the Earl of Perth! What did she expect from him? An invitation to the opera? She dashed the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“I’ve made arrangements,” she said, and spurred her mount away from him and all she could never hope to have.

Chapter 17

“M
iss Coltrane, you slept well I trust?”

Mercy started at the sound of Henley Wrexhall’s voice. She was tired and uncertain and filled with an overwhelming desire to see Hart. A desire she wasn’t about to examine too closely.

“I had a perfectly restful evening, Mr. Wrexhall,” she answered. “And yourself?” He wore his usual bland smile but there was an assessing quality in his eyes that was not at all pleasant. Had he seen her come in last night?

Nonsense, Mercy thought. Brenna had sneaked her in through the servants’ entrance. There was not a soul the wiser. She’d stake her reputation on it. In fact, that is exactly what she had done.

He shifted on his feet. “Perfectly.”

Then why
, she wondered,
are there pouches beneath your eyes?
Her own mirror had reflected similar dark areas this morning when she’d made a hasty toilette.

“Pleasant morning, is it not?” she asked, fumbling for a topic of conversation. Wrexhall, if she remembered correctly, was a member of the Liberal party and a rising young politician. Which knowledge left her no more certain how to proceed than before. She hadn’t the least acquaintance with England’s politics.

“Your brother-in-law appears absent this morning.”

“Tending Fanny, I expect,” Henley replied. “It’s become rather a full-time job for the poor chap. Though I doubt whether he begrudges her it. Richard never did like crowds. Much happier on his estate.”

Richard? Of course, Mercy remembered, the other brother-in-law. “Mrs. Wrexhall enjoys house parties, then?” she asked. “Lucky woman to have so indulgent a spouse.”

“Oh, dear, no. Fanny is most strained by the prospect of parties. Always worried someone will expect her to say something clever.”

Mercy frowned in perplexity. “Then why ever did they accept the invit—” She stopped, abashed by her rudeness. “Forgive me.”

Henley smiled, and this time the expression made it to his eyes, a sardonic gleam, true, but more than his usual social expression, which was a tightening of cheek muscles as meaningless as it was ubiquitous.

“Quite all right,” he said.

“Actually, when I asked you about your brother-in-law, I was referring to Lord Perth.”

“Oh.” His dark eyes went flat. “I’m afraid I don’t know where Perth is. Probably busy with his machinations.” If his smile was an attempt to rob the words of criticism, it failed. “Not that we aren’t indebted to Perth,” he hurried on, “but it might be for the best if Annabelle were to enter any … permanent association with a certainty that she herself was the main factor in its evolution.”

She stared at him in bewilderment, at a loss as to how to respond to such an extraordinary statement. She was saved from having to by the arrival of Nathan Hillard.

This morning he looked in fine spirits, rested and genial. His golden hair was polished to a deep shine, his dress was elegant and subdued. He was, she thought objectively, a very handsome man.

“Miss Coltrane,” he greeted her, “I trust you spent a restful evening? These morning rides of yours are not taking a toll, I hope. You must remember, we are not keeping rancher’s hours here. Take care of yourself, m’dear.”

His concern was slightly proprietary. Mercy felt a rush of shame under his scrutiny.

“Lovely, thank you, Mr. Hillard.” That was the second man who’d studied her rather too closely. She would have to see if Brenna had any powder to conceal the circles beneath her eyes.

Henley, obviously relieved to have been extricated from his indiscretions, welcomed Nathan with a clap on the back. “Nate, I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you for your support in the boroughs last year.”

“It is not only my pleasure but my duty to do anything I can to advance the economic and social conditions of our country, Wrexhall. And seeing you made a member of the House is certainly a step in that direction.” It was a munificent statement, but rather than giving Wrexhall pleasure, it seemed to have the opposite effect. He flushed deeply.

Hillard turned to her. “And how do you propose to spend this lovely day, Miss Coltrane?”

“I haven’t given it any thought,” she replied. Beyond finding Hart and charting their next move, she’d made no plans.

“Ah. Well, perhaps I might interest you in a ride in the country or a trip to Fair Redding? It’s an extravagantly picturesque town.”

“Perhaps some other day, sir.” She had other matters to see to today. As delightful as it would probably be, she couldn’t afford to waste time seeking her own enjoyment while Will needed her. The decision felt suspiciously like a reprieve.

Henley snorted. “And what would you know about picturesque towns, Nate? I confess, I’m surprised you’re here at all. Didn’t think the country was your cup o’ tea.”

“It depends on who is in the country,” Hillard responded, his brilliant blue eyes resting on her. She had never seen such eyes; the crystalline blue irises dominated them, all but swallowing the pupils in gemlike color.

“You must miss the hustle and bustle of London, Nate,” Henley went on, either missing or ignoring
Hillard’s byplay. “The amusements, the parties, the society …”

“I’d forgotten you were a permanent resident of London, Mr. Hillard,” Mercy said. “So many of the people I have met have a country address as well as a town one and I must confess, I find it all very complicated.”

“So many of the people you have met have the means for two residences,” Hillard said with a self-deprecating smile.

Immediately, her cheeks burned with the enormity of her faux pas. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Hillard,” she exclaimed, mortified.

“No need, Miss Coltrane. The circumstances of my address or lack of one is simply a temporary condition. Who knows, next year perhaps I’ll own four country houses.”

“And why would you want to?” Henley asked, his usual smile absent. “Great encumbrance, if you ask me.”

The bitterness in the words was obvious, and Mercy was reminded that the Wrexhalls lived on Hart’s ancestral estate, which Henley managed during Hart’s prolonged and successive absences.

“Too true, Henley. I have no desire to
own
property, I merely wish to have the occasional use of it.”

“You enjoy living in the city, Mr. Hillard?” Mercy asked, an idea forming in her mind. Perhaps she need not embroil Hart in her plans after all. Plainly, Hillard was … interested in her and as such might be sympathetic.

“Nate is a gadabout,” Henley said. “He knows everyone, everything, and everyplace in London.”

“Hardly,” Hillard demurred. “I simply enjoy the company of my fellow man. I am, I admit, a social creature.”

“Perhaps you have met my brother in town, Mr. Hillard.”

“Your brother?” Hillard’s smooth forehead creased. “Ah, yes. The mysterious Will. I recall your mention of him when we were first introduced in London. Quite intent on discovering his whereabouts, you were. And have you found your elusive sibling?” he asked.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Oh! Forgive my flippancy, Miss Coltrane. I assumed you—” He stopped, turning his hands up apologetically. “I am sorry to say I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your brother. How long has he been in the city?”

“He’s been in England for nearly a year. I suspect he’s spent most of that time in London.”

“Suspect?” Henley asked. “You mean you don’t know?”

Mercy smiled, aware it was a brittle attempt. “No. I don’t. He is apparently kicking over the traces as young men are wont to do—or so I’ve been told,” she added with a dark thought to Hart. “I wish to remind him that he has a doting family.”

Nathan studied her with approval and tenderness. “Might I be so presumptuous as to ask after him for you?”

“Oh, would you?” she asked eagerly, leaning
forward. “I’d be so grateful.” She considered naming the places William frequented but recalled the Peacock’s disreputable air and even more disreputable bartender and decided against such a course. It could give Hillard a bad opinion of Will, make him renege on his offer of help.

Perhaps just having him ask among his acquaintances would net results. He might know someone who knew someone.… After all, many of the men at the Peacock’s Tail had been as fashionably dressed as those here.

“I’d be delighted,” he said. “But I feel obliged to say that if your brother is determined to remain elusive—especially a lad who is intent on establishing his independence,” he added with an indulgent smile, “—there is little hope of finding him. London is a big city.”

“Oh, I’ll find him,” Mercy said stubbornly. “However long it takes, I will find him. He’s my only sibling, you see. I must find him.”

“With such resolution I wager you’ll succeed,” Hillard answered in a soft, considering voice.

“What is it you’re wagering now, Hillard?” Acton hailed them. Mercy turned to find her host bearing down on them, his broad ruddy face wreathed in smiles. Annabelle Moreland glided at his side, a vision of loveliness in pale lilac muslin and tiny orchid-colored satin bows. “You aren’t challenging Miss Coltrane to another contest of marksmanship, are you?” Acton demanded in a bluff tone.

“Good Lord, no,” Hillard said. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Good, because I’ve just been to see the gamekeeper and I have my own suit with which to press Miss Coltrane. I had him set out some three hundred pheasants in the meadow yesterday. Today”—he rubbed his hands together—“would be splendid weather for an afternoon shoot.”

“I’m afraid I don’t hunt, Acton,” Henley said.

Acton glanced at him as though just realizing his presence. “Oh, Wrexhall. Quite all right. But for those of us who do, it shall be marvelous.” He turned to Mercy. “I was hoping you’d grace us with your skill, as well as your delightful company, Miss Coltrane.”

Mercy cast about for some way of refusing. Since provoking Hart into that contest, Acton had become her most ardent fan. It was a bit wearing having to live up to his exaggerated—and romanticized—image of her.

“The other ladies will be attending?” she asked.

He smiled. “Oh, none of the other ladies can hope to match your skill, Miss Coltrane. I’m sure they will be content to spectate from the carriages.”

Not if Annabelle were an example of such contentment, thought Mercy. The young girl was regarding her frostily. There was a definite ripple of discontent across the seemingly impenetrable pool of her serenity.

“Do you shoot, Miss Moreland?” she asked.

“No, Miss Coltrane. I am not a sportswoman,” Annabelle said.

“Course you aren’t, Miss Moreland,” Acton said. “Perhaps you and some of the other ladies can arrange a
déjeuner
alfresco?”

“Certainly. Would you like to start with cheese and fruit?” the girl snapped. “And what beverage? Lemonade? Hot chocolate? Perhaps you’d like me to see that the linen is properly ironed?”

Startled, Mercy looked at her.

“Ah, that won’t be necessary.” Acton’s mouth looked a trifle slack.

“And for the main course?” Annabelle continued. “Meat pies or sausages in pastry?”

Mercy could have sworn one dainty foot was tapping beneath the four tiers of laced ruffles.

“Anything,” Acton squeaked, and cleared his throat. “Whatever Cook provides.”

Wrexhall grinned. “Quite partial to sausage myself, Belle,” he said.

“I’ll arrange it immediately.” Annabelle twirled, her frothy lilac skirts billowing out as she strode away, probably off to inform her brother of the suspected insult.

“If you gentlemen would excuse me,” Mercy said, marking Annabelle’s progress through the small groups of people.

“Of course, dear Miss Coltrane,” Acton said, bowing forward at the waist. “We’ll see you later on.”

“Yes,” she murmured, waiting to see which door Annabelle exited through.