The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (20 page)

“How intensely satisfying it must be,” she said to him, “to indulge one’s creativity in restoring a fine, ancient structure like that fortress. A great project indeed!”

“Yes.”

She waited, but there was nothing more forthcoming.

Mercy tried again. “I understand the flint tower has graced that very spot since the Norman conquest.”

Sir William scratched the side of his nose. “Yes.”

“And the stone was ferried here from the mouth of the river Yare, where it was once used in a Roman lookout tower.”

“Ummm.” He smiled uncertainly and then glanced shyly at his foot. Mercy began to think he cared nothing about the history of the place he’d purchased. The ruin, however, had always fascinated her. Carver said it was the fault of her romantic sensibilities that she should find anything appealing about that damp, mossy, unprepossessing pile of old stone.

At this point, Mrs. Kenton took over the conversation, as was clearly customary. “When William first announced an intention to purchase property in the country, I suggested Buckinghamshire. It is a place in which I lived many happy years with my dear husband, God rest his soul.”

“Oh?”

“My husband was the curate at Hawcombe Prior, the village near Lark Hollow, the Hartleys’ country house. Did you know?”

“Indeed, no.” Neither did she particularly care. The woman’s dead husband could not be of any interest to her, since he was permanently beyond helping. She searched for something else to say. “You have been widowed long, Mrs. Kenton?”

“Three years this month.” The lady sighed and blinked as if she tried to squeeze out tears. Her eyes remained dry, clear, missing nothing that went on around them. “I still have many friends in Hawcombe Prior and visit often. I do like to keep abreast of matters. I see it as a duty to my husband’s memory that I remain in contact with the families of the neighborhood—his
flock,
as he liked to call them. There is little that goes on there without my knowledge,” the lady added proudly. “I have my ear to the ground, my finger on the pulse.”

“I’m sure the parishioners are most grateful for it,” Mercy muttered.

“The current curate is sadly not up to the standard set by my dear husband. Neither does he appreciate my assistance. But I press onward with my good works, continuing my dear husband’s efforts as he would have expected.”

“Very admirable, indeed.” After this, Mercy turned her attention to the younger sister, ignoring most of Mrs. Kenton’s chatter.

When the drawing room door opened, Mercy looked over Miss Milford’s head, fully expecting the footman to enter with a note of apology from Rafe. Instead, there was the man himself. He came.

Mercy completely forgot what she’d been in the midst of telling Miss Milford.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Kenton muttered. “Well…”

Well, indeed, thought Mercy. Apart from his recent wedding day, she’d never seen Rafe make so much effort over his attire. Frequently, it seemed to her as if he deliberately played down his good looks. Tonight he did not. His clothes were clean and free of patches, not a stain or loose stitch in sight. She recognized the blue tailcoat he’d worn on his wedding day—must be his best coat. Rafe Hartley would not look out of place in a London drawing room, she thought with surprise.

Ah, but he would. Pretentious members of the
ton
would sniff him out as an imposter. That quick temper and wild spark in his eye would give him away, even if his crude tongue, the moment he opened his mouth, did not. Rafe wouldn’t pretend for anyone, wouldn’t hide his thoughts, however improper and contrary to popular opinion. Worse than that, even, the way his presence filled the room was not…gentlemanly. It was too hot, too dangerous—revolutionary, as Lady Ursula had said. And that was a terrifying word in aristocratic circles. People would be unsettled, not knowing whether to admire or fear him.

He greeted his stepmother, who steered him across the room to introduce him to the Milfords and Mrs. Kenton. Lady Ursula, although safely situated by the fire, well away from his trajectory, clutched the diamonds at her throat and slid fearfully into the corner of her chair.

To Mercy’s relief, Mrs. Kenton’s attention promptly unfastened from her and switched to Rafe. Having already learned that woman’s ideas on everything from parliamentary reform to removing stains on lace, she was certain there could be no topic left for their discussion. As for the lady’s beloved village of Hawcombe Prior, Mercy now knew the layout of every lane, the distance of every walk, the age of every tree, without ever having been there or nursing any intention of going.

As only the “natural” son of James Hartley, Rafe might have been a person unfit for the Milfords’ notice, other than as a charity cause. But his illegitimacy had not held him back. He was openly acknowledged by his father’s family—except for Lady Ursula, of course—and he’d known the benefit of a Cambridge education. However, his preference to work with his hands rather than assume the mantle of “gentleman” made his status somewhat puzzling to Mrs. Kenton. But however unconventional she might regard his appearance in that drawing room, she must be canny enough to realize that Rafe held a certain position in his wealthy father’s life. He was also, it could not be denied, positively breathtaking to look upon, rendering the ladies in the room quite short of the required air just by walking through it.

“I heard you recently suffered a great disappointment, sir,” said Mrs. Kenton, barely lowering her voice, discretion apparently being a stranger to her.

“A disappointment?”

“Your canceled wedding, Mr. Hartley.” She moved a step closer, head wedged far back on her neck in order to assess his face as it looked down from miles above her.

“Ah, yes.
That
disappointment.” His tone was unusually restrained, mellow. “But perhaps it was as well the young lady changed her mind before the vows rather than after. It saved us both a great deal of trouble, I daresay.”

Mercy was impressed. He held his temper and showed generosity of spirit toward the girl who’d jilted him. He also managed to look extremely fine while doing so.

Oh, Molly Robbins, you foolish, foolish girl!

Mrs. Kenton was ready to pity him. “The girl must have been undeserving.”

“I’d like to think so, madam, but I’m sure we all have our faults. I am not such a wondrous catch for any woman. I’ve been told I try people’s patience.” His head hung slightly forward, and he gave a morose sigh. “That I’ve been spoiled and get away with too much. To hear some people say it, I need a nanny, not a wife. They would not share my company if the alternative was a hanging at Tyburn.”

Mrs. Kenton absorbed every word. “Goodness, Mr. Hartley, what a dreadful thing for anyone to say. I am most distressed to hear how unjustly you’ve been treated. I do so hate to hear of a sweetheart’s betrayal. There is nothing worse, to be sure.”

“Nothing worse than a mind changed and a wedding broken off?” Mercy exclaimed. “I think you enlarge the matter, madam. There are many tragedies in the world that far outweigh this one.”

“Lady Mercy has never had a broken heart,” Rafe said solemnly, one hand raised to his chest, pressing on it and wincing as if he felt severe pain. “She cannot know what I suffer.”

“Shall I get you a shovel, Mr. Hartley?” she suggested with an arch smile.

“A shovel?”

“To help spread the cow manure?”

The remark went over Mrs. Kenton’s head. “Poor Mr. Hartley, you have been ill used, but I shall see to it that this doesn’t get you down with a fit of the blue devils.” She raised her finger with a flourish. “I, Augusta Kenton, shall personally ensure your spirits are lifted. You need merry company to heal your heart and make up for that other flighty creature.”

“Flighty
and
sharp-tongued,” he muttered.

So much for his forgiving spirit, thought Mercy darkly.

Mrs. Kenton assured him not to worry. “I shall erase her from your thoughts before too long, sir. I shall take you under my wing and find you another young lady to soothe your wounds.”

“Please do not trouble yourself, madam, just to help me. I daresay I can manage tolerably alone. It is not…” He paused and took a deep breath. “…not so very hard.”

When Mercy gasped in irritation, Rafe looked at her and smiled. If it were possible, she thought, for a wolf to smile.

“Miss Milford”—she turned quickly to the woman beside her—“do you play at all?”

The Danforthe Brat always assumed that by playing loudly she could hide all her skipped and improvised notes. It was much the same method by which she argued with him for the past dozen years. Bright plumage and a great deal of noise were her shields, meant to distract other people from seeing her faults.

At the end of her song, Miss Milford applauded with an enthusiasm that caused Rafe to wonder if the young lady was in her employ or simply hard of hearing. Mrs. Kenton, he noted, prodded her brother to respond likewise, and Sir William eventually found his feet, sauntered wearily to the pianoforte, and offered to turn her music, therefore giving Rafe’s stepmother a rest. She came over to where Rafe sat in a corner of the drawing room.

“Before you comment to me on how well Lady Mercy looks this evening,” he muttered quietly, “I will agree and dispense with that line of conversation.” He’d always been able to read his stepmother like a wide-open book. With very large print.

She perched beside him on the sofa and spread her fan, using it to hide her lips. “A conversation cannot be ended until all participants are satisfied.”

He sighed heavily and leaned into the corner, elbow resting on the rolled arm of the sofa. “I refuse to compliment her on her playing. Yes, she
looks
quite beautiful. That is as far as I can go with any degree of sincerity. It is no more of an achievement to be beautiful than it is to be rich, when one was born thus.” Pity Mercy Danforthe didn’t have a softer heart and a little kindness in her soul, he thought. She was so busy pushing people around to do her bidding that she gave no thought to their feelings.

Mercy could take a lesson or two from Lady Blunt, who had offered her advice in such a kindly way that he took it without feeling bombarded and bullied. He could respect the old dear, of course, for she was a woman of advanced years, and there was none of that unfortunate sexual attraction to get in the way between them. He missed their conversations, he realized. Despite their age difference, the old lady had touched a chord in him. He meant it when he said he wished he’d known her when she was young.

His stepmother eyed him above her fan. “I see you made an extraordinary effort with your own grooming this evening, Rafe.”

“Yes. I do manage to scrape the dirt of the farmyard off me from time to time.”

“Just for us. We are honored.”

“I hope so,” he replied tightly, his gaze focused across the room on the pianoforte. “Lady Mercy does not appear in any haste to return home. Odd, is it not?”

“Not especially. She enjoys the country.”

Enjoys
meddling
, he thought.

“And her company is most entertaining. Don’t you agree, Rafe?”

He snorted. “Like a public hanging. Morbid curiosity makes it impossible to look away.”

“That’s a fine way to talk of an old friend.”

“Friend? We do naught but quarrel. Her view of the world is the very opposite of mine. We agree on nothing.”

His stepmother laughed in her easy, infectious way. “Exactly. If you were not dear friends, you would never bother to argue. It would not be so important to make the other person understand.”

He squared his shoulders against the back of the couch. “She’s a menace.”

“Your father used to say that of me.”

“She gives me a headache.”

“Poor Rafe.” She beamed over her fan. “I daresay it’s the…tension.”

“Tension?” He didn’t like the sound of that, or the pause before it.

“Better stock up on the apothecary’s powders, because I suspect she means to stay a while yet.”

He winced. “God help me.”

Miss Milford now took over the entertainment, and Rafe’s stepmother stood quickly, beckoning to Mercy as if she had something to say. The young woman walked over, smiling expectantly, poised to hear whatever urgent message Mrs. Hartley had to impart, only to discover that she merely meant to give up the seat beside Rafe.

There was no time to escape the proximity for either of them.

Mercy, cornered, sat tentatively and folded her hands in her lap. His stepmother, meanwhile, fanned herself rapidly and gestured to the footman for some wine. “Is it just me, or is it dreadfully warm in here?”

“It’s just you,” the two younger people replied sternly in unison.

Mrs. Hartley persisted. “You look a little flushed, Lady Mercy. Are you sure you do not feel the heat?”

Rafe stole a glance at Mercy and saw her face glowing with a tint of pink. “Quite sure,” she answered softly. The slight vibration of a copper ringlet by her cheek was the only thing that moved, apart from her lips.

“We were just talking of headaches, Lady Mercy,” said his stepmother wickedly. “Rafe seeks a reliable cure. Do you know of any?”

“Our housekeeper makes an excellent elderberry wine,” came the cool response. “Although, as I advise my brother, refraining from the known causes of
his
headaches would be more beneficial than any cure.”

“There, Rafe, see? I knew Lady Mercy would have a cure for what ails you.” Having amused herself, Mrs. Hartley wandered off, leaving them alone together.

Although Miss Milford showed herself to be an accomplished performer on the pianoforte, no one paid her much attention. Her brother had evidently assumed the task of turning the music only because he wanted to please Lady Mercy, and now that she had abandoned the instrument, he was forced to stay and serve his sister instead. Mrs. Kenton, while making a show of being interested in her sister’s playing, astonished Lady Ursula and Rafe’s father with a soliloquy in favor of gaslit street lamps and various other modernizations that were now common in London but had yet to reach towns like Morecroft. In her eagerness to prove herself conversant with new developments, Mrs. Kenton wildly misjudged her audience, for Lady Ursula was a woman happiest if nothing around her ever changed. In her opinion, good folk had no cause to be out in the dark, so why would they need reliable lighting? Only for the easy accomplishment of criminal deeds, she assured Mrs. Kenton gravely, leaving the other lady with nothing immediately to say.