The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters Read online

  Hugh shook his head. “Pretty as peas in a pod.” He took himself off and strolled toward the dark-haired twins who sat with their chaperone.

  When Lady Mercy parted from Bellamy, Grant walked toward her. Ahead of him, a tall broad-shouldered man loomed out of the crowd, his coppery hair gleaming in the candlelight. He reached Lady Mercy before Grant could. A friend of Grant’s, Lord Gunn turned to give him a sympathetic grin, then bowed before the slender girl and her mother. Grant paused, smoothed his gloves and watched Lady Baxendale’s distinctly cool greeting. He chuckled. Gunn was a favorite of the King and a wealthy landowner in Scotland, but he didn’t appear to be welcomed with any degree of warmth.

  Grant turned away. Not like him to be caught by a young lady in her first Season, but she’d met his gaze with frank curiosity, which was not the usual debutante’s reaction to him. They either blushed and simpered or looked utterly terrified. Still, it might be wise to abandon the impulse to flirt with Mercy Baxendale. There was a very good reason why he couldn’t consider marriage, that even his closest friends and family knew nothing about. He needed to keep that in the forefront of his mind.

  As Grant sat at the card table in the games room, Colonel Black rested a large hand on Grant’s shoulder and leaned down close to his ear. “Might I have a word with you in the library, Northcliffe?”

  At a rush of smoldering excitement, Grant nodded. He threw his hand in.

  Horace Porter glared at him across the table. He’d suffered heavy losses tonight. “Tossing it in rather early, aren’t you, Northcliffe? I’d like a chance to win my money back.”

  “I may give you that chance, later,” Grant said, gathering up coins and vowels with a nod of polite apology.

  Porter sniggered. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with Lady Alethea.”

  Tempted to teach the man a lesson in manners, Grant’s hands curled around the back of the chair. Remembering Black, he let the chair go. “You are welcome to try your luck there, Porter. But I suspect your bad luck will hold.”

  Ignoring Porter’s snarl, and the laughs around the table, Grant left the room and headed down a corridor in the vast townhouse. He opened the library door and crossed the Turkish carpet to the upright figure, who stood with his back to the empty grate as if warming himself.

  Black shrugged. “Force of habit.” He waved Grant into a chair. “Gossip doing the rounds about you,” he said in his gruff voice.

  Grant sank back into the leather armchair wondering what was afoot. “So I’ve heard.”

  The colonel offered him a cheroot, and when Grant declined, lit up and leaned back. “Not a bad thing to keep society guessing.”

  “I’d prefer a different topic,” Grant said with a shrug.

  “I daresay.” Black puffed out a circle of acrid smoke. “We have a job for you.”

  Grant nodded and folded his arms, hiding his intense interest behind a cool exterior. He and Black had formed part of a shooting party at his father’s hunting lodge. Black had confessed admiration for Grant’s accuracy with a gun with some relief, after Black stumbled into a rabbit hole while in the path of a charging stag. Grant had felled it with one shot. Black later admitted that while seeking more recruits for intelligence, he’d done some digging into Grant’s past. He’d first dismissed Grant as a dandy, but after that shoot, and seeing what a cool head he had under pressure, he’d changed his mind.

  It was true that after Oxford, Grant, at a loose end, enjoyed indolent pursuits with his university friends. When in the country, they indulged in shooting parties, hunted, and bet on the turf. During the Season, they visited the fashionable clubs, White’s and Brooks to play cards or Gentleman Jackson’s to box. Grant improved his aim at Manton’s shooting gallery. He drove his curricle around town with a team of horses, and exercised his gelding in Hyde Park. Their nights saw them at gambling hells, or the theatre with Cyprians.

  The shallowness of such a life had long since palled when Black approached him. Perhaps because Grant’s father had refused his request to join the army and oust Napoleon at age sixteen, he snatched at Black’s suggestion with enthusiasm. And after a brief schooling in the art of intelligence work, he’d undertaken the covert and sometimes dangerous job of working for the Crown. There was another reason he’d accepted such work, deep seated, that Grant preferred not to revisit often; not to have his family believe him to be a wastrel. Grant sought to measure up to expectations before his grandfather died. His father was a more difficult proposition. Grant feared he grappled with depression after his mother died.

  Grant generally avoided whirling a debutante around in the waltz under her mama’s avid gaze at that most exclusive of clubs, Almack’s. But this Season, he must shelve his boredom while squiring his sister, Arabella in her first Season.

  It was a rare evening that he attended a brilliant gathering at a fashionable house like this one. And he wished he hadn’t had to come tonight, but Black had requested a meeting. He frowned, no doubt the gossip would spread farther north and add fuel to the fire of his soiled reputation.

  “Was it? You haven’t yet heard that the earl, Nathaniel Haighton, has been murdered?” Black’s words cut through his reverie like a knife through butter.

  “No!” Grant stared at him. “What happened?” He gripped the arms of his chair. Nat murdered?

  “Shot down in cold blood.”

  “Shot?” Grant shook his head disbelievingly. “He was a good friend of my father’s. I’ve known him all my life, and his wife, Jenny. They have a brood of children.”

  Black gave a curt nod. “You’ll be aware that Stockton and Darlington’s first steam train will run in September.”

  “Spoken of tonight as a matter of fact. But what has that to do with…”

  “The newly laid train line was found ripped apart within shouting distance of where Lord Haighton was found on his northern boundary.”

  “You believe he came across the men wrecking the rail line?”

  “We don’t know. When his horse came back to the stables they began to search for him. Found him hours later. Difficult to say if the two things happened concurrently, but it’s certainly possible.”

  “Fiends!” Horrified, Grant curled his hands into fists. “What lies behind this sabotage?”

  “The reasons are not yet clear.”

  “A beef against the company? There’s plenty of opposition against progress.” Grant shook his head. “But murder!”

  “They might have panicked,” Black said on a puff of smoke. “And this might have nothing to do with Haighton’s murder.”

  “Nat rode along his northern boundary to the river every morning,” Grant said. “My father and I often accompanied him during house parties.”

  “They’ll strike again.” Black stubbed out his cheroot. “The government wants the matter kept quiet for now, it will cause some panic on the ’Change. The Duke of Rotherham’s estate lies in Yorkshire, so visiting your grandfather would go unremarked upon. I suspect the trail will lead you back to London. This was neither a local matter, nor insignificant. Talk to the Justice of the Peace and the parish constable. The North Yorkshire magistrate, too if need be.

  “Because the canals proposed to move coal have never been built, this rail line has become part of a long-term plan that will eventually be extended to link industry, particularly iron, steel production, and shipbuilding, as well as coal, to other Durham towns. A vital step in English industry. Which is why the government wants to keep this matter low key. Find out what you can. But be careful, we remain too much in the dark.”

  Grant breathed deeply to ease the rage tightening his chest. How distressed his father and grandfather would be when the news of Nat’s death reached them. He wanted to be there to somehow help ease their pain.

  * * *

  How Lord Gunn managed to sweet talk her mother, she didn’t know, but he led Mercy onto the floor for a waltz. She felt light as a feather in his arms as he guided her over the floor. “You’re a wee
lassie,” he said in his heavy Scots brogue. “Different to your sister.”

  “Yes, Hope and I are more alike.” It was all she could manage to say to his broad chest, for she’d become quite breathless.

  “The Duchess is Junoesque,” he commented, as Charity waltzed past with Robin.

  Mercy detected a note of regret in his voice with a pull of sympathy. To be spurned in love must be the most dreadful thing in the world. She liked him and sought to cheer him. He moved well for a big man, his large feet managing to evade hers. “You are an excellent dancer, Lord Gunn.”

  “It helps that ye are as light as a sprite. We might dance again this evening, if your dance card isn’t full, which I suspect it will be.”

  She smiled. Her father had joined her mother, and if his expression was anything to go by, such an event was most unlikely.

  When Gunn turned her, Mercy spied the tall man with the smoldering intensity she’d found so thrilling. Northcliffe wove his way through the crowd gathered around the fringes of the dance floor. A pretty, dark-haired woman in magenta silk, stepped into his path. A moment later, he took the lady’s arm and hurried her out of the French doors onto the terrace, closing the door behind them. Mercy almost shivered as she considered what lay in store for the lady. Somehow, she knew that Northcliffe was nothing like Lord Burleigh, who’d begged Mercy for a kiss on the terrace earlier. Northcliffe would not beg.

  Chapter Three

  AS SOON AS Grant returned to the ballroom, Alethea had halted his progress, curtseying low before him. He gritted his teeth and shepherded her out through the long windows onto the terrace, sensing by the light in her eyes that she was gearing up to embellish the simmering scandal.

  When a footman closed the doors behind them, the volume reduced to a low hum. The air was heavy with the threat of a storm, which seemed appropriate, for Alethea’s mood meant trouble.

  She reached up to trail a finger down his chest. “Northcliffe, you never intended marriage, but why can’t we continue as before?”

  She neglected to mention the large roadblock to such an occurrence, her dalliance with Lord Fallowbrook while Grant had been out of town.

  “It would not do, my dear,” he said. “I thought we’d ended this amicably. What has happened since?”

  She gazed down at her hands. “I have suffered some unexpectedly large debts.”

  Her intention to snare Lord Fallowbrook must have failed. “Allow me to settle them for you.”

  Her big eyes widened. “You would do that?”

  “Certainly. But this will be the last of them, and I want a promise from you that you’ll behave discreetly concerning our past liaison, Alethea.”

  She shook her head with a moue. “You don’t trust me.”

  “You make that difficult.”

  When Grant returned to the ballroom a grueling half hour later, he boiled with anger. But the anger was directed at himself rather than Alethea, who after all, with her love of drama, only behaved as she always did. Why did he get involved with the widow? He knew the answer to that, but it did him no credit. He felt jaded and looked forward to a respite from London, with its tarnished beauty, deceptions, and temptations. His father was staying at his family’s country seat, Thornhill, with his grandfather. The sad news would have reached them. Grant could do little to ease the suffering of Nat’s widow, Jenny, and their four children, but he welcomed the chance to find the murderer.

  Grant glanced over to where Gunn escorted Lady Mercy from the dance floor. Again, her fresh beauty struck him. A desire to draw near seized him, as if all the sadness of Nat’s violent death could be eased for a brief time by a pair of blue eyes unclouded by deception. Locating Black where he stood in conversation with his contemporaries, Grant walked over to him. He drew the colonel aside. “There’s something you can do for me, if you will.”

  Black nodded. “If I can.”

  “You are well acquainted with Lord Baxendale; I believe?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d like an introduction to his daughter, Lady Mercy.”

  A smiled tugged at Black’s mouth. “I’d be happy to. But I confess I’m surprised to find you need my help with that.”

  Grant winced. “I am slightly de trop in polite circles.”

  Black laughed. “Then I’ll be delighted.”

  As they walked in the direction of the Baxendale family, a disturbance erupted in the crowd.

  Black elbowed his way through with Grant following.

  “Miss Fury fainted,” a matron gushed, madly fanning the young fair-haired woman on the floor with her ivory fan.

  A man pushed his way through those crowded around her. He knelt beside her. “Catherine, are you all right?”

  “Yes, Ambrose.” She put her hand to her forehead. “It’s just that…” Her eyes were huge in her white face. “Can you take me home?”

  “Mr. Fury will take care of his sister,” the matron explained, as Fury helped the distressed woman away, his arm around her waist. “It was so unexpected! We were just discussing the latest ondits and she was suddenly overcome.”

  * * *

  Violet Blenkinsopp and Lady Amelia Frankston sat with Mercy beside the potted palms while their mothers talked a few yards away.

  “I’ve only had one dance,” Violet confessed.

  Amelia wrinkled her nose. “I danced one of the country dances, but it hardly counts as it was with Cousin Rupert.”

  Mercy noticed Amelia had a rim of unsightly hair on her upper lip, and Violet’s brown locks lacked luster. She had just the right lotions to assist them. Perhaps her pimpernel water face wash for Amelia, after the use of her depilatory unguent. The rum and rosewater hair rinse would work wonders for Violet’s hair, and the elderberry paste would darken and better define her brows and lashes.

  Mercy had been forced to put aside the development of her skin products and her book on the subject for the busy London Season. She fingered the tiny scar on her chin, the result of a failed experiment with exploding wax. That she might help improve a lady’s appearance and make her more confident was exhilarating. But might it be better to wait to suggest their use until she was better acquainted with her new friends? While she deliberated, two gentlemen crossed the floor in their direction.

  “My goodness, it’s Lord Northcliffe,” Violet whispered, her cheeks turning bright pink. “Mama would be scandalized should he ask me to dance.”

  Northcliffe and the stiffly formal gentleman at his side approached Mercy’s father where he stood with Liverpool and Canning. A warm conversation ensued, which, despite straining her ears, Mercy couldn’t follow. With a pleased smile, her father led the two men over to her.

  “My dear, I’d like to present Colonel Black and Lord Northcliffe. Gentlemen, my youngest daughter, Lady Mercy.”

  When Mercy rose from her curtsey, she saw avuncular warmth in Colonel Black’s eyes. Lord Northcliffe’s were tawny and rather more intense, with a tendency to wander from her face to the rest of her. She dropped her gaze fearing she too was flushing.

  Northcliffe offered his arm. “Will you grant me this waltz, Lady Mercy?”

  “I should be delighted.” Mercy tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.

  Violet gasped, but Mercy was unsure if it was from surprise, or relief that he hadn’t asked her to dance. With the gentleman’s superfine sleeve beneath her gloved fingers, they joined the others advancing onto the dance floor. She glanced back at her mother’s shocked face. Father merely nodded his approval. Evidently Lord Northcliffe’s reputation didn’t bother him, Mercy supposed his impeccable linage, which Violet had mentioned earlier, had cancelled out any concerns.

  The musicians took up their instruments. As the strains of a waltz flowed gently over the noisy room, Lord Northcliffe drew her into his arms. He smelled of starch and a musky cologne, with a faint trace of tobacco.

  Nervous, Mercy stared at the ornate buttons on his silver waistcoat.

  “You have the bluest eyes, Lady Mer
cy.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I should like to see them.”

  She gazed up at him. His amber eyes held a sharp intelligence, but they softened to the color of warm honey when he smiled. He was lean and elegant, unlike the bulky Lord Gunn. The sharp planes of his shaven jaw and cheekbones gave the impression of restless impatience. He was nothing like Lord Bellamy either, who appeared a good deal more harmless by comparison. Why she thought that, Mercy had no idea. She met his gaze shyly and sought for a safe topic. “It’s cooler on the terrace, isn’t it?”

  His dark eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I saw you go out the French doors to the terrace. I escaped the heat myself earlier for a few moments. It’s dreadfully hot in here, is it not?” He had been out there rather longer than she had. Wondering just what had taken place, she clamped her mouth shut.

  He stared at her with a bemused expression. “I don’t believe I found it much cooler outside.”

  His nearness was disconcerting. Careful of her footing, she decided a change of subject was called for. “I imagine you have been to many balls.”

  “Rather too many.”

  She noted the slight downturn of his lips. He seemed thoughtful, a crease on his brow. She wanted him to find her exciting, to see his eyes light up with interest, but being so close to him, one hand swamping hers, and the warm fingers of his other hand spread over her lower back, she seemed to have lost the art of conversation. What did one say to such a rakish gentleman? Her pre-arranged question perhaps. Even a rake must be in search of a wife. It was why every unmarried man came to these affairs, especially those in need of an heir.

  “What if once you marry, your wife wished to have an occupation apart from the home and children? Would you approve?”

  “An occupation?” His gaze narrowed and he looked away from her. “I should think just having a husband alive and well, would be enough.”

  She flushed. How condescending. “So you believe a husband is all a woman requires to be happy?”