The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (24 page)

“Now there—in the ghastly pink—that is Miss Croft-Hawley. She has a most unpleasant laugh, shoulders fit to pull a plow, a wart on her neck the size of a shilling, and her mother is a greengrocer’s daughter, common as muck. But her father does well for himself in some form of trade, and she will have a good dowry, being an only daughter. I daresay she would do for that gypsy. Indeed, he should be grateful for the opportunity of such a bride.”

Mercy carefully wrote the name on her list, and next to it a brief description of the young woman—a much kinder one than that given by Lady Ursula.

“And Emily Prescott walks with her. The Prescotts are from Yarmouth and, sadly, it shows. A family of fishermen, I fear. Her posture makes one wonder if she should be ringing the bells at Notre Dame, and there are a great many long-sounding
r
’s in her speech. But it cannot be her fault that she was never corrected.”

Mercy dipped her pen in the ink pot. “Yes, I always say that children should not be held responsible for the sins of their parents.”

“Ah, just alighted from that phaeton, there you see Catherine Dawlish. Widowed. Has two young children. Her husband was in the militia and quite a cad. Her father raised pigs, and her mother made very good sausages, as well as plum cake, which she used to bring to me every Christmas.” She paused and raised her lorgnette to study the woman through the window. “She dresses most inappropriately for a widow. Her bonnet is much too young, and her bosom far too exposed. I heard tell of an affair with a farrier in Norwich. Wouldn’t put it past her. No woman’s hair can possibly be that shade of yellow naturally. Neither are one’s cheeks in a constant state of flush without the aid of too much garish paint. Now, a modicum of powder and rouge is acceptable to help the complexion, but there is a fine line between sophisticate and strumpet. As I must constantly remind my granddaughter-in-law.”

Having started to write the name Catherine Dawlish, Mercy now drew a strong line through it. A flirty widow in too much rouge was the last thing Rafe needed.

“That blowzy woman there with the flock of untidy children, I do not know. I have seen her pass this way several times lately, but her name escapes me. I’ve seen no man in her company, although to be sure there is one.”

“How can you tell? Apart from the children, I mean, for she could be a widow out of mourning.”

Lady Ursula explained, “She goes to such effort with her own appearance—new shoes, I should not be surprised, for they pinch, you see.” As if on cue, the woman walking by the park stopped, lifted her foot, and stuck her finger down the heel of her slipper. “That is the third time she has had need to adjust them. And, there, see how clean they are, despite the mud in the street?” Lady Ursula raised her lorgnette again. “For all the care she takes over her own garments, her three children are less well shod. Her hair is always curled, and yet the children’s do not seem to know contact with a comb. Definitely a man in her life who can afford to buy her shoes, but he may not be the father of her children. She has no time for her offspring and likely resents their very existence. See how angry she is with the one who lags behind.”

“You are most observant, Lady Ursula.”

“One does not get to be ninety without keeping one’s eyes open. Especially in this house of flibbertigibbets and marauders.” Lady Ursula rose from her chair, leaned over Mercy’s shoulder, and turned her lorgnetted gaze to the list on the writing desk before them. “I cannot think why you go to all this trouble for that black-haired gypsy revolutionary.”

Mercy replied boldly, “Do you not feel some interest in the woman your great-grandson will marry?”

There was a pause. The old lady stiffened, dropping her lorgnette so it dangled from the beaded chain.

“After all,” Mercy ventured onward, “one day his children will carry on the Hartley name. Your name.”

Lady Ursula returned to her chair and tripped backward into it as if she just received a punch to the jaw.

“It may be an uncomfortable fact to face, but Rafael is the last male Hartley and, in all honesty, madam, it is unlikely your grandson will sire more children.” She did not know this as a certainty at all, but why give the old lady any lingering hope? Far better for Rafe to be seen as the last male of the line. “You must learn to make the best of it. As women, we face many hardships, Lady Ursula. Sometimes it is up to us to keep the family from disaster. I know this, as my brother would be quite lost without me. Now, to the matter of your great-grandson…”

“A by-blow,” the old lady finally exhaled. “A bastard child. Son of a housemaid. That the family should come to this.”

Mercy sighed. “Quite true, but he is your blood. One must be practical about these things. Don’t you think?”

“I always knew my grandson would do something foolish. Never content to let me choose a bride for him. Insisted on being
in
love
! As a result, we end up with this sorry state of affairs. An illegitimate boy, born of a housemaid, and two surly, loud, and disobedient girls, product of my son’s marriage to a half-breed—an American, for pity’s sake.”

“Your great-granddaughters are turning into charming young ladies. You should be very proud.”

“Charming?” She huffed. “They cannot wait to see me in my grave, to be sure. Just like their mama.”

“Nonsense.”

“The little one leaves sketches of guillotines about the place for me to find. Warnings. I have no doubt she plans to take my head from my body as I sleep one night.”

Mercy chuckled. “Lilibet does have quite a gruesome fixation, but I suppose that is due to her age. Were you never like that, Lady Ursula?”

“Certainly not. I behaved as all children should. I was seen and not heard. And I was seen only when I was clean, well groomed, and sent for to be looked at. Children these days run about willy-nilly, unsupervised, and not in the least respectful.” The many lines and folds of her face falling in a grim, weary languish, she shook her head, the lace lappets of her cap almost reminding Mercy of a bloodhound’s ears. “Could my grandson have disappointed me more with his offspring? My ancestors must be turning in their graves to see what has become of this family. All because he could not allow me to choose his bride.”

“Precisely. Men are dreadful at making important and logical decisions. That is why I offered to help Rafe Hartley.” Brisk and efficient, Mercy blotted her list. “At least you and I can help prevent another disaster, Lady Ursula, because who knows who the last remaining Hartley would pick without your guidance.”

***

When he passed Hodson’s shop, Rafe noted his father’s curricle outside. Naturally, The Danforthe Brat was incapable of staying long in the area without visiting Hodson’s. She was an incorrigible shopper.

The little bell above the door announced his arrival with a pert tinkle, and Rafe’s stepmother looked over. Although caught up in the assessment of some lace, she smiled and waved. He removed his hat and smiled back, hoping the slight tremor of disappointment wouldn’t show on his face. But as he strode across the creaking wooden floor, he heard a voice he recognized, and thus his mood improved, as did his day. His instincts were right.
She
was there.

In a pensive temper last evening, he’d pondered his feelings for Mercy, comparing her effect on him with that of Molly Robbins. He concluded that while Molly was soft, quiet, and reflective as a summer Sunday morning, Mercy Danforthe was the brisk, heart-stopping cascade of thunder and refreshing rain that came out of nowhere late in the day and lingered afterwards in a brilliant but transient rainbow. Beautiful, yet untouchable. Her beginning and her end indefinable. Impressed with his poetic turn of mind, he’d even thought of writing his ideas down. Fortunately, the desire passed.

“I am most disappointed, Mrs. Hodson,” the rainbow complained. “I had plans for that beautiful peacock-feather muff you described to me.”

“It was purchased out of the window almost as soon as it was put in. My husband was sadly unaware I meant to reserve it for you.”

The shopkeeper’s wife appeared around a display of watering cans, and Mercy followed close behind, her expression vexed as she compared two muffs, one on each arm.

Rafe bowed to the ladies and waited until Mrs. Hodson was occupied with his stepmother. “How lucky that we should meet, Lady Mercy,” he said.

“Is it?” she muttered churlishly, not looking up from the items she studied so intently on her arms. He couldn’t tell whether she was in a temper with him or the muffs. Likely both.

Hands clasped behind his back, keeping them out of trouble, he said, “I hope you gave some thought to the matter we discussed.”

Finally she looked up. “Ah, yes. Finding you a bride.”

That was not what he meant, of course. Frustration twisted through his body, every muscle and sinew reacting to her smug, superior expression. “You still mean to go through with that?”

“Of course. I told you I would.”

Very well, if that was the way she wanted to play this game. “I await your expertise, Lady Mercy. Don’t let me down.”

She smirked, her head tilted. “You may trust that I have it all under control.”

“Because, of course, if you find yourself overwhelmed with the task, Mrs. Kenton is most willing to help.”

At the mention of that lady, her eyes flared and her lips forgot their self-satisfied twist. “I’m sure I can manage.”

“She invited me to tea, you know.”

“How nice.” Now her smile turned glacial.

“It is always good to make new friends.”

“I wouldn’t be too flattered. She told me herself that she is usually so excessively bored here that she would invite practically anyone to tea. Now I see she spoke truthfully.”

Rafe scratched his bowed head, hoping to hide his expression of amusement. “Mrs. Kenton seems most earnest in her desire to help mend my broken heart.”

“Well, if you decide her matchmaking abilities are greater—”

“Would it not improve my chances to have both of you at work upon the matter?”

“No,” she snapped. “Mrs. Kenton has her own methods, no doubt. She has strong views on everything.”

Rafe feigned surprise. “You did not take a liking to the lady?”

She studied the muffs on her arms again. “I have no opinion one way or the other. You must do as you please.”

Laughter spilled out of him before he could restrain it. “You have no opinion? Good Lord, has the sky fallen in? Is that…is that Richardson’s old sow flying by the window?”

Mercy turned her back and tossed both muffs onto the counter. “I’ll take them all, Mrs. Hodson.”

“Very good, my lady!”

“Perhaps you don’t approve of Mrs. Kenton,” he whispered, stepping up behind her, “simply because she’s just like you.”

She rounded on him. “How dare you? She is nothing like me.”

“On the contrary. Mrs. Kenton is you in another twenty years or so. Unless someone takes you in hand by then and curbs your meddling. I sincerely doubt that Viscount Grey is capable.”

A small, tight sound escaped from somewhere inside The Brat, but her jaw tensed, and her lips shut firmly.

“If he was capable,” he added, “you would never have agreed to marry him.”

“Unlike you, he doesn’t think I require
taking
in
hand
.”

“He must not know you so well as I do.”

“Oh…just…just go away.” That, it seemed, was the best she could do.

“The purchase of a new muff brought you to Sydney Dovedale?” he asked. It was an odd place to come for the latest fashions, and she would not have much more use out of a muff until autumn.

“I was buying a gift for your aunt,” she replied reluctantly. “We are on our way to her, and Mrs. Hartley wanted to purchase lace for a christening gown she’s making.”

Rafe glanced again at the muffs. “My aunt will have few occasions to use those. She is a farmer’s wife, not a lady of fashionable leisure. She has no time to sit around thinking of ways to interfere and generally create havoc. I daresay
her
hands are too busy to get cold.”

“These are for your sisters. The gift for your aunt is already bought and wrapped.” A heavy sigh drifted over the downward curve of her lower lip. “Sadly, neither of these muffs are quite what I had in mind for myself. I was rather sold upon the idea of peacock feathers.”

“I suppose it’s seldom you encounter something you can’t have. Unlike the rest of us.” He stared at her petulant lips. “But those would warm hands just as well as one made of peacock feathers. Perhaps even better.”

“That is beside the point, Hartley. Peacock feathers would have been splendidly dramatic.” She sighed again, visibly frustrated. “I cannot expect you to understand, of course. You know nothing of fashion.” Her sultry, willow-green gaze turned to his muddy boots, then traveled slowly upward, over his much-worn, much-stained, but very comfortable buckskin breeches, and finally to his favorite old waistcoat. “You clearly get your style tips from the
Pig
Breeders
Gazette
.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, disdain oozing from every hair on her head.

“I don’t have coin or time to waste on fripperies and trivial nonsense,” he muttered as his hands tugged on the labels of his patched coat. “I work for a living. I’m a man of the soil, not an idle toff. I don’t have other folk to do things for me, freeing up my day so I have plenty of hours to do naught but worry about peacock-feather muffs.”

His stepmother came over, arms full of packages. “Lady Mercy and I were just discussing with Mrs. Hodson the possibility of donations for the assembly room, Rafe. Remember, I told you about Lady Mercy’s plans. Perhaps you would volunteer your services.”

“What on earth could I contribute?” he muttered, not seeing much to be excited about at the prospect of monthly balls. He was no dancer. He’d sooner be tortured on a medieval rack.

“We could make use of a strong, able fellow like yourself to hang new curtains and replenish a little paintwork. The room above the Red Lion is in a sad state of disrepair.”