A Dangerous Man (8 page)

“And Lord Perth?”

“Perth is, like his sister, an enigma. I have asked wherever seemly and possible after him. His
father was something of a wastrel but the mother was a Quinton. Soon after his father’s ship was lost off the coast of New Guinea, Perth enlisted in the army. He saw action in North Africa as a regular.” The Dowager frowned. “It would have been better had Perth been an officer, but he joined the army when he was a lad. Romantic notions boys have. Too bad the mother wasn’t able to persuade him to wait until he could have had a commission.”

Mercy was regarding her intently.

“Perth inherited the earldom from a cousin. Quite unexpected and, I should think, fortuitous. The girls would not have married so well had Perth been simply Mr. Moreland.”

“It must have brought him a certain amount of wealth too,” Mercy said.

“No,” the Dowager clipped out, embarrassed by this discussion of money. Finances were a man’s province. Not that she hadn’t looked into Perth’s financial situation. She had. But she disliked admitting it, even tacitly. “The estate had fallen into extreme disrepair. Perth restored it to its past glory, but he could not have done so from inherited wealth. Apparently he filled the family coffers with coin netted from various investments in your own country.”

“I see.”

“But I did not ask you to discuss finances, and at any rate that is all I have learned about them.”

“I’m sorry I am not of more help,” Mercy said.

“No matter. I have time to form an opinion of
the girl. Acton does not seem quite as eager for an announcement as I’d thought him to be.”

The girl nodded, but her expression was distracted.

“What is it, my dear?”

Mercy hesitated. Her dark brows dipped together in a worried frown. “Your Grace, you said as how you looked into Perth’s history.”

The Dowager slowly nodded.

“There must have been people you talked to—acquaintances who were able to provide you with information.…”

“Yes,” the Dowager said, a touch of frost in her words. “But I assure you I was most discreet. I only asked where and when opportune and never did so in such a manner as would excite undue comment or reflect poorly on the object of my inquiries.”

“I am sure,” Mercy said hurriedly. “The thing is, Your Grace, I know so very few people in England. No more than a handful.”

“Do you espy a potential candidate for husband, Mercy?” The Dowager’s thin brows rose and she smiled with imperial graciousness. “I can certainly find out what a young man’s prospects are, if that is what you—”

“No. Oh, dear, no. I am doing this so badly.” Mercy shook her head. “Your Grace, I have to find my brother.”

“Of course you do, my dear,” the Dowager said calmly. “I remember you asked if I knew him when we first met. Simply tell me where he has
taken lodgings and I will have your letter delivered tomorrow before noon. Quite proper of you not to hie yourself off unchaperoned to an unknown address. For all you know, it might be a gentlemen’s club!”

“I do not know his current address,” Mercy said. “He seems to change them quite often.”

“I see. Well, that presents something of a problem. What was his last known address?”

“I’m not certain. Some of his letters did mention clubs,” Mercy said dubiously.

“Ah.” The Dowager sat back and steepled her index fingers. “Now we are getting somewhere. What clubs, my dear?”

“A place called the Peacock’s Tail. And another named Harmony. I think there was an establishment he frequented called the Hound Master—Whatever is wrong?”

The Dowager sank back, indignation and shock on her face. “My heavens, gel,” she said. “At least one of those places is notorious. Quite beyond the pale.”

Mercy swallowed. Her eyes held the Dowager’s, pleading with her.

“You must understand,” the Dowager said. “I cannot possibly make inquiries about a young man whose proclivities are so suspect.”

“You can’t.”

“No.” The Dowager shook her head. “Ascertaining a few facts about Perth, for all that he is something of a cold character, was a simple matter of asking a few old family friends. It is not the
same as asking about an American with such low tendencies.”

She could not bring herself to meet the disappointment and reproach in Mercy’s eyes. To her great shame her own gaze slid away. “I am sure you would not ask it of me.”

“Of course not,” Mercy murmured.

The heat that warmed the Dowager’s face crept farther down her throat and centered in her chest. She had worked her entire lifetime to be a perfect duchess, a perfect lady. A lady simply did not go asking after people who visited gaming hells and houses of ill repute. A lady did not even acknowledge the existence of such. And she was far too old to start risking social censure now, when she had spent her life abiding by its rules. Especially not for a social foundling. She would not. She could not.

“We’ll forget I ever mentioned it,” Mercy said.

“Yes, we shall,” the Dowager readily agreed, eager to put their relationship back on its previous footing. She was unused to feeling that she had acted the coward. She did not like it. And she disliked it that Mercy Coltrane had inspired such feelings.

“Yes, that will be for the best,” she repeated more forcefully. “Now tell me what you are going to wear to the ball.”

Annabelle sank back in her seat with a small gratified smile. The violinists had been superb and the rest of the orchestra more than competent.

She glanced over at Acton. He was not the most handsome of men or the most witty. But he was easy, undemanding company, intelligent without being intellectual, and most important, he was a duke in need of a duchess. And she had every intention of wearing that coronet.

From her eighth year Annabelle had been groomed for just such a match. It had become more than a goal, it had been the focus of her life. But now, so close to achieving it, she found herself floundering. And, she thought with an uncontrollable pursing of her mouth, she suspected the reason why.

“That was wonderful,” she said.

“Yes,” Acton replied distractedly. “I shall have to congratulate the conductor.” He looked around at the guests gathering shawls and mantles and gloves. “I do not see Miss Coltrane.”

“Miss Coltrane?” Annabelle repeated. Her hands tightened in her lap.

“Our American guest,” Acton said, frowning. “I introduced her to you just before we entered.”

“Ah, yes. The woman in the … extravagantly colored gown.”

Acton smiled at her approvingly, and Annabelle released an inward sigh. If Acton did not take exception to her subtle criticism, perhaps she had misread a personal interest in Mercy Coltrane
where there was nothing more than a polite host’s concern for his mother’s guest.

“Extravagant plumage for a rara avis, eh?” he asked.

“Quite exotic,” Annabelle murmured, pulling on her gloves and snapping the leather forcefully down over her fingers.

“Oh, more than exotic. She’s marvelous. She is a truly charming creature. So energetic and spontaneous and such … well,
fun,”
Acton enthused.

Annabelle contrived to keep her expression pleasant. “I’m sure she’s delightful. And, as you have pointed out, quite unique.”

“Oh, dear me, yes,” Acton said, rising and offering her his arm. She touched her fingertips to his sleeve and flowed to her feet.

Nathan Hillard strolled by, offering his distracted smile. Annabelle did not know the man well, but still, she was surprised to find him here, at so tame an entertainment. Rumor had it Hillard was one step ahead of his creditors. Perhaps he’d sought respite here, in his usual guise of professional houseguest.

Too bad, he had excellent deportment and good breeding, Annabelle thought before turning back to more pressing concerns.

“The unique is so often entrancing. Exciting, one might say,” Annabelle remarked as Acton escorted her forward.

“Exciting? I must say, that seems an odd choice of words,” Acton replied, his brow furrowed beneath his ginger curls.

“Stimulating, then,” Annabelle said. “You know”—she paused as if a thought had just occurred to her—“I find it quite interesting that while the stimulating activities we indulge in ultimately become wearing, that isn’t necessarily the case with stimulating personalities. Is it?” She glanced sideways at him. His brow had smoothed. He was paying her scant attention now, his gaze roving restlessly among the guests. She slowed her step, determinedly silent. She was not some negligible creature who needed to parrot her own questions for the simple courtesy of a reply.

Noting her sudden silence, he looked down at her. Having been caught openly inattentive, his square face colored a dull brick red. “Please excuse me, Miss Moreland. I was concerned that something untoward had happened to my mother’s protégée, keeping her from our company. May I beg you to repeat yourself?”

“Oh,” she said lightly, “’twas nothing of consequence.”

He patted her gloved hand gratefully and led her into the Great Hall, where he waved one of Baron Coffey’s acne-scarred sons over. The lad scuttled forward like an overeager puppy, all legs and feet. “Carlton here has expressed a great interest in—in your opinon on Mozart. I, alas, cannot neglect my duties as host. I must inquire after Miss Coltrane. Rest assured, I shall inform you if anything is amiss. If you’ll excuse me?” He bowed quickly before turning and trotting up the stairs.

“Ah, Miss Moreland,” Carlton Coffey said,
beaming with delight. “Now, let me see. Mozart. Mote-zart. Hungarian writer chappie, is he not?”

Only years of strict schoolroom discipline allowed Annabelle to form a polite expression of interest.

Something would have to be done about Mercy Coltrane.

Chapter 7

“Y
ou know that American girl, Mercy Coltrane?” Beryl asked the next day. Hart reined his horse in next to where she stood. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “She has a bullet hole in her shoulder.”

Anger and astonishment froze Hart in the act of dismounting. Had Mercy already broken her promises—or was she taunting him by hinting at their past? He swung down out of the saddle and tossed the reins to a waiting attendant. He’d damn well throttle her himself if she’d revealed where she’d received that scar.

“How do you know this?” he asked.

“I saw it myself last night, and then this morning, after breakfast Lady Jane Carr actually had the audacity to express an interest.”

“Jane Carr sounds a mannerless chit.” He cast an angry eye over the men and women sauntering beneath the autumn-flushed boughs of aspens bordering
Acton’s parkland, searching for the object of his ire. All he saw were elaborately bundled women milling about men who were comparing rifles with ceremonial conspicuousness.

The afternoon’s entertainment was to include a shooting match for the male guests. The women, he assumed, were there to murmur appreciative sounds. Not that he had any intention of joining. He’d had enough shooting to last him a dozen lifetimes over … unless the target was a woman with auburn hair.

“Oh, forget Jane Carr. She didn’t even bring her doddering old husband with her. The point is she asked and Miss Coltrane told us, calm as you please,” Beryl said with some exasperation. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it the most deliciously exciting thing you’ve ever heard?” she asked. He ignored her, striding toward the assembly of houseguests.

“Well?” Beryl demanded from behind him. With a sense of frustration Hart adjusted his speed to his sister’s more decorous pace.

“Fascinating.”

“She’s so nonchalant about it,” Beryl continued. “She says she received it at the hands of a—oh, this is too, too rich—
gunslinger!”

So, she
did
think to taunt him. Obviously, Miss Coltrane and he needed to have another conversation. “Beryl—” He stopped just out of hearing of the other guests.

“I am quite in awe of her,” Beryl babbled on.
“I wonder if she’s ever met any red Indians. I will have to ask her. I expect she’s had any number of harrowing escapades. That wound! As big as a shilling and dreadful-looking. How painful it must have been! What a thrilling life she’s lived and yet she’s really the sweetest, most dear—”