The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (28 page)

She nodded gravely. “How very steadfast you are to an old friend.”

“I am so to all my friends.”

***

He saw at once that her lively imagination was at work in regard to his relationship with Mrs. Pyke. Her eyes were not the only bright shade of emerald in evidence. At first, he was annoyed with her for immediately assuming the worst—that he might be attracted to Mrs. Pyke. Clearly her regard for him was not as high as his for her.

But then he saw an opportunity for mischief.

For a woman who claimed to want him married off and out of her hair, Lady Mercy was showing remarkably little interest in finding that bride she’d promised, and he had warned her that he could take matters into his own hands.

Mrs. Pyke was listing her complaints about their current lodgings. “If we ’ad better rooms, yer ladyship, I know me ’ealth would improve. Something by that park, where it’s right peaceful, would suit me.”

“I’m sure Mr. Hartley and I can come up with a solution.”

Naturally she thought she could take over, he mused. “It is good of you to offer assistance, Lady Mercy, but I must take care of these matters myself.” He watched her gloved hands as they checked for—and found—dust on a chair back. “I promised Mrs. Pyke that I would do what I could for her and, as you know,
I
keep my promises.”

For a further moment, she looked at him, and a dimple slowly appeared in her cheek. Then she turned to the other woman, ignoring his comment. “I know just the place to put you, Mrs. Pyke, under the care of a most obliging lady, where I’m sure you will be very comfortable.”

Rafe watched her fingers twitching as she looked at the eldest child. No doubt she yearned to wipe the boy’s dirty face and comb his hair. How would she ever manage with children of her own?

“Mrs. Pyke must come to the assembly ball,” she said suddenly, “since she is your
particular
friend
from London.”

Aha! She’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. He always knew he’d reel her in one day. “If you think she must.”

“Oh, she must.” Her eyes gleamed. “Mrs. Pyke, do you have a gown suitable for dancing?”

“I ain’t been dancing in five years at least,” the woman replied, obviously bewildered.

“Mr. Hartley said you do not go out much into Society. We must remedy that at once.”

There was a sharp tone of defiance in her voice, as if she expected someone to stop her. Well, he wouldn’t. She’d make a fool of herself over this and then have to beg for his forgiveness once she learned the truth. This would teach the meddlesome wench a long overdue lesson about her assumptions.

***

When they left Mrs. Pyke’s room, she said, “I wish you had introduced me to your charming friend much earlier.” Mercy was enjoying every minute of this. He really thought he could pull the fleece over her eyes, trick her into believing Mrs. Pyke was his benefactress. “You must introduce her to your father at the ball. I’m sure he will be most pleased to meet one of your London acquaintances.”

Some of the cockiness went out of Rafe’s expression at the suggestion of his father meeting Mrs. Pyke. But even with his eyes narrowed cagily, he gave Mercy a smile just as sweet as the one she gave him. “Excellent idea.”

She laughed. “I am so relieved you and I are friends and no longer at war. No longer looking to tease each other.”

“Quite,” he replied through his smile. “We shall have fun together at the ball.”

“We most certainly shall.” She paused. “I must say, Mrs. Pyke is exactly what I expected.”

“She is?” They walked together down the narrow stairs to the courtyard of the inn. “Elaborate, if you please.”

“She is a lady of obvious taste and refinement. Of knowledge and…wit. Just as you described her.”

He said nothing.

“But tell me of this arrangement between you,” she pressed. “The one you told me of before. You said marriage is out of the question for her.”

“It is.” His gaze clouded over, and she suspected he was trying to remember the things he’d said of his benefactress.

“I really think it is unfair of you not to consider Mrs. Pyke, now that you are in the market for a wife. You would make a fine couple. I had thought of Isabella Milford for you—as she is so
accomplished, demure,
and
…sensitive
. But now I think Mrs. Pyke is a better match. Much more”—she looked at him—“you. More suited to the earthy man of the soil.”

Pressing a finger to his lips, he nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”

“But you must make your choice with care at the ball. I have sent personal invitations to every eligible lady in Morecroft and beyond.” She laughed again. “How will you manage, Mr. Rafe Hartley, with all these women vying for your affections?”

He stopped, allowing her to pass first through the narrow arch. “Oh, I’m used to it.”

The laughter caught in her throat, and she swept by, biting her tongue.

“It’s a relief to have you,” he added. “At least I have one lady friend not after me for my body.”

She shot him a quick glance as he caught up with her, but he pursed his lips in a tuneless whistle and walked at her side with a jaunty step, to all appearances completely carefree.

Lying hound!

The ballroom began to reclaim its previous glory, the layers of dust and cobwebs cleared away, fresh paint applied, dado mended, and mirrors hung to reflect light. Mrs. Hartley exclaimed that it was just as she remembered, perhaps even improved upon. Lady Ursula, who had to be helped up the stairs by her great-granddaughters but could not be kept away from the scene of the crime, declared the place looked like “a Southwark brothel.”

No one bothered to ask how she knew what a brothel might look like.

“I take it you won’t attend the first dances, then,” said Mrs. Hartley.

“I shall not.”

“Pity. I had hoped you might open them for us.”

It was actually Mercy’s idea to make the ancient lady feel included as a guest of honor on the first night, but she had let Mrs. Hartley make the final decision about asking her. Once the most important and consequential person in Morecroft, Lady Ursula still was exactly that. In her own mind.

She considered her answer for several ponderous minutes. “I suppose there will be cake.”

“Of course there will be cake,” said Mercy.

“I suppose, if I do not attend to give my blessing to this enterprise, no one will come.”

“Without a doubt it will fail, unless you are there, Lady Ursula.”

“Hmmph. I shall decide in due course.” With that, she summoned her great-granddaughters to help her down the stairs again.

“Alas, she will hold this over our heads now,” Mrs. Hartley muttered as soon as Lady Ursula was gone. “Never will one favor be so costly to attain.”

Mercy patted her arm. “It was good of you to ask her. She’ll come. You’ll see.”

“After she’s made us leap like steeplechasers for the next few days.”

“It will all be worthwhile.”

Mrs. Kenton elbowed her way between them. “We have our work cut out for us there, don’t we, ladies?”

We?
Too annoyed for words, Mercy immediately walked away to where Isabella stood peering out of a window, pensively watching a fine drizzle of rain. “Are you quite well, Miss Milford? You look a little pale.”

The lady forced a smile. “I am quite all right. I was just thinking…of dancing. It has been some time since I had the pleasure.”

She followed Isabella’s gaze into the damp market square below and spied Rafe dodging puddles, his head bowed against the rain.

“Mr. Rafe Hartley appears to be a very charming gentleman,” said Isabella in her quiet voice.

It was tempting to point out that Rafe would not want to be called a gentleman; that the word, to him, bordered on an insult, as it suggested a person who did naught all day, but spent his time in worthless, even dissolute habits. But remembering they had called a truce, she kept that to herself.

“I wonder why Miss Robbins left him. That was her name, was it not?”

“I believe Miss Robbins wanted something different than that which she thought he could give her. However, I do not know for sure. It is not my business.” There, she thought, that was fair. No one could possibly find fault with those statements or accuse her of being too opinionated.

“Yet, she must have led him to imagine she loved him.” Isabella’s eyes grew very round as she studied Mercy’s face, searching for answers. “That was cruel, was it not? How can he excuse her? He must have such a forgiving soul.”

Mercy hesitated. She did not want to admit her friend had ever been cruel, and the idea of Rafe being forgiving was very far from the truth. No one was so capable of holding a bitter grudge. Oh, this keeping of opinions to oneself was no easy thing.

“Excuse me,” said Isabella, looking away again, one hand pressed to the cameo brooch that pinned her lace fichu at her throat. “It is no business of mine, and he seems adjusted to his circumstances.”

“Yes. He is adaptable, to be sure. In appearances.” She thought of him entering his father’s drawing room a few nights ago, looking every part the gentleman of consequence. Her heart skipped a few beats whenever she thought of him in his blue coat.

Miss Milford was evidently enamored. At the bachelor auction, she had outbid all the other ladies for the first set with Rafe as her partner. He did not know yet, but he would doubtless be elated, since he saw Isabella as such a paragon of feminine virtues. But now he had saddled himself with the charming Mrs. Pyke while trying to tease
her
, she thought with amusement. How would he juggle all these ladies vying for his attention?

Mercy was glad not to be part of the unruly mêlée.

***

As Rafe crossed the market square and dodged puddles that filled wide, uneven dents in the cobbles, he looked up into the rain and found himself watched by two ladies from the second-floor window of the Red Lion. He raised his hat, and Miss Milford smiled in greeting. The Danforthe Brat turned away as if she’d not seen him.

He heard a horn and dashed aside just in the nick of time as the mail coach rumbled around the corner, splashing him with muddy rainwater from head to foot. Perfect. Just what he needed.

Emerging from the alley was Lady Ursula Hartley, bordered by his half sisters and closely followed by his stepmother, who rushed after them with an umbrella.

Rafe trotted across the square to join the little party. As usual, his great-grandmother ignored his approach, but his sisters greeted him happily.

He took the umbrella from his stepmother and held it for her. “Lady Mercy plans to stay longer, it seems,” he remarked and inwardly kicked himself for raising the one subject he’d intended to avoid.

“Indeed. She can hardly leave until the assembly rooms are open. It was all her idea. Now, what do you have to wear for the ball? We must make certain you look your best.”

He remembered how Mercy had looked at him in his blue coat and the pleasing sensation it caused to feel her blatant admiration. That, in and of itself, was perhaps worth making a little effort. Perhaps.

“Are you holding that umbrella for decoration or effect, young man?” Lady Ursula demanded, coming to a halt on the path.

He hurriedly raised it over the old curmudgeon and apologized for letting her feel any rain.

“That’s better,” she muttered. “If you have the height, you may as well be useful for something.”

“Glad to find I am not completely without purpose, Lady Ursula.”

“All men have a purpose. As Lady Mercy says, sadly women cannot populate the next generation without them.”

It was the nearest he’d ever come to a conversation with his great-grandmother. Pity it had to include mention of his ex-wife, but he supposed it was inevitable that the two most difficult women he’d ever known should form a companionship.

Then the old woman added, “She reminds me that you are my grandson’s only male offspring. There are not likely to be any further saplings produced. It seems I must acknowledge the fact that the Hartley name shall continue through you and none other.” She cast him a quick, dismissive glance. “You have a strong, healthy, virile look about you at least. Although you should cut your hair, young man. Then perhaps I can better see what we have to deal with.”

He thought his stepmother almost fainted. She gripped his arm to save herself from stumbling in shock. Thus Rafe Hartley’s existence in the family line was formally acknowledged by the woman who had firmly refused to notice it for the past dozen years.

***

Mercy had no ball gown with her, for there had been no expectation of needing one when she left London. There was little time to get one made, and so Mrs. Hartley suggested she lend her one from her own trunk.

“It is not as grand as any of yours, to be sure, Lady Mercy, but with a little new trim added…”

It was mauve lutestring with a high waist in the old style, short, puffed sleeves, and an appliquéd bodice.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Hartley, holding the gown up to the window light, “it is quite out of fashion now. You may not want to wear it. Gracious, it must be…ten years at least since I wore it. I am surprised the moths have not got at it.”

Mercy assured the lady that it was perfect. She could see the gown was once much loved, or it would have been cut up long before, the fine material used for something else. If only Molly were there to adapt the gown with her perfect eye for design and steady hand for quick stitching! Alas, they must manage without her skill. The Miss Hartleys were keen to help, but they favored an excess of decoration, and Mercy suspected she would end up looking like a performing poodle if she gave them free rein. Finally she settled for the approach of less is more. It was unusual for her, but on this occasion she felt it necessary to blend in rather than stand out. After all, she was not looking for a husband, was she? She had Viscount Grey. Let the other young ladies put their best foot forward. She would stand happily with the married ladies and chaperones.