The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (37 page)

She wrote a letter to Mrs. Hartley, enquiring into the extent of the loss, but for Rafe, she feared it was severe. He could lose everything. Despite that, he would never accept her help and would probably spurn his father’s too. He’d been so proud of his savings, of the way he did it mostly alone, unaided by his father. It would be a crushing blow.

Four days later she received Mrs. Hartley’s reply confirming the tragedy. But that was not the only post to arrive. With it came a short letter from Rafe. Even before she opened it, she feared to read the contents. Knowing Rafe, his pride would never let him marry her now he was penniless again. Sure enough, his letter released her of any obligation she might have felt to return and keep her promise. Rafe was leaving Sydney Dovedale and the life he’d begun to make for himself. Mrs. Hartley’s letter had told her of his father offering another post with the family business, but Mercy doubted it would be accepted. Any attempt now to help him would be viewed as charity, and they all knew how he felt about that.

There was only one thing to be done.

She approached her brother in his library and told him of her plan.

“You’re quite mad,” he told her, as she knew he would.

“You know how I like projects, Carver, and I cannot think of a better one in which to invest my fortune.”

“Yes, but your projects are usually people.”

“So is this one. In a way.”

He leaned back in his chair and studied her thoughtfully. “This is about that farmer, is it not? That little bastard, Rafe Hartley.”

“What if it is? Just as you wanted to
help
Molly,” she pointed out drily, “I mean to help him.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, other than, “I take it you’ve discussed this with Hobbs. And he agrees?”

“He does.”

“Of course he does. Edward Hobbs would walk on fire for you.” He sighed. “Then I suppose I must sanction this plan of yours, little Sister. By the way,” he added as she was on her way out of his library, “I won my wager, you know.”

“Which one?”

“That you would never marry Grey.”

“I thought you placed a bet that I would. Isn’t that why you called me home?”

Carver chuckled. “I called you home to prove that you wouldn’t. It was time you realized it yourself.” As he propped his feet up on the corner of his desk, a sheaf of papers were disturbed, and one floated to the carpet.

Mercy stooped to pick it up. “You are an insufferable cad, Brother.” She handed the loose paper to him.

“And you’re a scarlet hussy, Sister.”

“Yes,” she replied, “I am.” That simple confession delivered, she walked to his door. “Now do tidy your desk. I won’t be here to do it for you any longer.” Nose in the air, she left him laughing again, but this time she closed his door quietly rather than slamming it. She was turning a new corner. They all were. She laid her palm briefly to his library door, wished him luck, and told him that she loved him. Just not out loud. Not with the footmen listening.

***

His father came out to the farm. This time, instead of hovering on the doorstep, he came all the way in. Rafe, expecting some lecture, instead found his father in a reflective mood.

“I know you and I have not always viewed life through the same eyes,” he said as he swept off his hat and held it before him in nervous hands, “but, as Lady Mercy pointed out to me, that’s because our experiences have been very different.”

Startled, he could only say, “Yes, Father?”

“I suppose you will not take the post I offered.”

Rafe felt stifled already at the thought of an office, a desk, and reams of paper, but he knew that if he found nothing else, he would have to take it. For now at least. “I wanted to thank you, sir, for the offer. I’m most grateful for the chance and yes, I…I will consider it.”

His father’s frown cleared. No doubt he had expected another quarrel and more resistance. Finally he set his hat on the table and said, “I am on your side, Rafe. I always will be. You may not wish to accept my help, but it is here for you. I will not judge. I will not say my way is better. You must do what pleases you. I should like you to know you can come to me in hard times as well as good.” He paused. “I am your father, and—by God—proud of it,” he added thickly.

James seemed to have ridden an hour in summer rain simply to tell him all this and get it off his chest. Whether he was sent by his wife or not, it was a gesture that could not be misread as anything other than one man’s honest attempt to offer an olive branch. Rafe, try as he might, could find no fault with it.

“You haven’t been at the wine already today, have you, Father?”

James frowned, and then slowly his brow cleared. “No, but I could make short work of an ale now, having got that all out.” He looked around. “You’ve got a barrel, I assume?”

So the two men sat together in Rafe’s little cottage and shared a mug of ale for the first time ever. All that time, he’d thought he needed to amass a fortune to please his father, yet in the end, it turned out that losing his money brought them closer.

“And I did hear some good news, Rafe. Sir William Milford has sold his property. You will have a new landlord,” said James. “Perhaps you can negotiate better terms with the new squire to tide you over until the harvest is in and you’re on your feet again.”

This was indeed news of a more cheering nature. “But I thought you did not approve of me taking on a farmer’s life, Father. Working the soil with my own hands.”

James took a sip of ale and licked froth from his upper lip. “Rafe, my boy, the only thing I ever wanted was for you to be content. There has not been a day since I’ve known of your existence that I have not felt pride to call you my son. That I have not loved you and sought to make you as proud of me as I am of you.”

There was nothing else for it, then, but to embrace. Stiffly, as men do.

But contentment seemed so far out of his reach again now. He had lost more than his savings, of course. Not that he could explain this to his father.

He tried not to think about Mercy and her promise to return. The moment he realized he was ruined, he sent her the letter, so she need not feel guilty. It was impossible for him to think of keeping a wife now. Indeed, it was a good thing he was alone and had only himself to feed and clothe. These facts, however, did not stop the daydreams that haunted him. The yearning for what might have been.

***

The carriage that rattled through Sydney Dovedale two days later, carrying the new squire and owner of the fortress on the hill, was said to be very grand, pulled by four fine horses and driven by liveried servants. No one saw the passengers, but that didn’t stop anyone from speculating. He was young and handsome, so it was said by a few of the unattached ladies who saw the carriage thunder by Hodson’s around noon. He was old and gray with a face like a bulldog, so said Mrs. Flick, and—she added sternly—he didn’t slow down for old ladies on the verge. In fact, if anything, his horses sped up when they saw her.

Rafe received a note that afternoon requesting his presence and so, wearing his best clothes, he rode up the lane on a plow horse, planning what he meant to say, hoping this fellow would be a man of reasonable temper.

He pulled the old bell cord at the door and waited.

When it finally creaked open, he was astonished to see a face he recognized. “Edward!”

“Young Master Hartley. Do come in.”

At once his mood improved, although it was tempered by some uncertainty. “Your mistress has purchased this old place, Edward? I thought she was too ill to leave London.”

“Oh, Lady Blunt’s health has taken a turn for the better of late.” Edward led him across the flagged floor of the medieval hall to a small chamber beyond. There were not many windows in the ancient building, for it had been planned during times of war and not used as a home for the first century of its life. Adaptations made to the fortress had been slight. It was almost as if the stones themselves resisted change. Just like some people, he mused.

But the small antechamber had a fresher atmosphere due, in part, to one tall, narrow window cut into the stone at some point in its history. Through this, a much-needed burst of light found entry into the fortress. Burning lavender in the fireplace helped sweeten the air, and two comfortable tapestry chairs sat beside a heavy oak table. In one of these chairs, the old lady he’d called his benefactress was apparently fast asleep, her head lolling forward, chin resting on her bosom, gentle snores disturbing the folds of her black lace veil. Her small feet rested on a worn tapestry footstool, and her gloved hands held a book in her lap, as if she were reading before she fell into her dreams.

Edward coughed loudly, and she raised her head. “Ah, there you are, young man.”

He bowed. “Your ladyship, I am delighted to see you…” He would have said “so well,” but since he could not see her face, it seemed foolish to make such a statement. She still kept to her black taffeta. Like a crow, perched on his fence, watching him. He sensed that this woman wouldn’t be frightened by his scarecrow either, with or without the corset.

“I suppose you know why I sent for you,” she croaked.

“I hoped, your ladyship, to discuss the terms of my lease. My bank recently—”

She waved a small, gloved hand wearily. “I am aware of all that. It is not in good taste, you know, to speak of money.”

He nodded and looked down at her feet. They were tiny when close to his big, muddied boots. The rest of her was the same under all those black ruffles. He remembered how shocked he was when he felt her hand inside that glove on the one occasion when she gave it to him for a kiss. Very slight, delicate. But not as fragile as she looked.

“I am in need of a land agent. Sir William Milford has taken his away and left me with none. I should like you to take the post, if you feel up to it. The position, of course, will be that of steward
and
land agent, as Edward, sadly, cannot remain here with me but must return to Town.”

Stunned, he looked at the lady in the chair. Why had this woman done so much for him? Still she strove for ways to help him. Why? All that she’d done for him went far beyond gratitude for saving her little dog from the wheels of a mail coach. “You wish to hire me?”

“That is correct. Why do you stare with mouth open? Is there some part of my speech that was not clear?”

“No. I mean to say—”

“You may keep your farm, if you wish. I understand you have made it habitable, and this place”—she raised her hands, gesturing at the gray stone walls—“lacks the appeal of a home, for now. But I have plans to improve the building.”

“You will live here, your ladyship?”

“That is the idea.”

“But it is frigid cold in the winter and damp in the summer.” He feared for her health in that place.

“Mayhap you can help me. I am told you have fixed your own cottage splendidly.”

Again she showed off what she knew about him, through her “sources.” He smiled. “I have, your ladyship.”

“Made it for the bride who left you.”

“Yes, I did.”

“After all my efforts to see you settle. A great pity.” Suddenly she sneezed. The book fell from her lap, bounced on the footstool, and landed on the stone floor by the hem of her black gown. Before Edward could spring to retrieve it, Rafe moved, bending forward. His little finger lifted her hem just half an inch while picking the book up, and there was the scarlet petticoat again that had so amused him before.

“Thank you, young man,” she said, reaching for her book.

He looked at her gloved hand and then at the book. “A romance, your ladyship? I did not take you for a reader of romantic novels.”

She snatched it from him with unladylike haste and then sank back to the chair as if the exertion brought her to death’s door. “Will you accept the post, Master Hartley, or not? I haven’t all day to wait for your answer.” She sneezed violently.

His gaze moved again to the hem of her gown and the very slender flare of red beneath.

Red or orange? Or would she call it something else? “Mystery of the Orient,” perhaps.

Finally Rafe looked at the lavender burning in the grate. His lips widened in a slow smile. His heart, which had been in a lethargic state these past few weeks, now perked up like a horse let out in the paddock after a day at the plow. “I accept the post, your ladyship. On one condition.”

Her fingers wrapped nervously around her book. “Condition?”

“You must come to the Morecroft assembly rooms tomorrow, above the Red Lion in the market square. We have monthly balls, you know, and they are very popular. I should like you to meet my family, and in particular, my father, since you are the reason I returned here to heal the rift.”

“I’m afraid that is out of the question at my age. I do not go to balls. Ever.”

Rafe eyed her thoughtfully. Of all the rotten tricks. To make him take her advice so slyly—and her damned money too.

Charity, whatever she called it.

“If you do not come,” he said carefully, leaning down to whisper against her veil, “it will be out of the question for me to accept the post, your ladyship.”

He heard her breath change, become shallower so that it barely moved the veil anymore. Tasting her scent on the lace, he licked his lips.

“Do we understand each other?”

The only reply she managed was a low complaint about the inconvenience of going out at her age, and something about spores in the air.

“I’ll come for you at six o’ clock, your ladyship.” He straightened up, nodded to Edward, and left the chamber.

She thought she could get away with it, did she?

Of all the filthy, interfering ideas! His benefactress for months in London, and now she planned to do the same here. That wretched, meddling woman.

But as he mounted the plow horse, he felt laughter rumbling through his chest, fighting its way out past his anger and wounded pride. Despite his letter releasing her from that promise, she just couldn’t stay away, it seemed. He was, as he’d said to her once, her lavender.