Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Read online

  Chapter 2

  London, April 1835

  “The spring has gone out of your blasted stockings, Miss Gibson. Do pull your garters up.”

  While this reprimand might appear somewhat harsh and a trifle indelicate for a drawing room conversation between two young ladies, it was, in Lady Mercy Danforthe’s opinion, also necessarily shocking. Brevity, she always said, was a busy woman’s best friend, and terms of a more ladylike nature had scant chance of sinking in when dealing with the cork-brained. Miss Julia Gibson might sew a fine seam, trot amiably in a quadrille, and fumble her way through a repertoire of songs on her mama’s pianoforte, but she was not, by any means, the brightest of sentient beings.

  Lady Mercy would never be observed with wrinkled stockings, literally or metaphorically speaking. And the nervous, teary-eyed Miss Gibson must surely have realized, after a hasty perusal of her own ankles, that in this case she meant the latter. But imagery failed to relay Mercy’s point. The object of her criticism assumed the expression of a spaniel pup, eager to please yet bewildered. Possibly thinking of its dinner and undoubtedly about to leave a puddle on the rug.

  So much for the advantage of brevity.

  With a sigh of grand proportions—the only sort of sigh one might expend while wearing a very smart bonnet lavishly caressed by a magnificent, downward-curling magenta feather—Mercy reinforced her meaning. “While I can find you a suitor, it will not assist my endeavors if all you do, whenever you see an eligible man, is burst into tears and run away.”

  Pausing to sip her tea, she stole a sly glance at the mantel clock and calculated a quick sum in her head. She must cut this meeting short, or she’d never make her friend’s wedding on time, and that would be inexcusable. It took two days of travel along bad country lanes to reach the village of Sydney Dovedale, and she was already later setting off than she’d hoped to be. Few things annoyed Mercy more than a lack of punctuality. She could not abide it in others and was especially vexed by the possibility of her own lateness.

  This was her last visit of the morning, and her feet itched to be on their way. She had already spent a grueling hour relating instructions for Edward Hobbs to keep an eye on things while she was gone. Despite her brother’s decade advance on her in age, Mercy had no confidence in Carver’s ability to make wise decisions, especially in her absence. Carver would be the last person she dealt with today. She’d organized her list with him at the end, because it was unlikely she’d find him out of bed before noon light streaked across his bedchamber, stung his eyelids, and woke him. Then it always took a period of half an hour at least before he was fit to be seen and could manage more than a few grunts.

  Mercy checked the mantel clock again, astonished by how quickly the hands of time moved today. If Julia Gibson were not such a hapless creature in need of guidance, she would have made her excuses not to pay this visit. It was, however, a duty she took upon herself to never let anyone down. This, as she would explain patiently to Carver, was their life role—to be there for those in need, to look out for those less well placed, to lead those who stumbled. He might firmly refuse to fulfill his role, but Mercy took her part very seriously.

  Miss Gibson perched on the edge of her narrow chair, possibly about to dive into the willow-pattern bowl of potpourri that sat between them. “But I can’t seem to help myself, Lady Mercy. I know I must marry. What else am I to do?” She lowered her voice to a faded squeak. “Alas, I think of the horrors one must endure on the wedding night.” The young woman blushed brightly, competing with the scarlet tulips nodding outside her mama’s drawing-room window. “And I simply cannot look him in the eye.”

  “Horrors?”

  “In the marriage bed,” she whispered. “With…a man. And…that…thing.”

  Although Mercy knew very well what the other woman meant, impish fingers of mischief suddenly tickled her amusement. She feigned bafflement. “Thing?”

  “A man’s…private…accoutrement. His Arrow of Cupid.”

  Still she waited, brows arched high, forcing her laughter down, where it bubbled away deep under her corset.

  “His…” Miss Gibson tried again, squeezing out the word “appendage.”

  Afraid she might convulse with laughter—which would not be at all seemly—Mercy set her cup and saucer on the table and began wriggling her fingers into a pair of kidskin gloves. “The awfulness to be endured at the hands of one’s husband and his trouser tentacle, my dear Miss Gibson, is nothing compared to the true agonies of this world. There are always people far worse off than oneself.”

  The girl looked confused again, screwing her handkerchief into a damp knot. It was possible, thought Mercy, that Miss Gibson knew nothing of affairs beyond her own limited existence. Some women never bothered to read a newspaper or acquaint themselves with the larger issues. Mercy, on the other hand, poured over various lurid accounts of the world’s many injustices, especially those against women. Unbeknownst to her brother, he contributed largely to charities meant to improve their lot. It was a good thing for Mercy—and for Mr. Hobbs—that Carver seldom paid attention to the accounts.

  “Think of the poor, unfortunate women plying their trade in the gin shops and dark alleys,” she explained. “There are almost as many prostitutes in London, Miss Gibson, as there are domestic servants. Imagine how those women suffer daily trials, struggling to find food, medicines, and shoes for their children. I am sure they must put themselves through great degradation to survive.”

  Miss Gibson opened her mouth, but this time Mercy did not wait for any sound to come out. She continued rapidly, “You need tolerate your husband’s intimate company only once a month for precisely three and one-half minutes. It is hardly The Harlot’s Progress.” There, that should put things into perspective for the trembling creature. In truth, Mercy was no longer very interested at that moment in poor Julia Gibson’s love life—or lack thereof. However, she considered it her mission to meddle in the lives of those she liked and to secure happy matches for her young friends most in need. People told her she was rather good at it, although, as her brother had recently pointed out, they would never dare say otherwise.

  Miss Julia Gibson was, so far, her one failed project, and Mercy did not like this blot on her perfect record for matchmaking. Well, almost perfect, she thought with a frown, remembering that Carver still resisted any attempts to find him a wife. He was now thirty-three, in danger of becoming set in his ways and, as the Earl of Everscham, did not believe he should ever have to change those ways. This blinkered regard for the path ahead was a peculiarly stubborn trait he shared with his sister. Aware of this fact, she simply excused the characteristic in herself as a necessary and “clearheaded” devotion to what was proper. Mercy was the sensible one; she knew what she was doing, but the same could not be said for Carver. His obstinate frame of mind was a wretched annoyance, because it kept him from agreeing with her most of the time.

  She took another, more searching perusal of Julia Gibson’s wincing features. Hmm…perhaps…if she could get her two most difficult projects together, would that not make a very tidy conclusion? She dearly loved a neat solution, everything squared away, corners perfectly aligned. There was nothing so comforting as an answer found, a mission completed.

  Just then, Julia struggled with a meringue and sneezed violently, sending a spray of sugar down her frock. A dollop of cream remained on her chin, but she didn’t appear to notice.

  Mercy drew an imaginary line through her idea. Perhaps not. Carver would chew the girl up and spit her out. He was far too critical; that was his problem.

  “I’m afraid I must be off, Miss Gibson. I am expected at a friend’s wedding in the country, and I still have my brother to organize before I leave, but when I return, I shall attend to this matter. Worry not.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lady Mercy. You are too kind.”

  Yes, she mused, she probably was—devoting so much of her time to girls who hadn’t the gumption to find their own husbands. She really
couldn’t understand what they feared. Mercy had just become engaged to Viscount Grey, a gentleman she’d picked out for herself and pursued with single-minded intent until he proposed. He was away now enjoying the sights of Italy, taking benefit from the dry, warm climate that improved his health, but in a month he was due to return, and then they would make the wedding arrangements. Everything proceeded on Mercy’s say-so, and just as it should be. Viscount Grey, having reached his fortieth year and survived the most trying age, would fit very well into the small space she’d allotted for a husband. He would not get in her way too much. He had coloring that coordinated very well with her favorite garments and furnishings, he was a perfectly proper three inches taller than she, and his love of outdoor sport, when health permitted, would keep him out of her hair for a good portion of the year. His wavering bouts of infirmity also gave her something to fuss over. A man in too fine a working order was often more independent than was good for him or his marriage, but Viscount Grey was just needy enough to give Mercy a purpose. And she did love a purpose.

  As Julia Gibson said, a young lady must marry; there was simply nothing else to do. Far better to pick out the man for oneself, make certain he did not have any unsightly edges—if he did, file them down—and then quickly stake one’s claim. All very simple.

  Women like Julia Gibson fretted and whimpered as if they were being asked to scale the dome of St. Paul’s. In their drawers.

  Mercy stood briskly, making the last adjustments to her gloves. “I bid you good day, Miss Gibson.”

  The other young lady scrambled out of her chair for a clumsy curtsy, tripping over her own feet. “Lady Mercy.”

  It was a good thing the Gibsons had wealth—even if it was acquired merely through trade. Poor Julia hadn’t much else in her favor. Fortunately for Miss Gibson, her aristocratic friend never balked at a challenge.

  ***

  Mercy swept into her brother’s library without knocking. “Well, I’m off. Although it hardly need be asked—I suppose you will not come with me?”

  Dealing with the daily correspondence, Carver did not look up from the letters on his desk. “Why on earth would I attend the wedding of your maid?”

  “She is far more than my maid, Carver. Molly Robbins is my friend and has been my companion for twelve years. As you well know.”

  He gave a small snort. “You may think she is your friend, but she is your employee first and foremost. You pay her a wage. Thus, she’s obliged to be nice to you.”

  “Carver, you have a very bitter, distrusting view of people.”

  “And you have an overly romantic one.” He smirked at his papers. “Perhaps the less said about that the better.”

  Mercy strode to his desk, hands tucked securely within her muff. “Molly will be disappointed.”

  “Your maid can make her own silly mistakes without me bearing witness.” His brow creased in a stern frown. “Marriage is a fool’s venture at the best of times. Besides, does she not have ambitions to begin her own dressmaking enterprise?”

  Mercy was surprised he knew that. It might have been mentioned in his hearing, she supposed, but he seldom listened to anything she had to talk about and generally acted as if Molly Robbins was invisible. Which was, as he would say, exactly how the master of the house should treat his little sister’s lady’s maid.

  She took a hand from her muff and leaned over his desk, intent on straightening a pile of papers that were most distressingly bundled in a loose pile, so close to the edge that should the window be left open and a strong breeze blow in, they could easily drift to the carpet or be wafted into the fire.

  “Her country-farmer husband,” Carver went on, frowning as she fussed over his desk, “won’t appreciate his wife going off to start a business. He will expect her to keep house and raise his children.” Sniffing angrily, he returned his gaze to the letter he wrote, pressing so hard Mercy was surprised he didn’t break his pen. “She’ll be pregnant by the summer.”

  Seizing a large paperweight from his desk, she thumped it down hard onto the tidied pile of papers. “Don’t be coarse!”

  “It is a fact of life, little Sister. I believe I gave you that lecture about the birds and the bees, did I not?”

  “No, you did not! You left it to Edward Hobbs. Unless, of course, you refer to the time I walked in on you in the stables with that flotsam, Mary Nesmith—the one with the dyed hair.” She cocked an eyebrow. “That was quite a revealing lesson, to be sure.” Mercy, sixteen at the time of that event, had endured an early education in certain improper matters, thanks to her brother’s behavior and her own eavesdropping, but the most memorable lesson occurred when she wandered into that stable and witnessed her brother with his paramour-of-the-moment. Their harried solicitor’s hasty explanation of “conjugal relations” could not possibly have prepared her for the sight of the widowed Mrs. Nesmith bent over a hay bale, her moonlike posterior exposed to the air and Carver in the process of mounting her from behind while curiously humming “The Soldier’s Adieu.”

  He set down his pen and laughed curtly. “Ah, yes. Poor old Hobbs.” He ignored his sister’s remark about his old flame. It was likely he’d forgotten all about Mrs. Nesmith in any case. Many women had come and gone since then, all of them totally unsuitable and, knowing Carver, deliberately so.

  As she turned away from his desk, he demanded abruptly, “What on earth are you wearing on your head?”

  She swung around to face him again. “’Tis called a hat, Brother dear.”

  “Good Lord.” He sat back in his chair, grinning. “I thought it was a drunken parrot.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand style and fashion.”

  “Well, I suppose it is a fittingly theatrical costume for the event.”

  Although she knew it would be best not to ask—far less trying on her nerves—she heard herself asking what he meant by that remark.

  “This entire wedding is a farcical performance,” he replied, waving his letter opener through the air. “A comedy, or a tragedy. Perhaps both. Robbins feels she must marry to please everyone else—her family and his. Even with your romantic inclinations, you must see the truth. Trapped into this marriage, she will very soon know discontent.”

  “I am amazed, Brother, that you can form these opinions of a situation about which you know nothing.”

  “Have I not witnessed that girl moping about my house for the past few months? Her lips droop every time the wedding is mentioned. Several times of late I’ve passed her in the hall, and her expression inspired me to inquire whether her cat had just died.”

  “For pity’s sake, you will never understand women. A curious fact, considering your association with so many.”

  Carver stretched in his chair, arms behind his head. “Mark my words, little Sister, this wedding is nothing to celebrate. You’ve lost not only a maid, but a friend. If that’s what you truly think of her.”

  She bristled. “What can you mean?”

  “Her life travels in a new direction now. Her first responsibility will be to her husband and then her children. She will have less and less time to spare for you.”

  Mercy felt a swift chill that caused little bumps on her arms under her sleeves. But she said nothing, finding it necessary to straighten the window drapes instead.

  “What will you do with yourself when Robbins is no more at your beck and call?”

  She let his words fade out while she examined the window frame. It could certainly benefit from a sanding and fresh paint, she thought.

  “You will have to discover more new projects to keep busy, Sister. I can’t see your fiancé giving you much to do. He is too easily molded already.”

  Oh, was he still talking?

  Mercy focused hard on the window. When she returned from the country, she would bring the chipped paint to the butler’s attention. She would not let this happen in her house. Nothing should be allowed to get frayed or rotted or dusty. Or out of place. That was how accidents happened.
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  “But I wouldn’t be at all shocked,” he added, “if Robbins doesn’t call this wedding off at the last minute. If she has any wits about her, she will.”

  Mercy spun around from the window, unable to keep looking at the chipped paint a moment longer. “Don’t talk nonsense!”

  “I feel it in my bones that this masquerade won’t go off without a hitch. Tell you what…how about a wager?” Carver laughed sharply, but his gaze darkened to the black of a cold, moonless midnight. “If Robbins marries him, she’s making a tremendous mistake, which she will regret for the rest of her life. He is the wrong choice for her.”

  Mercy rolled her eyes. “Oh? And who would you choose for her? I suggest you leave the matchmaking to me, Carver. I can only imagine the disastrous outcome of any meddling in which you might find the time to indulge.”

  “Go then, little Sister. Won’t you be late if you dally here a moment longer? Travel is so unpredictable this time of year, and they might feel obliged to delay the proceedings until the guest of honor arrives.” He took out his fob watch. “Gracious! Is that the time already?”

  Her pulse quickened erratically at the idea of falling behind the clock with many miles yet to travel. As he said, the country roads were unreliable at best.

  “Remember, Sister, should you be apprehended by a highwayman, your wisest defense is to talk his ears off in your usual manner. Advise him on his love affairs and his diet, water down his wine, and then tell him how to dress. The tediousness of your company will surely cause him to leave you behind and take the horses instead.”

  Head high, feather bouncing, Mercy prepared a grand exit.

  But her brother’s voice stopped her midstep, yet again. “Robbins knows nothing, I assume, of what happened five and a half years ago?”

  Heat rushed to her face. “Of course not. Only you and I know. And Edward Hobbs.”

  “And him.”

  Inside her muff, Mercy’s hands tightened until her fingers hurt. A knot in her stomach began turning and twisting, much like the wretched handkerchief in Miss Gibson’s sweaty hands earlier that day. “That was all a very long time ago, and Rafe Hartley was not Molly’s sweetheart then.”