Attired in a brocade robe that seemed far too heavy for her fragile frame, the older woman regarded her daughter with a fretful expression that always boded ill. In her own way, Lydia Simpson could be as ruthless as her husband.
“Mercy, am I intruding?”
Mercy bit back her instinctive words. Her mother’s arrival was an intrusion. She had too much upon her mind to attend to the lecture that was no doubt in the offing.
Unfortunately, her sense of duty was too deeply ingrained to be easily dismissed. As much as she might long to demand a few moments of blessed peace, she could not force the words past her lips.
“I thought you would be in bed,” she instead murmured.
The older woman sniffed, her expression wounded. “You could not possibly expect me to sleep after being attacked by that horrid man. I am not at all certain I shall ever be capable of closing my eyes so long as we are beneath this roof. Who knows what such a dangerous creature is capable of?”
Mercy’s already raw emotions flared at the whining edge in her mother’s voice.
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, you cannot possibly suppose that Ian . . . Mr. Breckford would actually harm you.”
“Did you not see how angry he was?”
“That is only because he desires to protect me.”
“Protect you from your own parents?” There was another sniff. “Absurd.”
Mercy’s heart twisted with an indefinable emotion. Ian’s protective instincts did not seem absurd. They seemed . . . strangely wonderful.
No one had ever thought she needed to be defended.
“He believes that you and Father take advantage of my willingness to be of service to you,” she said softly.
“I see.”
Mercy was instantly wary at her mother’s narrowed gaze. There was something calculating in her expression.
“If that is all—”
“You know, your father warned that allowing you to travel to this place would ruin your sweet nature, but I never dreamed that you would devote yourself to complaining of your family to complete strangers,” her mother overrode the polite dismissal.
Mercy swallowed a sigh. “That is not true, Mother. I would never complain of you to anyone, certainly not Mr. Breckford.”
“Then why did he presume to chastise us as if we are children?”
“He has become a friend.”
“More than a friend, I think.” Lydia’s lips thinned, her expression hard with disapproval. “I am not blind, Mercy. I have seen how Mr. Breckford stares at you. He possesses dishonorable intentions toward you, and he knows that so long as you are under the care of your parents he cannot have his evil way with you. He is attempting to lure you away from those who truly care for you, my dear. Do not be fooled by his deceit.”
Mercy choked back a near-hysterical laugh. What would her mother say if she knew that poor Ian was the victim and Mercy had been the one to have her evil way? Not that it had felt evil. In truth, it had been the most wondrous experience of her life.
Realizing that her mother was studying the sudden color that flooded her cheeks, Mercy cleared the lump from her throat.
“You are mistaken, Mother. Mr. Breckford’s intentions are not dishonorable in the least. Quite the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“He asked me to marry him.”
“Marry?” Lydia abruptly sank onto the edge of a silk striped chair. “I do not believe it.”
“You can be no more astonished than I.”
“But this must be some sort of trick.” Lydia slowly shook her head. “I have heard of those gentlemen who would pretend to wed an innocent maid only to steal her virtue.”
Mercy stiffened. “Nonsense.”
“Really, Mercy, you are being a fool.” Lydia folded her hands in her lap, her expression one of profound pity. “Mr. Breckford might be a bastard, but he is publicly claimed by the Viscount Norrington as his son and welcomed among the highest of society. Why would he choose a penniless daughter of a vicar as his wife?”
Mercy forced herself to count to ten, uncertain if she should be more insulted by the implication that such a gentleman could possibly desire her as a wife, or the assumption that Ian was such a cad he would fake a wedding to steal a woman’s virtue.
“Did you ever consider the notion that he might love me, Mother?”
The mere notion was dismissed with a wave of Lydia’s hand. “Mark my words, my dear, this is some devious trap.”
“That is enough.” Mercy planted her hands on her hips. “Ian would never stoop to such treachery. He would never need to stoop to treachery. He has only to walk into a room for every woman to be tossing themselves at his feet. Besides, Ella would never allow him to deceive me in such a fashion.”
Grudgingly accepting that Mercy was not to be convinced that Ian was luring her to her doom, Lydia licked her lips.
“Are you . . .”
“What?”
“Are you considering his proposal?”
Mercy abruptly turned to pace toward the bay window. When Ian had blurted out his astonishing desire to have her as his wife, she had been too stunned to think clearly. In truth, she had been terrified that he would realize just what he had said and instantly regret his impulsive proposal.
After all, her mother had not been entirely wrong. Mercy was a country mouse with no claim to wealth or connections. Ian could do a great deal better in choosing a wife.
There was a part of her, however, that longed to believe that he was sincere. To believe he truly loved her.
“I am not entirely certain,” she at last whispered.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes.” The word came without hesitation. She turned to face her mother. “Yes, I love him.”
With a rustle of brocade, Lydia was on her feet, her eyes stricken.
“Oh, my dear, I have tried so hard to protect you from this.”
“Protect me? From what?”
“Disappointment.”
“I do not understand.”
Moving forward, Lydia gripped Mercy’s hand. “My dear, I know that you are not entirely satisfied with our quiet life, which is why I convinced your father to allow you to visit Rosehill. But I assure you that whatever your discontent, it would be nothing compared to placing your future in the hands of a gentleman who will have the authority to treat you in any manner he desires.”
There was no mistaking the harsh sincerity in her mother’s voice. Lydia Simpson truly believed that Mercy was in some mysterious danger.
“I do not believe for a moment that Ian would ever be cruel to me. He would never harm any woman.”
Lydia shuddered. “A man need not beat you to be cruel. In truth, there are times when a blow would be preferable to . . .”
“Mother?”
Dropping Mercy’s hand, Lydia took a step back. “You are not blind, Mercy. You comprehend that marriage is not what the poets describe. Indeed, I deeply regret not listening to my own mother, who warned me against accepting your father’s proposal.”
Mercy’s stomach twisted with sick dread. “It could not always have been an unhappy union. You must have loved one another in the beginning.”
“Oh, I had my head filled with a lot of foolish romance, but it did not take long for me to realize my mistake.” Lydia moved to the door, halting to cast Mercy a warning glance. “Just as you will eventually realize that this man will only bring you heartbreak and disappointment. I only hope you do so before it is too late.”
Having delivered her poisonous warning, Lydia swept from the room, leaving behind a troubled Mercy. Although not troubled in the way that Lydia had desired.
Mercy had, of course, known her parents’ marriage was not a happy one. They hardly made a secret of the fact. Actually, they did their best to ensure that everyone around them shared in that misery.
But in the moment her mother had been warning her against the fatal mistake of marriage, Mercy had been struck by a revelat
ion.
She at last understood the reason she had remained trapped in her parents’ small cottage. It was not just her sense of duty. Or even the obligation as an only child.
Those were certainly handy excuses to hide from the world, but beneath her pretense of self-sacrifice, she was nothing more than a shameful coward.
A part of her, a deep, hidden part of her, had been terrified of marriage. She had assumed that every marriage ended in spiteful bitterness. Why would she not? Living such an isolated life meant that she had only her parents’ marriage to judge the institution. Perhaps it was not so surprising she would have unconsciously taken steps to ensure she was never in the position to endure such disappointment.
It was only with Ian that she had lowered her guard, and then merely because she had been certain that he was as opposed to marriage as she was.
Mercy pressed her fingers to her lips as a hysterical urge to laugh threatened. How vastly ironic that a virgin searching for a fleeting affair should encounter the one rake in all of England who was prepared to offer her marriage.
Cutting through the garden, Ian managed to join Raoul Charlebois as he entered Rosehill. Unfortunately, it was not in time to prevent the rumors of the famous actor’s arrival to spread like wildfire through the household, and as Ian joined his friend in the marble foyer, there were near half a dozen maids peering over the banister.
A wry smile curved his lips. Despite his blistering need to return to Mercy and his growing discomfort at the thought of spying upon his own father, Ian could not help but appreciate the collective sigh as Raoul shed his coat to reveal his tightly tailored attire and tossed aside his tall beaver hat to better display the white gold hair and cobalt eyes.
Waving away the approaching butler, Ian halted directly before his friend.
“This is an unexpected surprise, Raoul.”
“Ah, Ian.” A pale brow arched as Raoul caught sight of Ian’s tousled appearance. A man could not tumble his future wife in the gazebo without a few rumples and creases. “Did I disturb you from your bed?”
“Rosehill does tend to keep country hours.”
“Hmmm. So I see.”
“I am relieved that one of us does,” Ian said dryly, his gaze flicking toward the wild-eyed maids. “Perhaps we should speak in my chambers. I should hate for the family treasures to be destroyed in the impending riot.”
With a shrug, Raoul fell into step beside Ian as he climbed the staircase. “I hardly ever cause a riot these days, old friend.”
“Perhaps you should inform my father’s maids,” Ian muttered, wincing at the shrill giggles that followed in their wake. “Good God.”
Indifferent as always to feminine admiration, Raoul allowed his steps to slow as Ian led him down the mistral’s gallery, his gaze lingering on the vaulted ceiling painted with playful cupids darting among the clouds and the delicate stained-glass windows that lined the long corridor.
“Exquisite.” Raoul paused at a gilt table that held a rare porcelain vase. “Your father is a fortunate man.”
Ian grimaced. “Actually, my father is a very lonely man. It is something that I never realized until now.”
Raoul sliced a questioning gaze in his direction. “Then your stay here at Rosehill has not been the trial that you dreaded?”
“Not entirely, no.” Ian continued down the corridor, not yet prepared to reveal his father’s business proposition.
“Are you having second thoughts, Ian?” Raoul fell into step beside him. “It is not too late to put the past behind you.”
A chill inched down Ian’s spine. “Did you manage to discover the source of the playbill?”
“Yes.”
“I am beginning to suspect that you discovered more than just a theatre.”
“As I said, Ian, it is not too late. We can have a drink, you can tell me of your latest conquest, and I will return to London.”
The chill hit his stomach. There was something in Raoul’s rough voice that warned he was not going to like what he had discovered.
Perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing to leave well enough alone. For the moment, he and his father shared a temporary truce that he would never have dreamed possible. And then there was Mercy. Did he really want to muck through the past when the future beckoned with such amazing promise?
“I will not deny it is a tempting notion.”
“Then let it be. You will be happier for it.”
Halting at the door to his chambers, Ian heaved a sigh. When in his damnable life had he ever been capable of leaving well enough alone?
“And do you intend to let it be, my friend?” he demanded. “Will you allow the truth to remain buried in the past?”
Raoul muttered a curse. “I will if I have any common sense.”
“And when have we ever been burdened with something so beneficial as common sense?”
“True enough.”
Ian entered his room, crossing the floor to rap on the connecting door.
“Reaver.”
Within a beat, the terrifying valet stepped into the room, his hard gaze flicking over Raoul before returning to Ian.
“Aye?”
“Step into the hall and make certain we are not interrupted.” Waiting until the servant had exited the room and closed the door behind his bulk, Ian turned toward his companion. “Now, tell me what you have discovered.”
“Wait.” Raoul moved to the sideboard, pouring two shots of whiskey before crossing back to Ian and thrusting the glass in his hand. “We both shall have need.”
Ian tossed the fiery liquid down his throat, not surprised when it did nothing to ease the cold ball lodged in the pit of his stomach.
“You are beginning to frighten me, Charlebois. Did my father commit murder?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“I suppose that is a relief. I should hate to think there was a body buried beneath the prized rosebushes.”
“Really?” Raoul sipped the whiskey, his expression wry as he perched on the edge of the sideboard. “I have always thought that most rose gardens could be vastly improved by a body or two.”
“Any bodies in particular?”
“My father comes to mind.”
“Understandable.” Ian set aside his empty glass. “There have been moments when I thought patricide should not only be legal, but encouraged.”
“I sense that this would not be one of those moments.”
Ian met Raoul’s searching glance with a determined expression. “We shall see once you have halted your attempts to distract me and reveal what the devil you managed to discover.”
“Mon Dieu.” Pushing from the sideboard, Raoul paced toward the carved marble chimneypiece, his gaze seemingly captured by the Gainsborough framed above the mantle. Not that Ian was fooled. He knew his friend well enough to know when he was deliberately hiding something. “I tracked the theatre to an obscure building near Fleet Street. A near-damn-well-impossible task I must tell you since no one in the theatre world would claim knowledge of the place, let alone offer an address. I at last was forced to seek my information among the stews.”
“Ah . . .” Ian was more relieved than shocked. “A bawd house.”
“Actually, at first glance one would presume that it is just another of the gentlemen’s clubs that litter London.” Raoul grudgingly turned to face Ian. “I rode past the damn building a dozen times before I accepted it was the proper location. Of course, discretion would be of utmost necessity for such an establishment.”
Ian clenched his hands. He had faced utter ruin at the card tables. He had risked life and limb for one foolish wager after another. Christ, he had just asked the one woman in all the world certain to drive him to Bedlam to be his wife. And he had done so without blinking an eye.
So why the devil did his palms choose to sweat and his heart thunder at this precise moment?
“I am quite prepared to pummel the truth out of you, mon ami. Get to the bloody point.”
Ra
oul arched a brow at the sharp command. “Perhaps you have forgotten I am an actor, Breckford. If you wish to threaten me, I will quite happily ensure my stunning revelations take as long as a Shakespearean tragedy to be revealed.”
Ian resisted the urge to beat the truth from his companion. He understood that Raoul was not attempting to torture him. Instead, the older man was hoping that he would change his mind before the truth was revealed.
“Then get on with it . . . please.”
Raoul sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “As I said, the building appears unremarkable—until one attempts to enter the blasted place. It would be easier to waltz through the front doors of Carlton House than to step foot past the iron gates of the Adonis Club.”
“Adonis Club?”
Raoul lifted a slender hand. “I am getting to that. First I was telling you of the imposing barricades and vicious guards I was forced to battle my way past.”
Despite his dark premonition, Ian could not halt his grudging smile. Throughout his difficult childhood, Raoul could always be depended upon to tease him out of his black moods. It was a gift that Ian would never forget.
“Somehow I doubt they halted you.”
“Certainly not. It would take more than a few thick-skulled barbarians to best Raoul Charlebois.”
“Without question. So how did you get past them?”
“I arrived the next morning and knocked the coalman over the head so I could steal his cart and enter the club unnoted.”
Ian choked on his shock. “Good God.”
Raoul waved a dismissive hand. “Be at ease. I left the man enough money to compensate for the loss of his cart as well as the bump to his head. I do not doubt he devoted the day to toasting his good fortune in the nearest pub.”
“My distress was at the thought that anyone could be stupid enough to mistake you for a common coal-monger,” Ian corrected.
“Once again I remind you that I am an actor.” Raoul gave a lift of his glass before polishing off the last of the whiskey. “I have not always played the role of kings.”
“So I assume you managed to penetrate the fortress?”
“I did.”
Seducing the Viscount Page 23