“Where is Grace?” she had demanded when her brother Geoffrey had returned to the house without their sister in tow.
Still reeking of the cheap ale he had consumed the previous evening, Geoffrey swayed in place. “Dead!” Her brother had spat the word with contempt.
In disbelief, Mercy, too, struggled to keep her knees from buckling. Grace, she had pleaded silently. Grace: The one person, who had stood between Mercy and Geoffrey’s baseness. When Grace had returned to Lancashire, Mercy had hoped she and her sister could mount a united front against their brother’s ruination of everything for which their father, Baron Thomas Nelson, had stood. Or if worse came, she and Grace could have escaped Foresthill Hall together. Perhaps, they could have found a small cottage to share and mayhap, even gentlemen farmers to wed. A step down socially for a baron’s daughter, but Mercy saw it as a superior choice to what Geoffrey had planned for her.
“What do you mean dead?” her voice had sounded hollow, even to her ears. “It cannot be. How can Grace be dead? She departed this house to stop your friend Lord Spectre from taking her under your alcohol-induced nose, but she is not dead! I refuse to believe it!” Mercy and Grace had regularly barricaded themselves in their rooms at night. Geoffrey’s cohorts had robbed the estate of everything of value and had been determined to steal away both Mercy’s and Grace’s innocence.
In his angry response, Geoffrey had thrown a miniature of their father toward the fire. It was a customary gesture when her brother took on his “woe is me” attitude, the one where Geoffrey blamed his rapscallion ways on the late baron. “Our sister is dead, I tell you!” Geoffrey had fumed. “Dead to you and to me. We will never look upon Grace’s countenance again. The road to London and our sister’s own obstinacy have robbed us of Grace’s presence in our lives,” Geoffrey had declared. “That is what happens when a woman takes it upon herself to know what is best. Such decisions are a man’s domain.”
Mercy’s hands had fisted at her waist. “That premise could be true if said woman had a man who would protect her,” she had accused.
“I will tolerate none of your shrewish tongue,” Geoffrey had adamantly warned. “You may save your quarrelsome ways for Sir Lesley.” Sir Lesley Trent had made Geoffrey an offer for Mercy’s hand. A baronet who had outlived two wives, Trent had five legitimate children between the nursery and maturity and another family with his mistress in a nearby village. Trent had thought to marry Grace some five years prior, but the baronet had been in mourning for his second wife, and by the time the grieving period had ended, Grace had accepted employment with Viscount Averette outside of Edinburgh. The baronet had then set his sights on Mercy. Sir Lesley had waited impatiently for Mercy to come of age. The thought of tolerating the baronet’s intimacies had always turned Mercy’s stomach. No future awaited Mercy as Trent’s wife; for when Sir Lesley passed, his son Mathias would send Mercy away. The eldest of the Trent clan held a deep allegiance for his late mother. Mercy would be responsible for Sir Lesley’s children, but would not be afforded even a small cottage on her late husband’s land.
Mercy had fought back the tears forming in her eyes’ corners. Her lips had trembled as she had delivered her pronouncement. “I shall offer my prayers for our sister. At least, Grace has found her escape from the madness this house holds.” Mercy had thought to say more, but her words would have been wasted on the likes of her brother. Instead, she had stormed from the room. That evening, the decision had been made: she had packed a small bag with her most serviceable gowns and had waited patiently for her opportunity to escape. Mercy held doubts her brother would grieve for either her or Grace. She had left Geoffrey one last note: “I shall follow Grace to Heaven or to Hell.”
*
Aidan watched Crowden and Kerrington ride off together. The marquis required a special license in order to marry his Miss Nelson in a timely manner. Evidently, from Crowden’s tale, time was of the essence. Through a twist of fate, Gabriel Crowden required an heir before his next birthday or the marquis would lose a significant portion of his inheritance. “First the bride and then the babe,” Aidan muttered to the quickly retreating figures. Immediately, his thoughts had turned to Susan and his brother’s heir. “A child who should have been mine,” he said with true regret.
“Your Lordship,” a soft voice spoke from behind him.
Aidan turned slowly to find a red-cheeked maid. “Yes.”
“Lady Worthing has requested for you to join the ladies in the morning room.”
Aidan swallowed the groan, which fought to escape his lips. He certainly did not wish to spend the day listening to women twittering on about marriage clothes and what to serve for the wedding breakfast, but he had promised Kerrington he would secure the safety of Lady Worthing, who was heavy with child, and the Earl of Linworth, who had suffered from heart troubles for the past four years.
“I entrust my most precious possessions to your capable hands,” Kerrington had declared as he waited for a groom to saddle his horse. “Make certain both my wife and my father seek their beds for recuperative rests.”
At that moment, Aidan had “hated” James Kerrington. The man he had revered as his Captain and friend had achieved it all: parents who doted upon him, a wife who expressed her devotion with every glance and touch, an heir, and another child on the way. Everything Aidan had envisioned for his own life. Everything he had lost.
“Inform Her Ladyship I will join her shortly.” The shy maid nodded and disappeared.
Aidan returned his gaze to the rolling lawns. He missed his home. “At least, Lexington Arms is something of which I require no reminder. My home and that kiss.” Despite the inappropriateness of his musings, Aidan could not wipe the smile from his lips.
When he had awakened from the long sleep caused by his injury, he could recall nothing of the past two years, but a kiss. A kiss that had made him hungry for “things he had never known.” A kiss, which had wiped away the deceit he had discovered upon his return to Cheshire.
For some time he had assumed the kiss had come from Miss Satiné Aldridge. According to Lady Worthing, her brother Brantley Fowler, and Sir Carter Lowery, Aidan had courted Cashémere Aldridge, but the lady and her twin Satiné had exchanged places. Evidently, he had wooed the wrong lady, a truth which had eaten at his pride. But Aidan had accepted the fact the “kiss” had been the most important aspect of his brief encounter with Miss Satiné. It was the kiss, not the lady, which had given him hope.
His memory of his time under Wellington and his service to the Realm remained in tact. It was the time since his return to England some two plus years prior, which he could not recall. Aidan was aware of the majority of the details. After all, his friends had spent countless hours relating every feature of which they were aware. He had learned of his sexual conquests, his continued role as a Realm member, and the innovations he had put into place as the master of Lexington Arms, innovations, which had eased the impact of the war and climatic devastation upon his land.
However, it was when Fowler had arrived at Chesterfield Manor to assist his sister in Aidan’s care that Aidan had discovered the truth of the kiss, which had haunted his subconscious mind. He had asked specifically of the duke’s knowledge of Susan’s demise. “I think I know, but I need someone to confirm my suspicions. Did I cause Susan’s death?”
An array of emotions had raced across Fowler’s countenance, and for a few brief moments, Aidan had feared his friend would offer a prevarication. Finally, the duke said, “Not directly.” And his friend’s rendition of the event had paralleled Aidan’s remembrance. Later, Mr. Hill had confirmed much of Fowler’s tale. Neither had witnessed Susan’s death, but both had heard his tale soon after the event. In fact, Fowler had rushed from Brittany to Aidan’s side.
And Aidan fully recalled his reaction to Marcus Wellston’s appearance in Aidan’s sick room. They held a bond not known among the other members of the Realm. The earl had been the only one to fully comprehend the extent of Aidan’s gri
ef at not being able to save Susan from the fire his wife had started for Wellston had turned to the Realm as atonement for the earl’s inability to rescue his twin sister Maggie. But a chasm had risen between them.
“I plan to marry Miss Aldridge tomorrow morning in the Linton Park chapel,” his friend had awkwardly announced.
Lying in his recovery bed at Chesterfield Manor, Aidan had searched his memory for actual images of Cashémere Aldridge. Sadly, none appeared. He knew from what Kerrington had shared that Aidan had thought to claim Miss Aldridge for himself, but the lady had chosen the earl instead. Although it was not in his nature, Aidan had snipped, “And what do you wish of me, Wellston? My blessings?”
His friend had swallowed hard, and Aidan had immediately regretted his terseness. “I never meant to fall in love with Cashémere. I told myself you were my friend, and I would not come between you if you were serious about Cashé.”
Hearing the lady’s familiar name spoken so tenderly rubbed raw against Aidan’s usual amiability. His world had imploded, and someone needed to pay for his misery. “But I proved myself otherwise by kissing Miss Satiné,” he had accused. “Is that it, Wellston? It was a ruse, perpetrated by the young ladies.”
The earl had flinched. “It is not that way, and you know it.” Then his friend spoke the truth of Aidan’s life. “You saw Cashémere as a safe choice–someone you enjoyed–someone with whom you could dull the memories of what happened with Susan, but I never observed in you what I had seen in Kerrington’s and Fowler’s countenances when they looked upon the women they affect. I suspect if true love existed for you, that if you held a soul-cleansing devotion to Cashémere, you would never forget it–no matter what Charters did to you. Do you recall such a love, Lexford? If you say you love Cashémere in that manner, I will cancel the wedding; I will permit you the opportunity to make Miss Aldridge love you in return.”
Aidan hesitated. He and the earl stared at each other for several seconds before he surrendered to Wellston’s demand for an answer. He had searched his memory and his heart. In neither did Miss Aldridge exist. Wellston had the right of it, and how could Aidan deny his friend’s happiness? Dutifully, he had rejected his hopes and dreams in favor of his friend. “No. I do not remember such a love. Surprisingly, I remember kissing Lady Eleanor during the farce involving Louis Levering,” he had declared baldly. The certainty of the memory had startled him, but it had not displeased him. Aidan continued earnestly, “And I remember feeling clean afterwards. I also recall passionately kissing someone whom I suppose was Miss Satiné.” That particular memory was less clear than the one of Lady Eleanor, and he had quickly come to the conclusion he had held no true memory of the event, only what his friends had shared of the incident. It was in that moment Aidan realized his life had been skewed in the oddest of ways. “But I possess no recollections of love. Miss Cashémere is not part of my memories,” he had finished.
“And yet, I cannot breath unless Cashémere is near,” the earl had confessed.
Another long silence had ensued. Finally, Aidan had mustered up the necessary words. “Then I suppose you should marry the lady. I would not wish to be the cause of your demise.” He had reached out his hand to the earl. “We are brothers, Wellston, and brothers never stand in the way of the other’s happiness. You have my blessing.” Ironically, his words about brotherly devotion had never proved true in his own family. Perhaps, it was the number of years separating his and Andrew’s births. He and his older brother had never known a close familiarity, but Aidan would have given anything to have his brother’s life returned to him.
Immediately, he had taken a vow to some day be so afflicted: to know love. Finally. What Aidan had seen in Wellston’s eyes now rested in Gabriel Crowden’s. “Please God,” he murmured as his gaze searched the barren trees on the horizon. “Allow me to one day look in the mirror and observe in my own eyes what I have seen in my friends’ steady gazes.”
Reluctantly, he turned his steps toward the morning room. Toward the woman he had kissed in a Lincolnshire hunting lodge. A kiss that was the only true memory he held of the past two years. All the others Aidan had borrowed from his most intimate acquaintances. A kiss from a magnificently incomparable woman. A kiss and a hope for the future.
Chapter 2
“Certainly not what I had thought my life would bring,” Mercy told herself in cynical bemusement, but it was honest work and not beyond her abilities. She had managed to convince the owners of a small inn in Derbyshire to hire her to replace their regular maid for the week the girl would be tending to a death in her family.
The Pawleys had provided her two meals each day, along with bread and tea to break her fast. It had been so long since Mercy had eaten more than an overripe apple or a handful of berries for a meal that it was a real struggle not to wolf down the simple stew Mrs. Pawley had placed before her. Her hand trembled as the spoon approached her mouth. Mercy closed her eyes and savored each potato and pea and stringy chunk of lamb as if the finest French chef had made it. Not that Mercy had ever eaten such delicious offerings. Better than escargot, she thought with wry amusement. The idea of eating snails turned her stomach on its head. Yet, she had heard of the practice, and she knew the dish was reportedly a delicacy most cherished. “Ye’ve been doin’ without?” Mrs. Pawley had said perceptively. Mercy had dropped her eyes and nodded. Thankfully, the inn mistress had said no more.
The work had been backbreaking, but certainly no more tiring than walking from sun up to sun down. At least, it held a familiarity. At Foresthill Hall, Mercy had often assisted the few maids her brother had employed with the household duties. True, she had never washed the laundry, but Mercy had assisted her brother’s servants with changing the bed linens and airing the rugs. In return, the Foresthill maids had agreed to sleep in her room. It was how she and the girls had avoided Geoffrey’s gaming friends when the men were deep in their cups.
“Another penny,” she exclaimed in delight as she swept the floor under the bed of the recently vacated room. It was the third one in as many days. As Mercy fished it from between the slats of wood, she thanked her lucky stars for delivering her to the Pawleys’ doorstep. She would not become rich, but when she set out on the road again, Mercy would do so with renewed determination.
“I shall reach London,” she had told her image in the cut class mirror setting on the small table. When Mercy had arrived in Derbyshire, she had reached her lowest point. Nearly of the persuasion of lying down in the road and permitting God to decide her fate. “Odd how a meal and a warm, dry bed can change a person’s stars.”
*
For three days Aidan had stood attendance upon the Linworth household. He had escorted the ladies into the village several times, and he had dutifully spent time with Kerrington’s son Daniel. Soon the boy would be leaving for school, and the child was full of questions on what to expect and how best to survive. Aidan had enjoyed his time with the youth, but it had emphasized all the things missing in his life.
With Susan’s death, Aidan had permitted her parents to raise the child. Legally, he could have kept the boy, but he had made a previous commitment to Shepherd and the Realm; and, in truth, he could not love the child as his son. Every time, Aidan had looked upon the lad, especially after Susan’s death and the demise of his hopes for contentment in his marriage, he had seen his brother’s betrayal in the child’s face. The boy had favored Andrew rather than the Rhodes family. “Perhaps…” he whispered to the empty room. Perhaps, if he and Susan could have put their disaccord aside, he might have felt different about the child. Perhaps he might have called the babe “Son.” But any warmth he and Susan had once shared had dissipated while he served upon the Continent. He closed his eyes to erase the images demanding his heart.
Mr. Haley had reported Susan’s “episodes” to him upon Aidan’s return. His once vivacious friend and youthful lover walked the halls of Lexington Arms in a depressed state. Her grief was so great Aidan had thought not to marry her
, but it was his father’s dying wish to know the future heir to the title would remain under Aidan’s protection. And the child was Lexington Arms’ future. Aaron Kimbolt was Aidan’s heir unless Aidan married and produced an heir of his own. He was ashamed to say he wished to hear the word “father” rather than “uncle” when he thought of his title’s future.
On Wednesday, Worthing and Godown had unexpectedly returned. They had come across a bit of luck in their search for a special license. Instead of having to ride to London and Doctors’ Commons, they had learned the Archbishop had remained at Durham longer than expected, and his friends had returned after only three days. Meanwhile, Godown’s three aunts and the Realm leader, Aristotle Pennington, had arrived on Linton Park’s doorstep.
With the extra company, after supper, the ladies retired to the drawing room, and the men enjoyed their cigars and French brandy. Despite their close acquaintance, Aidan had felt disconnected from his friends. Each of the other three had an air of completeness, which he had yet to discover. His stomach clutched tightly from loneliness.
“I was not aware of your long standing relationship with Godown’s aunts,” Aidan had ventured when the marquis slipped from the room to have a word with his valet.
The man they had all known as “Shepherd” until only recently scowled. Aristotle Pennington traced his finger up and down the glass’s stem. Finally he said, “I am from the same neighborhood as the former Crowden sisters. Our relationship has seen the test of time.”
Realm 05 - A Touch of Mercy Page 3