by Heather Boyd
She slapped her hands onto the arms of her chair as a marvelous idea came to her. “The book.” Mercy dashed from the room, leaving her no doubt disapproving sister to trail along at a proper snail’s pace. The book was her savior. The book was a secret. At least, from the past Dukes of Romsey, that was.
When she’d first married Edwin, he’d given her a gift belonging to his late mother. At the time she’d smiled, accepted the unexceptional duchess’ jewel case from a woman long dead, and ignored it. But on a day when the wind blew heavy with rain, and boredom had led her to play with the pretty baubles she’d inherited, she uncovered a secret compartment.
The journal, a diary begun by her predecessors, contained the sort of gossip that the dukes always tried to hide; who they had wronged.
Mercy found the goings on in the family she’d married into fascinatingly evil.
So far, she’d added nothing to it. Her late husband, given his fragile state of health, had been somewhat of a recluse. But the book might tell her of the falling out prior to her marriage.
She hurried to her chamber, pulling her keys from her pocket as she went. With one quick turn of the lock, she retrieved the book and sank into a deep chair beside the window. She flicked through pages, eagerly searching for the last duchess’ remembrances until Blythe arrived. “Nothing yet.”
Since Blythe disapproved of the book, Mercy ignored her gasp.
“Mercy, please put the book down and come with me.”
Mercy tapped the page. No, this was the wrong duchess. She flicked the pages in rapid succession until she found a more likely date. I suspect my husband disapproves of his cousin’s wife not because she is so comely but because she has birthed yet another son while I have but one. Hmm, could that be the reason for the fall out? The production of heirs was of paramount importance to every great family. Not everyone wanted their cousin to inherit. She knew from her sister’s experience that seemingly healthy children didn’t always live to adulthood. Had fear been the reason for discord?
“Mercy!”
Oh, could Blythe ever be quiet when she was in one of her scolding moods? Perhaps enough time had passed for her sister to put her grieving aside. Really, Blythe should be listening to her, not the other way round. With every intention of putting her younger—and lower ranked—sister in her place, Mercy stood and crossed to her. But Blythe’s pale complexion stilled the cutting retort she wanted to utter. Her sister appeared about to cast up her accounts.
“My dear, are you all right?”
Blythe shook her head and took a step back. When her arm rose to point at the bed, Mercy turned to see what she stared at. Atop her bed, blood spattered in a wide ark on her favorite comforter, sat a poor dead rabbit. Mercy gagged and rushed for the chamber pot.
Once she had retched until her sides ached, Mercy returned to find her sister—though still pale—examining the poor dead creature. Mercy thought she might be sick again. “Blythe, come away from that.”
To Mercy’s horror, Blythe’s hand reached out as if to touch the pelt. Mercy grasped her sister’s arm and dragged her out into the corridor.
Blythe blinked as if dazed, and then her features hardened. “This has to stop.”
Mercy ran her hands up and down her arms to try to bring warmth back into her body. She did not know how to stop these special gifts being left upon her doorstep, her chair, and now it appeared on the very bed she slept in. It was as if someone was sending her a warning, although she had no notion of what message these gruesome gifts were meant to convey. As far as she knew, she had no enemies.
“I’ll call Wilcox to take the mess away,” Blythe said.
Mercy swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. “Thank you, Blythe,” she whispered.
When Blythe hurried away, Mercy collapsed against the wall. She didn’t understand. She’d done nothing, offended no one. Yet somewhere out there was someone with a very peculiar notion of her needs. She did not need threatening letters delivered with the morning mail. But she could ignore them. It was a little harder to ignore the dead gifts found irregularly about the abbey.
Wilcox and a footman scurried past her and entered her bedchamber. She didn’t watch the grim business of removing the mess, but she listened and heard her butler’s outrage about the oddities of Romsey Abbey.
When he’d handed the mess off to the footman with instructions to burn the lot, Wilcox approached her. “If I might be so bold, Your Grace, I believe it would be prudent to seek family counsel on how to put a stop to these despicable acts.”
Mercy considered his words, but she didn’t know what to do. This matter was slowly escalating beyond her understanding. “You think I should write to my brother for his advice?”
Wilcox shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I thought it prudent to seek Mr. Randall’s assistance. He has returned at a fortuitous time.”
Mercy frowned, thinking the matter through. She didn’t know Mr. Randall well enough to confide in him. Not yet at any rate.
“Why would you think Her Grace should confide in Mr. Randall?” Blythe asked as she rejoined them. “Is it not suspicious that he would return at just such a moment?”
Mercy startled at her sister’s suggestion.
“He would never threaten a woman,” Wilcox blurted out in Randall’s defense, but then his cheeks darkened with embarrassment. He rarely contradicted Blythe, although Mercy had given him leave to speak his mind should he feel strongly about any matter.
Rather than let a servant feel the wrath of her sister’s sharp tongue, Mercy waved Wilcox away. He bowed and moved off.
Mercy read the disgruntled look in her sister’s eye. “Why would you think Mr. Randall involved?” she asked, trying to turn Blythe’s tide of anger before she suggested Wilcox be dismissed for insolence yet again. “He has only just returned from India.”
“So he says.” Blythe looked away. “We know so little about him.”
Really, why was everyone so eager to label Mr. Randall a troublemaker? Mercy had a good feeling about him. One glance into those dark, smoldering eyes had promised her that here was a man she could rely upon. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way her pulse leapt at his brief smile. The man had revealed a pair of delightful dimples. No one with dimples could be truly evil.
Mercy stood tall. “Well, we shall learn more when he comes to dine tomorrow. In the mean time, we cannot condemn him without cause.”
“Then what shall we do?”
Mercy grinned. “We shall go along and smother my son with kisses and then tell him he has a cousin. He’ll be wondering where we are.”
~ * ~
Leopold settled into a vacant corner of the Vulture’s taproom and kept his eye on the crowd. The low-beamed inn thrummed with locals, all easing the day’s aches over a tankard or two of dark ale. Gradually Leopold grew accustomed to the competing noise of English voices, and the smell. India, with her cloying spices permeating the air, had made England the foreign country to his senses. But like India, he’d grow used to the difference if given enough time.
One by one, each patron whispered into each another’s ears until the whole room knew of his return. More than one local tipped his cap to Leopold in respect. During their time here, his family had been well liked. They considered him one of them still, even if he stood next in line for the title.
A tankard slid across the battered table. “Here you are, Mr. Randall. Just the way you liked it when you were young. Put hair on your chest, that will.”
He glanced up and found Eamon Murphy, the biggest gossip in the district, hovering at his elbow. “Eamon. Are you still knocking about these parts?”
Eamon grinned. “Nowhere else in the world like Romsey. Why would I leave?”
Leopold clapped him on the arm. “I seem to recall you had taken a fancy to a girl who lived a few miles away from Romsey. I thought you’d have taken over her father’s farm by now and moved away.”
Eamon scowled. “Haughty witch, that one. She
got only her airs to keep her company nowadays. No one else would have her. But look at you. You’re a real gentleman now. Too fancy to be hanging about with the likes of us. Why are you not up at the abbey with the duchess?”
Leopold forced a smile to his face, but kept the whys of his presence to himself. “What’s afoot, Eamon?”
A cunning smile lit Eamon’s face as he slid into the opposite seat. He leaned across the table toward Leopold. “What do you fancy?”
Leopold smiled, enjoying the familiar banter. “What is the latest entertainment?”
“Heard tell of a cock fight over Crampmoor way. Rough crowd, but that’s not unusual. Brothel up at Timsbury now. New one—expensive. Caters to well turned out gentlemen, such as yourself. But you’ve been in India. Bet you’re after some of the white smoke?” Eamon’s eyes glittered, as if he’d delivered Leopold an early Christmas gift.
Leopold did not partake of opium. He liked to keep his wits about him. When he shook his head, Eamon slumped. “The white smoke ruins a man, Eamon. Best not to start at all.”
Opium might make a man forget home, but he merely traded one need for another. Leopold had seen enough of that sickness among the English in India to last him a lifetime.
Eamon sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Only other thing is the duchess herself, and there are plenty of men wagering on her taking a lover soon. Odds are on Lord Shaw, but he’s chasing the skirts of a few noble ladies so it’s hard to judge who’d have the best chance. But the earl’s been calling on the duchess pretty regular. He’s the favorite to make it a permanent arrangement by marrying her.”
“Is that so?” Anger ripped through him. Gods, a Shaw couldn’t gain control of Romsey. Even as a boy he’d heard tales about the family, none of them very complimentary.
Although Leopold had attempted to keep the disgust from his tone, Eamon must have picked up on his tension. The man straightened. “That’s what I heard. Might be nothing more than gossip. Now you’re home, the odds will change.”
Leopold picked up his tankard, and took a swallow. Did people really think he could have any influence where the Duchess of Romsey was concerned? He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth before he dared to speak. “As good as I remember. Do you know they can’t make a decent drop in India? Must be why the white smoke is so popular.”
“Ain’t nowhere like Romsey. Welcome home.” Eamon smiled cheekily as he slipped away from the table.
So, the duchess, for all her prim innocence had lovers lining up. Knowing her weaknesses could only help his chances of finding Oliver, Rosemary, and Tobias. If Leopold learned enough about her faults, he could use the information for leverage should she prove resistant to helping him. He’d use every trick he knew to get his way this time. He wouldn’t be deterred by the warm spark of mischief in her eyes.
Leopold smiled and took another drink while he watched Eamon working the room, wringing every last shred of gossip from the locals. Given enough time, Eamon would tell him everything he needed to know. He might even let slip some things he didn’t know he knew too, and help put Leopold’s family back together.
Chapter Five
Leopold Randall was prompt, polite and, to Mercy’s way of thinking, even more handsome than yesterday. After some initial awkwardness in his greeting, the dark-suited gentleman had sat down to luncheon, displaying exquisite manners—far more than Blythe had assured her he would possess—and kept up a lively conversation about his travels.
But there wasn’t the faintest hint of those dimples and Mercy was extremely conscious of her disappointment. “Tell me, Mr. Randall, have you married?”
She’d dreamed of him last night. A disturbing and exciting fantasy that she feared might be impossible to forget when he was near.
Randall coughed, appearing in danger of choking. “No, Your Grace.”
“Really? I cannot imagine why.” Mercy pressed her napkin to her mouth to hide the unexpected surge of happiness that came over her. She’d been pondering her handsome companion all through the meal and now luncheon was over, she was gripped with restlessness. She climbed to her feet and moved away from the dining table while she regained control of her emotions. “You appear too young a man to have given up on making a match. How old are you?”
Randall stood, chair scraping across the floor in his hurry. A raw, desperate tingle rushed up her arms as he moved to stand behind her. Mercy rubbed her hands across her bare skin to dispel the sensation.
“I’m not yet thirty.” Randall’s voice skittered across her nerves and when she glanced over her shoulder, his gaze inspected her from head to toe. Mercy quaked at the intense pleasure she found in knowing she’d caught him in an unguarded moment. He set his hands to his hips. “And may I be bold in return and ask yours, Your Grace?”
“Of course. I’ve reached the grand old age of six and twenty.” As Mr. Randall nodded, his lips compressed tightly, and then his gaze slid down her gown. Mercy’s heartbeat romped out of control. “I assume you’ve a sweetheart waiting for you when you leave Romsey.”
It was probably good that her sister had declined to join them. Blythe would be shocked to the tips of her dainty slippers by this brazen interrogation. But the need to know his secrets had loosened her tongue.
Mr. Randall offered a half smile. “Perhaps.”
“Ah, a gentleman of discretion. Commendable.”
And a great pity. If Randall’s affections had clearly been uninvolved, he’d have made a pleasing companion. She enjoyed his conversation so far, and hoped to hear more of his exciting travels. But if there was a sweetheart waiting for him elsewhere, Mercy couldn’t detain him here for long. She hoped he would stay a little longer though. The sound of his voice, the drift of his gaze over her skin, reminded her that she was an unattached woman with normal needs.
Her reaction to him shocked her. She should not be thinking of him on such intimate terms. With luck, Mr. Randall could turn out to be a much needed advisor, at worst, an ambitious danger to her son. But she really didn’t think him a danger.
Randall moved to stand at her side, although his position kept him a respectful pace behind. “Have I satisfied your curiosity enough for one day, Your Grace?”
Mercy turned, almost believing that Randall was teasing her. But his serious gaze showed no hint of amusement. “You have been more than candid for one day. Someone should have warned you that I tend to be a trifle blunt in conversation, an appalling habit that has survived my elevation in rank.”
Randall’s face softened. “As ever, I am your servant.”
Mercy held his gaze, aware of the urge to move forward and lay her hands upon his chest but determined to ignore it. She took a step back. “The duke is waiting.”
She skirted around Randall, trying to understand her desire to feel his hands upon her skin. She’d never had that urge before, and there had been dozens of men vying for an invitation to share her bed, during and after her marriage. Most men failed to hide their less than subtle intentions now that her husband had passed away. Perhaps that was what troubled her most. She sensed no such intentions from Randall. Although he looked at her a great deal, he seemed to have no interest in touching her at all.
Without waiting to see if he followed, Mercy pushed through the doors connecting the dining room to a long corridor which led to the room where Edwin waited. Behind her, Randall’s heavier footsteps followed, sending her nerves skittering once more. She couldn’t understand why Leopold Randall left her breathless when he offered her no encouragement. Her reaction to him was unprecedented, but she would make herself behave as a duchess should.
She forced a grateful smile for Edwin’s footmen as they opened the doors. A childish squeal filled the air and she rushed forward to wrap Edwin up in her arms. He squeezed her tight about the neck. “Mama, Mama.”
Mercy buried her face in his neck. “Hello, my darling boy, have you missed me?”
His little chin rose and she rained kisses on his cheeks
until he wriggled. “Where have you been, Mama? Come and play.”
Mercy chuckled. “Not yet, there is someone important you must meet first.” She turned and set her son on his feet. “Edwin, this is your cousin, Mr. Leopold Randall. Mr. Randall this is my son Edwin Randall, the sixth Duke of Romsey.”
Although her father-in-law had insisted that introductions involving her son be handled with a certain level of pomp and circumstance, Mercy had seriously disagreed, preferring informality around Edwin. But in this instance, she wondered whether having a few attendants present wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Leopold Randall staggered back a step, his skin leaching of color, so much so she feared he might faint.
But gentlemen did not faint, not under any circumstances but the direst. Randall recovered quickly and bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Your Grace,” Edwin mimicked, then copied Randall’s bow.
Mercy couldn’t help but laugh. She knelt beside her son. “No, Edwin, you must use his name. Say Randall and then nod.”
Edwin tried again and did the greeting perfectly. Mercy beamed. “Well done, Your Grace.”
Edwin giggled and threw himself into her arms, but peered around her shoulder to see what Leopold Randall was doing. He’d had so little to do with gentlemen, other than servants, that he appeared as fascinated as Mercy by the tall, dark man before him. Randall’s large size and dark suiting did overwhelm the room. However, true to his young nature, Edwin’s curiosity didn’t last very long. A toy caught his attention and he rushed off to play.
As Mercy began to rise, Randall caught her elbow to steady her ascent. The rush of heat across her bare skin overwhelmed her and she looked up into his face. So close to him, she noticed just how dark a brown his eyes were. The long sweep of his lashes against his skin, as delightful a surprise as his dimples. But what she particularly noted was how quickly his gaze dropped from hers. With his gaze lowered, Mercy couldn’t tell what he thought. That missing knowledge disturbed her.