Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal

by Jayne Fresina

  This evening, as she rode by in the curricle, Jammy Jim was cleaning his upper windows while his wife held the ladder.

  Mercy slowed the horses to view the display in the bow-front window—an old habit. She did love to discover a good bargain and felt her inner huntress on high alert whenever passing a well-designed shop front. The young Mrs. Hodson, recognizing her as she trotted by, forgot her husband’s ladder to run into the lane and tell her all about some new silks and summer muslins available in the shop and, most importantly, a millinery counter recently enlarged and under her sole management.

  “I shall be trimming bonnets myself to order,” the lady explained earnestly. “All the latest styles can be had now here in Sydney Dovedale.”

  Mercy promised to return soon and sample her fashionable wares. Meanwhile, Mr. Jim Hodson’s ladder began to waver precariously in the corner of her eye. “Madam, perhaps you had better—”

  “And I have just the thing for you, Lady Mercy! A peacock-feather muff I know you will adore! Mr. Hodson was just saying yesterday that he wondered why I thought such an item as a peacock-feather muff might be needed in Sydney Dovedale. He inferred that I made a mistake”—she raised her voice so he would hear—“that no one would wish to purchase it, and that it would gather dust on the shelf. But I said to him, it is just the thing for a discerning customer of fashion—the very sort of customer we should court. It should arrive direct from Paris in a day or two. And here you are, Lady Mercy. Conjured up like a genie, just in time!”

  Behind the young woman’s head, her husband’s ladder swayed. Dropping his bucket, he looked for her in some understandable alarm. “Cathy!”

  She dropped a hasty curtsy. “Do excuse me, your ladyship.”

  “Please go and save your husband.”

  Jammy Jim clung to the thatched edge of his roof and bellowed for his wife in tones that startled several nesting doves above his head. As they fluttered up into the sky, he gave a high-pitched shriek and almost lost his footing completely. Somehow he stayed on as the ladder tilted first one way and then the other. Perhaps, mused Mercy, his feet were as “jammy” as the rest of him.

  As she drew the curricle around the village common, slowing for the geese that crossed the lane in no particular hurry, she looked to her right and assessed the front of Merryweather’s Tavern. A few weathered benches were set outside, filled with farm laborers who enjoyed a pint pot after a hard day of spring planting. No sign of Rafe. Good.

  Several men watched her pass, and those who knew Mercy from her previous visits to the village—particularly those familiar with her generosity toward anyone who opened and closed a gate for her—doffed their hats respectfully. Suddenly one of them jumped up and trotted alongside the curricle. “Milady, good eve to you.” He tipped his dusty old cap. “I ’ope you don’t mind the liberty, ma’am, but I think someone should step in like and put a stop to it, afore young master Rafe gets ’imself in trouble.”

  She drew back on the reins. “What has he done now?”

  “Gone and got ’imself into a game o’ cards, ma’am, and losing money as if there’s a hole in ’is pocket. We all know yon lad’s had a tough time of it—what with young Moll Robbins running off like that, but some folks will take advantage, milady. There’s some fellows who never held much liking for young Rafe, and reckon he’s too big for his boots. Now’s their chance to kick the lad while he’s down. If thee knows what I mean, milady.”

  “Yes, I see.” He did have a habit of rubbing folk up the wrong way, because he was so fond of speaking his mind. She glanced over at the open door of the tavern. Raucous laughter spilled into the mild, sweet evening air. “Is he in drink?” she demanded.

  “Not yet, milady, but I daresay the lad’s fair on the way to it.”

  “Please go in and tell him I wish to speak with him.” She settled the horses and waited while the old man lurched inside. The wait stretched on, and the laughter continued unabated. Finally, the worried fellow reemerged and hobbled over to the curricle once more.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Master Rafe says if you want ’im, milady, you’ll ’ave to come and get ’im yerself, if yer please. Beggin’ your pardon, milady.”

  And that, she thought, was probably not all he said. Or how he said it. Rafe Hartley never cared about the words he used, or how, or when.

  Mercy exhaled a hefty sigh. If she rode on, she would fret all night about Rafe and any lack of judgment he might suffer under the influence of too much ale. He could end up with the wrong woman that evening. He might trip and fall in a ditch, or encounter a poacher’s trap if he wandered off the path. Well, she was there to help, was she not? This was no time for her Danforthe nerves to fail. Once again she seemed the only one capable of dealing with the wretched boy. “Lady Blunt” would certainly not let anyone stop her from entering a tavern once she got the idea in her head.

  “Here,” she said, “will you hold my horses for me, my good fellow?”

  “But, milady, a young lass—lady, like yourself, shouldn’t—”

  “I am not afraid, I assure you.” She climbed carefully down and straightened her skirt. “How bad can it be?”

  She soon found out. Marching boldly through the door of the tavern, riding crop in both hands, she was hit at once by the thick odor of stale ale, wood smoke, rotten apples, and masculine sweat. It almost swept her back out again, but she gathered her courage to push her way through the mob. Men’s faces turned in shock, the laughter cut off as if by a scythe. Some hats were lifted; many were not.

  “Rafe Hartley,” she shouted.

  He was at a corner table, leaning with his bared forearms on the pitted wood, cards in his hand. He blinked several times in disbelief when he saw her. “What do you want, woman? Come to continue our quarrel? I thought I was rid of you.”

  Someone tittered and then yelped as they were abruptly silenced. Mercy waved a hand before her face, clearing a spot through the dense smoke that belched from the fireplace. “It’s time you went home. I’ll take you.”

  He leaned back, watching her with those intense blue eyes, one arm hanging over the back of his chair. “I’m in the midst of a game, your ladyship, and I’m not inclined to leave it unfinished. Unlike some folk”—his eyes darkened meaningfully—“I finish what I start.”

  He might not be drunk yet, but as the old man had said, he was on the way to it. Someone had just bought him another filled mug. She walked up to where he sat and urged him again to get up and go with her. There was a pile of coins in the middle of the table, and right at the pinnacle sat Rafe’s gold pocket watch. She knew it was his—a present from his father three years ago when he turned one and twenty. Molly had told her about it.

  “I can’t go yet, you see.” He grinned up at her. “Got to win my watch back.”

  It was quiet enough now in that tavern to hear a moderate-sized pin drop.

  “You sit here next to me, your dainty ladyship,” Rafe drawled, patting a stool at his side. “Mayhap your fine, aristocratic”—he eyed her up and down—“presence will bring this poor country boy some luck, eh?” He snorted with laughter, but none of the other men around the table joined in, too in awe of the uncommon stranger in their midst.

  She sat hastily, almost lowering her backside onto his hand. “As you wish. I’ll wait here until you’re done, and then I’ll take you home.” She swung her gaze to the face of each man around that table. “While I’m here, I’ll see that no cheating occurs.” Mercy might not know the rules of their game, but she could tell a guilty expression a mile away, and several of his opponents had very suspiciously shaped ears. For instance, Tom Ridge, the blacksmith’s son, was, in her opinion, a sly, untrustworthy fellow and an opportunist. She treated him to one of her most forbidding frowns.

  Rafe reached for a newly filled tankard, but she beat him to it, determined to keep him at least partway sober. “I’m thirsty,” she exclaimed when he glowered at her.

  “It’s strong scrumpy.
None of your ladylike sherry, my lady.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I can assure you it is not necessary.” Her brother always said she had hollow legs and tin innards. So to prove herself to Rafe and all those who watched, she lifted the small veil of her bonnet and downed the tankard of cider in one long gulp. “Quite refreshing.” Ooh. Yes, it was certainly refreshing. If that was the word for it. For a moment she thought it had removed the surface of her tongue.

  “Watch yourself, my lady.”

  She gave him an arch smile that already felt slightly looser and wider than usual. “And you do the same.”

  The game progressed, and she tried to follow, but cards had always bored her, and she knew only solitaire. Even that she seldom played, for in her opinion, games of chance were an utter waste of time. She preferred chess, something where real skill and planning was involved and it didn’t all depend on how the cards were shuffled.

  It surprised her that Rafe would be so careless with his coin and valuables, but he always had a surfeit of self-assurance that was often more hindrance than help. Tonight it remained unwavering, despite a succession of bad cards. When he continually failed to win back his pocket watch, Mercy saw a shadow dim the merry light in his gaze, but he acted as if it was a mere trifle. Only she was aware of his knee bouncing anxiously beneath the table.

  It was very odd to be seated there beside Rafe while wearing her very fine “Mystery of the Orient” muslin. She certainly had not expected this when she set out that day in her bright garments. The other men at the table were considerably quieted by her presence, on their best behavior and not very happy about having their evening spoiled in this manner. Some stared at her in curiosity. Most carefully avoided her eye. Rafe continued in his usual bold way, teasing her, laughing, and joking as if his opponents joined in. He pretended not to notice the general discomfort that dropped over the room, and he acted as if it did not matter at all whether she left or stayed.

  Another tankard was brought for him, and she drank that one too. Then a third. He watched her with guarded amusement. “I drink like that only when I want to forget something. What are you trying to forget, precious primrose? Some scandal in your past, perhaps, milady?”

  “I am merely passing the time until you’re ready to leave, country bumpkin.”

  If he was concerned about the amount she imbibed, surely he would want to leave soon, she reasoned. It was the only way to get him out of there before he lost the shirt on his back, because she certainly couldn’t carry him over her shoulder.

  “Perhaps”—he leaned closer to whisper, pretending to show her his cards—“you’re hoping the scrumpy cider will help you forget that kiss you gave me earlier.”

  He meant to shock her, of course. He did like to make her blush while he played the “humble” country lad. “You gave it to me,” she corrected him crisply.

  “You started it.”

  “I most certainly did not. It was thrust upon me.” She swigged another mouthful of cider, growing accustomed to the burning sensation and then the numbness that followed until the next gulp. “In any case, what does it matter?” She flicked her hand carelessly, almost knocking the cards out of his grip. “It is already forgotten.” She finished the contents of the third tankard. Or was it the fourth? Her body felt very warm now, her mind pleasantly drowsy. “Your kisses are not that memorable, Hartley.” Oh, what a lie!

  “What would your brother have to say if he saw you here like this…with me?”

  Carver, she mused, would probably laugh and make a wager on how many pints she could drink. He’d always viewed his little sister as an irritating burden, the charge of which had been forced upon him by unlucky fate. He would much rather have had only himself to worry about. When she was seventeen, running away with Rafe, she’d almost expected her brother to let her go. But she had discovered Carver did have some limits. She’d often thought, since then, that the evening of her elopement was the first time Carver realized it too.

  It was the only time he took charge of her. The only time she’d ever known her brother cared.

  Rafe was looking hard at her, unblinking, giving his full attention to the woman at his side instead of the cards in his hand. Mercy, vaguely aware of the other men watching them impatiently, could not take her gaze from Rafe or fail to concede, again, that he was darkly handsome. Attempting to convince herself of his utter unattractiveness was a hopeless endeavor.

  He had discarded an old, patched coat at some point in the evening, and it hung over the back of his chair. Of course, a gentleman should never remove his coat in public, but what did he care? Now he wore only a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a frayed waistcoat, and stained buckskin breeches that might benefit from the application of a buffball. If he possessed such an item. Or a valet to draw it to his attention. All his garments were, no doubt, thrown on without a thought, and most of them clumsily sewn by Jammy Jim, yet he still managed to be very pleasing on the eye. As much as he thought he blended in there, he stuck out among all the other men in that tavern like a tall beeswax candle accidentally left in a box of tallow stumps. Imagine, she thought, how he would look if he actually took any effort over his clothes. If only he was hers to manage.

  “It’s not mine,” she muttered.

  “What isn’t?”

  She licked her lips and tasted the tart apples of the scrumpy. Oh, why did these wildly irregular sensations come over her in his proximity? It was most unfair.

  “What isn’t yours?” he repeated.

  “The fault for your misfortunes.” She struggled to remain very solemn. As long as she maintained the appearance of being in control, no one could possibly accuse her of otherwise. “The fault isn’t mine.”

  “Of course it isn’t. It never is.” He shook his head and reached for the empty tankard she gripped in both hands. “I reckon you’ve had enough. Some folk don’t know their limits.”

  That reminded her… “Your aunt is having another baby,” she whispered, trying not to sound so shocked or disapproving. Failing on both counts.

  “You don’t say,” he replied drily.

  “But what can your uncle be thinking?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug. “Extra hands on the farm as they grow older? Free labor in the fields.”

  She stared, tying to focus on his rugged profile while he played his next hand. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether Rafe was teasing or deadly serious. “Your cousins may not wish to be farmers.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? Are we not all supposed to stay where we’re born? That is what people like you, your brother, and my great-grandmama believe, is it not? We are all born to a life we should never try to change. Things should stay the way they are. Anyone steps out of line and rebels, they must be punished.”

  “I’m sure I never said such as that.”

  “But it’s ingrained in the way you think. Now, my lady friend in London”—he smirked at his cards—“she did not think that way.”

  “Your lady friend?”

  “She,” he said proudly, “wanted me to make something good of my life. Said I shouldn’t waste my talents.”

  The men at the table chuckled into their scrumpy.

  “She didn’t believe in holding a man down.”

  “The only thing holding you down, Rafe Hartley, is yourself,” she exclaimed. He’d meandered through life, more intent on enjoying himself than making serious plans. Until recently. “I always thought it was a jest for you to study the law. You—who has always sought to break it.”

  His fellow players laughed again, many agreeing with her. Rafe good-naturedly smiled too. “Aye. I was not cut of the right cloth for that profession. I thought to please my father.”

  Surprised to hear him admit it, Mercy kept her gaze riveted on his smile as it turned to a contrite grimace. Rafe worked hard at trying to please everyone in his life—his father, his uncle, Molly… Most of the time pleasing one meant disappointing the other. No wonder he was conf
used and could not find his direction for so long.

  She knew hers, of course. Had always known it. Was born to it. Marry well for the sake of the family name and provide at least one heir. Host parties and balls, manage household staff, visit the poor and infirm, write letters of thanks, sympathy, and felicitations. Arrange flowers. Most importantly, keep oneself above scandal. That was her purpose.

  There was no profession for her to worry about, only a strict, unswerving duty.

  And here she was, in a tavern full of men, unchaperoned, slightly drunk. None of this was in her plans. Where did she go wrong that day? At what point did it all go amiss?

  Studying Rafe’s lips, she felt forlorn, overwhelmed, out of her depth for one of the few times in her memory. It was a rare occurrence for Mercy.

  Fingers of sunset reached in through the tavern windows, which were left open this evening, and Rafe’s quizzical eyes reflected tiny sparks of gold that fizzled, like fireworks dampened by rain, smothered before they could show their full glory. Watching for them drew her in until she felt that deep, velvety blue all around her.

  She hiccupped. “You should not have kissed me,” she whispered.

  He swore under his breath. “And you should never have come back here.”

  “Yes, I should. Someone had to put things…put things”—hiccup—“in our proper laces. In their proper…places.” Oh, she couldn’t think what she was saying. “And you should not curse in the presence of a lady.” There, that was better.