“I see.”
“But I did not ask you to discuss finances, and at any rate that is all I have learned about them.”
“I’m sorry I am not of more help,” Mercy said.
“No matter. I have time to form an opinion of the girl. Acton does not seem quite as eager for an announcement as I’d thought him to be.”
The girl nodded, but her expression was distracted.
“What is it, my dear?”
Mercy hesitated. Her dark brows dipped together in a worried frown. “Your Grace, you said as how you looked into Perth’s history.”
The Dowager slowly nodded.
“There must have been people you talked to—acquaintances who were able to provide you with information.…”
“Yes,” the Dowager said, a touch of frost in her words. “But I assure you I was most discreet. I only asked where and when opportune and never did so in such a manner as would excite undue comment or reflect poorly on the object of my inquiries.”
“I am sure,” Mercy said hurriedly. “The thing is, Your Grace, I know so very few people in England. No more than a handful.”
“Do you espy a potential candidate for husband, Mercy?” The Dowager’s thin brows rose and she smiled with imperial graciousness. “I can certainly find out what a young man’s prospects are, if that is what you—”
“No. Oh, dear, no. I am doing this so badly.” Mercy shook her head. “Your Grace, I have to find my brother.”
“Of course you do, my dear,” the Dowager said calmly. “I remember you asked if I knew him when we first met. Simply tell me where he has taken lodgings and I will have your letter delivered tomorrow before noon. Quite proper of you not to hie yourself off unchaperoned to an unknown address. For all you know, it might be a gentlemen’s club!”
“I do not know his current address,” Mercy said. “He seems to change them quite often.”
“I see. Well, that presents something of a problem. What was his last known address?”
“I’m not certain. Some of his letters did mention clubs,” Mercy said dubiously.
“Ah.” The Dowager sat back and steepled her index fingers. “Now we are getting somewhere. What clubs, my dear?”
“A place called the Peacock’s Tail. And another named Harmony. I think there was an establishment he frequented called the Hound Master—Whatever is wrong?”
The Dowager sank back, indignation and shock on her face. “My heavens, gel,” she said. “At least one of those places is notorious. Quite beyond the pale.”
Mercy swallowed. Her eyes held the Dowager’s, pleading with her.
“You must understand,” the Dowager said. “I cannot possibly make inquiries about a young man whose proclivities are so suspect.”
“You can’t.”
“No.” The Dowager shook her head. “Ascertaining a few facts about Perth, for all that he is something of a cold character, was a simple matter of asking a few old family friends. It is not the same as asking about an American with such low tendencies.”
She could not bring herself to meet the disappointment and reproach in Mercy’s eyes. To her great shame her own gaze slid away. “I am sure you would not ask it of me.”
“Of course not,” Mercy murmured.
The heat that warmed the Dowager’s face crept farther down her throat and centered in her chest. She had worked her entire lifetime to be a perfect duchess, a perfect lady. A lady simply did not go asking after people who visited gaming hells and houses of ill repute. A lady did not even acknowledge the existence of such. And she was far too old to start risking social censure now, when she had spent her life abiding by its rules. Especially not for a social foundling. She would not. She could not.
“We’ll forget I ever mentioned it,” Mercy said.
“Yes, we shall,” the Dowager readily agreed, eager to put their relationship back on its previous footing. She was unused to feeling that she had acted the coward. She did not like it. And she disliked it that Mercy Coltrane had inspired such feelings.
“Yes, that will be for the best,” she repeated more forcefully. “Now tell me what you are going to wear to the ball.”
Annabelle sank back in her seat with a small gratified smile. The violinists had been superb and the rest of the orchestra more than competent.
She glanced over at Acton. He was not the most handsome of men or the most witty. But he was easy, undemanding company, intelligent without being intellectual, and most important, he was a duke in need of a duchess. And she had every intention of wearing that coronet.
From her eighth year Annabelle had been groomed for just such a match. It had become more than a goal, it had been the focus of her life. But now, so close to achieving it, she found herself floundering. And, she thought with an uncontrollable pursing of her mouth, she suspected the reason why.
“That was wonderful,” she said.
“Yes,” Acton replied distractedly. “I shall have to congratulate the conductor.” He looked around at the guests gathering shawls and mantles and gloves. “I do not see Miss Coltrane.”
“Miss Coltrane?” Annabelle repeated. Her hands tightened in her lap.
“Our American guest,” Acton said, frowning. “I introduced her to you just before we entered.”
“Ah, yes. The woman in the … extravagantly colored gown.”
Acton smiled at her approvingly, and Annabelle released an inward sigh. If Acton did not take exception to her subtle criticism, perhaps she had misread a personal interest in Mercy Coltrane where there was nothing more than a polite host’s concern for his mother’s guest.
“Extravagant plumage for a rara avis, eh?” he asked.
“Quite exotic,” Annabelle murmured, pulling on her gloves and snapping the leather forcefully down over her fingers.
“Oh, more than exotic. She’s marvelous. She is a truly charming creature. So energetic and spontaneous and such … well, fun,” Acton enthused.
Annabelle contrived to keep her expression pleasant. “I’m sure she’s delightful. And, as you have pointed out, quite unique.”
“Oh, dear me, yes,” Acton said, rising and offering her his arm. She touched her fingertips to his sleeve and flowed to her feet.
Nathan Hillard strolled by, offering his distracted smile. Annabelle did not know the man well, but still, she was surprised to find him here, at so tame an entertainment. Rumor had it Hillard was one step ahead of his creditors. Perhaps he’d sought respite here, in his usual guise of professional houseguest.
Too bad, he had excellent deportment and good breeding, Annabelle thought before turning back to more pressing concerns.
“The unique is so often entrancing. Exciting, one might say,” Annabelle remarked as Acton escorted her forward.
“Exciting? I must say, that seems an odd choice of words,” Acton replied, his brow furrowed beneath his ginger curls.
“Stimulating, then,” Annabelle said. “You know”—she paused as if a thought had just occurred to her—“I find it quite interesting that while the stimulating activities we indulge in ultimately become wearing, that isn’t necessarily the case with stimulating personalities. Is it?” She glanced sideways at him. His brow had smoothed. He was paying her scant attention now, his gaze roving restlessly among the guests. She slowed her step, determinedly silent. She was not some negligible creature who needed to parrot her own questions for the simple courtesy of a reply.
Noting her sudden silence, he looked down at her. Having been caught openly inattentive, his square face colored a dull brick red. “Please excuse me, Miss Moreland. I was concerned that something untoward had happened to my mother’s protégée, keeping her from our company. May I beg you to repeat yourself?”
“Oh,” she said lightly, “’twas nothing of consequence.”
He patted her gloved hand gratefully and led her into the Great Hall, where he waved one of Baron Coffey’s acne-scarred sons over. The lad scuttled forward like an overeager puppy, all legs and feet. “C
arlton here has expressed a great interest in—in your opinon on Mozart. I, alas, cannot neglect my duties as host. I must inquire after Miss Coltrane. Rest assured, I shall inform you if anything is amiss. If you’ll excuse me?” He bowed quickly before turning and trotting up the stairs.
“Ah, Miss Moreland,” Carlton Coffey said, beaming with delight. “Now, let me see. Mozart. Mote-zart. Hungarian writer chappie, is he not?”
Only years of strict schoolroom discipline allowed Annabelle to form a polite expression of interest.
Something would have to be done about Mercy Coltrane.
Chapter 7
“You know that American girl, Mercy Coltrane?” Beryl asked the next day. Hart reined his horse in next to where she stood. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “She has a bullet hole in her shoulder.”
Anger and astonishment froze Hart in the act of dismounting. Had Mercy already broken her promises—or was she taunting him by hinting at their past? He swung down out of the saddle and tossed the reins to a waiting attendant. He’d damn well throttle her himself if she’d revealed where she’d received that scar.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“I saw it myself last night, and then this morning, after breakfast Lady Jane Carr actually had the audacity to express an interest.”
“Jane Carr sounds a mannerless chit.” He cast an angry eye over the men and women sauntering beneath the autumn-flushed boughs of aspens bordering Acton’s parkland, searching for the object of his ire. All he saw were elaborately bundled women milling about men who were comparing rifles with ceremonial conspicuousness.
The afternoon’s entertainment was to include a shooting match for the male guests. The women, he assumed, were there to murmur appreciative sounds. Not that he had any intention of joining. He’d had enough shooting to last him a dozen lifetimes over … unless the target was a woman with auburn hair.
“Oh, forget Jane Carr. She didn’t even bring her doddering old husband with her. The point is she asked and Miss Coltrane told us, calm as you please,” Beryl said with some exasperation. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it the most deliciously exciting thing you’ve ever heard?” she asked. He ignored her, striding toward the assembly of houseguests.
“Well?” Beryl demanded from behind him. With a sense of frustration Hart adjusted his speed to his sister’s more decorous pace.
“Fascinating.”
“She’s so nonchalant about it,” Beryl continued. “She says she received it at the hands of a—oh, this is too, too rich—gunslinger!”
So, she did think to taunt him. Obviously, Miss Coltrane and he needed to have another conversation. “Beryl—” He stopped just out of hearing of the other guests.
“I am quite in awe of her,” Beryl babbled on. “I wonder if she’s ever met any red Indians. I will have to ask her. I expect she’s had any number of harrowing escapades. That wound! As big as a shilling and dreadful-looking. How painful it must have been! What a thrilling life she’s lived and yet she’s really the sweetest, most dear—”
“Beryl, is this gossip?”
Abruptly, Beryl left off enthusing over Mercy Coltrane. She blinked at him in consternation, as though he’d asked, Beryl, are you speaking English?
“Well, yes, Hart,” she said patiently, “I expect it is.”
“Beryl, you do not gossip.”
“Yes, I do,” she replied. “I always have. I love gossip. Oh, not the tittle-tattle of the chambermaids—unless they’re chambermaids to really interesting people. But I do so love to be in on all the news, the first to know when a scandal is about to break. Who’s doing what, where, and”—her eyes twinkled with relish—“with whom.”
“Good Lord.”
“Oh, come, Hart. You can’t tell me you don’t like discovering things about people.”
“Have you ever considered that the things people conceal are often hidden for very good reasons?” A random memory flickered through his mind: a shadow in a doorway, a gun barrel catching a ray of sunlight, the revolver jerking in his palm, a corpse tumbling through a swinging door. Blood. The smell of gunpowder.
He waited, biting back on his fear. Sometimes a random memory triggered it. It might start with the tightening of his joints, the feel of his flesh shrinking on his muscles, his heart hammering as if he were racing from the devil. Panic. Fear. Rising up to overwhelm every other sensation.
If it happened here, now, he’d have to get away. He’d have to master it, privately, without drawing attention to himself.
“Hart?”
He waited the space of two more heartbeats. Nothing. “There are very probably excellent reasons people keep certain matters private,” he continued as if nothing had happened.
“Rubbish,” Beryl stated. “Secrets are best exposed. They’re robbed of their power to harm that way. And if they are, indeed, heinous, then ’tis best that people know about them. Forewarned is forearmed.”
There would be no convincing her. Things were so simple and clear cut for Beryl. And that is the way it should be, he reminded himself. He’d done everything in his power to ensure it would be so, for her and his other sisters. No night horrors, no soul-damning choices that dogged them through the years, no shadows from the past obscuring every pleasure. Still, this base preoccupation with scandal needed to be addressed.
“Does Henley know about your—interest, shall we say?—in other people’s lives?”
For an instant unhappiness clouded Beryl’s bright eyes, but then she shook her head and smiled with renewed vivacity. “Of course. He likes his information just as much as I like mine. And, let me tell you”—she tapped him playfully on the cheek—“my … fact-gathering capabilities, shall we say?—have been quite useful to Henley’s career.” She preened. There was no other word for it. “It’s quite an asset for a politician’s wife.”
“No,” Hart said. “Your deportment, your diplomacy, these are the qualities that make you—”
“Dear Hart.” She smiled at him. “Such a lamb. Yes, yes. It’s all very useful, knowing how deep a curtsy each member of the House warrants. But it’s only stage dressing. A well-trained poodle could manage as much. I have more to offer Henley’s career than a wrist strong enough to pour out tea for fifty. It’s what happens after the tea is poured that is significant.” She nodded, her eyes flickering over the assembly. “Look. There’s Miss Coltrane now. Come along, Hart. I am determined to befriend her.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“It will add considerably to my cachet,” she answered, claiming his arm and tugging him forward. “She’s becoming quite sought after.”
In the center of the small group Beryl towed him toward stood Mercy Coltrane. She was dressed in a plain tan skirt and white shirtwaist, an old battered Stetson shading her eyes and hiding her glorious red hair. The cool air had kissed color to her full lips. A few rare strands of gleaming auburn hair rippled against the open collar of her shirt. She was smiling again.
Always smiles and animation. Even for him there had been smiles. He’d never met anyone like her before. And she was, whatever her shortcomings, so very pretty.
Her head was angled attentively toward Acton and another man, a sleek blond gentleman with a rifle perched casually on his shoulder. Beside her, the picture of modest repose in a minty-colored dress tiered with lace, was Annabelle.
“Ah, Mrs. Wrexhall, Perth,” Acton hailed upon spying them. “Delightful of you to join our little shooting exhibition. Do you know Nathan Hillard?” He stepped back, indicating the man at Mercy’s side.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” Hillard murmured, bowing over Beryl’s hand and nodding to Hart. Hart assessed him as Acton made the necessary introductions.
Expensively attired in a tweed shooting jacket, middling height, closer to forty than thirty, fair. Interesting face. As a whole he was handsome, but taken apart his features belied each other. His chin was blunt
, yet his nose was aesthetically pinched. His lips were full and gentle; his eyes, unusually bright. His high forehead beneath the thick blond hair was unlined, yet deep furrows were etched on either side of a wide mouth.
“Will your husband be joining us, Mrs. Wrexhall?” Acton asked.
“No,” she said softly. “Henley is not particularly fond of shooting and such. He’s gone to London for the afternoon. A political appointment.”
“I see,” Acton said. “Well, then, we will simply wait for your brother-in-law to arrive before we commence.”
“Richard?” Beryl asked. “Richard doesn’t shoot.”
“Oh.” The single utterance, coupled with Acton’s befuddled expression, held a gentle reproof. Annabelle darted a quick beseeching glance in their direction.
“But Hart here is simply rabid on firearms,” Beryl hurriedly said as though visualizing Acton checking off a demerit against Annabelle’s name. “Aren’t you, Hart?”
“No.” If Annabelle’s qualifications as a duchess rested solely on whether the males in her family shot things, Acton could go to blazes and good riddance.
Acton flushed at his curtness. “Well, then,” he said, turning to Mercy, “shall we start?”
Hart’s gaze jumped to Mercy. Start what? Good Lord, the woman isn’t going to make a spectacle of herself by competing with the men? If she did, she could kiss good-bye to any hopes she’d ever have of landing herself a titled husband, whether or not she claimed that as her main objective. Men might find her brass entertaining but their mamas most definitely would not. And most coronets came with dowagers’ fingers attached.
“If you would do me the honor of using my rifle, Miss Coltrane?” Hillard unshouldered his gun and offered it to her. She smiled, accepting the rifle.
A Dangerous Man Page 6