The Scandalous Lady Mercy: The Baxendale Sisters

by Maggi Andersen

“Saddle ’em, my lord? They’re carriage horses. Never been ridden is my bet.”

  “They have. If they remember it,” Strathairn replied.

  “I hope horses have good memories, my lord.” Mac shook his head dolefully as he led out two bays.

  They mounted the well-bred horses. Grant’s bay lunged and whinnied. “Wish I had Ares.” He patted the horse’s neck and spoke soothingly to it. The animal shook its head violently, but didn’t attempt to throw him.

  “Which way? Would they go south?” Strathairn steadied his sidling mount with expert hands.

  “Both men have estates north of here. My instincts tell me it’s Fury we want. They’d take the road through Thirsk. God, I hope I’m right, but we have nothing else to go on.”

  They cantered down the quiet streets and moments later, galloped into the countryside brightly lit by the huge golden harvest moon. Under their experienced hands the horses opened their stride on the road that cut through fields of wheat.

  Strathairn cursed. “I always carry a pistol and a knife. Old habits. Can’t take a gun to dance though.”

  “And I left a gun in the carriage,” Grant said through his teeth. “The element of surprise must work for us. They’ve had about a half hour start on us. I fear we might lose them once they reach Fury’s estate.” He shoved away the horror of that possibility. Cursing the absence of his riding boots, he nudged the horse’s flank with his shoe to urge it on. Whether the animal retained a pleasant memory of being ridden or it welcomed a gallop, he couldn’t tell, but it obeyed. Not with the speed of Ares, though, he thought with regret.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  THE CARRIAGE STOPPED. The two men had grown subdued after sharing two flasks of whiskey. Sir Ewan fumbled when he opened the door. His arms came around Mercy and he lifted her from the seat. She let her body go limp as the night air cooled her face. She could smell earth and damp grass and hear the sway and creak of wind through the forest. “You hit her hard,” Sir Ewan growled.

  “Not dead, is she?” Fury asked in a dispassionate tone. He must have signaled to the coachman, for the carriage lumbered off again.

  Mercy’s hope of rescue faded with it. No one would find her here in the middle of nowhere. She smelt whiskey on Sir Ewan’s breath as he leaned down to her. “No. Pretty young woman.”

  “Don’t get any ideas, there’s no time.”

  “What do you think of me, sir? I am not such a scoundrel!” Sir Ewan stumbled as he carried her. “I don’t like this, I tell you.” His voice broke into a sob as he lay her gently on the ground.

  The cold seeped up from the damp ground. Mercy wondered if she could appeal to Sir Ewan for help. Would he stand aside and watch this man Fury murder her in cold blood? When she heard them move away, she opened her eyes. Fury carried a lantern. Sir Ewan was pleading with him, waving his hands about. Fury had turned away to survey a field and the woods beyond.

  Her fingers worked at her reticule. Opening it, she discovered her mirror had broken when she’d fallen. She drew it out, the sharp edge giving her courage. She quickly removed the top of the perfume bottle.

  Fury was pointing somewhere over the moors with Sir Ewan nodding. With the mirror in one hand, the open perfume bottle in the other, Mercy staggered to her feet and ran. Somewhere ahead there must be a road. If only she could reach it, someone might come along. Even as she thought it she didn’t believe it, but she kept going, her skirts slowing her down.

  She’d gone a few yards when with a yell, Fury’s feet pounded behind her over the ground. He was upon her in an instant. With foul curses, his cruel hands gripped her arms.

  “Think you can outsmart me?”

  He shook her so hard she feared her head would fall off. Mercy threw up her arm with the perfume bottle in her hand. The floral spray made with liquor, hit Fury in the eyes.

  “What the…” He released her, his hands clutching at his eyes. “You little witch!”

  Mercy fell to her knees.

  When he bent over her, fists clenched, she sliced his face with the mirror. He fell back as a welt of blood ran down his forehead into his watering eyes. “Aah!”

  Not knowing where Sir Ewan was, Mercy stood and ran full pelt down the path.

  Ahead, as if out of nowhere, two horsemen galloped toward her. She stopped with a gasp, afraid to believe her eyes.

  * * *

  Terror had struck Grant’s heart. He feared they’d lost Fury’s carriage, but then it trundled toward them from the lane leading to Fury’s estate. The coachman confessed he’d left the two gentlemen with a young lady. “Nothin’ to do with me, sirs,” he’d said. “Follow the road apace, there’s a lane off to the right. That’s where they are. And up to no good I’ll wager. I’m to pick them up again in an hour.”

  “You’ll get along home, if you know what’s good for you,” Grant said.

  “The coachman touched his hat. Right you are, guvnor. Never wanted no part of that smoky business.”

  Grant galloped up the road with Strathairn behind him, fearing what he would find.

  When he saw Mercy, his heart almost stopped. Fury was running behind her, a knife in his hand.

  Grant jumped from his horse and shoved Mercy behind him where Strathairn grabbed her and drew her away to safety.

  With a snarl, Fury punched the knife in the air. “I can take you both. Did a lot more in Badajoz.”

  “I’ll wager you did,” Strathairn said. “You would have been one of those soldiers who behaved like a pack of hell hounds after the siege of Badajoz. Made me ashamed I was British. They should have hanged you.”

  “I’ll deal with Fury,” Grant said through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Strathairn said.

  As Strathairn ran off in search of Snowdon who had disappeared into the trees, Grant assessed the enraged man before him. All menace Fury advanced toward him, the moonlight flashing off the blade. But with his spare hand, he swiped at his eyes and blinked as blood ran down from a cut on his brow. Grant decided to take advantage of that weakness and stepped in close. He twisted, aiming a foot at the Fury’s knee. It connected with a crunch followed by a grunt of pain. Fury, already slightly off balance, cursed and stumbled sideways.

  But Fury immediately righted himself with a practiced fighter’s stance, his feet planted firmly on the ground. “That the best you can do? I’ll disembowel you.” He edged forward, slashing the knife menacingly.

  The knife caught Grant’s sleeve and he darted out of range. When Fury wiped his eyes again, Grant moved in and lashed out with another kick, higher up. It struck right where he aimed, and Fury crumpled with a squeal. He fell into a crouch with a groan of pain. Clutching his groin, he dropped the knife. Cursing, his eyes on Grant, he reached for the knife. Seeing he was in a vulnerable position, Grant aimed an upper cut to the man’s thick neck. Fury fell back awkwardly to the ground and rolled over. With a shriek, he levered himself up on his elbows, then fell again onto his face in the dirt. He lay silent.

  Grant turned him over. The man lay spread-eagled staring sightlessly up at the sky. The hilt of his dagger protruded from his chest. “Fell on his knife.”

  “Pity. Hung, drawn and quartered would have been a more fitting end,” Strathairn said appearing from the trees.

  “Where’s Snowdon?” Grant threw the question over his shoulder as he ran to where Mercy stood. White faced, she stumbled into his arms.

  “I must be getting rusty. Damn fellow escaped into the woods,” Strathairn said, heading for the horses. “Too dark to find him now. He’ll be bumbling around in there all night. And it looks like rain. He won’t go far.”

  Mercy shivered as she examined Grant’s torn sleeve.

  “It’s a bare scratch, sweetheart.” Grant framed her face with gentle hands, and peered into her tear-washed eyes desperate for an answer. “Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “Is he really dead, Grant?”

  “Yes. Won’t hurt anyone again.”


  “Sir Ewan didn’t want him to hurt me.”

  “But he wouldn’t have stopped Fury from doing so.”

  She shuddered. “How did you find me?”

  “Plenty of time for that. You need a fire and warm drink. We’ll ride to Haighton Park. It’s not far.”

  He helped her onto his horse, his heart still beating fast, and mounted behind her. He still couldn’t dismiss the thought that he’d almost lost her. He put his arms around her and took up the reins, walking the horse up the lane. Mercy leaned back against him.

  “If I’d lost you I don’t think I could have borne it,” Grant said his voice a low growl.

  “Oh, Grant. I was so frightened. I used my mirror to cut Fury’s face.”

  “You were remarkable, and very brave! How did they manage to capture you, sweetheart?”

  As she explained, he listened without comment. “I should never have read your letter.” She caught her breath in a sob. “It was wrong of me. But I was consumed with jealousy.”

  Grant tried to decipher her slightly garbled account. The letter? She’d been jealous?

  “What letter, Mercy?”

  “Black’s. I found it in your portmanteau.”

  “Oh.” He felt a rush of guilt. She must have been desperate to take such action. And she’d kept it from him.

  “I should have told you, but I feared it would distract you.” She swivelled in his arms to look at him anxiously. “Are you very angry?”

  “Only with myself. I thought it would be wrong to tell you. I’m sworn to secrecy when I take up a cause for the Crown.” And he’d suspected something like this might happen. But he would never tell her that. “But of whom were you jealous? Not Lady Haighton, surely?”

  “No. Lady Alethea.”

  “But our relationship was over before I met you.”

  “Was it?”

  “You have reason to doubt it?”

  “It was just that she led me to believe…”

  “She spoke to you?” he asked between clenched teeth.

  “Grant please don’t say anything to her. It doesn’t matter now.”

  They had reached the mansion, and the night footman and one of the guards employed to watch the house, rushed over to them. Grant lifted Mercy to the ground.

  He raised her face in the bright moonlight and kissed her wet cheeks. “You’re right, my love, it doesn’t matter. It is all in the past.”

  Strathairn dismounted behind them. “I’m for a whiskey, and then I’ll borrow a better mount. This horse is tired and doesn’t take kindly to be ridden. My lady wife will not sleep until I arrive home.”

  “Thank you so much, my friend.” Grant shook Strathairn’s hand. “I am indebted to you.”

  Strathairn yawned. “I like a bit of excitement now and again. Keeps me on my toes. Although Sibella may be disinclined to agree. Will you return tomorrow?”

  “I’ll pay Sir Ewan’s home a visit in the morning. Might find some clue as to his direction,” Grant said.

  “I’ll join you. See if we can round him up.”

  “I’m confident Black will have him clapped in irons before Snowdon can even think of leaving the country.”

  He held out his arm to Mercy. “Come sweetheart, let’s get you inside. I know Lady Haighton will be pleased to see us, despite the hour.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I LOVE YOU, sleepyhead.”

  Mercy smiled and opened her eyes in response to Grant’s kiss. “How is your head today?”

  She rubbed her sore chin. “I am much better, thank you.”

  Why was he dressed in riding clothes? Even though he’d made careful love to her last night, she still wanted to draw him into her warm bed and repeat it. “Are you about to go out?”

  “I have some business to see to this morning. Forgive me if I’m not back until after luncheon.”

  She frowned. “Are you going in pursuit of Sir Ewan?”

  “I don’t expect him to find him. But I might glean something to assist in Black’s search.”

  “You will be careful?”

  “I will.” He kissed her again. “Your dog is behaving badly.”

  She threw back the covers. She remembered she was naked, and covered herself with the sheet. “What is Wolf doing?”

  Grant drew in a breath, his eyes heavy lidded. He dragged off his coat. “The dog misses his mistress. But his mistress has a responsibility first to her husband.”

  An hour later, Mercy went in search of her dog. She found him in the kitchen gnawing on a large bone. “It was the only way to quiet him, my lady,” Cook said, kneading a dough on the big scrubbed table.

  “I’ll take him for a walk.”

  At midday, she and the duke ate luncheon in the dining room. “So, you now know what your husband has been involved in,” he said spearing a piece of beef from the footman’s platter.

  “Yes. Grant’s very brave.”

  “That he is. And very good at what he does.”

  “Does Grant’s father know?”

  The duke shook his head. “Feels his father isn’t well enough to be told.”

  “I should think it would be good for the earl to learn about his son.”

  “I agree. Perhaps you can convince Grant.” He raised a brow. “He tells me he’s retiring. Doesn’t believe he should continue now that he’s married.”

  She frowned as she buttered a piece of bread.

  “You don’t think he should give it up?”

  “Not for my sake.”

  “You’re not thinking of helping him again, are you?” he asked with his devilish smile.

  She laughed and shook her head. “I believe I’ve learned my lesson.”

  The duke tossed scraps of meat to the three hopeful dogs. “Grant doesn’t want to leave you alone here.”

  “But I am not alone,” she said with a smile. “And I have work to do.”

  “Your beautifying business?”

  “Grant told you about it, Your Grace?”

  The dogs pricked up their ears and bounded over the floor to the door.

  Grant walked into the room. “I did tell Grandfather.”

  Mercy looked with affection upon the man she deeply loved. “Grant, you shall not give up your work for me.”

  “We can discuss it later,” he said ambiguously. “Now, if you’ve finished luncheon, I have something to show you.”

  “Won’t you have something to eat?” she asked.

  “First, I need to remove the smell of horse.”

  “Did you learn anything about Snowdon’s whereabouts?” the duke asked him.

  “Snowdon was found this morning in the woods with his leg caught in a snare. Looks like it’s broken. He’s on his way to Bow Street Magistrate’s court accompanied by two Runners as we speak.”

  “Remarkably accident prone pair, wouldn’t you say?” his grandfather said with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows, giving Mercy a glimpse of the man he used to be. A force to be reckoned with, as his grandson was.

  “Indeed.” Grant grinned at his grandfather as he took Mercy’s hand and helped her from her chair.

  She tucked her hand through his arm and they walked along corridors into a part of the house she had not yet seen. He opened a door. “The housekeeper used this room for flower arrangements, but she has relinquished it to you.”

  “For me?” She swallowed down tears.

  The room had been refurbished and still smelled of wood shavings. There were cupboards beneath a waist-high shelf with a hand basin. On the walls, more shelves held her mortar and pestle, small kerosene stove and odd ceramic bowls of different sizes. A small desk and chair sat beneath a window with a view over the lawns to the fringe of home wood. She opened a cupboard door and saw all her pots and bottles arranged neatly inside.

  “Now you can make those lotions ladies will clamor to use,” Grant said.

  She threw her arms around his neck. “I am so fortunate. I love you so much!”

  “And I love you
,” Grant said huskily. He shut the door with his foot, but not before Wolf sneaked inside.

  Epilogue

  London, November, 1825

  THE LONDON PICTURE Gallery in Oxford Street was filled with guests sipping champagne and nibbling on the tasty foods on offer. Reporters from several newspapers and periodicals took notes. Charity’s portraits and landscapes were receiving a good deal of the right sort of attention. She reigned supreme, the confident, graceful duchess, her husband Robin, beaming with pride.

  “Charity plans to paint more family portraits,” Faith said to Mercy. “Our children, yours, and Honor’s, when they are born, and of course, Hope and Daniel’s son, Phillip.”

  “She has already begun Phillip’s portrait,” Hope said, coming up to them with the cherished young du Ténèbres heir in her arms, who was every inch as handsome as his father. “Charity’s baby is due around May.”

  Mercy looked over to where her mother stood with her father. Both looked as pleased as punch.

  When she walked over to inspect the charming portrait of Chaloner’s dark-haired baby daughter, Eugenia, Arabella joined her. “I think she will be a beauty like her mother.”

  “Like her grandmother, perhaps. The dowager duchess was an acclaimed beauty.”

  “Have you heard that Lady Alethea Archer married Lord Fallowbrook?”

  “Did she?” Mercy wished the woman well. She had come to realize how hard it would be to lose a man like Grant.

  “She wore a shockingly low-cut crimson gown to the wedding,” Arabella said.

  “I hadn’t heard that. Gossip tends to pass us by in York.”

  “Then perhaps you won’t have heard that I’ve accepted Lord Frederick Hargrave’s proposal of marriage,” Arabella said with a laugh.

  “Of course, I have. And I’m thrilled for you.” Mercy kissed her sister-in-law’s cheek. “I know Grant approves of your choice, Frederick is an honorable man, besides being very handsome.”

  “Have you brought that jar of cream for me, Mercy? I need to look my best.”

  “It’s in my reticule. It has worked wonders for Violet Blenkinsopp.”