The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Read Free

point to mitigate the tragedy of her inevitable demise, she settled back to enjoy the ride.

Chapter 2
     
    London, April 1835
    “The spring has gone out of your blasted stockings, Miss Gibson. Do pull your garters up.”
    While this reprimand might appear somewhat harsh and a trifle indelicate for a drawing room conversation between two young ladies, it was, in Lady Mercy Danforthe’s opinion, also necessarily shocking. Brevity, she always said, was a busy woman’s best friend, and terms of a more ladylike nature had scant chance of sinking in when dealing with the cork-brained. Miss Julia Gibson might sew a fine seam, trot amiably in a quadrille, and fumble her way through a repertoire of songs on her mama’s pianoforte, but she was not, by any means, the brightest of sentient beings.
    Lady Mercy would never be observed with wrinkled stockings, literally or metaphorically speaking. And the nervous, teary-eyed Miss Gibson must surely have realized, after a hasty perusal of her own ankles, that in this case she meant the latter. But imagery failed to relay Mercy’s point. The object of her criticism assumed the expression of a spaniel pup, eager to please yet bewildered. Possibly thinking of its dinner and undoubtedly about to leave a puddle on the rug.
    So much for the advantage of brevity.
    With a sigh of grand proportions—the only sort of sigh one might expend while wearing a very smart bonnet lavishly caressed by a magnificent, downward-curling magenta feather—Mercy reinforced her meaning. “While I can find you a suitor, it will not assist my endeavors if all you do, whenever you see an eligible man, is burst into tears and run away.”
    Pausing to sip her tea, she stole a sly glance at the mantel clock and calculated a quick sum in her head. She must cut this meeting short, or she’d never make her friend’s wedding on time, and that would be inexcusable. It took two days of travel along bad country lanes to reach the village of Sydney Dovedale, and she was already later setting off than she’d hoped to be. Few things annoyed Mercy more than a lack of punctuality. She could not abide it in others and was especially vexed by the possibility of her own lateness.
    This was her last visit of the morning, and her feet itched to be on their way. She had already spent a grueling hour relating instructions for Edward Hobbs to keep an eye on things while she was gone. Despite her brother’s decade advance on her in age, Mercy had no confidence in Carver’s ability to make wise decisions, especially in her absence. Carver would be the last person she dealt with today. She’d organized her list with him at the end, because it was unlikely she’d find him out of bed before noon light streaked across his bedchamber, stung his eyelids, and woke him. Then it always took a period of half an hour at least before he was fit to be seen and could manage more than a few grunts.
    Mercy checked the mantel clock again, astonished by how quickly the hands of time moved today. If Julia Gibson were not such a hapless creature in need of guidance, she would have made her excuses not to pay this visit. It was, however, a duty she took upon herself to never let anyone down. This, as she would explain patiently to Carver, was their life role—to be there for those in need, to look out for those less well placed, to lead those who stumbled. He might firmly refuse to fulfill his role, but Mercy took her part very seriously.
    Miss Gibson perched on the edge of her narrow chair, possibly about to dive into the willow-pattern bowl of potpourri that sat between them. “But I can’t seem to help myself, Lady Mercy. I know I must marry. What else am I to do?” She lowered her voice to a faded squeak. “Alas, I think of the horrors one must endure on the wedding night.” The young woman blushed brightly, competing with the scarlet tulips nodding outside her mama’s drawing-room window. “And I simply cannot look him in the