The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Read Free Page A

eye.”
    “Horrors?”
    “In the marriage bed,” she whispered. “With…a man. And…that…thing.”
    Although Mercy knew very well what the other woman meant, impish fingers of mischief suddenly tickled her amusement. She feigned bafflement. “Thing?”
    “A man’s…private… accoutrement . His Arrow of Cupid.”
    Still she waited, brows arched high, forcing her laughter down, where it bubbled away deep under her corset.
    “His…” Miss Gibson tried again, squeezing out the word “appendage.”
    Afraid she might convulse with laughter—which would not be at all seemly—Mercy set her cup and saucer on the table and began wriggling her fingers into a pair of kidskin gloves. “The awfulness to be endured at the hands of one’s husband and his trouser tentacle, my dear Miss Gibson, is nothing compared to the true agonies of this world. There are always people far worse off than oneself.”
    The girl looked confused again, screwing her handkerchief into a damp knot. It was possible, thought Mercy, that Miss Gibson knew nothing of affairs beyond her own limited existence. Some women never bothered to read a newspaper or acquaint themselves with the larger issues. Mercy, on the other hand, poured over various lurid accounts of the world’s many injustices, especially those against women. Unbeknownst to her brother, he contributed largely to charities meant to improve their lot. It was a good thing for Mercy—and for Mr. Hobbs—that Carver seldom paid attention to the accounts.
    “Think of the poor, unfortunate women plying their trade in the gin shops and dark alleys,” she explained. “There are almost as many prostitutes in London, Miss Gibson, as there are domestic servants. Imagine how those women suffer daily trials, struggling to find food, medicines, and shoes for their children. I am sure they must put themselves through great degradation to survive.”
    Miss Gibson opened her mouth, but this time Mercy did not wait for any sound to come out. She continued rapidly, “You need tolerate your husband’s intimate company only once a month for precisely three and one-half minutes. It is hardly The Harlot’s Progress .” There, that should put things into perspective for the trembling creature. In truth, Mercy was no longer very interested at that moment in poor Julia Gibson’s love life—or lack thereof. However, she considered it her mission to meddle in the lives of those she liked and to secure happy matches for her young friends most in need. People told her she was rather good at it, although, as her brother had recently pointed out, they would never dare say otherwise.
    Miss Julia Gibson was, so far, her one failed project, and Mercy did not like this blot on her perfect record for matchmaking. Well, almost perfect, she thought with a frown, remembering that Carver still resisted any attempts to find him a wife. He was now thirty-three, in danger of becoming set in his ways and, as the Earl of Everscham, did not believe he should ever have to change those ways. This blinkered regard for the path ahead was a peculiarly stubborn trait he shared with his sister. Aware of this fact, she simply excused the characteristic in herself as a necessary and “clearheaded” devotion to what was proper. Mercy was the sensible one; she knew what she was doing, but the same could not be said for Carver. His obstinate frame of mind was a wretched annoyance, because it kept him from agreeing with her most of the time.
    She took another, more searching perusal of Julia Gibson’s wincing features. Hmm…perhaps…if she could get her two most difficult projects together, would that not make a very tidy conclusion? She dearly loved a neat solution, everything squared away, corners perfectly aligned. There was nothing so comforting as an answer found, a mission completed.
    Just then, Julia struggled with a meringue and sneezed violently, sending a spray of sugar down her frock. A dollop of cream remained on her