A few minutes later she and Nate were seated on a bench in a nicely secluded arbour redolent with the scent of honeysuckle. While they were waiting for the tea to be delivered, Mercy smoothed her hair, then smoothed her dress, then smoothed her gloves. Then she eyed the back of the house anxiously, wondering whether they could be seen from any of the windows.
‘Are you feeling out of sorts, my lady?’ Nate’s enquiry came as quite a shock. For a few seconds she’d forgotten he was there. She fought the urge to laugh. Here she was, so engaged in plucking up the courage to kiss him that she’d actually forgotten his presence.
She gave a small cough and smoothed her dress again. ‘No indeed, my lord… I was merely…’ she paused observing with relief the arrival of a footman with their tea. Nodding to him in thanks, Mercy wondered almost hysterically if her intention was showing on her face – did she look wanton perchance? What did wanton actually look like? Was he even now running to tattle to Mrs. Lovell?
‘Would you like me to pour?’ Mercy swallowed, casting a sideways glance at the Viscount who was regarding her with concern. It was hardly surprising since she was behaving like a complete goosecap. Knowing it was now or never, she shifted abruptly to face him, her heart slamming against her ribs. She licked her lips, then before she had the chance to change her mind, threw herself forward, and flung her hands around his neck, pressing her lips against his.
Unfortunately, her attempted seduction didn’t quite have the effect she was hoping for. Indeed, her tackle was so vigorous, she caught a brief panic-stricken expression on his face just before he toppled backwards off the bench, taking her with him.
Mercy barely had time to utter a small scream before they landed with a thud directly behind the bench, wedged in as tightly as pilchards in a barrel.
***
Before entering the pub, Reverend Shackleford turned towards his curate with a couple of last-minute instructions. ‘Now remember, Percy if things get nasty, just threaten to excommunicate the varmints.’
‘We’re not Catholics, Sir, we don’t have the authority.’
‘I doubt they’ll know the difference. I should think the last time any of these varlets went to church was likely in leading strings and the next time’ll be in a deuced box.’ Tucking Flossy under his arm, he pushed open the door.
The inside of the pub was dim and pungent with the smell of tallow from the few candles high up on the walls. The Reverend waited for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust, then he stepped forward and looked round.
Despite the early evening rowdiness outside, the pub was actually relatively quiet. There were quite a few patrons, though nowhere near as many as one might expect for early evening. Those that were seated were clearly high-ranking ship’s officers and nearly all were eating alone and minding their own business.
The Reverend’s heart sank. It was the kind of place that fleeced a man of half his belongings for a bit of dried-up steak that may or may not have come from something dead. They should have investigated a little further rather than picking on the first place they spied. He was unlikely to glean anything useful from such a pretentious establishment.
‘Can I get you anything, Father?’ Flossy gave a low growl in the Reverend’s arms.
The Reverend jumped. ‘Certainly, my good man,’ he responded jovially after pulling himself together. In truth, he may have done it a little too brown since his voice was so cheery, Finn was looking at him in astonishment, muttering, ‘be the Revren some ither bodie?’
‘My companion and I would like two tankards of your best ale.’ The Reverend smiled genially, hoping he actually had enough coin on him to pay. He felt a trickle of sweat down his back. None of the other patrons looked up. It was nothing at all like the Red Lion back in Blackmore and he felt a sudden jolt of homesickness.
Meanwhile, Flossy was making no bones about her opinion of the man behind the bar and was now busy barring her teeth. Turning to Finn, the Reverend hurriedly handed over the little dog and directed the lad to a secluded corner before dragging Percy towards the bar.
Once there, he waited until the first tankard had been filled before giving a small self-conscious cough and saying pleasantly, ‘You must be very accustomed to visitors from all corners of the globe here.’ The barman looked up at him for a second without speaking and the Reverend added a hasty, ‘my son,’ in the hope of reminding the man he was speaking to a man of the cloth.
In the end, the barman nodded, sliding the tankard towards Percy. ‘We’re an exclusive establishment here, Reverend…’ he let his sentence trail off, clearly waiting for a little more information.
‘Sinclair,’ the Reverend responded graciously, endeavouring to give the impression that in addition to being God’s representative, he was also a man of the world. ‘And this is my curate Percival.’ Finally getting into his stride, he finished by giving a slightly condescending inclination of his head – just enough to give the impression he was someone the barman would be unwise to offend.
‘Naturally we have visitors from overseas,’ the barman responded carefully, sliding the second tankard across.
‘Dae ye hae any pickled eggs?’ Finn shouted hopefully from the corner. The boy had recently been introduced to the snack and pronounced his life changed forever. The Reverend gritted his teeth.
‘Do you get many passengers coming from the Americas?’
The barman eyed him narrowly. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I have a cousin in Boston,’ the Reverend answered without missing a beat. ‘I received a missive from him yesterday informing me he was about to embark on a ship to London.Unfortunately, the letter is two months old, and I’ve no idea which ship he was sailing on.’
‘We don’t get many here from the West,’ the barman answered, giving the bar a cursory mop with a rag that despite his claims to be an upmarket establishment, looked as though he’d found it in the gutter. ‘They mostly come from the other way.’ He nodded his head towards his approximation of what constituted East.
For a second the Reverend thought he wouldn’t say anything else, until he added, ‘If it’s the Americas you’re interested in, you’ll need to ask atthe Sail Loft. It’s a lodging house over in the Tobacco Dock’
Chapter Eighteen
Staring down at the Viscount, her face the colour of a ripe tomato, Mercy wondered if she would ever be able to look him in the eyes again. Until, finally, she allowed herself toreallylookat him, and all thought fled.
He made no move to extract them both, but simply raised his hand to brush a stray lock of hair that had fallen to lay on his cheek. With a start, she realised that there was hardness pressing insistently between her legs and she fought the urge to instinctively grind herself against it. Her nipples were like hard pebbles, and they were tingling in a most disconcerting way.
