Grant settled his hat on his head and turned toward the door.
“Lord Northcliffe?”
He turned back, hoping for some sign of friendliness in her gaze. He didn’t find it.
She rose daintily on her toes, her cheeks flushed. “I believe we should talk further. We must put our heads together to find a way out of this predicament.”
Dash it all, she was downright insulting. “We’ll have that opportunity at the ball.” He bowed stiffly.
Grant took his leave of the Baxendale’s home, carrying with him the image of a pair of incomparable violet blue eyes. Lady Mercy had had no need to make her rejection of him quite so plain. He’d hoped the kiss would warm things between them, but he’d obviously failed. The chilly gulf seemed to have widened. What a to do!
The announcement would appear in tomorrow’s edition ofThe London Chronicle.Could they really find a means to end it? A broken engagement hurt both parties. If she publicly rejected him, she would risk being branded a jilt and suffer socially. If he cried off, he would damage his honor and reputation. He was prepared to be thought a scoundrel if she wished it, but he admitted to being reluctant to be cast in that role. Especially as he was attempting to build a better relationship with his father.
But now he must send off a missive to his parent before he learned of this through other means. No doubt Father would be shocked by the sudden pronouncement. But, nonetheless, Grant expected he would be pleased. For some time, he’d expressed some disappointment in the way Grant chose to live. He’d voiced a desire to see Grant settled before he shuffled off this mortal coil, as he—and originally, Shakespeare—had put it. Father was inordinately fond ofHamlet. Grant had no defense. In his hunt for the killer, it was necessary to keep Father unaware of his work for the Crown. He would couch it in terms of supporting Jenny, which certainly wasn’t a lie.
Grandfather, at least, was more lenient, observing that a young fellow had to sow his oats before marriage. But Grant had planned to sow considerably more wild oats before marriage. He swung his cane against a lamppost, not quite believing what had just happened to him. Before the last drop of tea was drunk, his wedding and his life had been arranged for him. And for Mercy also, who in the hall when she said goodbye, looked ready to cry or scream, he wasn’t sure which.
He must put this out of his mind for now and continue his search for the sniper, as that could not wait for anything, even his future wife. Who knew what reason lay behind this callous murder. The destruction of the Stockton and Darlington rail line might or might not be linked. Black would look into that. Whoever the perpetrators were, they would act again, of that they were both certain. What they were not certain of was when and where.
First, he would tackle the next man on Scullen’s list, a fellow called Jimmy Bent who worked at a tavern down by the docks.
Two hours later, after changing into the worn coat and trousers he kept for the purpose, which offered him a certain degree of anonymity, Grant sipped warm ale at The Black Crow. Jimmy Bent was a weedy fellow with a nasty cough. He declined to take part in the competition. “Haven’t touched a rifle since the war,” he professed. “I sold the Baker some years ago.”
“That is disappointing,” Grant said. “Who did you sell it to? Do you recall?”
“I do. A Bow Street Runner by trade, name of Williams. Bert Williams.”
“A Runner?”
“He had a Baker during the war. Said they were the best for pickin’ off a fellow from a distance.”
“Used it in his job of work then,” Grant mused.
“That’s what he said he wanted it for. Said the guns that runners used were all very well, but a Baker could save your life, quick and clean like.”
Grant left the tavern and headed for Bow Street. This Williams had not been on Scullen’s list, but it seemed unlikely he’d be the man Grant sought. Nevertheless, with time passing, he could ill afford to leave a stone unturned.
He left the Bow Street Magistrate’s court after learning that Williams was out of town. Somewhere up north and had been for weeks, employed to find some fellow’s missing brother. Grant went to his rooms to change into evening clothes and another night spent in his fiancée’s company. They would be closely watched at dinner. The worst would be for her to glare at him across the table.
* * *
In her bedchamber, Mercy was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief when Charity poked her head in the door.
“Crying?” her sister asked as she entered. “I expected to find you thrilled, not woebegone.”
Mercy jumped up and grabbed Charity’s sleeve, pulling her into the room. “Shush.” She quickly shut the door. “I don’t want Mama to hear.”
“What on earth has happened to distress you?” Charity picked up a tapestry cushion and flopped down onto an ivory-colored brocade chair in an unduchess-like fashion. “Northcliffe is handsome and personable. You aren’t in love with him?”
Mercy interrupted her with an impatient wave of her hand. She related the whole story almost in one long sentence. Breathless, she fell back on the bed. “I don’t want to distress Mama because she blames herself for what happened.”
“But dearest, you can’t just marry a man for that reason. Mama would not want you to.”
“It all happened so quickly. Father pounced.”
“Father would. Northcliffe will inherit a dukedom. Their ancestor, Baron Rotherham is listed in the Magna Carter. They are one of the wealthiest families in the country. But surely, Northcliffe must have first asked for your hand.”
Mercy scowled. “Northcliffe doesn’t want to marry me. He probably expected his suit to be turned down, as he won’t inherit for years.” She widened her eyes. “He hates me. He believes I tricked him into this. Even though I suggested we might come to some sort of agreement to end it. But he doesn’t really believe I meant it.”
