Perhaps a moment might arise when she could calm her suspicions, although her mother had warned her never to inquire about mistresses. “I pray it will never be the case with you, my dear. But if so, it’s something a wife must accept with grace,” she had said when Mercy began to tentatively put the question to her. Mercy realized that she couldn’t tell Mama about Lady Alethea’s spiteful attack. The world had changed since her mother was young. She hoped Father had never been unfaithful. Her sisters were obviously in love. She doubted they would take such a betrayal lightly. And neither would she.
Chapter Twelve
ALTHOUGH HE TOLD Mercy that he would remain in London, Grant headed south at first light. He drove his curricle, drawn by a matched pair of grays, down the pike road, deep into the country. Resting his boot on the footboard he yawned. After he’d left the ball the previous evening, he’d located Black at his club and filled him in about the vehicle heard passing through a nearby village late the night of the explosion. And how, he’d followed the saboteur’s trail farther south, until it reached a dead end in the outer York environs. No one he spoke to had laid eyes on the occupants of the carriage. Dispirited that their search had ground to a halt, he’d shared several brandies with the Colonel in commiseration.
The canopy of cloudless blue sky held a hint of summer. Grant tugged his hat down over his brow. Although he hadn’t been precisely top-heavy when he’d retired, he now nursed a troublesome headache and the sun hurt his eyes.
At midday, he stopped at a respectable looking red brick inn, The King’s Head, for a late breakfast and to rest and water his horses. Forgoing a private parlor, he sat amongst the travelers, whilst enjoying ham and eggs washed down with a tankard of ale. Afterward, the innkeeper directed him to the farm owned by the man he sought, and he continued his journey along the leafy country lanes, the sun-warmed earth, and greenery scenting the air. It was pleasantly quiet after the rush of London, with only bird calls and a cow lowing to break the silence.
When Grant reached the sign,Melford Farm,above an open wooden gate, he turned his curricle onto the drive.
The innkeeper had spoken well of Thomas Melford. Grant knew he’d been a soldier and a first-rate rifleman in Wellington’s army. Whitehall had provided him with his name, and Scullen at Vauxhall Gardens had also made mention of him.
Grant rode up the rutted track and stopped before a neat thatched dwelling with green shutters, and well-ordered farm buildings, beyond which were fields of crops. A woman answered his knock on the yellow-painted door. Her dark hair was dressed in an untidy bun, and she wore an apron over her gray dress. A chubby baby, his face smeared with food, sat on her hip. Another tow-haired child peeped out from behind her skirts.
Her surprised hazel eyes roamed over his multi-caped traveling coat, glossy boots, and then the blue curricle and restive gray horses on the drive. “Can I help you sir?”
“Lord Northcliffe, Mrs. Melford. I hope to have a word with your husband. Is he at home?”
“Melford is out in the barn. Please come in. I’ll send the maid to fetch him.” She put up a floury hand to wipe away the wisps of hair on her brow. “May I offer you something to eat and drink, milord?”
Grant smiled. “Thank you, no. I’ve just partaken of an excellent nuncheon at the King’s Head.” He donned his hat. “Please don’t disturb your maid, judging by the delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen you are busy baking. I’ll find my own way to the barn.”
She widened her eyes, unable to hide her curiosity. “Well, if you’re sure.”
“I am. Thank you.”
Grant paused outside the barn watching Melford, a big, fair-haired man somewhere in his thirties, whose muscles rippled along his back beneath his thin shirt as he shoveled horse manure into a barrow, the steamy pungent aroma rising into the air. When he noticed Grant, he rested his hands on the handle of the spade and frowned warily at him. “Can I help you, sir?”
Grant wouldn’t care to get on the wrong side of him. There was a quiet determination in his blue eyes, and he sensed Melford would be able to handle himself well, with or without a gun. He quickly explained about the contest and mentioned Scullen as the one who’d given him his name.
“Scullen, eh? Long time since I’ve seen that miscreant.” A smile tugged at Melford’s mouth, as if remembering old comrades, and a spark of interest brightened his eyes. “I could certainly use the money, milord. Still have the Baker.” He turned and disappeared into the shadowy interior of the barn. Grant waited, his hand resting on the pistol in his greatcoat pocket. A moment later, Melford emerged carrying the gun, held loosely in one hand.
After Melford handed him the rifle, Grant ran his hands along the muzzle examining the identifiable rounded lock with goose-necked cock. “You keep it in good condition.” It was in superb shape, polished and oiled by a reverent hand.
“I do, but I’m not the shot I was. Damned rusty, to be honest. Don’t get much time for leisure. And I don’t use it for hunting.” Melford smiled broadly, showing white, even teeth. “Ever shot a Baker, milord?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Fancy a try?”
Grant liked the feel of the gun in his hands. “That I would.”
Melford came back with a pouch containing ball and powder horn. He held the gun with his knees, pushing the ball down into the barrel with the ramrod, then tapped in the powder with the horn. He closed the valve and handed the rifle to Grant. Then he snatched up a small chunk of wood from the chopping block by the barn and strode over to the fence some yards away. He placed the wood upon the top of a post and returned.
“That’s too close. Let’s make it a real test.” Grant pointed. “What about on that far post?”
Melford grinned and went to replace the block of wood another forty yards farther on.
“You’ll have to be a good shot to hit that, milord,” he said walking back to him.
Grant set the gun at full cock, settled it against his shoulder, gazed along the barrel, held his breath, and gently squeezed the trigger. He felt the kick as the wood burst into shards.
“I say, milord! You’ll be winning your own contest, I avow!”
“I shan’t take part in it,” Grant said with a laugh. He was so caught up in the ruse the idea had begun to appeal to him.
“I’d love to be in it, but the wife would not be at all pleased, should I go off for days and leave the farm in her hands.”
