Grant handed him back the rifle. “Then you never get away?”
“Only to market or the fair.”
Could this seemingly decent man be involved in such a cold-blooded murder? He could take nothing for granted. “Then I shall not tempt you.”
Melford chewed his lip, looking torn. “If I change my mind how could I find you?”
Grant removed his card from an inner pocket which bore his London address. “You can reach me here. But give me a few weeks. I am about to be married.”
“Allow me to offer my congratulations,” Melford said. “I can recommend the state, sir.”
“I see that you would, Melford,” Grant said with a chuckle. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to sample some of Mrs. Melford’s baking.”
The farmer nodded, his look proud. “Mary is a fine cook.”
By four o’clock, Grant had bathed away the travel dust and changed, while his valet repaired the damage to his Hessians caused by country mud. At Portman Place, he threw the reins to a liveried footman. He urged him to take care of his horses which were frisky and danced about, the grays having been given a well-earned rest. Then he entered the Baxendale’s luxurious town home.
When Mercy appeared in a lilac sprigged dress, the brim of her poke bonnet lined with pink silk, the fresh beauty of his soon-to-be wife struck him. He thought of Melford and what a contented fellow he appeared to be. Could that future be his? Or had he been reading too much of Wordsworth’s poetry? He was not some rustic farmer and Mercy would never be a farmer’s wife. She was an earl’s daughter and looked every inch of it. Her gaze when she met his was still mistrustful. And he supposed she was right; there was a lot he couldn’t tell her.
* * *
“You keep horses in London?” Mercy asked, as Northcliffe negotiated the busy thoroughfare on the way to Hyde Park. He looked very smart in the bottle-green tailcoat, gold-and-white striped waistcoat and fawn trousers, his polished boot resting on the footboard, his long fingers relaxed on the reins, a beaver hat covering his dark hair.
“My pair of grays are stabled in Mayfair, but these prime bloods belong to my father. It’s my pleasant duty to exercise them.”
“I’ve never met your father socially. Doesn’t he come to London during the Season?”
“Not often since he suffered a mild bout of the apoplexy. He forgoes parliament on the advice of his doctor. But he still involves himself in Parliament. Writes commentary on bills forThe Gazette. Father’s estate, Summerfield Park, lies only a half-day’s ride from Thornhill, and he spends much of his time with my Grandfather. They are good company for each other, especially as they’re somewhat obsessive about chess.”
“Summerfield Park. That sounds like a charming place.”
“Smaller than Thornhill, but it’s an attractive stone house in a well-ordered park.”
“Why do you prefer us to live with your grandfather?” she asked. “Don’t you get on with your father?”
The smile in his eyes faded. “I do, but I spent more of my childhood with Grandfather. I believe his home is better suited to us, for a while at least.”
She saw the shutters come down over his eyes and sighed. “I look forward to meeting them both.” Would they like her? She certainly hoped so, as they would no doubt spend a good deal of time in each other’s company.
“They are eager to meet you.” He glanced at her as if judging her thoughts.
Reaching the park, he tightened the reins to proceed down the South Carriage Drive, where the traffic slowed now that the hour of the promenade had begun. Northcliffe reined his horses in behind a brown barouche in the row of showy hacks and high-perch phaetons. Two footmen dressed in brown clung to the back of Lord Peterson’s carriage.
“That’s odd, it’s not yet six o’clock,” he said, humor warming his eyes. “Lord Peterson has declared he will never venture outdoors before that hour. And as you can see he is very fond of brown.”
“Then something must have changed his lordship’s mind. Perhaps a lady?” She and Northcliffe shared a smile.
Friends hailed them as the traffic edged forward, slowed by those in carriages conversing with those on foot. Riders cantered down Rotten Row on their thoroughbreds while others ambled along at a trot.
“Northcliffe!” A large gentleman with red hair detached himself from a strolling group. He strode over to their carriage.
“How nice to see you, Lord Gunn.” Mercy held out her gloved hand and it was swallowed up in his big one.
“Lady Mercy, pretty as a picture. Ma felicitations.” He smiled. “Congratulations, Northcliffe. Many gentlemen are pea green that you’ve snared a Baxendale sister. Tried once m’self and failed.”
“I heard you’ve got one foot on the marriage mat yourself,” Northcliffe said.
“I am verra fortunate, indeed. Lady Esmeralda Flaunton has agreed to be ma wife.”
