Mercy detected a note of regret in his voice with a pull of sympathy. To be spurned in love must be the most dreadful thing in the world. She liked him and sought to cheer him. He moved well for a big man, his large feet managing to evade hers. “You are an excellent dancer, Lord Gunn.”
“It helps that ye are as light as a sprite. We might dance again this evening, if your dance card isn’t full, which I suspect it will be.”
She smiled. Her father had joined her mother, and if his expression was anything to go by, such an event was most unlikely.
When Gunn turned her, Mercy spied the tall man with the smoldering intensity she’d found so thrilling. Northcliffe wove his way through the crowd gathered around the fringes of the dance floor. A pretty, dark-haired woman in magenta silk, stepped into his path. A moment later, he took the lady’s arm and hurried her out of the French doors onto the terrace, closing the door behind them. Mercy almost shivered as she considered what lay in store for the lady. Somehow, she knew that Northcliffe was nothing like Lord Burleigh, who’d begged Mercy for a kiss on the terrace earlier. Northcliffe would not beg.
Chapter Three
AS SOON AS Grant returned to the ballroom, Alethea had halted his progress, curtseying low before him. He gritted his teeth and shepherded her out through the long windows onto the terrace, sensing by the light in her eyes that she was gearing up to embellish the simmering scandal.
When a footman closed the doors behind them, the volume reduced to a low hum. The air was heavy with the threat of a storm, which seemed appropriate, for Alethea’s mood meant trouble.
She reached up to trail a finger down his chest. “Northcliffe, you never intended marriage, but why can’t we continue as before?”
She neglected to mention the large roadblock to such an occurrence, her dalliance with Lord Fallowbrook while Grant had been out of town.
“It would not do, my dear,” he said. “I thought we’d ended this amicably. What has happened since?”
She gazed down at her hands. “I have suffered some unexpectedly large debts.”
Her intention to snare Lord Fallowbrook must have failed. “Allow me to settle them for you.”
Her big eyes widened. “You would do that?”
“Certainly. But this will be the last of them, and I want a promise from you that you’ll behave discreetly concerning our past liaison, Alethea.”
She shook her head with a moue. “You don’t trust me.”
“You make that difficult.”
When Grant returned to the ballroom a grueling half hour later, he boiled with anger. But the anger was directed at himself rather than Alethea, who after all, with her love of drama, only behaved as she always did. Why did he get involved with the widow? He knew the answer to that, but it did him no credit. He felt jaded and looked forward to a respite from London, with its tarnished beauty, deceptions, and temptations. His father was staying at his family’s country seat, Thornhill, with his grandfather. The sad news would have reached them. Grant could do little to ease the suffering of Nat’s widow, Jenny, and their four children, but he welcomed the chance to find the murderer.
Grant glanced over to where Gunn escorted Lady Mercy from the dance floor. Again, her fresh beauty struck him. A desire to draw near seized him, as if all the sadness of Nat’s violent death could be eased for a brief time by a pair of blue eyes unclouded by deception. Locating Black where he stood in conversation with his contemporaries, Grant walked over to him. He drew the colonel aside. “There’s something you can do for me, if you will.”
Black nodded. “If I can.”
“You are well acquainted with Lord Baxendale; I believe?”
“I am.”
“I’d like an introduction to his daughter, Lady Mercy.”
A smiled tugged at Black’s mouth. “I’d be happy to. But I confess I’m surprised to find you need my help with that.”
Grant winced. “I am slightlyde tropin polite circles.”
Black laughed. “Then I’ll be delighted.”
As they walked in the direction of the Baxendale family, a disturbance erupted in the crowd.
Black elbowed his way through with Grant following.
“Miss Fury fainted,” a matron gushed, madly fanning the young fair-haired woman on the floor with her ivory fan.
A man pushed his way through those crowded around her. He knelt beside her. “Catherine, are you all right?”
“Yes, Ambrose.” She put her hand to her forehead. “It’s just that…” Her eyes were huge in her white face. “Can you take me home?”
