It wasn’t a plan of any particular elegance, Mercy supposed. But then, elegance was not strictly necessary when simplicity would serve just as well. She had been spinning it in her head all last evening, her busy brain working at double speed well past the time she ought to have been asleep.Thisengagement would not slip her mind.
It would not be the first time she had sneaked out of the house. It wouldn’t even be the hundredth. True, most of those had been in the countryside, where there was little risk of being observed—but she had already learned that the trellis could support her weight without too much creaking if she moved slowly and carefully. She had learned that neither of the neighbors had windows well-positioned enough to see into the garden. And she had learned that the darkness was as good as a thick cloak.
She knew Thomas would be headed to Cheapside, and that he would have to wait for the carriage to return for him once the baroness and his sisters had been delivered to their evening engagement. There would be a small window—a few, crucial minutes—where the carriage would be unattended whilst the driver fetched him from the house. If she timed her climb correctly, she could descend from the window, slip unnoticed into the carriage, tuck herself away within the blanket boxhidden beneath the seat, and be delivered straight to Cheapside alongside him with Thomas none the wiser.
None the wiser, at least, until they’d arrived.
Probably he’d have words for her. Harsh ones, no doubt. A lecture unlike any she had ever received from him before, and she promised herself she would make an effort to pay attention to it. She could bear a lecture, provided it was too late to send her home again. And even if it was not her intention to heed it, she could do him the courtesy of listening—provided he did not then send her home straightaway.
The first sprinklings of the very seeds of an idea were planted first in the morning, as Mercy waited out the minutes until ten o’clock had come and gone. Though she had risen some hours earlier, she had constrained herself to her bed chamber, entertaining herself with blocking out several new patterns within the pages of her sketchbook until at last she heard footsteps in the hall.
The maid who delivered her breakfast tray seemed startled to find her still abed, still in her nightclothes. “Is everything all right, miss?” she inquired as she set the tray upon the nightstand.
Mercy affected a weak cough. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. Although…” She gave a tiny, sheepish shrug. “Might I trouble you for some honey? I’ve a bit of a tickle in my throat.”
“A tickle?”
“Nothing to worry over,” Mercy declared. “I’ll be right as rain by noon.”
Though, of course, she hadn’t. Or she had, for she had never been unwell. But word had spread throughout the household, and by luncheon she had received visits from the baroness, and from Marina and Juliet, who had clucked over her and instructed her to rest and recover from her unfortunate—imaginary—affliction.
Thomas, she was certain, would know nothing of it. He’d left the house even before breakfast had concluded, and rarely made it back in time for dinner. So long as she feigned sleep and skipped dinner herself, there was no risk of him crossing paths with a servant carrying a tray that might give rise to any suspicion.
The guttural protests of her stomach were a small cross to bear, really, as she curled beneath the covers and listened to the distant sounds of harried preparations for the evening’s entertainment. There was the stamp of feet upon the stairs and the gay chatter as the girls made themselves ready. It had become a comfortable sort of pandemonium, she thought. Even if she would not miss the Season itself, she would miss this when it ended—the flurry of activity, the friendly fussing, the laughter and the shrieking and all that went with such a full household.
At long last there was a lull, then the soft pad of footsteps down the hall toward her room.
The whisk of the door opening. A soft whisper: “Mercy?”
Juliet, she thought.
“She’s resting, dearest, don’t disturb her,” the baroness chided softly, even as she disobeyed her own order and crossed the floor to perch at the very edge of Mercy’s bed. Gentle fingers fished beneath the tangle of covers which Mercy had thrown over her head to stroke her hair. “Sleep well, my dear,” she said in a soft, maternal voice as she smoothed her fingertips along Mercy’s forehead as if searching for hints of fever.
“How is she, Mama?” Marina asked.
The baroness rose from the bed with a final fond stroke of her fingers through Mercy’s hair. “No fever,” she said in a whisper. “Likely only a minor cold. We’ll look in once more when we’ve returned and summon a doctor tomorrow if she has not improved. Out with you now, girls, or we’ll be terribly late.”
Mercy held her breath as they swept out of the room onceagain, and released it as the door closed behind them and the sounds of footsteps receded into the distant thump upon stairs as they descended to the lower levels.
She waited, in the dark, in the increasing silence. Finally the last vestiges of the noise faded, until the household settled once more, deprived of its usual occupants. And then, long minutes later, she cast back the covers, threw off her nightgown, fished an old, nondescript dress from the depths of her wardrobe, and began to dress for a night on the town.
∞∞∞
Thomas had missed dinner again. He ought to have grown accustomed to it by now, but a body didweary of wedges of cheese and hunks of bread leftover from the morning meal. Not that he had time for much more than that, given that he expected the carriage to return for him shortly for another long evening spent waiting at the same damned tavern in the faint hope that Fordham would show himself.
Exhaustion hung heavily upon his shoulders as he traded his embroidered waistcoat for something plainer, his dark blue superfine coat for common wool. He’d still look a bit too fine for a bloke that might frequent a tavern as many evenings as he had already, but certainly he’d catch less attention than he would otherwise.
His formal attire had already been laid out for him, awaiting his return later in the evening. The one bright spot within it all, he thought, as he shrugged into the unremarkable coat he’d selected for this evening’s vigil. When he returned, despite the fact that he’d have to endure another change of clothing, he’d seeMercy once more.
Tell her what, if anything, he’d learned from this evening’s watch. Share with her those record she had suggested he request, and see if she could make more sense of them than he had been able to do thus far.
Dance with her. Play billiards. Enjoy the comfort of her company, the cut of her wit, the brilliant flash of those smiles which she had lately begun to bestow upon him. How swiftly those things had become the brightest part of his days, the most treasured respite from the worry and anxiety which had lately consumed him.
How swiftlyshehad become the brightest part of his days.
His fingers paused over the buttons of his coat as a sound—a small, but distinct thump—echoed down the hallway and through his open door. Odd. The household had largely settled for the night, or so he had thought, as he left his room and headed for the stairs. But the sound continued to plague him on his journey down the flights, nagging at his memory. Reminiscent of—of something he could not quite call to mind.
The coachman was waiting in the foyer when he made it down, and with a tip of his cap he inquired, “Cheapside again this evening, my lord?”
