Chapter Seventeen

If Mercy had had any concerns that their barouche would not attract sufficient attention, she was quickly disabused of the notion. Indeed, it took them a whole hour and a half to arrive at the entrance to Kensington Gardens. Initially, most people's eyes slid on and off her betrothed – clearly, they were macabrely intrigued but entirely discomfited to display such a bourgeois reaction. In the end, Nate himself took to referring directly to his disfigurement, making the inevitable Beauty and the Beast jest and scandalously declaring that not only did he have a good heart and generous spirit, but many other attributes that might fascinate a young woman of discerning taste. In the end, Mercy thought that if she never heard another titter in her life, it would be too soon.

That they'd achieved what they'd set out to do was without question - their betrothal would undoubtedly be society'smain topic for weeks to come - which meant that Reinhardt couldn't fail to hear about it.

And while Mercy found herself feeling somewhat vulnerable and exposed as she climbed down from the carriage to greet her aunts and cousins, she also felt a good deal of female satisfaction that such an intriguing man actually belonged to her.

Ten minutes later, she was back to gritting her teeth. Had Roseanna and Francesca always been so witty and attractive? And why hadn't she noticed that Lilyanna's ebony curls owed nothing to artifice? Her own hair might well be the same colour, but that was where the similarity ended. In truth, without curling irons, her own tresses resembled a horse's tail.

And as for stealing a kiss – there would be more chance of her becoming the next queen of England.

Any minute now she'd be stamping her foot in temper…

This wouldn't do. Mercy took a deep breath as she watched Nate courteously hand her Aunt Hope a glass of lemonade obtained from a vendor at the entrance to the gardens. Since when had she become such a crosspatch? Calling a spade a spade was one thing, but wanting to hit someone over the head with one…

While her betrothed handed refreshments to all their company, Mercy made a concerted effort to quash her peevishness. When he was finished, she stepped forward and determinedly tucked her arm in his. He looked down at her enquiringly and she didn't know whether to be happy or sad that he was already picking up on her moods. In the end she offered a tentative smile and sipped at the lemonade she held in her free hand.

‘Do you think he's here now, watching us?' Hope couldn't completely hide her anxiety as they finished their refreshments.

‘I doubt very much he would risk showing himself,' Nate responded firmly. ‘While I didn't actually see him at the inn, he doesn't know that. My guess is that he will stay hidden in the shadows until such time as he can make his move.'

‘We're certainly grateful for your protection my lord,' Francesca commented coquettishly, sending all Mercy's good intentions sailing away in the wind.

‘I'm entirely certain if we stay together, we are in no danger,' Chastity declared firmly.

‘If he's bottle-headed enough to try and snatch Mercy in the presence of so many witnesses, then he's certainly not the threat we're imagining him to be.' As always Temperance's comments were succinct and to the point. ‘That he has someone watching us, I've no doubt. So, we must need goad him to the point where he will do something foolish.' She proved her point by laughing gaily and saying in a loud voice, ‘Lord Carlingford, you are incorrigible. I swear I'm awaiting your marriage to my niece with as much trepidation as anticipation. Has the date for the nuptials been set yet?'

After giving her a level look, Nate played along. ‘Alas, it's out of my hands.' He gave an adoring look down towards Mercy, causing her to blush, even though she knew it was for their possible audience. ‘I cannot wait to make Mercedes my bride and it's my dearest hope that her father won't insist that we wait until the end of the season to make it official.' He looked enquiringly over at Chastity, who took up the challenge.

‘I have already spoken with my lord husband,' she trilled, ‘and begged him not to stand in the way of such obvious affection. It's my fervent hope he'll give his blessing for the wedding to take place before the middle of June.'

Squeals and hugs all round completed the charade and if Mercy was heard to mutter, ‘And if he believes that bag of moonshine, he'll believe anything,' then it was only by those in the very immediate vicinity.

***

‘So, exactly what are we looking for, Sir?' Percy shouted as they stared in awe at the multitude of quays and jetties stretching as far as the eye could see. In between were warehouses and sheds, and beyond, line after line of vast leviathans, their masts and riggings visible even over the top of the warehouses.

As they hovered at the entrance to the nearest quay, Finn stared at the closest ship in awestruck silence as a sailor climbed up the rigging like a monkey to hang fearlessly over the deck, so far below. The cacophony of noise around them was so loud it was difficult to hold a conversation. Food vendors were hawking everything from oysters to hot cross buns and only swift footedness stopped them being run over by carts piled high with unloaded goods. Groups of sailors, clearly heading for the nearest pub or brothel, laughed and jostled one another, their language so ripe, Percy was tempted to cover Finn's ears.

‘And this is the smaller dock,' Reverend Shackleford murmured, uncharacteristically intimidated.

"Miss Prudence was right, Sir. It will take us all day and night to explore every establishment, and in truth, I wouldn't wish to be here when it begins to get dark.'

The Reverend looked at his curate in irritation. ‘Tare an' hounds, Percy, I've had custards with more spine than you. We can't just give up at the first hurdle.'

‘So where do you suggest we start then?' the small man answered, taking no offence at the Reverend's blunt assessment of his character. Since reading The Illustrated Art To Manliness, a few years earlier, Percy was much more sanguine when it came to his superior's slights, finding the simple repeating of, ‘ The path to inner peace is by ignoring mutton heads,' under his breath whilst stroking his right ear was often enough to subdue the urge to hit the Reverend over the head with the nearest Bible.

Augustus Shackleford picked up Flossy and turned in a slow circle. ‘What about that pub over there?' He pointed to a large establishment about fifty yards away. Predictably it was named the Ship in Dock . Percy eyed it critically - it appeared in quite good repair, and its position would likely mean it saw plenty of trade. Hopefully, they'd find something useful. Calling Finn to him, he followed the Reverend towards the entrance, trying hard to quash the ever-present sense of imminent doom that generally accompanied any outing with the Reverend.

***

Mercy was uncharacteristically silent on the journey back to the town house, so much so that Chastity looked at her in concern. As the barouche finally stopped outside, she wondered if she should invite the Viscount in for refreshment, or whether her stepdaughter would perhaps prefer to be alone with her thoughts.

In the event, Mercedes herself declared – quite forcefully, it had to be said - that she believed some tea would finish off a splendid afternoon and would his lordship do her the honour of sitting for a while in the garden.

If Nate was surprised at her offer, he didn't show it. Merely inclined his head with a smile and replied that he'd be delighted.

Chastity however, had alarm bells ringing in her head loud enough to rival those at St. Mary Le Bow, especially when Mercy suggested solicitously that since it was merely the garden, there was surely no necessity for a chaperone.

As Chastity hovered uncertainly at the bottom of the stairs, Mercy played her trump card. ‘Stepmama, why don't you take this opportunity to rest for a while? The twins will undoubtedly be back with Miss Horsham very soon.'

Her words served a dual purpose. Firstly, the thought of the twins rampaging through the house was enough to want to make anyone want to lie down while the going was good, and secondly knowing the twins would be rampaging through the house shortly would undoubtedly put her stepmother's mind at rest at the thought of leaving her and Nate alone together.

In truth, it simply told Mercy there was no time to waste…

A few minutes later she and Nate were seated on a bench in a nicely secluded arbour redolent with the scent of honeysuckle. While they were waiting for the tea to be delivered, Mercy smoothed her hair, then smoothed her dress, then smoothed her gloves. Then she eyed the back of the house anxiously, wondering whether they could be seen from any of the windows.

‘Are you feeling out of sorts, my lady?' Nate's enquiry came as quite a shock. For a few seconds she'd forgotten he was there. She fought the urge to laugh. Here she was, so engaged in plucking up the courage to kiss him that she'd actually forgotten his presence.

She gave a small cough and smoothed her dress again. ‘No indeed, my lord… I was merely…' she paused observing with relief the arrival of a footman with their tea. Nodding to him in thanks, Mercy wondered almost hysterically if her intention was showing on her face – did she look wanton perchance? What did wanton actually look like? Was he even now running to tattle to Mrs. Lovell?

‘Would you like me to pour?' Mercy swallowed, casting a sideways glance at the Viscount who was regarding her with concern. It was hardly surprising since she was behaving like a complete goosecap. Knowing it was now or never, she shifted abruptly to face him, her heart slamming against her ribs. She licked her lips, then before she had the chance to change her mind, threw herself forward, and flung her hands around his neck, pressing her lips against his.

Unfortunately, her attempted seduction didn't quite have the effect she was hoping for. Indeed, her tackle was so vigorous, she caught a brief panic-stricken expression on his face just before he toppled backwards off the bench, taking her with him.

Mercy barely had time to utter a small scream before they landed with a thud directly behind the bench, wedged in as tightly as pilchards in a barrel.

***

Before entering the pub, Reverend Shackleford turned towards his curate with a couple of last-minute instructions. ‘Now remember, Percy if things get nasty, just threaten to excommunicate the varmints.'

‘We're not Catholics, Sir, we don't have the authority.'

‘I doubt they'll know the difference. I should think the last time any of these varlets went to church was likely in leading strings and the next time'll be in a deuced box.' Tucking Flossy under his arm, he pushed open the door.

The inside of the pub was dim and pungent with the smell of tallow from the few candles high up on the walls. The Reverend waited for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust, then he stepped forward and looked round.

Despite the early evening rowdiness outside, the pub was actually relatively quiet. There were quite a few patrons, though nowhere near as many as one might expect for early evening. Those that were seated were clearly high-ranking ship's officers and nearly all were eating alone and minding their own business.

The Reverend's heart sank. It was the kind of place that fleeced a man of half his belongings for a bit of dried-up steak that may or may not have come from something dead. They should have investigated a little further rather than picking on the first place they spied. He was unlikely to glean anything useful from such a pretentious establishment.

‘Can I get you anything, Father?' Flossy gave a low growl in the Reverend's arms.

The Reverend jumped. ‘Certainly, my good man,' he responded jovially after pulling himself together. In truth, he may have done it a little too brown since his voice was so cheery, Finn was looking at him in astonishment, muttering, ‘be the Revren some ither bodie?'

‘My companion and I would like two tankards of your best ale.' The Reverend smiled genially, hoping he actually had enough coin on him to pay. He felt a trickle of sweat down his back. None of the other patrons looked up. It was nothing at all like the Red Lion back in Blackmore and he felt a sudden jolt of homesickness.

Meanwhile, Flossy was making no bones about her opinion of the man behind the bar and was now busy barring her teeth. Turning to Finn, the Reverend hurriedly handed over the little dog and directed the lad to a secluded corner before dragging Percy towards the bar.

Once there, he waited until the first tankard had been filled before giving a small self-conscious cough and saying pleasantly, ‘You must be very accustomed to visitors from all corners of the globe here.' The barman looked up at him for a second without speaking and the Reverend added a hasty, ‘my son,' in the hope of reminding the man he was speaking to a man of the cloth.

In the end, the barman nodded, sliding the tankard towards Percy. ‘We're an exclusive establishment here, Reverend…' he let his sentence trail off, clearly waiting for a little more information.

‘Sinclair,' the Reverend responded graciously, endeavouring to give the impression that in addition to being God's representative, he was also a man of the world. ‘And this is my curate Percival.' Finally getting into his stride, he finished by giving a slightly condescending inclination of his head – just enough to give the impression he was someone the barman would be unwise to offend.

‘Naturally we have visitors from overseas,' the barman responded carefully, sliding the second tankard across.

‘Dae ye hae any pickled eggs?' Finn shouted hopefully from the corner. The boy had recently been introduced to the snack and pronounced his life changed forever. The Reverend gritted his teeth.

‘Do you get many passengers coming from the Americas?'

The barman eyed him narrowly. ‘Why do you want to know?'

‘I have a cousin in Boston,' the Reverend answered without missing a beat. ‘I received a missive from him yesterday informing me he was about to embark on a ship to London. Unfortunately, the letter is two months old, and I've no idea which ship he was sailing on.'

‘We don't get many here from the West,' the barman answered, giving the bar a cursory mop with a rag that despite his claims to be an upmarket establishment, looked as though he'd found it in the gutter. ‘They mostly come from the other way.' He nodded his head towards his approximation of what constituted East.

For a second the Reverend thought he wouldn't say anything else, until he added, ‘If it's the Americas you're interested in, you'll need to ask at the Sail Loft . It's a lodging house over in the Tobacco Dock'