Page 34 of Mercy Fletcher Meets Her Match
“No.” It was offered testily, as if he had not cared for the admission. And he held out his hand to her.
But she was going to accept nonetheless. “Why, then?” she asked as she set her hand in his.
“Hell if I can say.” His fingers closed around hers, and he led her back out onto the floor just as the first strains of a waltz drifted through the air. “Why are you writing to your father?” he asked as he swept her into a turn.
So he had been eavesdropping, then. Curious. “Mr. Earnshaw does a good deal of business in America,” she said. “He has got a mill of his own outside of Boston. We haven’t got any particular business interests in America as of yet, and while we have exported some fabrics, it is often cost-prohibitive to do so. That is, it’s far more profitable to keep the fabrics in the country, where so much of the profit isn’t eaten up by export taxes and the costs associated with shipping.” She stifled a laugh at the flicker of confusion that flitted across Thomas’ face.
“So what is he proposing, then?” he asked.
“A partnership of sorts,” she said. “He’d like to produce some of our best-selling patterns locally, rather than importing the fabric whole. He would purchase the right to use our patterns—say, at a set cost per bolt—and then produce the fabric himself, according to our standards.” Another turn. Mercy had counted Mr. Earnshaw a fine dancer, but it had not occurred to her until now that Thomas was better still. Which did not precisely surprise, when she considered that she had never known him to be anything less than exemplary at any given endeavor. It was quite an annoying habit he had, really, of being so bloody perfect at everything.
But then, she had never seen him dance with anyone else. He had to be close to thirty, now, plenty old enough to have taken a wife. Plenty old enough, at least, to have danced with a fair few women.
“He is using you, then,” Thomas said, and the space between his brows pleated into a frown. “For your business.”
“For Father’s business, at least,” she said. “He requested I write to Father on his behalf. I was happy to oblige.”
“You should not have done. It was an utterly inappropriate thing for him to have suggested. Offensive, even, that he would seek to—”
Mercy tipped back her head and laughed, thoroughly amused by the consternation scrawled across his face, as ifhehad been personally offended by the thought of it. “Thomas, has it not occurred to you that I am also using him? It is the way of business. Men make such deals between them all the time. Frankly, I was flattered he thought to solicit my opinion. I would not have agreed to write to Father had I thought it a poor proposal.” Had he flinched at the word proposal? Strange. “It is rather hypocritical of you to criticize it,” she added.
“How so?”
“Is not a marriage also a business proposition, the majority of the time? Women wed for position and social standing; men for money and power. The whole of the Season is designed for one half of theTonto offer up their assets to the other, trading up as far as they might. It’s every bit as cold-blooded as business, you know. But at least a business proposal is sealed with an honest contract rather than holy vows before God which neither party intends to keep.”
That frown deepened, and she thought she ratherhadoffended him this time. “I would keep my vows,” he said. “Were I so inclined to make them.”
He sounded so affronted that Mercy pursed her lips against another laugh. “Well, then, you’d be a rarity, I expect.”
“When did you become such a cynic?”
“Oh, years and years ago,” she said, as the waltz came to any end at last. But the final thrumming chords of the music had not quite disguised the wistfulness she had been unable to exorcise from her voice.
Chapter Thirteen
Mercy swept through the front door, sighing with relief to be home at last and away from the stifling heat of the ballroom. Her fingers itched to pull the pins from her hair, to release the strain of the heavy locks from their perfect coil atop her head as she headed for the stairs.
Thomas had paused in the foyer, yanking at his cravat. “Billiards this evening?” he asked as he pulled the fabric from around his neck and stuffed the now-rumpled linen into the depths of his pocket.
“I suppose,” she tossed over her shoulder as she paused upon the landing. “So long as you’re of a mind to be beaten.”
A queer sort of half-smile touched the corner of his mouth as he braced one hand upon the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “I will beat you one of these days, you know,” he said, adjusting his slightly-crooked spectacles upon the bridge of his nose.
Probably. But she would lay a wager on it not being tonight. “All right, then,” she said, as she turned once more to proceed up the stairs. And paused again just at the top, where a fluttering scrap of paper which had been affixed with a bit of string to the newel post at the top of the stairs attracted her attention.
Shoes, read the word scrawled across it in strong, masculine handwriting.
The faint creak of the staircase behind her told her that Thomas had followed her up and stopped just behind her—just waiting. Beneath her skirts, Mercy scrunched her toes, feeling only the fabric of her stockings upon them. She’d discarded her slippers already when she had stopped upon the landing, and hadn’t even noticed.
But Thomas had. A dozen times before already, he must have noticed her shoes discarded there, and had left her a note as a reminder.
Still, there was a sort of instinctual embarrassment about it. Her cheeks felt flushed as she turned. “I’m sorry, I—”
Thomas dangled her discarded slippers before her and pressed them into her hands. “Don’t be sorry. We are just discovering what works for you,” he said.
Her fingers tangled in the ribbons of her slippers. “I’ll forget them again,” she said. And again—and again.
“Yes. And the note will be there still, and you’ll remember again.”
