Page 7 of Mercy Fletcher Meets Her Match
“And he was right to do so,” Thomas said, in that crisp, faintly censorious tone he so often inflicted upon her. Haughty, in a way a man scarcely had the right to be. Supercilious, as if he considered chastisement an essential part of educating her. “An unmarried woman of your age requires a chaperone. Your fatherwishes you to take part in the social Season.”
“I’m certain that was a misunderstanding,” Mercy ground out. “And I haven’t anything suitable to wear, besides.”
“Ah,” Marina said, understanding dawning in her blue eyes. “The trunk. I had wondered.”
“What do you mean?” Thomas inquired.
“Well, there’s just the one,” Marina said. “You could hardly expect Mercy to fit a whole wardrobe in a single trunk, Thomas. I daresay we packed more trunks, and that’s just the simple things—hats, stockings, stays, and such.”
“Whathaveyou brought, then?” Thomas inquired, his head veering back toward her.
Taken aback, Mercy pressed her spine to the seat. “Practical things. Day dresses and such.” Nondescript and bland, the sort fashioned for purpose, not frivolity. The sort of garment that would not draw much notice. “I don’t think I even own a proper gown that isn’t years out of style.”
“That will have to be rectified,” Thomas said. “You can hardly be expected to attend a ball in a day dress.”
She could hardly be expected to attend a ball atall. It wasn’t what she had come to London for. She opened her mouth to argue—
“Mother will no doubt be delighted to take you to the modiste to requisition a suitable wardrobe,” Thomas added.
“Oh, of course.” The baroness reached across the carriage to place one gloved hand over her own. “I do so love choosing new gowns. We’ll have a grand time of it, all of us girls.”
Mercy managed, through sheer dint of will, to produce a smile that she was fairly certain would at least paint a passing approximation of sincerity. It really would not have been fair of her to give the sharp side of her tongue to the baroness, who had always been so very kind to her.
Especially not when it was Thomas who deserved the wholeof it.
“Thank you, my lady,” Mercy said, almost sweetly. “You’re too kind.”
Thomas produced some scathing sort of sound at the back of his throat, coarse and inelegant, as if he had sensed the sour irritation lingering beneath the contrived saccharinity of her voice. That cold, disinterested gaze flicked over her head to toe in an instant, and the faint curl of his lip suggested a wholesale disapproval of her attire. “I’ll remind you, Miss Fletcher,” he said. “We do dressfor dinner.”
Mercy widened her eyes in mock innocence. “Had you expected me to arrive at the table naked?”
Juliet and Marina tittered. The baroness coughed into her fist, though a small smile tugged at the very corners of her lips.
And Thomas, naturally, glowered.
∞∞∞
Thomas adjusted his spectacles upon his nose, which availed him precisely nothing as the earpiece was still crooked, and stared at the gentleman seated across from him in Mr. Fletcher’s study. “I’m sorry. Did you say—”
“Carte blanche,” the man—Mr. Sumner, Fletcher’s man of business within London, who had come to call upon him only an hour or so after they had arrived—repeated, though he had the good grace to look a bit abashed about it. “Mr. Fletcher’s words, you understand.”
“I see.” The phrasing might have been indelicate, given that they made a body feel rather like a mistress given free rein to spend of her protector’s funds as she would, but he supposedthat they were just as apt. And necessary. “So if I were to ask you for the sum of five hundred pounds immediately…”
“I would, of course, issue a bank draft.” Mr. Sumner said. “Mr. Fletcher was very clear in his instructions, my lord. Perhaps somewhat less genteel than one might expect, but clear nonetheless. If Miss Fletcher requires anything—or, indeed, if you or your family require anything—I have been instructed to make the necessary arrangements.”
There was no measure of judgment or recrimination within the man’s steady voice, and yet the back of Thomas’ neck burned with mortification regardless. “There are…a few outstanding bills that must be paid,” he said. “I trust that won’t be a problem?”
Mr. Sumner did not so much as blink at the careful phrasing. “In the drawer at your right, you will find fresh paper and ink,” he said. “If you would be so good as to write out a list of outstanding debts to be paid, I will see them attended to at once. I will also provide you with a list of shops at which Mr. Fletcher keeps accounts open, for simplicity’s sake.”
Thomas felt his jaw unclench just slightly. “That would be ideal,” he said as he busied himself laying out a sheet of paper, and collected a pen and an inkwell to draw up the list Sumner had requested. “Although my sisters may favor different shops than those at which Mr. Fletcher has accounts.” It was odd to be pawing through another man’s desk. Like a violation of privacy. Though he doubted Mr. Fletcher kept anything particularly sensitive within it, still he felt uncomfortably like a pretender, an intruder.
“That won’t present a problem,” Mr. Sumner said as he rifled through the folio he’d brought with him and withdrew a sheet of paper, upon which the names and addresses of a great number of shops were neatly printed. “Simply have the bills sent round to me, and I will see that they are promptly paid.” He coughedinto his cupped hand. “I have been informed, my lord, that your man of business has taken an impromptu holiday.”
Hell. Fletcher had been a littletoothorough in his explanation. Thomas’ grip tightened upon the pen in his hand until his knuckles turned white. “Th—th—that—” Damn. Once again, his tongue felt thick—tied—in his mouth, his throat tight and lodged with some obstruction he could not force the words through.Calm down. The man had clearly meant no offense.
Mr. Sumner pressed onward, oblivious to Thomas’ struggle. “At the risk of sounding presumptuous, might I offer my services until the conclusion of the Season?”
Taken aback, Thomas blinked. His tongue untied itself. That damned tightness of his throat dissolved. “I beg your pardon?”
