Mercy couldn’t imagine what they might be. The life of a duchess was just plain dull, especially now that Blythe had lost her sense of fun. She had once been Mercy’s best friend, a trusted companion she could tell her deepest, most scandalous secrets to. But that was before Mercy had married, and learned there were some matters she couldn’t discuss with anyone. Since becoming a widow, Blythe’s manner had grown so stiff with propriety that Mercy feared she never could confide in her again.
She slapped her hands onto the arms of her chair as a marvelous idea came to her. “The book.” Mercy dashed from the room, leaving her no doubt disapproving sister to trail along at a proper snail’s pace. The book was her savior. The book was a secret. At least, from the past Dukes of Romsey, that was.
When she’d first married Edwin, he’d given her a gift belonging to his late mother. At the time she’d smiled, accepted the unexceptional duchess’ jewel case from a woman long dead, and ignored it. But on a day when the wind blew heavy with rain, and boredom had led her to play with the pretty baubles she’d inherited, she uncovered a secret compartment.
The journal, a diary begun by her predecessors, contained the sort of gossip that the dukes always tried to hide; who they had wronged.
Mercy found the goings on in the family she’d married into fascinatingly evil.
So far, she’d added nothing to it. Her late husband, given his fragile state of health, had been somewhat of a recluse. But the book might tell her of the falling out prior to her marriage.
She hurried to her chamber, pulling her keys from her pocket as she went. With one quick turn of the lock, she retrieved the book and sank into a deep chair beside the window. She flicked through pages, eagerly searching for the last duchess’ remembrances until Blythe arrived. “Nothing yet.”
Since Blythe disapproved of the book, Mercy ignored her gasp.
“Mercy, please put the book down and come with me.”
Mercy tapped the page. No, this was the wrong duchess. She flicked the pages in rapid succession until she found a more likely date. I suspect my husband disapproves of his cousin’s wife not because she is so comely but because she has birthed yet another son while I have but one. Hmm, could that be the reason for the fall out? The production of heirs was of paramount importance to every great family. Not everyone wanted their cousin to inherit. She knew from her sister’s experience that seemingly healthy children didn’t always live to adulthood. Had fear been the reason for discord?
“Mercy!”
Oh, could Blythe ever be quiet when she was in one of her scolding moods? Perhaps enough time had passed for her sister to put her grieving aside. Really, Blythe should be listening to her, not the other way round. With every intention of putting her younger—and lower ranked—sister in her place, Mercy stood and crossed to her. But Blythe’s pale complexion stilled the cutting retort she wanted to utter. Her sister appeared about to cast up her accounts.
“My dear, are you all right?”
Blythe shook her head and took a step back. When her arm rose to point at the bed, Mercy turned to see what she stared at. Atop her bed, blood spattered in a wide ark on her favorite comforter, sat a poor dead rabbit. Mercy gagged and rushed for the chamber pot.
Once she had retched until her sides ached, Mercy returned to find her sister—though still pale—examining the poor dead creature. Mercy thought she might be sick again. “Blythe, come away from that.”
To Mercy’s horror, Blythe’s hand reached out as if to touch the pelt. Mercy grasped her sister’s arm and dragged her out into the corridor.
Blythe blinked as if dazed, and then her features hardened. “This has to stop.”
Mercy ran her hands up and down her arms to try to bring warmth back into her body. She did not know how to stop these special gifts being left upon her doorstep, her chair, and now it appeared on the very bed she slept in. It was as if someone was sending her a warning, although she had no notion of what message these gruesome gifts were meant to convey. As far as she knew, she had no enemies.
“I’ll call Wilcox to take the mess away,” Blythe said.
Mercy swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. “Thank you, Blythe,” she whispered.
When Blythe hurried away, Mercy collapsed against the wall. She didn’t understand. She’d done nothing, offended no one. Yet somewhere out there was someone with a very peculiar notion of her needs. She did not need threatening letters delivered with the morning mail. But she could ignore them. It was a little harder to ignore the dead gifts found irregularly about the abbey.
Wilcox and a footman scurried past her and entered her bedchamber. She didn’t watch the grim business of removing the mess, but she listened and heard her butler’s outrage about the oddities of Romsey Abbey.
When he’d handed the mess off to the footman with instructions to burn the lot, Wilcox approached her. “If I might be so bold, Your Grace, I believe it would be prudent to seek family counsel on how to put a stop to these despicable acts.”
Mercy considered his words, but she didn’t know what to do. This matter was slowly escalating beyond her understanding. “You think I should write to my brother for his advice?”
Wilcox shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I thought it prudent to seek Mr. Randall’s assistance. He has returned at a fortuitous time.”
Mercy frowned, thinking the matter through. She didn’t know Mr. Randall well enough to confide in him. Not yet at any rate.
“Why would you think Her Grace should confide in Mr. Randall?” Blythe asked as she rejoined them. “Is it not suspicious that he would return at just such a moment?”
Mercy startled at her sister’s suggestion.
“He would never threaten a woman,” Wilcox blurted out in Randall’s defense, but then his cheeks darkened with embarrassment. He rarely contradicted Blythe, although Mercy had given him leave to speak his mind should he feel strongly about any matter.
Rather than let a servant feel the wrath of her sister’s sharp tongue, Mercy waved Wilcox away. He bowed and moved off.