Betraying Mercy

Can she be more than a mistress?

With a tarnished reputation, Mercy Lyndhurst expected to become the Earl of Rochford’s mistress, not his wife. Immediately abandoned by her husband after their wedding, Mercy transformed herself from commoner to countess, vowing to protect the lands and people her husband was forced to leave.

Over the past six years, William has restored the family fortune all the while tortured by his memories of Mercy…and the dark night he killed a man. When a threat draws him home, William learns just how much has changed—including his wife. While the passion still flares between them, he fears he has wounded her too badly to regain her trust. But as the danger grows they must unite to save the estate…and possibly their marriage.

Betraying Mercy

Amber Lin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For D, because you said so

Many thanks to Malle Vallik, my editor, Leslie Molnar, and everyone at M&B E who supported this book. My fondest thanks to the original critique group, including Kate Meader and Anna Geletka. And special thanks to Tiffany Reisz, who encouraged me to keep going even though the book is so dark. Or maybe because of it.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

England, 1780

Drenched through, William banged the knocker. The heavy door creaked open under his hand. Unease slid through him. Where was everyone? Even old and cantankerous, the butler usually kept his post when William came home. He spared a glance for the flashing sky and then stepped into his home.

Flames flickered in their sconces, throwing shadows on red walls. The door shut behind him with a thud, throwing the hall into eerie silence.

Where was that damn butler? “Gerald?”

Memories rose to the surface, unbidden, of him as a younger man—a boy, really—returning home on a night like this. A very bad night. The similarities meant nothing. England was perpetually damp, and only seemed to get wetter north of Epping Forest. His family seat hadn’t changed in the ten years since his parents’ death, either. Of course everything was the same. But still, wariness unfurled within him.

He lifted his chin like an animal scenting danger.

The heel of William’s boots clacked through the thin rug. “Mr. Beck?”

His annoyance had leveled into a burning resentment in his gut during the rattling coach ride from Cambridge, but it flared again, brighter now. Of all people, his steward should have greeted him. He had no excuse after sending what could only be described as a summons. A very strange, very unwelcome summons.

A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.

Though cryptic, he knew what it meant: come home. A message only someone raised in the village would understand. Even though he’d been raised in the manor, set apart, he understood.

He crumpled the note in his fist. Ridiculous. The ghosts had never been real. Just an old, poorly maintained abbey on an even older, more poorly maintained estate. It was a child’s rhyme. William couldn’t even remember the rest.

He preferred to forget.

Forgetting was easy enough to do in London. For years he had worked toward this goal, pooling the earldom’s dwindling resources into a shipping venture that would depart next week. If the investments weren’t successful, if he wasn’t on that ship, the unentailed land surrounding the manor would be lost.

So he had almost ignored the missive. In fact, he might have—but for the use of that child’s rhyme. Someone had sent for him. Someone who knew him. It called to some long-dormant sense of responsibility. He must return home, to this almost abandoned house, and settle any trouble. Despite his lack of tact, he must soothe any concerns. He smiled faintly. If nothing else, it would be practice for his time on the ship.

His years scrambling and gambling and fighting for enough cash to keep his family’s land intact hadn’t imbued him with any diplomacy. He wasn’t always proud of what he’d done, but his father had cared about the title. His grandfather had cared about the people who lived on it. The least he could do was keep them from penury.

Silence shrouded the house, the unnatural stillness a wan version of his memories. His mother could always be heard in one of her spells. Ever ineffectual, his father would beg and plead for her to stop. He’d always seemed so helpless in front of his wife. He’d never been helpless locked in his office with William, taking out his anger with his fists or a belt.

It had always been loud in the house, drowning any preternatural creatures that were said to inhabit the area. Now a strange current ran through the damp air, causing gooseflesh to rise on his frozen skin.

The butler probably thought it was a great joke to allow William to wander around the house. Gerald was stalwart and staid, as old retainers were wont to be, but he always took a secret glee in tormenting William. For his part, William had fought back with frogs and other boyhood pranks. A pretense of independence as they had both been trapped under the pious thumb of his father.

The implacable tick of the hall clock grew louder in the stillness. Worry sparked inside him, but he refused to let it breathe. Floorboards above him creaked, and he lifted his gaze. Shadows lay heavy across the landing. For a moment, William reached for the pistol he kept in his coat when he traveled.

He frowned. “Who’s there?”

A man emerged from the darkness, and the unsteady light drew his face in sharp relief. Beck, his steward. William distantly recalled their last meeting. Beck had seemed deferential at the time, though now his posture seemed almost like a challenge.

“Lord William.” Beck’s voice held surprise, and possibly…fear?

The surprised was uncalled for, considering he’d written the note to bring William home. And Beck should not be on the upper levels. He had no business there. Anger broke free of the concern that gripped him, a welcome distraction.

William climbed the stairs. “What the devil are you about?”

Beck moved to intercept. “My lord, perhaps you should wait—”

“I think not.”

William brushed past him, feeling chills down his spine as old memories merged with the present. He was halfway down the hallway when a woman’s soft sobs floated to him from his mother’s bedroom. There. There was the proof that everything was as it should be. Not that he wanted his mother to cry, but after years of consoling her, there was a constancy to her tears.

Except his mother had died ten years ago.

Firelight flickered through the slim opening of the door. He pushed inside.

Deep red spray marred a snowy white counterpane. A maid knelt on the floor, sobbing quietly. He went to her.

“Are you hurt? What happened?”

Her eyes widened as he approached. She backed up. Helplessly he turned back.

Beck stood in the doorway. He shook his head. “It’s not hers. Not anyone’s.”

The unspoken words rang in the silence. The ghosts. Ridiculous. He’d thought Beck a more rational man than that. Although the vision before him was chilling. And familiar.

The view before him swayed, as if he were underwater, looking up. It was exactly like one of his mother’s visions of her death. He clung to that thought: this was a dream, not reality. Maybe her condition was contagious and now William had it, and that was why he saw such a false thing as blood where it shouldn’t be. With no body nearby.

A prank. It must be.

The sickly sweet smell of his mother’s lavender perfume still permeated the air, not tainted with the tang of copper. A wave of nausea swept over him. On leaden feat, he pressed forward to the side of the bed. He touched the fabric. Dry but not hardened, not black. How long ago had the blood been spilled? And from what source? A poor animal, most likely.

“Who is allowed in here?” The words came out hollow, like his insides.

“Any of us, milord.” The maid’s voice quavered. “The house maids or a manservant. We don’t keep it locked.”

“Well, keep it locked,” he said too sharply.

With a nod and indistinct mumble, she fled the room.

He sighed. So much for diplomacy.

Beck stood in the door frame, solemn, watchful.

“Is this why you sent for me?” William asked.

Beck shook his head slowly, his eyes haunted. “No, my lord. I did not. Though it’s good you’ve come. There’s trouble.”

William frowned. If Beck didn’t write the note, then who did? He couldn’t worry about that now—more important, what the hell else had gone wrong?

“Trouble?” he prompted. “At the abbey?”

Beck raised an eyebrow. “No, but nearby.”

William blinked. “There’s nothing nearby.” Except the manor. And…

“The crypt,” Beck confirmed grimly.

A curious calm descended over William. “What’s happened?”

“It’s your mother. The seal was broken, so the gardener went inside. Her coffin was missing.”

“Missing?”

Beck swallowed audibly. “Indeed.”

A chill ran over his skin. The blood he could dismiss as a prank. His mother’s body missing? No, the entire coffin. He couldn’t quite believe it. He had to see for himself.

“We’ll go there. Now. Tonight.”

William pushed past Beck into the hall. He thudded down the stairs, almost barreling into the butler. Gerald always had a scold or a criticism at the ready. William arrived so late. William tracked rainwater into the house. That was years ago, a lifetime and a childhood ago, but the past had caught up to him now, bleeding into the present. He’d thought he’d escaped.

“I am sorry, my lord,” Gerald said, his eyes pitying.

Hell. He must look worse off than he thought. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” he said. Even though he wasn’t sure of that, unless he was the one misunderstanding. Everything was mixed up. Everyone was sorry. And all he wanted to do was leave.

Leave Essex, leave England. Leave behind the past of failure and tragedy. His father had died when he turned fourteen. His mother, a year later, a year poorer. William had inherited the title, all right, just not the legal stature to control the purse. The appointed solicitors had drained the already small accounts dry with poor investments. William suspected they were guilty of more than incompetence. Theft. But he’d never be able to prove it. All he could do was try to fix their error, far too late.

Gerald put a hand on William’s shoulder. Gerald, who had chased him away from the cupboards with a cane. Gerald, who had finked on him at every opportunity, earning William a whipping from his father. Once his nemesis and erstwhile caretaker, now he looked at William with solemn understanding.

For a brief moment, the veil of servant-to-master fell from between them. Their shared grief connected them, exposed them. The butler was just an old man, and William just a boy.

The awkward touch of comfort burned into his skin. His eyes burned, too, and he pushed away from the butler and his unearned caring. Footsteps sounded from deep inside the house, and William flashed back in time, expecting to see the tall, lean form of his father.

A large, robed figure emerged from the study. It was Vicar Charles. Not his father.

Of course not. The long ride must be affecting him. Or maybe the long absence. He was torn between the idea that he should have come home more often—or not at all.

The vicar frowned, his jowls quivering. “Suicide is a grievous sin and as such—”

“No.” William clenched his fists and moderated his voice, speaking evenly. “No, goddamn you. She didn’t kill herself. And that has nothing to do with what’s happening now.”

At the time, the vicar had been sure his mother had killed herself. William had silently wondered, doubted, as well. Too much laudanum could be an accident. Or a grievous sin. But even as an underage, newly appointed earl, he’d had clout, and he’d demanded his mother be buried in the family crypt regardless. He wouldn’t let the vicar denigrate his mother. She had died grief-stricken and practically bankrupt. He hadn’t been able to do anything about that. But in death, she sure as hell would not be shamed, not then or now.

The vicar muttered his sermon to the ground. “A willful act against God…”

William unclenched his jaw and turned to Beck. “Take me to them.”

Beck left to ready the horses while the vicar continued muttering supposed holy words, those damnable holy words. Everyone falling down around him, dying, bleeding, but the vicar remained standing. Thriving, judging by his bulk and the embroidered trim on his robe. Favored by God, then? It was almost enough to make William believe. Just not enough to make him care.

William leashed his old sorrow, his ever present guilt, and strode out to meet Beck at the stables. He took a fresh horse and rode into the sheets of rain toward the cemetery, leaving Beck behind to cart the vicar.

The water in his face and the jolt of the horse’s stride tried to ground William, to make this real. None of it could touch him now, nothing could. He had only his memories to warm him, and little they did. His mother had cried when he left for school last time. He’d promised he’d see her again soon. Lies. Self-disgust roiled within him, but there was nothing left to expel.

Chapter Two

The cemetery gates were propped open, so he rode through. He slid off his horse and then draped the reins over the head of a Madonna. Spongy grass sucked at his boots. The entrance to the crypt yawned into the night air, and William forced himself inside.

As he crossed the threshold, the hush wrapped around him like a vice. The air was stale and the storm muzzled—even Mother Nature did not dare intrude here. He hated dark places. Closed, tight, suffocating places. They had always reminded him of graves, and this time, they were. Turning the corner, he entered the main chamber.

One body-sized pedestal stood in the center to display the deceased. Empty. Wiped clean. He found the marker for his father, intact. And beside it, cracked open, gaping, the place where his mother should be resting in peace. He knelt and reached gingerly for the granite pieces, feeling like he was disturbing the dead. Not him, though. Someone else had done this. Someone real.

Not a ghost.

“At least this place would have been locked, correct?” he asked Beck when he and the vicar arrived.

Beck nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Broken. Though not everyone is stopped by locks.”

Despite his unease, William gave a wry twist of his lips. “But the casket. And the body. Those would be stopped by a lock.”

A shrug was his answer.

William turned to examine the remaining engraving. His father had been a pious man, if not a strong-willed or cunning one. Through a lifetime listening to his mother’s wailing, he had never raised a hand to her. He had whipped William on occasion, but William had deserved it. Besides, his father had practically begged forgiveness each time after. It was a cycle William had ended by leaving permanently—and his family’s death had only reinforced his decision to live elsewhere. Anywhere else.

He would have been horrified to know his countess’s rest had been disturbed. He would have been horrified to hear how she died.

“It is that place,” came the throaty whisper of the vicar. “It called to the evil in their hearts.”

“The abbey,” Beck explained, as if it were reasonable.

William turned away to hide his expression. He wasn’t even sure what it would say. Annoyance, that the damned village insisted on this tale. Fear, too. Not of ghosts, but that old fear that the stories had led his mother to her grave. She’d always heard voices. What had they told her to do?

After a moment, Beck’s sure hand landed on his shoulder. “Someone will be here on the morrow to clean this up and fix the locks.”

Yes, of course. Wipe it away, like the pedestal in the center of the room. Clean and dusty until the next person in the family died.

Him.

He was the last of the line. As far as he knew, there wasn’t even a distant cousin to inherit his place. Sometimes he couldn’t figure out why he worked so damn hard. Just let the land, and the debts, be sucked back into the crown. The king could have the damned land.

But would he care for the people here, too? William couldn’t be sure. Not that he had been an excellent caretaker, but at least his tenants ate and worked and survived here. Even that could be taken away if the less scrupulous businessmen were given free rein. He’d heard about evictions happening farther north. No. He would stay. He would manage.

“It’s for the best,” the vicar muttered. “She didn’t belong here.”

William stepped forward, keeping his voice low. “And I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”

“This is holy ground and your mother—”

“Be very careful what you say next,” William said quietly. He didn’t believe the vicar would disturb sacred ground this way. His rigid moral compass would hold him in check even if respect for his master did not. Still, he wouldn’t allow her to be slandered.

Even if it might be true.

“She…” Vicar Charles’s throat worked but produced only unintelligible sounds. His eyes flitted to Beck and then back.

“My mother suffered an unfortunate accident with her sleeping draft.”

“An accident?” the vicar mumbled. “I do not think—”

“Precisely. Do not think. Just listen. I declared her death an accident ten years ago. If I find out that you had anything to do with this, you will regret it.”

The vicar understood the threat perfectly. His beady eyes glittered. “I’m a man of God.”

“I don’t particularly like him, either. You do not want to cross me, Vicar.” He turned to Beck. “Take him.”

Muttering fiercely, the vicar left. No doubt Beck would get an earful on the return ride to the parish. When the rustle from the brougham faded away, William knelt beside his father’s casket and prayed.

* * *

William had no desire to return to the house and deal with the mysterious bloodstain. The word duty rolled sour in his gut. He’d spent his entire life under the weight of his destitute title, and this felt like the pebble to break his back. He was half-tempted to ride back to London. He needn’t even get on the damn ship. Let the chips—and muddy, barely profitable lands—fall where they may.

Beck found him on a bench inside the crypt.

William stood. “We ride to the abbey.”

Without a word, Beck led him out. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, worn out and ignorant of its sins. Beck unhitched the mare from the brougham and mounted bareback. William followed on his bay. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go there.

A legacy of riches. Beware the ghosts and witches.

They rode to the patch of trees past the abbey, where a pool of water rippled innocently. William circled the ditch, finding nothing but damp earth. He did not know what he was looking for, only that he could not rest until he found it.

He wandered nearer the abbey. From here he could see the entire cemetery, and to the side, the top spires of the manor. In the old days, children had sometimes played in the old crumbling structure. He had, too, games of gallant knights and evil sorcerers, if he’d managed to sneak outside after his lessons. Bravery. Honor. The domain of children, not men.

The building had been condemned ten years ago, deemed unsafe and barred to entry. The rotting wood slats were easily kicked in. Inside, moonlight barely penetrated the darkness. Following the broken wall, he trailed his fingers along the soft moss. A light glinted from the gatehouse, like a wink of moonlight off glass.

Quickening his pace, he stepped inside the hollow tower. Bottles were piled in a corner, ale tankards and stronger liquor. He knelt and nudged a damp coat that stank of piss. A drunkard had been here. There was only one in the village, at least one dedicated enough to his craft to imbibe all these bottles. A man known for his rampages and, occasionally, violence.

William met Beck at the horses. “Jasper was here.”

Beck’s eyes widened as he passed him his reins. “Are you sure?”

“Let’s ask him and find out.”

They rode in silence, with only the storm to distract them. A curious rage stirred within him, that his mother had been disturbed, his home violated. The anger poured through his veins, burning and flaming until all he could see was red.

He hadn’t known this violence lived within him. He had been an obedient child. Had to be, for sometimes that was the only peace to be found. Rarely disrespectful, never rebellious.

Now anger threatened to consume him, and he was glad of it. Staid, responsible William could only mourn and lament and make the fucking arrangements for repair. This William could fight back.

The small hut came into view, and they both dismounted. William rapped on the knotted door. It opened to reveal a girl with long dark hair that shone streaks of silver in the moonlight. Jasper’s daughter, he recalled. The memory jarred him. He’d forgotten her.

He preferred to forget.

Her doe eyes widened. “My lord. How may I serve you?”

“Your father,” William said.

She glanced back then licked her lips. “I think he’s in the barn, but—”

William strode to the slanted building. Beck followed, a silent observer. He hoped the girl didn’t follow. The barn smelled of manure and moldy hay. He kicked open a stall, empty, and then pushed open the next. A snoring heap of man huddled on the straw.

He hauled Jasper up by his grimy shirtfront.

After a few startled snorts, Jasper peered at him from under sagging eyelids. “What be the meaning of this?”

William’s hands tightened before he pushed Jasper to his feet. He wasn’t sure how he knew Jasper was connected, but he did. Or maybe he just needed Jasper to be connected, because he had nothing else to look for, no one else to blame.

“Were you at the abbey?”

“No,” he said with belligerence. “When?”

“Last night. The one before. Were you there?”

Jasper frowned, seeming confused now. “Mayhap I was. What’s it to you? A man’s got to have some peace.”

“What about the manor? Were you there, as well? Did you pour pig’s blood on our bed?”

Soft gasps of shock came from behind him, punctuated by a long wail. Apparently the girl had brought her mother and younger sister, as well. Mercy, that was the girl’s name. It came to him with a flash of warmth. The women shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t protect them from this. He couldn’t protect anyone.