his original approval of Acton’s suit for Annabelle. Acton was apparently not nearly as discerning or intelligent as he’d thought.
“But I can tell you how it came about,” Mercy said.
“Please do,” chorused Baron Coffey and his sons. Even the Countess Marchant nodded encouragingly.
“Let me first say that I love Texas,” said Mercy. “It is, to my mind, the most singularly beautiful place on earth. Its skies are wider, its colors richer, its face infinitely more grand and majestic, than anything I have experienced or hope to experience, elsewhere. So it was with unalloyed joy that I answered my father’s summons home from my Boston school in the spring of 1872.”
“You were in America then, were you not, Hart?” Beryl asked brightly.
“Yes,” he said.
Mercy shot him a quick glance and hurried on. “My homecoming was not all happy. My father, in hopes of counteracting the despicable actions of the gang of murderous rogues, had hired what he euphemistically called a ‘cattle detective.’ ” Her dramatic pause had its desired effect. Several of the women made swooning sounds and the men looked properly aghast that such drastic measures had been instituted. Hart’s mouth flattened sardonically.
“Yes,” she said, her green eyes wide in her winsome face. “He hired a gunslinger!”
“Whatever was he like?” It was Beryl again.Lord, if she leaned any farther out of her chair she would fall out of it.
Mercy sat back. She shrugged. “Nothing special,” she said in a bored voice.
“Oh, come now,” prompted Beryl. “A man like that! You actually knew him! What was he like?”
“Dirty.”
“Oh, do tell us more,” another lady pleaded.
Again, Mercy shrugged. “He was tallish, flat flanked and hungry-looking, like a flea-bitten old mountain lion. He had long, lank, greasy hair and a dark skin, whether from the sun or from some questionable bloodline, I never knew.”
“What else? What was he like?” the Dowager Duchess asked. Really. The entire family exhibited an immoderate interest in lurid tales.
“Harsh,” Mercy said. “And cold. And merciless. And ruthless. And heartless. Without compassion or gentleness or wit or humor or—”
“Oh, for Chrissakes!” Hart muttered. Mercy stopped in midrecitation to fix him with a wounded look.
“Forgive me for going on so, but I was asked.”
“And we appreciate your kindness in relating what must have been a painful episode,” said Beryl, shooting him a look of dismay at his outburst. The Dowager Duchess sniffed in his direction.
“Excuse me, madam,” Hart choked out. No matter how unfortunate her manners, he would not lower himself to being rude. He would not.
“Please continue, Miss Coltrane,” Hillardprompted, once more hovering near Mercy’s shoulders.
“If you insist. Well, early one day I decided to go out riding. It was just before dawn. The dark sky stretched overhead, clouds unfurling like scarlet banners on the horizon.”
“How lovely!” Beryl breathed.
Mercy looked at her approvingly. “Yes. I thought so too. I saddled my pony and rode toward a way station a few miles west of our ranch house. There I intended to view the sunrise.”
“Was that wise?” Hart asked. “I mean, considering your father’s situation and all.”
Mercy contrived to look sad and lovely in her consternation. “No, Lord Hart. It was not wise. But I was no more than a child and a girl child at that and I had been so long from home. Children and women are impulsive, sentimental creatures, you know,” she said modestly and apologetically—not that he believed she was either. Not for a minute.
What a pile of— Several of the men in the room glowered at him.
“We do not always act with the strength of purpose and single-mindedness you men do,” she said.
“Just so,” huffed Major Sotbey.
“I know now it was ill advised of me, but I went. There, while lost in a moment of divine reverie, I was set upon by a loathsome
“But I can tell you how it came about,” Mercy said.
“Please do,” chorused Baron Coffey and his sons. Even the Countess Marchant nodded encouragingly.
“Let me first say that I love Texas,” said Mercy. “It is, to my mind, the most singularly beautiful place on earth. Its skies are wider, its colors richer, its face infinitely more grand and majestic, than anything I have experienced or hope to experience, elsewhere. So it was with unalloyed joy that I answered my father’s summons home from my Boston school in the spring of 1872.”
“You were in America then, were you not, Hart?” Beryl asked brightly.
“Yes,” he said.
Mercy shot him a quick glance and hurried on. “My homecoming was not all happy. My father, in hopes of counteracting the despicable actions of the gang of murderous rogues, had hired what he euphemistically called a ‘cattle detective.’ ” Her dramatic pause had its desired effect. Several of the women made swooning sounds and the men looked properly aghast that such drastic measures had been instituted. Hart’s mouth flattened sardonically.
“Yes,” she said, her green eyes wide in her winsome face. “He hired a gunslinger!”
“Whatever was he like?” It was Beryl again.Lord, if she leaned any farther out of her chair she would fall out of it.
Mercy sat back. She shrugged. “Nothing special,” she said in a bored voice.
“Oh, come now,” prompted Beryl. “A man like that! You actually knew him! What was he like?”
“Dirty.”
“Oh, do tell us more,” another lady pleaded.
Again, Mercy shrugged. “He was tallish, flat flanked and hungry-looking, like a flea-bitten old mountain lion. He had long, lank, greasy hair and a dark skin, whether from the sun or from some questionable bloodline, I never knew.”
“What else? What was he like?” the Dowager Duchess asked. Really. The entire family exhibited an immoderate interest in lurid tales.
“Harsh,” Mercy said. “And cold. And merciless. And ruthless. And heartless. Without compassion or gentleness or wit or humor or—”
“Oh, for Chrissakes!” Hart muttered. Mercy stopped in midrecitation to fix him with a wounded look.
“Forgive me for going on so, but I was asked.”
“And we appreciate your kindness in relating what must have been a painful episode,” said Beryl, shooting him a look of dismay at his outburst. The Dowager Duchess sniffed in his direction.
“Excuse me, madam,” Hart choked out. No matter how unfortunate her manners, he would not lower himself to being rude. He would not.
“Please continue, Miss Coltrane,” Hillardprompted, once more hovering near Mercy’s shoulders.
“If you insist. Well, early one day I decided to go out riding. It was just before dawn. The dark sky stretched overhead, clouds unfurling like scarlet banners on the horizon.”
“How lovely!” Beryl breathed.
Mercy looked at her approvingly. “Yes. I thought so too. I saddled my pony and rode toward a way station a few miles west of our ranch house. There I intended to view the sunrise.”
“Was that wise?” Hart asked. “I mean, considering your father’s situation and all.”
Mercy contrived to look sad and lovely in her consternation. “No, Lord Hart. It was not wise. But I was no more than a child and a girl child at that and I had been so long from home. Children and women are impulsive, sentimental creatures, you know,” she said modestly and apologetically—not that he believed she was either. Not for a minute.
What a pile of— Several of the men in the room glowered at him.
“We do not always act with the strength of purpose and single-mindedness you men do,” she said.
“Just so,” huffed Major Sotbey.
“I know now it was ill advised of me, but I went. There, while lost in a moment of divine reverie, I was set upon by a loathsome
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