Free Engaging the Enemy by Heather Boyd Page B

and then sat at her writing desk.
    Instead of the correspondence, Mercy picked up the glass first, staring into space. She wished the day she’d just had could disappear. But there were parts of it that were pleasant. Despite his obvious disinterest, Mercy had enjoyed her conversation with Leopold Randall. When she was not attempting to kiss him, they worked well together. Come tomorrow, she’d have to behave as a proper duchess would.
    If only she could work out how to maintain that charade longer than a minute in his presence.
    Wilcox cleared his throat. “I trust your time with Mr. Randall went well.”
    Mercy picked up a letter with deliberate care, schooling her features to show only minor interest in the topic and the man in question. “Yes, he was pleasant company. The idea of finding information about his siblings is quite diverting. I had no idea the old duke was such a scoundrel.”
    Well, she’d had some idea. He’d always gotten what he wanted for the duchy in the end. Her speedy marriage to Edwin and his concerns for the production of Edwin’s first child were proof of his demanding nature. Those long assessing glances when she rejoined them after her courses had run its natural length still remained clear in her mind. The worst mortifying interview, over the lack of childbearing, she’d blotted from her memory.
    The fire popped as Wilcox tossed another log on the fire and she jumped. That part of her life was over and done with. The past had no power over her anymore. She had produced the required son and could be content. All she had to do was preserve the estate until he was fully grown.
    Mercy broke open the seal of her first note as Wilcox dusted off his hands. “The village is all abuzz for Mr. Randall’s return. According to Eamon Murphy, he’s done right by the widow Turner, too.”
    Mercy snorted. Well, that explained whose arms Leopold had hurried to tonight. Probably charmed his way into her cottage and into the woman’s bed well before he ever came here to kiss her. She pinched the bridge of her nose as mortification assailed her.
    Wilcox, unaware she was only half listening, rambled on, “Her husband was a great friend of his, if memory serves, when they were lads. Mr. Randall has employed more than one of the villagers to fix her place, Eamon says. Brown at the Vulture reports he arrived with just the one servant, but pays his way with hard coin, and his possessions are first rate.”
    Mercy wanted to continue to think unkind thoughts, but Wilcox’s recounting of Randall’s charity made that extremely difficult. And he was a rich man. The first one she’d encountered that hadn’t given himself airs above his station.
    “It’s very good of him, really,” Wilcox continued. “He’s had no ties here since his parents died, but they say he’ll be setting the boy up with a tutor so he might make something of himself. The valet let that slip to Mr. Brown, who told Eamon Murphy, who is now telling everyone that will listen.”
    “I know how the village grapevine works.” Mercy unfolded her letter. “You make Randall sound like a saint.”
    “Not a saint. Hardly that. But he is a decent man like his father and an honorable one. He’d be a worthy advisor given all that Eamon has discovered about his time in India.”
    A decent man? Mercy dropped her gaze to the letter, ignoring the way her heart pounded at the thought of that decent man’s kisses. She definitely needed to forget those.
    I’m coming for you, Your Grace.
    Mercy dropped the paper onto the table as a chill swept her body. She put the chair between her and the letter for good measure, wishing she hadn’t read her correspondence.
    Wilcox appeared at her elbow, concern writ large on his face. “Your Grace?”
    Mercy closed her eyes and forced her heart to settle. They were just words. “Another.” But those words terrified her at night.
    Wilcox read the letter swiftly. His free hand curled into a fist. “We need