Mercy's Embrace_Elizabeth Elliot's Story [Book 3] Read online

  McGillvary settled back in his chair. “Oh, it is.” He lifted a page to show the total. “Ten thousand pounds, thirteen shillings, to be exact.”

  “Ten thousand,” she said in an altered tone. “That cannot be right. My letter says nine thousand-something.”

  “Penalties,” he said shortly. “Your father missed the quarterly payment.”

  Her eyes lost their sparkle, but only for a moment. “Yes, I see,” she said. “Well then, there is only one thing to be done.”

  He was surprised into a laugh. “Is there? I wish you will tell me what it is.”

  “It is quite simple,” she said, smiling adorably. “Write a draft on your bank … for the entire amount.”

  McGillvary’s smile froze. “I beg your pardon?”

  She rose and came to the desk. “You take your pen, there, and write a draft,” she said helpfully, “for—what is the amount? Oh yes. Ten thousand pounds, thirteen shillings.” She looked deeply into his eyes and smiled. “It is quite simple. A child could do it. You write the numbers, and then you sign your name.”

  A wry smile twisted McGillvary’s lips. “That is a very large amount, my dear.”

  “It is,” she agreed, “but did you not say that you have a whopping fortune?”

  He regarded her for a moment and then reached for the pen. “So I did,” he agreed. “Now where did I put those drafts?”

  He began hunting through the drawers in mock consternation. “Starkweather takes it upon himself to handle—ah.” He brought out a blank draft. “Here we are. Now then.”

  Elizabeth darted a look at him. “Patrick,” she said.

  “How I love to hear you say my name,” McGillvary murmured, dipping the pen into the inkpot. “Madderly, Kinclaven, and Planque,” he said, reading the words aloud as he wrote them. “And the amount?”

  “Patrick,” she repeated. “What are you doing?”

  “Writing the draft, as instructed,” he replied gaily. “Here we are. Ten thousand,” —the pen scratched the number— “and thirteen. And now, the signature.”

  “Patrick!” Elizabeth’s voice showed alarm. “I was only funning.”

  “But I was not. In point of fact, this is the perfect solution to a cursed awkward problem.”

  Her face was pale. “Patrick,” she cried, “this is forgery. People go to prison for forgery!”

  “Simply for writing my name?” he said blankly. “I rather doubt it.” He signed the draft with a flourish.

  Elizabeth gave a sharp intake of breath. “Gracious, you do that well,” she marvelled. “I’ve seen his signature, so I know. Here, I’ll show you.”

  She dumped her reticule on the desk, dug out the folded letter, and opened it. “There,” she pointed. “That’s his name. Yours is—” She stopped. “It’s—exactly the same.”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling ruefully. “There is a reason for that.”

  “This isn’t funny, Patrick,” she said desperately. “We aren’t jesting any longer. We must burn this! And quickly, before Admiral McGillvary sees it.”

  He gave a long sigh. “I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said, “and at every turn I’ve been thwarted. I am McGillvary.”

  She looked at him with warmth in her eyes. “Of course you are,” she said. “And I was completely taken in.”

  Clearly she did not see. McGillvary reached across the desk and took hold of her hand. “Elizabeth,” he said. “My darling, you must listen to me—”

  A scratching at the library door interrupted him. “Who the devil is that?” he grumbled. “I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed.”

  But the knocking grew more insistent, and then the knob turned. “Papa?” A slender girl came into the room. She was charmingly attired in a gown of blue; her strawberry-blonde hair was confined in a long braid.

  “Papa,” she said, “the most dreadful thing! Aunt Huntington has just arrived—with all of the children! I-I’m so pleased they’ve come, but I don’t know what to do!” She was almost in tears. “And Papa, that’s not all! Uncle Ronan came with her.”

  McGillvary’s jaw tensed; he rose from his seat. “You don’t say,” he said softly.

  “Jamison put them in the green drawing room, Papa, but you know how Uncle Ronan is. He’s in one of his wild moods. He’s striding about, saying foreign words! Aunt is cross and the children are, too.”

  McGillvary shot a look at Elizabeth. She was standing stock-still, staring at his daughter. God only knew what she was thinking.

  “You leave Ronan to me,” he told Cleora. “Have Lewis bring tea and whatever else she can scare up. Find out how long your aunt is planning to stay, and instruct Lewis to plan accordingly.”

  “Oh, thank you, Papa!” She was clearly relieved and even managed to smile. “I can handle serving tea.”

  “And Cleora, McGillvary called her back. She came obediently to stand before the desk. “Here is someone I would like you to meet.”

  He came around the desk. “Miss Elliot,” he said, “may I present my daughter, Cleora McGillvary.”

  2 Not a Word?

  Elizabeth’s gaze darted from the girl to the man. Her hair was lighter, her skin fairer—but the eyes! There could be no mistake. Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to him. The half-smile on his lips and the apology in his eyes told her all she needed to know. This was Admiral McGillvary.

  Revulsion rose like bile. How dare he!

  She then caught sight of a movement. Miss Cleora McGillvary was making her curtsey.

  “How do you do—Miss Elliot is it, Papa?” The girl’s blue eyes were open and trusting. But as Elizabeth looked on, a flush appeared on her neck. Cleora swallowed convulsively and fixed her gaze on the carpet.

  Elizabeth’s angry words stuck in her throat—she could not confront him! Not before his young daughter! The girl misunderstood. She thought Elizabeth was condemning her.

  “How do you do, Miss McGillvary,” Elizabeth said, with only a second’s hesitation in pronouncing the hated surname. “Your father is quite right,” she added. “Your staff will know just what to do.”

  Cleora looked up with a tentative expression. Elizabeth’s heart went out to the girl. It was not her fault that she had a rogue for a father! She cast a sidelong glance at him; his face was impassive. This served to increase Elizabeth’s resolve to be kind to Cleora.

  “I lost my mother when I was your age,” she found herself saying, “and my father’s response was to pitch me into her place immediately, before I was even out.” An onslaught of memories made speech difficult. “I—had to manage the servants and act as hostess for his dinners.”

  “Oh.” The bright flush began to fade from Cleora’s cheeks.

  “What is more,” Elizabeth continued, “our housekeeper was—and still is—a fusty old griffin. She did not care to take orders from me. Even now we do not get on! However, bit by bit I learned to take command of the house. In time, so will you.” She could not help adding, “You are, after all, a McGillvary.”

  Elizabeth was rewarded with a smile; she did not dare to look at the father. Cleora was about to reply when a metallic crash sounded outside in the entrance hall.

  Elizabeth’s brows went up. “Perhaps someone has overturned the tea trolley.”

  “Oh dear,” cried Cleora, as shouts were heard. “It’s Hero. I know it is!”

  Admiral McGillvary gave a snort of displeasure. “Never tell me,” he said, “that she’s brought that confounded dog!”

  “Papa, you know Aunt never travels without Hero. He is like her child.”

  Admiral McGillvary folded his arms across his chest. “Hero,” he said to Elizabeth, “is an exceptionally ill-natured Welsh corgi.”

  “Not ill-natured, Papa. He’s protective!” Cleora gave a little sigh. “Unfortunately, he does not get on with Sweetie. Hero feels he must herd him, you see, and Sweetie will have none of it.”

  “Sweetie?” thundered McGillvary. “Ronan has brought Sweetie?”

  “I am afraid
so, Papa.” Cleora began backing toward the door. “Apparently Uncle Ronan travelled with the Huntingtons.”

  “That must have made for a pleasant journey.”

  “Hero sat on the box with the driver,” Cleora explained. “And Sweetie ran alongside the coach. Aunt thinks his poor paws are bruised, and no wonder.”

  “Bleeding all over the carpets, no doubt.” McGillvary turned to Elizabeth. “Sweetie is my half-brother’s worm-eaten cur of a greyhound.”

  “He isn’t worm-eaten, Papa,” said Cleora, taking another step back. “He’s sleek and handsome. Uncle Ronan wishes to race him.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Cleora sighed in agreement. “I don’t think Sweetie will make a good racing dog,” she admitted, “for he is quite lazy. But Uncle Ronan hopes to win pots of money with him.”

  “Pots of money. That would figure.”

  Cleora stood with her back against the library door. “Pray excuse me, Papa,” she said. “I’ve left Auntie longer than I intended.” She made another curtsey. “Good day, Miss Elliot,” she said.

  And then Elizabeth was left alone with him. She looked away in confusion.

  He gave a ragged laugh. “I bid you welcome to my, er—ramshackle household. Once they’ve cleaned up the blood, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the clan.”

  Elizabeth’s heart was beating wildly. She could scarcely breathe, for he was smiling at her in that familiar way she loved.

  No, she told herself. This is not Patrick Gill.

  But his smile was so beguiling, and with that sparkle in his eyes …

  Elizabeth found her voice. “You are Admiral McGillvary.”

  “I am.”

  There was a long silence. “I attempted to tell you,” he said gently, “so many times. I even gave you my card outside Mrs. Rushworth’s—”

  “Indeed you did not,” she interrupted. “You played me for a fool. You lied to me. You made sport of me.”

  “On that first day, yes, but never after,” he countered. He took a step nearer.

  “You pretended to be a clerk,” she continued, with a break in her voice.

  “You made the temptation irresistible.” His smile became bashful, confiding. “I could not help myself,” he confessed. “To be so shabbily treated by such a beautiful woman. Miss Elizabeth Elliot, the toast of Bath.”

  He shook his head, remembering. “Do you recall how thoroughly you snubbed me that day?”

  “You tricked me.”

  “I offered you refuge from the rain.”

  “Before that, in the counting house.”

  His smile slipped. “I played along with your mistake,” he agreed, “so not to embarrass you—and myself. One of my clerks spilled coffee on my coat, so I put on another. And then the inkpot overturned.”

  Almost Elizabeth laughed aloud. This man was nothing but charming, she had to give him that! Doubtless he used such tactics to entrap his paramours. But these would not work with her. She had no intention of becoming another of Admiral McGillvary’s conquests.

  “It served you right,” she said.

  “Indeed it did.” He hesitated, his blue eyes gazing into hers. “Elizabeth,” he said, “will you forgive me? I had no idea that Mr. Gill would get so out of hand.”

  She gave a brittle laugh. “Out of hand?”

  “I apologize for the whole. It was badly done.”

  Elizabeth flushed at the sincerity in his voice.

  “I began the ruse to provoke you, I admit,” he continued, coming nearer. “I wished to see if I, as Patrick Gill, could entice you to meet me again. But after our first meeting together, I—”

  “You accomplished your objective,” she said sharply. “And yet you were not satisfied. You must humiliate me again and again! In the process, you destroyed my reputation.” Her voice caught on a sob.

  “I think not, my dear.” He spread his hands. “Who among our acquaintance frequents Bailey’s?”

  “We were seen, Admiral McGillvary! By Sir Henry Farley. He mentioned you—the man with the patches on his coat, he said. As if he knew.”

  “Ah yes,” he said softly. “I was forgetting Sir Henry.”

  He continued to smile, but it was no longer pleasant. In spite of herself, Elizabeth shivered.

  “It is fortunate that I am not Patrick Gill, the lowly clerk,” he said, “for I am better able to serve you as myself. Henry Farley will trouble you no more.”

  His brows knit in a sudden frown. “Just a minute,” he said. “Farley followed you into the garden at Chalfort House.”

  “Chalfort House?” cried Elizabeth. “Must you throw every failure in my face?”

  “How is this? I thought you magnificent.”

  A sob caught in Elizabeth’s throat. “What with Mr. Rushworth forcing himself upon me and being discovered by Lady Russell, I was never so embarrassed in my life!”

  “Is that all you remember?” His voice held a wistful note now. “What about our conversation in the moonlight? Elba is an island, you said, and you blamed me for Napoleon’s escape.”

  Elizabeth could only sigh. “No wonder you hated me.”

  “I thought you enchanting,” he said. “True, our week at Chalfort House did not come off as envisioned, but I’ve no complaint to make.”

  Elizabeth’s head came up. “As you envisioned? You knew I was invited?”

  “Why, er, yes, I believe I did.”

  Something about his smile was suspicious. “Did you ask Lady Eleanora to invite me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But my father was mistaken for—! Oh, this is dreadful!”

  “Not at all,” he said pleasantly. “Never fear, Sir Henry will be made to regret his pursuit of you.”

  Elizabeth’s curiosity got the better of her embarrassment. “What will you do to him?”

  “Several things. For one, it happens that the man owes me rather a lot of money.”

  Elizabeth recoiled. “As does Father! Whom you were ready to punish to the fullest!” She flung over to the desk and snatched the bag containing her jewels. “I shall pay you, Admiral McGillvary,” she vowed. “Do you hear? Every last shilling!”

  He shrugged. “The debt has been paid.”

  “Yes, by you!”

  “Is that so wrong?”

  “I owe the debt,” she said emphatically. “Not you.”

  “You cannot pay it, so I have paid it in your stead.”

  “But why?” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you expect in return?”

  Admiral McGillvary spread his hands. “Nothing whatsoever! It was freely given, as a token of friendship.”

  “Friendship?” Her tone was scornful.

  “Yes, friendship! As Gill, I could do—” His voice cracked.

  Elizabeth waited. He began again. “Patrick Gill could do nothing for you. There was no advantage, no benefit, in meeting him. Why did I continue meeting you as Patrick Gill? Simply for the pleasure of your company. You are clever and intelligent, and you liked me for myself—a common clerk—and not for what I could offer you.”

  Tears pricked her eyelids; Elizabeth blinked them away. “You watched as I pursued Mr. Rushworth—for his money.”

  “But you did not pursue me for my money,” he said, coming nearer. “I wonder why?”

  Elizabeth whipped her hands behind her back, for it looked as if he wished to hold them. “I hated you,” she said. Her voice sounded small and thin. She squared her shoulders. “And I still do.”

  But these words did not have the effect she intended, for he continued to smile. “From the very first, I loved you,” he said. “And I still do.”

  Sounds from the entrance hall shattered the quiet. This time there was much barking—and shouting. Admiral McGillvary only glanced at the door. “They’re at each other’s throats again, no doubt,” he remarked.

  “You take a harsh view of the matter, sir.”

  Both brows went up. “You don’t know these dogs.” The sentence was punctuated by a gre
at crash and more yelling from the servants.

  Elizabeth gasped. “The statuary!” she said. Amid the racket came a high scream—a girl’s voice.

  “No, Miss,” came a shout. “Leave them be! Leave them be!” The sounds of fighting and growling grew more intense.

  Admiral McGillvary strode to the door and wrenched it open. “Cleora!” he cried. He glanced back to Elizabeth. “Stay here,” he told her. “Jamison!” he shouted, and then he was gone.

  Had Cleora attempted to break up the fighting dogs?

  Elizabeth came nearer to the door, scarcely daring to breathe.

  “Where’s Lewis?” she heard McGillvary shout. “For the love of God, fetch her! You there. Go for the surgeon!” And then somebody shut the library door. Elizabeth was left alone.

  She paced about, coming to the door again and again. She did not wish to be left here like so much baggage. Surely she could do something to help! Then again, she was a guest here. And she did not like to cross Admiral McGillvary in this mood.

  Truth to tell, she knew nothing about how to assist an injured person. Anne was better at this sort of thing. Why had she never learned from her sister how to be helpful in a crisis?

  Why had she never bothered to learn anything useful?

  She who had once thought herself to be so capable and superior, was useless. And she was alone. He had left her alone. The minutes ticked by, but he did not return to the library.

  Elizabeth sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. Patrick—her own beloved Patrick—was no more. He was only Admiral McGillvary. The man said he loved her, but it was not at all the same.

  Tears began to flow. Her handkerchief lessened the sound of her sobs, but the pain in her heart could not be silenced. How long she sat this way she did not know.

  Elizabeth did not hear the quiet click of the latch or the creak of the library’s private inner door as it was pushed open. However, she was enough mistress of herself to hear a decidedly masculine voice.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “What have we here?”

  3 Cat and Mouse

  Elizabeth looked up to see a man standing behind Admiral McGillvary’s desk. He had dark eyes and dark, unruly hair combed a la Brutus. He was not tall nor was he very old—in his mid-twenties, perhaps. This was no servant, for he wore riding clothes and sported a scarlet cravat. Most surprising was the cape he wore over all. The man stared at Elizabeth with unbecoming pertness.