A Woman Scorned (12 page)

“Their spirits, ma’am?”

“I would have you make race horses of them, sir, not dray horses,” she answered a little more crisply. Then, Lady Mercer leaned forward and sighed. “But they are mischievous, and occasionally willful, it is true. Perhaps I have even spoilt them a bit these past few months, but I have been so very af—so very concerned. About their losing their father,” she belatedly added.

Cole listened, not just to her words, but to the tone behind them, and heard nothing but the voice of a devoted mother who was sincerely concerned for her children. Just as she professed to be. But not at all as he had expected. Still, words were one thing, and actions quite another. It would not take long to ascertain just what sort of mother Lady Mercer really was. “They are lively boys, ma’am,” he agreed with a stiff smile, “but they are quite bright. I promise I shan’t resort to beating them.”

Lady Mercer looked at him and lifted her shoulders a little beneath the black fabric of her dress. “If you cannot manage them, there is no shame in it, sir. Simply come to me, and I will intervene. I do assure you that I
can
make them behave, for they know perfectly well that they cannot pull the wool over my eyes.”

Cole smiled wryly at that. “No, ma’am. I expect few people can.”

Looking surprised, Lady Mercer opened her mouth as if she might reply, then reconsidered it. After a moment, she returned to their earlier topic. “Regarding your removal from your apartments, Char—
Mr
. Donaldson—can send someone, should you wish him to.”

Her words held a wealth of significance, but it took Cole a moment to understand the two very important things she had just confirmed: Lady Mercer and her butler were on very familiar terms. Indeed, Cole had already noted the knowing glances which passed between them. But the second realization gave him rather more pause. Cole had never told her where he lived.

The former was none of his business. Cole did not doubt that Jonet Rowland was more woman than Lord Delacourt could handle. Charles Donaldson was a strapping, good-looking fellow, and stranger things had happened amongst the
ton
. His Uncle James had called Lady Mercer an immoral whore, but on that fine point, his uncle’s blue-blooded double standard became glaringly obvious. Lord Mercer’s penchant for courtesans and widows had been no secret, and on more than one occasion, even the haughty James himself had been known to toss up the skirts of a half-willing parlor maid.

What was it to them or to Cole—or to anyone but God—if Lady Mercer chose to take her pleasures with a butler? Or chose to bed a vigorous and handsome young man like Delacourt? On moral grounds, Cole disapproved of such behavior, particularly when it was done with so little regard for discretion. Adultery flew in the face of all that he believed in. But was her sin any worse than theirs? And what right had any of them to pass judgement on another’s transgression? Cole was hardly a candidate for sainthood. Indeed, it was all he could do to keep his own lust at bay. Ruthlessly, he forced away all thought of his employer’s proclivity for mortal sin—and his rather vivid imaginings of what she might look like in the midst of it.

Further, he decided to ask Lady Mercer nothing about her knowledge of his address. That little fact bore further thought. Indeed it did.

“I believe I shall keep my rooms, ma’am,” he finally explained. “As it happens, I have a great many personal possessions, primarily books, which I arranged to have sent down from—er—by my orderly. I daresay they would be an inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” she smoothly replied. “There is a small suite on the third floor which you may take if it pleases you. It contains a bedchamber with a dressing room, and a sitting room in which you may receive personal guests, should you wish to.”

“You are most accommodating, ma’am,” he demurred, “but I do not entertain. My leisure hours are generally spent at my club, or in the various organizations to which I belong.”

Lady Mercer’s eyes narrowed in a rather feline fashion. “To which club do you belong? And to what sort of organizations?” Her questions were sharp, and brooked no opposition.

Cole hesitated, more unwilling than ever to reveal anything of himself to this woman. Perhaps Jonet Rowland really did have the Scottish gift. Perhaps she really could see into his heart. How appalling. How fanciful. “Nothing very grand, ma’am,” he hedged.

“I wish to know the habits of the man who is to educate my children,” she insisted.

“The United Service Club and the MCC,” he reluctantly answered. “I also belong to the London Society of Theologians, and the Philosophos Society.”

Lady Mercer’s delicate black brows flew up in amazement. “Are you really something of a theologian, then? How quaint!”

Cole had the distinct feeling that her mild condescension was meant to place a distance between them. To set him, perhaps, in his place. He felt his temper spike.

“ ‘Quaint’ is not a word normally applied to the subject, ma’am.”

If she noticed his ire, she gave no sign of it. “And the
Philosophos
Society, did you say?” She gave a humorless smile. “I understand my late husband was a member of the Society of Philistines himself—or was it the Philanderers? I can never quite remember.”

Lady Mercer looked up at him with a perfectly straight face, and suddenly, Cole wanted to burst out laughing. She really was the most perplexing woman. The scholarly moralist inside him knew that he should have been appalled by her jest, not to mention her apparently total lack of contrition. A moment ago, he had been angry, and now, he could find little of that emotion inside himself. He felt confused and uncharacteristically unsteady. With a bemused expression, Lady Mercer reached into her sewing basket and tugged out another bit of fabric. Cole looked at it in some amazement, his senses reeling again.

Bloody hell.
The Marchioness of Mercer was darning
stockings?
Her children’s, by the look of them. How out of character it seemed. But what was her character? What manner of woman was she, really? In truth, Cole suddenly realized, he knew so little. He did not like her, he reminded himself. No, he did not. But he could not help but admire her at times. Forcing away those thoughts, Cole flipped open his folio and began to talk of lesson plans.

 4 

The Captain encamps behind Enemy lines

A
n hour later, Jonet watched in silence as Cole Amherst left the book-room, his backbone rigid, his gait smooth and soldierly. Good Lord, she was relieved to see him go. Absently, she slicked her hand back and forth over Scoundrel’s silky head. Jonet felt inordinately stupid for having surrendered to her fears; for letting her knees almost buckle beneath her from the grief and the anger. For having believed, even for a moment, that it was safe to take comfort from Captain Cole Amherst.

Instinctively, however, she had yearned to do precisely that. Just why, she could not say. Perhaps it was the uniform? That perfect, ramrod straight posture? Or his incredibly wide-set shoulders? Lightly, Jonet laughed at her foolishness. Yes, Amherst certainly looked to be the sort of man a weak woman might lean on. But she was not weak. It was a luxury she could ill afford.

Thank heaven she had quickly set matters aright between them. Jonet knew how to drive to an inch; men or horses, it made no difference. Both were carefully honed skills, and neither suitable for the faint of heart. From a young age, she had learned when to push them forward, and at precisely what point one should hold them back. And how to show them who held the reins. Now, both talents had become almost instinctive. And in her world, both were survival skills. Jonet snagged her lip and bit a little too hard, wincing at the pain. Only with Cole Amherst did her control seem to slip. How very rare that was. She almost never let a man get the upper hand on her.

But all was not lost. Indeed, there was some small element of promise. Amherst’s visit had been relatively short, yet in that time, they had managed not only to reach an uneasy truce but they had also formulated a lesson plan for Stuart and Robert that should carry them successfully through the following three months. In his quiet but insistent way, Amherst had given her a list of items he required for the schoolroom. Her eyes fell upon it, taking in the neatly lined columns and small, precise letters. The man seemed entirely serious about his business. In fact, Amherst had obviously given the needs of her children a great deal of thought. And amazingly, he had included her in his planning without her having demanded he do so.

There was something else she found very odd, too. Cox, one of the new footmen whom Charlie had handpicked from amongst his regimental cronies, had followed Amherst home the previous night. Amherst had not gone directly to James Rowland’s house, as Jonet had assumed he would. Instead, he had walked a long distance up High Holborn, then gone into the Church of Saint Andrew, of all things, where he had remained for the better part of an hour.

Cox was hardly a swift thinker, but he had had the presence of mind to peek into the church to see if perhaps Amherst had gone there to meet someone. But Amherst had been alone, engrossed in his meditation. Afterward, he had strolled down to The Mitre, a public house near Bloomsbury which was always filled with an odd assortment of actors and poets, and by a great many impoverished law students from the nearby Inns of the Court.

There he had ordered a light dinner, washed it down with two pints of cider, and politely refused both a game of cards and a willing prostitute. Amherst spent the remainder of the evening chatting, then went quietly home to a respectable set of lodgings in Red Lion Street. Strange behavior indeed for a nefarious spy. Suddenly Jonet choked on a swell of doubt.

Could she be wrong about Amherst?
Or more to the point, could she be wrong about James Rowland? Was the man nothing more than the pompous prig she had always believed him? Such a possibility was unthinkable. The danger was too great to have been underestimated; too vile to attribute to the wrong party. If Jonet admitted that she might be wrong about James, she would have to acknowledge that she did not know who or where her enemies were. And were they even
her
enemies? Perhaps she had panicked unnecessarily.

During the initial hours after Henry’s death, the nervous magistrate, Mr. Lyons, had intently questioned Hannah, the chambermaid, who was but one of many women who had warmed her husband’s bed. It had been difficult indeed for Hannah to explain how she had been the one to discover the master lying dead in his bedchamber at three in the morning. Hannah had left the room a quaking bundle of nerves, but Jonet had no reason to believe the maid would have actually killed anyone, vain and silly though she was. Surely the girl could not have formed a real
tendre
for Henry? Nonetheless, Jonet had dismissed her, as she had all the servants, giving them two months’ pay and a letter of reference.

Could Henry have died by his mistress’s hand? Glorianna Lanier was a thin, energetic, rather volatile widow of questionable conduct. Not the sort Henry usually chose, for she was still accepted in society—but only just. Yet, surely Henry had been worth more alive than dead, as far as Mrs. Lanier was concerned? But there again—his own lofty opinion notwithstanding—Henry was hardly the most skilled or patient of lovers. Had his mistress killed him, it would likely have been out of sexual frustration, not torrid passion.

David had suggested that perhaps it was a political enemy, for he had been on the wrong side of several heated debates last year. Yet Henry’s attendance in Parliament had been sporadic; he went only when his vote might benefit him. Indeed, though few would have admitted it, many had disliked him, for he had been both arrogant and self-indulgent. But one could trip over another just like him in almost any London drawing room, so common were men of Henry’s ilk.

So why kill him? Only James, or someone within his family, had a true motive for that. Absently, Jonet slid her hands up and down her cold arms. Cole Amherst’s departure seemed to have stripped the room of all its warmth and tranquility. Cutting off her foolish thoughts, Jonet rang the bell, deciding that a fire would be needed after all. As she waited, she took up her thin black shawl, wrapped it about her shoulders, and curled up in a chair by the hearth.