A Woman Scorned (33 page)

“Afternoon, Donaldson.” Cole leaned one shoulder casually against the doorframe.

The butler spun quickly about. “And a gude afternoon tae you, Captain,” he said solemnly, his dark brows going up in mild surprise.

“A little spit and polish, I see.”

“Aye, sir. We’ve set the lasses tae work on the silver. A loovely pair, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Cole agreed absently, stirring himself from the door. “Listen, Donaldson—you’ll recall that I promised you a pint awhile back. Come with me down to the Drum and Feather and let me square it. What do you say?”

“Now?” Donaldson looked concerned. “Thank you, sir, but I oughtn’t—”

Cole cut off his objections. “The house is full of former soldiers,” he gently reminded him. “I daresay it will be all right for us to step out if we don’t go far, and I rather need to have a word with you in private.”

Donaldson bowed his head. “Aye, then. I’ll be but a moment to fetch my hat, sir, and tae have a word wi’ the lads.”

It was almost dinnertime when Ellen returned from Cavendish Square. Jonet was in the hall, carefully rearranging an assortment of lilies in the vase she had chosen to replace the one she’d hurled at James’s head. She was taken a little aback when her cousin came swishing blithely through the front door, a strange young lady at her elbow. The visitor was tall and willowy, with a riot of red-gold hair that was cut and curled in a most becoming arrangement.

Cox reached out to take Ellen’s hat as Ellen, oblivious to Jonet’s presence, continued amiably chattering to her guest. “Yes, it is a lovely day indeed,” Ellen said, surrendering her burdens to Cox. “Now if you will be so good, miss, as to let me rid myself of this basket. There! Now, it is a pleasure to meet you I am sure! You must be a very dear friend of Captain Amherst’s, to have gone so far out of your way. But—oh, look! Here is my cousin, Lady Mercer!”

Ellen turned toward Jonet, leaving the young lady, who looked exceedingly bewildered, simply standing in the middle of the hall. “Jonet!” Ellen began brightly. “This young lady and her father, Colonel Lauderwood, are friends of Captain Amherst’s. I’ve just this moment discovered Louisa here, standing on your front step with her hand on the knocker.” Ellen opened her glove. “Look! Is she not kind? Louisa has come all this way to return Captain Amherst’s spectacles. He spent this afternoon reading to her father.”

Jonet paced down the hall toward them, feeling a little weak-kneed without really understanding why. “Why—how exceedingly kind, to be sure,” she managed to say.

“Your ladyship.” The young lady curtsied awkwardly, looking even further confused. “The spectacles were of no consequence, I do assure you. As I said, it was on my way.” She turned as if to go.

“Will you not await Colonel Amherst’s return?” asked Jonet politely, ignoring a vicious prick of jealousy. It seemed the mystery of Cole’s afternoon visit had just been solved. A
dear friend
, indeed! The lady really was quite appealing, with a vivid, yet innocent, sort of beauty. “I think we may expect him back shortly. No doubt he would wish to thank you personally.”

“No, I thank you, my lady,” replied the visitor, lowering her lashes respectfully. “Just give him the spectacles, if you please, and thank him for his kindness to Papa. Now if you will excuse me, I believe another spate of rain is imminent. A pleasure, I am sure, Miss Cameron.”

And with that, she was gone. “Well,” said Jonet, forcing a bright smile. She was not about to discuss her crushing sense of despair with Ellen. “How did you find your aunt’s gardens? Were they as dreadful as you feared?”

“Oh, worse!” declared Ellen at once. “And I am parched from the heat, too! May we go into the parlor and have a cup of tea?”

By six o’clock, the low drone of conversation inside the Drum and Feather had swelled to a roar, interspersed with harsh, sporadic laughter and the occasional
whoosh
of a deck being vigorously shuffled and dealt onto the worn oak tables. The afternoon heat had given way to another drenching, and through the open windows, the rattle of passing traffic could be heard swishing through the puddles. Beyond, in Carnaby Market, a few pedestrians were beginning to stir, laughing and moving from one public house to the next.

Cole turned his gaze from the window and leaned back against a wooden settle, trying to focus on the tall, rangy fellow who sat across from him. Eyes lowered, Donaldson was methodically sucking the foam off the top of his tankard, giving every impression of savoring each drop. Cole had savored a few himself—perhaps a few more than he ought, but the Scot was matching him two to one. Cole began to wonder where the man was putting it. Once, from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Donaldson tip his mug toward the open window. No. Surely not?

Like most soldiers, Donaldson had turned out to be an amiable drinking companion. He and Jonet’s butler had spent the better part of the last hour reminiscing about their army days. Thus far, they had carefully avoided any discussion of the happenings inside Mercer House. Now, in the midst of a desultory game of cards, Cole carefully laid down a trump and drew yet another trick across the scarred wood of the table.

“My game, Mr. Donaldson,” he said, trying not to slur his words. He was a little discomfited by the amount of effort the task required.

The Scotsman fanned his remaining cards faceup across the table with a grunt of displeasure. “By God, Cap’n, you’ve the devil’s own luck, that ye ’ave,” he replied, his brogue thickening.

Cole tried without much success to lift his eyebrows elegantly. “Since the winner pays the shot, Donaldson, I cannot think you’ve suffered overmuch,” he said dryly. “In fact, why do I begin to suspect you might be giving away the game?”

“Aye, Cap’n!” Donaldson smacked the table with the flat of his hand, grinning broadly. It looked perilously close to a drunken leer. “Niver trust a Scotsman w’yer purse! But I’ll say one thing—not much gets by you, Amherst, I do’na think.”

“Nor by you, I daresay,” returned Cole. For a long moment, he stared across the table at his companion, then he drew a deep breath. “For example, Donaldson . . . about that
situation
you observed in the schoolroom last night. I would not wish to besmirch Lady Mercer’s reputation in any way, and so I felt I ought—”

“I know when tae keep my clap shut, sir!” interjected the butler a little querulously. Donaldson shoved away his empty tankard with a disdainful gesture, looking more like an inebriated infantryman than a stately Mayfair butler.

“I am sure, Donaldson, that you do,” Cole responded gently. “But I felt that perhaps I owed you an explanation. And the fact is, Lady Mercer was very distressed, and I was simply trying to comfort her.” Cole exhaled sharply through his nose. “But I daresay it might have looked like something altogether different.”

Donaldson looked concerned. “Poor wee thing! Had anither of her spells, did she?”

Something in the butler’s protective tone set Cole’s hackles up. “
Spells?
” he archly responded. “The poor wee thing tried to
stab
me.”

Donaldson winced knowingly. “Och! ’Ad ’er blade, did she?”

Cole drew himself up a little straighter on the settle. “You were aware she roamed about in the dark of night with a knife clenched in her teeth?” he asked incredulously.

“Oh, aye,” confessed the butler, his eyes wide and bleary, his head hanging low. “Gave it to her myself, I did—but I did’na know she’d took tae carryin’ it between her teeth.”

“She wasn’t, Donaldson,” Cole said dryly. “I was trying to make a joke.”

“Oh? Gude, then.” Donaldson wobbled a little on the settle and opened his hands in an expansive gesture. “And ye must pay no mind to her ladyship’s fits, Cap’n. Known her all my life, I have. She’s a hellcat, tae be sure—but she wouldna harm a livin’ creature. Not without provocation.”

Cole wanted to argue that snoozing on the schoolroom sofa could hardly be considered provocation, but he wisely held his tongue. Most of that night’s troubles he had brought upon himself, and there was a great deal more he would like to ask Donaldson, who was now well plied with alcohol. Cole picked up both tankards and carried them to the tapster for refilling. He returned just as Donaldson, beating a rapid tattoo on the tabletop with his index fingers, burst into a rousing Scottish folk song.

Cole set down the heavy pewter with a thud, bringing the song to an abrupt halt. Oblivious to the laughter which rippled through the taproom, the butler peered at the tankard for a long moment, as if struggling to recollect from whence it had come. “Haven’t been out in a while, eh, Donaldson?” Cole asked lightly.

Donaldson pulled a gloomy expression. “Verra li’tle, sir.” Then he roused again, his head hanging low and loose. “But I do na’ mind, really! Lady Jonet needs me—or she wouldna ha’ brought me down here to this stinkin’ shite hole of a city.”

“So I may take it that you do not care for town?” asked Cole, flashing him a wry grin.

“Noo!” The butler’s black brows snapped together. “Nor she nither, come to that.”

Cole was mildly surprised. “Does she not? I rather thought she preferred it.”

Donaldson tried to shake his head, but he was now slumped back into the corner of the settle. “No, I do na’ think so.” He looked perplexed for a moment. “Left to her own ways, she’d close up the London house, take doon the knocker, and hie back tae Kildermore.”

Cole was surprised to hear it. “You grew up there, did you not, Donaldson?” He felt the heat flush up his face, but he was in too deep to back out now. “I mean, Nanna said so, and I must confess, I have often wondered what Lady Mercer was like before—before . . .”

“Aye, say na’ more.” Donaldson waved a limp hand. “I know what you’re saying, and aye, she’s changed a vast deal. ’Twas her father’s doing, too. That, and her marriage tae auld Mercer.”

“Changed? Changed in what way?” Cole needed to know the truth about this woman whom he was very much afraid he had come to love against his will.

The butler shrugged equivocally, his glassy eyes focusing somewhere in the depths of the darkened room. “There’s a hardness aboot her that wasna there before,” Donaldson mused. “A darkness, a wariness which troobles me, and yet I canna blame her. No, I canna blame her a’tall.” His gaze snapped to meet Cole’s, his eyes looking suddenly sober. “That is all I can tell you,” he said quietly.

Cole let a moment pass. “But Donaldson, has she always been . . . well,so overly
emotional?
”

“Wha’ would you be meaning, sir, emotional?” asked the butler in all innocence.

“Well—prone to stabbing innocent people, for one thing,” returned Cole. “
No, no—!
Ignore that! I realize she was overset last night. But has she always been so . . . so intense?”

“Oh, aye! Ye mean the fits and the spells.” Donaldson shook his head. “No, no’ a’tall. ’Tis true that as a girl she was a wee bit unruly,” he admitted. “But no lass e’r had a better heart. And her feelings run deep, that they do. Once, you could see ’em plain on her face, too, but that was before . . . ”

Cole looked at him expectantly, hoping that he would go on without being prodded. He felt shameless enough for discussing Jonet as it was. The butler took the bait. “But that’s how we grew up, sir,” he added, peering intently across the table as if he were explaining something of great importance. “Running wild along the seashore and o’er the moors—all of us—Miss Ellen, sometimes, too. Lady Jonet could’na know what sort of future she was tae have. We were too young to understand titles and duties and expectations.”

Cole sighed inwardly, feeling just a little of the shock Jonet must have felt when her life in Scotland had jerked to a halt, flinging her into the arms of a man whom she had not wished to wed, and apparently, into a lifestyle she had wanted even less. But Donaldson was still staring into his tankard and mumbling about the past.

“And if you want to know about her temper,” the butler was saying, “it is true that Lady Jonet has always been her own person—a passionate and stubborn lass, too. But on edge like this? No. ’Tis something altogether recent. But it’s hell she’s been through, no mistake. T’would unhinge anyone.”

“Yes, I daresay it might,” Cole admitted. For a time, he sat quietly, simply staring into the darkness of the public house. A nagging sense of urgency dogged him. Urgency not just in the sense that they needed to return to Mercer House, but also in that now familiar sense that something was terribly wrong, and that he had very little time left in which to rectify it.

“Tell me,” Cole said suddenly, “what was the late Lord Kildermore like? Did you know him?”

It was as if a dark cloud passed over the butler’s eyes. Donaldson put down his tankard and pensively ran his finger around the rim. “Aye. Knew him well enough.”

Cole leaned urgently across the table. “Then tell me, what manner of man was he? I must confess, I have heard little which is flattering. Perhaps you have a more balanced view?”

“Ah, I doot it,” he said bitterly. “He was a laird who kept servants in their places, and tae his way of thinkin’, that meant tending his cattle, scrubbin’ his castle, or warming his bed. Reckon someone forgot tae tell him that the right of first bedding went out with the Jacobites.”

Cole gave a grunt of disgust. “Not a very pleasant sort, it sounds.” Suddenly, he was struck by an appalling thought.

“Donaldson, you’re not—I mean—he’s not your . . .” The ugly question was almost past his lips before he could stop himself.

The butler’s fine black brows went up at that, and suddenly, he looked startlingly sober. “D’ye mean was he my father, aye?” he said grudgingly. “Weel—go on! You’re not the first tae ask. And the truth is, I do na’ know. Kildermore was na’ in the habit of claiming his bastards. My mother was a chambermaid, but she died giving birth—”

“I am sorry,” interjected Cole, aghast. “It’s none of my concern. I merely wish to ascertain Kildermore’s nature. I suppose I hoped to find some decency in the man, but it seems there was little.”

“Decency?” Donaldson shook his head, then, almost as a begrudging afterthought, he lifted one shoulder. “In his own way, he seemed fond enough of Lady Jonet. Doted on her a bit when he was home, which wasna often, mind. And when Miss Ellen’s parents died, he took her in straightaway.” The butler’s eyes narrowed a bit. “But for the most part, he was thought tae have no conscience a’tall. Yet when his health began to fail, I think the guilt caught up w’him.”