A Woman Scorned (49 page)

In which Lady Delacourt tells All

C
ole arrived in Curzon Street the following morning, still burning with a righteous indignation. But underneath his ire, there was now a measure of fear, and it had grown incrementally with each passing mile. Throughout the long ride from Cambridgeshire, he had thought of nothing but Jonet and their argument. And he prayed to God that he had not dashed all hope for their future by his rash, and admittedly obstinate, behavior. At every posting inn, he had considered returning to her side.

And yet, he had not. Driven furiously toward London by a force he did not understand, he had pushed both himself and his horse to the edge. He knew only that he needed to see Delacourt, and hear the truth from his lips. Only then would he be able to fairly judge the viscount’s intentions toward Jonet. Perhaps, as Jonet said, Delacourt meant her no harm. Cole could only hope that that was true. He had no wish to see Jonet hurt by another man to whom she was so clearly devoted, no matter how much that devotion disturbed him.

But in truth, it now seemed as if no one had had a better motive than Lord Delacourt for wishing the Marquis of Mercer dead. And that motive, Cole now understood, was something far darker than a desire to protect or befriend Jonet. Mercer’s threat, if Cole had guessed correctly, would have cost the arrogant viscount his pride, and quite possibly, a great deal more.

In the back of Cole’s mind, he kept reliving his conversations with Jack Lauderwood. It seemed as if it had been years, instead of mere days, since Lauderwood had recounted his story of Delacourt’s father, and of his quarrel with Kildermore and Mercer. A duel amongst friends was an ugly business, and Cole was beginning to suspect it had had little to do with anything as mundane as ill-tempered hounds.

Cole was greeted at the door by the same haughty footman he’d met the previous week. Coolly, he stated his wish to see Delacourt, and deposited his card onto the salver. Without comment, he was shown into a small salon to wait. But when the footman returned, he escorted Cole not to one of the formal rooms in the house but to a small parlor in the rear. The footman threw open the door, and Cole stepped inside to see that it was not Lord Delacourt but his mother and his sister who awaited him.

Today, the old lady sat in a wheelchair alongside a bank of French windows. Through the glass beyond her stooped shoulders, Cole could see a small, carefully landscaped garden with a fountain. The pale, elegant décor made it obvious that this was Lady Delacourt’s private morning room. No doubt the windows and the gardens were arranged just for her benefit. Her ladyship was very fragile, and given the withered look of her arms and legs, she appeared to have been so for quite some time.

As Cole suppressed his foreboding and made his bow, Lady Delacourt lifted a gold lorgnette and studied him in some detail. And then abruptly, she turned to the middleaged woman at her elbow. “Charlotte, my dear, leave us if you please.”

With a look of mild surprise, Miss Branthwaite rose, set aside her needlework, and quit the room, bidding Cole a very pleasant morning as she passed him to go out the door.

Lady Delacourt returned her assessing gaze to Cole. “I am told,” she said rather coolly, “that you have come to see my son. I should very much like to know why.”

Gripping his hands behind his back, Cole nodded respectfully, for her ladyship had a voice that unquestionably commanded it. “I regret, my lady, that my business with Lord Delacourt is of a personal nature. Might I wait and speak with him, if he is not presently at home?”

Her brows went up at that. “Indeed, you may.” Reaching to one side of her chair, Lady Delacourt took up a small, gold-knobbed walking stick and jabbed it toward a chair. “But in the interim, you will sit there, sir, if you please.”

The old-fashioned English schoolboy in Cole would not allow him to refuse. Obediently, he sat. She put down the cane and studied him. “Did Lady Mercer send you here?” she challenged.

“No, ma’am, she did not.”

Lady Delacourt nodded in satisfaction. “No, I did not think that she would do so . . . but I daresay she has been the cause of your coming. Indirectly, of course.”

Cole sat very rigidly in his chair. “I can assure you, madam, that Lady Mercer had nothing whatsoever to do with it.”

“Indeed?” The old lady’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder, young man, just what the two of you are up to. Jonet has been very different of late, and the affection with which she greeted you here last week seemed particularly telling. Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain your intentions toward her? As you may know, she is very dear to me, and so I do not ask this question lightly.”

Feeling more and more like an errant schoolboy, Cole clasped his hands in his lap. He hoped most sincerely that Lady Delacourt could not guess what he and Jonet had been ‘up to,’ but she possessed both the tone and perspicacity of a steely-eyed governess.

“My intentions toward Lady Mercer are honorable,” he answered quietly. “Since you are her friend, I may tell you in confidence that I have asked her to be my wife, once her mourning has ended.”

“Oh?” Lady Delacourt’s pale brows went up. “And she has said—?”

Cole felt himself blush. “At first, I believe she was inclined to accept my suit. But now I am not entirely certain. We will, I daresay, work something out.”

The old lady nodded, and rolled her chair a little to the left, in order to face him square on. “You have quarreled over David, have you not? I suppose animosity is to be expected between two such forceful young men under these circumstances. Jonet has told you, I take it, that David is her brother?”

It was just what Cole had expected to hear; confirmation of the appalling suspicion that had tormented him all the way to London. And yet, he was stunned. “No, ma’am. Not in those precise words. But I was left to draw my own conclusions, and that is why I wish to speak with your son.”

Lady Delacourt shook her head sadly. “I daresay I can obviate the need for such a meeting, Captain Amherst. Do you truly mean to marry Jonet?”

“Most assuredly, ma’am, if she will have me.”

For a moment, she nodded quietly to herself. “Well, I have always known it eventually would come to this, I suppose,” Lady Delacourt finally said.

Cole looked at her in some confusion. “Come to what, ma’am?”

The old woman did not answer, choosing instead to change the subject. “I believe, Captain Amherst, that you have taken orders, have you not?” she said lightly. “Indeed, Jonet said so just last week. So I’ll ask you to consider my words as a sort of confession. You will honor such a request, I daresay?”

Cole was growing increasingly uncomfortable. “Ma’am, I can assure you that you need tell me nothing at all. I have come to see Delacourt, and I fully intend to do so.”

“Oh, and see him you surely shall,” she said grimly. “No doubt my coxcomb of a son will insist upon it. But this story is mine, and so I shall tell it.”

Cole did not know what to say. “If you insist,” he answered softly. But it was clear that Lady Delacourt intended to have her say, and already, her gaze had turned inward.

“Many years ago, Captain Amherst,” she quietly began, “I made my way in this cold world as a governess. My blood was a rather rural shade of pale blue—I daresay you know the color I mean—and I was accounted fortunate when I achieved every governess’s fairy tale of marrying her employer. But in my case, my employer was the late Lord Delacourt, and he wed me out of guilt, not love.”

“Guilt?” asked Cole softly. He really did not want to have this conversation.

The old woman’s gaze was strong and certain, yet Cole could see her knuckles, white against the chair arm. “You see, I had been employed for some years as governess to his only child, dear Charlotte. We lived quietly at the family seat in Derbyshire, and his lordship often visited, bringing his friends for hunting parties. All went well until one autumn night when I made the dreadful misjudgement of going down to the kitchen for a mug of milk.”

Cole was beginning to feel sick. “Milk, ma’am?” he echoed softly.

Lady Delacourt squeezed shut her eyes. “Why, yes. I do believe it was milk,” she whispered weakly, but then, her voice took on a bitter strength that Cole had not expected from such a delicate woman. “In any event, I went down the servant’s stairs—a regrettable choice, I confess—and whilst doing so, I was accosted and raped by a drunken houseguest. It was, as I am sure you have guessed, Jonet’s father, Kildermore. Accompanied by his cohort Lord Mercer, who was kind enough to stand guard to”—the old woman paused to laugh bitterly—“why, to ensure my modesty, I do not doubt.”

Cole could bear it no longer. He jerked from his chair and went to her, lightly placing his hand over hers, and Lady Delacourt’s eyes flew open wide. “My lady, I beg you will not continue. This is most assuredly not what I came here for.”

The old woman blinked once. “Oh, but I believe that it is, Captain Amherst.”

Cole took her slender, wrinkled hand in his hand and knelt by the wheelchair. “Lady Delacourt, I would never wish you to distress yourself on my behalf.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “That has always been David’s concern, and Jonet’s, too. But I find that this story distresses you young people far more than it does me nowadays. My life has not been without joy, sir. And the late Lord Delacourt attempted to defend my honor as best he could, given the circumstances. Moreover, when it became apparent that I was with child, he married me.”

“That was—that was very honorable,” Cole admitted, his throat constricting.

“Yes, and something few men of his rank would have done,” she added, her voice soft and introspective. “And so, Captain Amherst, my son has inherited a fortune and title he now believes is not his by rights. And Jonet has one she feels is rightfully his. For as you may know, the Scottish earldom of Kildermore can convey to a female—but only if the titleholder leaves no male heirs. Legitimate ones, of course.” She looked at him quizzically. “You did understand that, did you not?”

“Yes, I suppose that I did,” he said weakly. Suddenly, the room seemed hot and far too small. There was something . . . something troubling him . . .
but what the devil was it?
Absently, he rubbed one palm against his temple, trying to answer Lady Delacourt’s question.“In truth, ma’am, I am but a soldier and a scholar. I think very little about such things as rank and title. I recall, however, that at the time of her marriage there was talk of Lady Jonet’s title being nearly the equal of Mercer’s.”

“And both of them grander than my son’s viscountcy,” she quietly returned. Suddenly, Lady Delacourt’s other hand came up to cover Cole’s. “But I do hope you understand, sir, that David displaced no one. My husband had no heir, for unlike Kildermore’s, Delacourt’s title could not convey through the female line. Had he died without a son, my stepdaughter Charlotte would have been left nearly destitute, whilst the title would simply have gone into abeyance.”

“That seems . . . terribly unfair.”

The old lady nodded. “It is. So my husband deprived no one of anything which was rightfully theirs, and provided for his daughter in the bargain. But confidentiality is essential, sir. Charlotte knows nothing of this. And regrettably, David’s bitterness has caused him to make enemies, many of whom would be well pleased to see his name and title challenged. And yet, were it not for that devil Kildermore, my son would never have had to know the truth of his conception.”

In amazement, Cole sat back down in his chair. “Do you mean to tell me, my lady, that the Earl of Kildermore
confessed
this dreadful sin?”

Lips pressed tight, the old woman nodded. “Quite shocking, is it not, Captain Amherst? But as a soldier, I do not doubt that you have seen what the fear of death can do to a guilt-ridden conscience. So it was not enough that Kildermore took my innocence. He had to take that of my son, and of his daughter as well—in some faint hope of assuaging his own guilt.”

“But why, ma’am?” asked Cole stridently, lost in the horror of her story.

Lady Delacourt smiled grimly. “Although Kildermore was cruel enough to marry his only child to a man who was almost as wicked as himself, Jonet’s loneliness and despair began to eat at him when death drew near.”

“As well it should have,” agreed Cole bitterly. “But in truth, ma’am, I cannot see what good such a confession could do anyone, unless it was a confession to God.”

The old lady sighed softly. “Do you know, I daresay that it was the first and only time Kildermore considered his daughter’s needs. But my son was left to suffer the consequences.”

Cole drew in a sharp breath, but Lady Delacourt held up a staying hand. “Oh, do not mistake me, Captain. As shocking as it may seem, I am exceedingly fond of Jonet, and David loves her dearly. But he was still very young and impressionable when the letter from his father arrived, and it has left him bitter. My husband and I had hoped he would never know the truth.”

Cole felt a sense of outrage on her behalf. “And what did Kildermore hope to gain by such callousness?”

“In his letter, he said that he felt badly for all that he had done, and that after his death, he wished for them to care for one another.” For a moment, the old woman paused, as if deep in thought.

Despite the fact that he had come here for answers, Cole was still plagued by a nagging anxiety. He had learned everything, and yet, he knew nothing. While it was still possible that Delacourt could have murdered Mercer to silence his secret, Jonet had been right. There was no reason why he would wish Robert and Stuart, his own nephews, ill.

“I think, too,” Lady Delacourt finally continued, “that Kildermore believed David would see to his sister’s welfare, should Mercer mistreat her after his death. Though why he would have thought David more intrepid than Jonet, I cannot begin to imagine. I have never known a woman mor capable of taking care of herself—which is something you’d best consider, sir, if you mean to marry her.”

Cole stared at the floor, intently studying the pattern of Lady Delacourt’s rug. “You are perfectly right, ma’am,” he finally answered. “But I love her, and I believe that there is some hope that . . . well,that her
intrepidity
can be governed.”