by Wicked Wager
But like a castaway gamester who had lost his last sovereign and yet stayed at the table, compounding the damage by scrawling vowel after vowel, he could not seem to make himself leave. After Lady Charlotte’s party departed for the supper room, he trailed them.
Contrary to her declared disinterest in potential suitors, Jenna did not seem adverse to the colonel’s attentions.
And after observing them for some minutes, teeth clenched, Tony’s masculine intuition told him that despite his courteous demeanor and impeccable manners, Colonel Vernier was definitely interested in Jenna Montague as well.
Vernier might not let his hands or eyes linger, but he certainly took every opportunity chance afforded him to stay close, taking her elbow to assist her through the crowd, clasping her hand when she placed it on his arm, leaning over to murmur in her ear as they walked.
Finally having enough of observing this subtle courtship-in-the-making, Tony was debating whether to interrupt the group and bid Jenna good-night when Lady Charlotte’s party, with Jenna still on Colonel Vernier’s arm, exited the supper room.
By the time Tony managed to reach the hallway, Vernier had already handed Jenna into her evening cloak and was leading her in the wake of Lady Charlotte and Lord Riverton, whose carriage it appeared they would be sharing.
Was the colonel conveying her home? Or would he persuade her to remain for an intimate tête-à-tête at the house of Lady Charlotte?
Whatever enjoyment he’d once had in the evening now completely dissipated, Tony limped out into the cold night to summon a hackney.
It seemed only fitting that the moon that had kissed her before he did had now vanished behind a veil of clouds that spit a chill drizzle into his face.
He still had tomorrow’s excursion, he told himself. Regardless of how taken she might be with her Perfect Hero, Tony knew Jenna would not abandon her work for the soldiers. Though after tonight, would she still allow him to escort her?
Suddenly the chill seemed to creep into his bones, as it had on more nights than he’d care to remember as he lay shivering in sodden blankets under a Peninsular downpour. His knee, strained by the dance and several hours of walking about, had commenced a familiar, resonant aching.
Grimacing as he climbed out of the hackney, he limped in to the faint glow of the single light Carstairs had left burning in the front hallway. He’d take Cicero and a brandy up to bed, the book to wean his thoughts from this evening’s events and the brandy to take the edge off his throbbing knee.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to discover whether that enchanted episode in the moonlight was a memory to cherish—or a curse, for having robbed him of Jenna’s company forever.
LATE THAT NIGHT, Jenna sat at her bedside, sipping a sherry to ward off the chill. Lady Charlotte’s offer of a ride home had spared her the scold she knew Cousin Lane would have given her for having spent so much of the evening in Anthony Nelthorpe’s company.
She could only shudder to think what more he’d have to say should he know how much she truly had to regret. Thank heavens a merciful Providence had spared her discovery!
Having long ago learned ’twas useless to repine over events already transpired, she wasted no further time chastising herself for tonight’s appalling indiscretion.
The more important question was what did she mean to do about Anthony Nelthorpe?
She frowned and took another sip of the sherry. She could hardly blame that sorry episode of bad judgment on him. She and only she had furthered their intimacy by laying her head on his chest—and turning his gentle kiss into something quite different.
But how good it had felt to sway with the music, to feel strong, caring arms around her! To be held close and kissed as if she were cherished and desired. Though she’d been appalled, in the stark light of reason afterward, at how fierce was the desire he’d aroused in her.
She’d known for some time he provoked her lust. Hadn’t he predicted from the outset that he would tempt her to succumb to it before she managed to reform him? It appeared he had more reason for that boastful claim than she’d initially credited.
For a few moments she toyed with the notion of refusing to see him again, but that smacked of cowardice—and a lack of control. Now that she was fully cognizant of the strength of her desire, she would not allow herself to stray into a situation where the intensity of that need could overcome good sense.
Still, diligence was only a short-term solution. Her marriage had shown her to be a passionate woman, and it seemed that passion survived even after love died. Though she was by no means ready to look for another lover to fill her husband’s place in her heart, it appeared her body was fully ready to find one for her bed. Perhaps she ought to admit the fact and look for a suitable gentleman with whom, after a proper interval, to allow that passion free reign.
Perhaps even consider the possibility of remarriage.
Could he speak to her now, she knew Garrett would tell her that as soon as she could, she should put away grief and search for something—or someone—to make her happy. He would probably even agree that reforming Anthony Nelthorpe was an admirable goal, although she was considering it less and less likely she would accomplish that feat.
But in no way could she convince herself Garrett would approve Tony Nelthorpe for his replacement, as either husband or lover.
It seemed, then, that she had better begin considering other candidates. Ones who did not make her, as she had tonight, cringe with shame at her weakness.
Someone like…Colonel Madison Vernier, perhaps?
Colonel Vernier was a man about whom not even the discriminating critic could find anything to complain. His reputation was spotless, his family, Lady Charlotte had later confided to her, the junior branch of a clan that boasted an earldom and he was reputed to possess a tidy fortune. Neither Garrett’s family nor Lady Montclare could justify pushing her at other candidates, should it seem she had caught the eye of the colonel.
As for her own preferences, he was appealingly handsome in the uniform she’d grown up admiring, still toiling in the cause for which her husband and father had given their lives. He seemed attracted to her, though it was too soon to tell for sure.
And even if her heart never warmed to another, should he be amenable to becoming her lover, he would doubtless prove congenial, thorough and discreet.
Very well, she decided, sipping the last of the sherry. If Colonel Madison Vernier did show an inclination to pursue her acquaintance, she would encourage it. At least, he might become a congenial friend with whom she could relax and be herself. At most, he might be a friend who turned into a lover, perhaps even a husband.
While keeping Lord Nelthorpe relegated where he belonged, as a casual and occasionally seen acquaintance.
The decision settled smooth and satisfying as the taste of the sherry on her tongue. And when that rogue called for her in the morning as he doubtless would, despite what had transpired between them, it would allow her to face Anthony Nelthorpe with self-confidence and serenity restored.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALTHOUGH SHE’D TOLD NELTHORPE she wished to set out early, Jenna was surprised the next morning when Sancha came in before she’d even left her chamber to inform her that the viscount awaited her in the front parlor.
“Shall I tell him stay or come back, mistress?”
Jenna walked over to peer out her window, a hazy plan forming in her mind. A glance at the sky told her old campaigner’s eye that the day would prove fair.
“Help me into the new carriage dress, then go down and ask him to wait. Lady Charlotte told me last night that on the way to the property we will pass Richmond Hill, which has a lovely vista over the city. If I have the kitchen prepare us a basket, we can breakfast on the way.”
Thereby avoiding Lane—and a possible scold—in the breakfast parlor downstairs, she thought.
Shaking off the vague disquiet engendered by the thought of spending a day with Nelthorpe, she let Sancha fasten her into th
e gown. “Pray tell Lord Nelthorpe we’ll join him shortly. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
With a nod, Sancha left her. Jenna finished her preparations, grabbed her warmest pelisse and hurried into the hall.
Where she almost stumbled over Cousin Lane, who was slipping from his chamber, a dressing robe belted about him and his golden hair sleep-tousled. Looking as surprised to see her as she was to see him, he halted.
“Heavens, Jenna, where are you off to so early?” he asked. “’Tis barely dawn!”
“’Tis somewhat later than that, cousin,” she replied with a smile. “Having lived most of my life with the army, I’m accustomed to rising early. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, no,” he muttered, waving a hand vaguely. “But you look dressed for traveling. Whither are you bound?”
A part of her resented his inquiries, for he had no real authority over her—and she knew he would likely disapprove this trip. But despite Bayard’s official claim to be head of the household—and understandably enough, given the titular viscount’s disposition—Lane seemed to feel it incumbent upon him to act the responsible male of the family. One of which duties would be to watch over the welfare of its female members.
Rather than waste further time, better to forestall him with a brief explanation.
“I’ve an appointment to inspect some property outside the city. Sancha as well as John Coachman and two footmen will accompany me, under Lord Nelthorpe’s escort. Now, you must excuse me, for the others are waiting.”
As she expected, at the mention of the viscount’s name, her cousin’s face darkened. “Nelthorpe again? I wouldn’t have thought that reprobate capable of dragging himself out so—”
A soft noise caught her attention. Lane must have heard it, too, for he broke off and turned to peer down the dim hall. “Don’t stand there eavesdropping on your betters, man,” he commanded. “Get about your business!”
Emerging from the shadows cast by a large armoire, Bayard’s valet Frankston shuffled into view. “Begging your pardon, my lord, Lady Fairchild,” he said, eyes lowered as he bowed and hurried past toward the servants’ stairs.
Taking advantage of the interruption, Jenna said, “I really must go. I shall see you tonight.”
Lane muttered a protest as Jenna dipped a curtsy and walked past him. To her relief, Lane did not attempt to call her back. With any luck, he would be occupied this evening and she’d be spared his lecture until tomorrow.
As she descended the stairs, her spirits rose at the prospect of spending a day out of the noisy, grimy confines of the city. Perhaps this tour into the countryside might give her a glimpse of some place in which she could eventually settle.
But even that vague reference to a future without Garrett caused a painful contraction in her chest. Not wishing to spoil her outing by letting herself be dragged once more into the abyss of mourning, she forced the thought out of mind.
Half an hour later, picnic preparations well under way, she entered the parlor to find Lord Nelthorpe by the window, tapping one booted foot on the floor.
“Good morning, my lord,” Jenna said, feeling a bit guilty for having kept him waiting. “I’m sorry to be so tardy. I hope you haven’t been too much inconvenienced.”
After giving her a bow, he said a bit pettishly, “I was beginning to believe you were not coming at all.”
Having not seen him other than charming, Jenna raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t recall him indulging in truculent behavior when he’d been one of her father’s subordinates in Spain. Perhaps his injuries made him testy in the morning, when his knee was likely to be at its balkiest.
Deciding to overlook it rather than take him to task for his tone, she said pleasantly, “When I explain the reasons for delay, I am sure you will be once more in charity with me. Shall we leave, then?”
“Indeed,” he replied, his voice still aggrieved. “Are you sure you will not be too preoccupied to go with me?”
Perplexed, Jenna knit her brow. “I thought we’d agreed last night to view property today.”
“While I tapped my heels in this cursed parlor, I thought—though at this unholy hour I could scarcely credit it—that perhaps you’d decided to allow your new friend to accompany you instead.”
“My new friend?” she echoed, wondering what maggot had got into his head until, in a flash, an explanation—however improbable—for his churlishness occurred. “You are referring to Colonel Vernier?”
“You’ve met some other rich, well-spoken war hero between last night and this morning?”
She had noted Nelthorpe observing her from the crowd last night after she was introduced to Colonel Vernier, but as he often watched her when they attended the same entertainment, she’d not given it much thought.
However, combined with his mulish stance and still-irritated expression, incredible as it seemed…“You are jealous of the colonel?” she blurted out.
His stance grew even stiffer. “Now, why should I be jealous? Since I promised to turn away only undeserving suitors, why should I be concerned if a gallant guardsman who still has full use of his faculties, a soldier Wellington himself pronounced ‘the bravest man at Waterloo,’ should dangle after you?”
“Colonel Vernier wasn’t ‘dangling,’” she objected, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused by his attitude. “He was merely being polite.”
“Being ‘polite,’ was he?” Nelthorpe retorted hotly. “Hanging you on his arm, monopolizing your company from the moment you were introduced until your departure?”
“You are jealous,” she repeated wonderingly. Though she knew it should not, a quiver of entirely feminine satisfaction ran through her. “Have you breakfasted yet?”
“What has breakfast to do with this?” he retorted.
“I thought not. I’ve never known a gentleman who wasn’t cranky until he’d been fed. Stop this nonsensical brangling and let’s depart. I’ve had a picnic breakfast assembled. We shall stop at Richmond Hill on our way out of town. Lady Charlotte highly recommended the view.”
“I am not jealous,” he pronounced, his tone still belligerent. “But I am hungry.”
“Get along, then.” Jenna gestured to the doorway. Looking a bit mollified, Nelthorpe walked toward it.
As he passed, Jenna had the oddest desire to smooth his dark hair, which stood up a bit in the back, as if he’d been too hurried to comb it thoroughly. For some reason, this flaw in his normally impeccable appearance, combined with the fact that, deny it or not, he was jealous of Colonel Vernier, created a warm glow within her.
Heavens, she must be as addled as he, if she were developing an affection for Nelthorpe!
Shaking her head at such folly, she followed him out.
RIDING BESIDE JENNA’S carriage, Tony could only shake his head at his idiotic performance in her parlor. After reminding himself he must be on his most charming—and proper—behavior, should he be lucky enough after last night’s stupidity to have Jenna still receive him, he’d acted like a bacon-brained moonling.
’Twas true that he’d slept poorly and awakened shorter of temper than usual. Worried that Jenna might leave London without giving him a chance to apologize, he had thrown on his clothes and rushed to Fairchild House without pausing even for a cup of Betsy’s coffee.
Tired, famished and plagued by anxiety, he’d then waited nearly an hour, increasingly convinced that she must indeed have left without him—doubtless in the Perfect Hero’s company. So that when she finally did appear, irritation had run away with him, freeing the jealousy he had no right to feel from reason’s control.
He could only thank his guardian angel Jenna had not ejected him on his ear.
It not being prudent to count on that angel to intervene should he commit any further idiocies, he promised himself that for the remainder of the day, he would be the soul of wit, courtesy and consideration.
During the limited chat they’d had since Jenna embarked in the carriage, Jenna had not once referred to t
heir interlude on the balcony. Grateful to have a semblance of camaraderie restored, Tony was content to let the distressing matter rest.
The early winter day being unusually mild and sunny, when they reached Richmond Hill, Jenna decided to have the picnic set out on a blanket in front of a copse of trees on the far side of a meadow that bordered the road.
The earth of the meadow being too soft for the carriage to cross, Tony helped the footmen carry over the repast. Jenna had also thoughtfully provided several camp stools, sparing him the humiliation of struggling to lower and raise his stiff leg off the ground.
Sancha and the footmen settled on the blanket, assuring their mistress the thick wool protected them from the ground’s chill. Though he’d intended to eat sparingly and concentrate on drawing Jenna out about her plans for the property, the cheerful warmth of the sunshine and Jenna’s insistence that he sample a good portion of the repast Cook had packed soon had him neglecting conversation to devote his attention to the fine assortment of victuals.
Though loath to break the companionable mood, Tony was about to recommend that they pack up the remains and be on their way when the calm of the morning was shattered by the crack of a rifle shot, followed immediately by a menacing and all-too-familiar whine.
Sancha’s scream echoing in his ears, Tony instinctively launched himself at Jenna, dragging her down onto the blanket and shielding her body with his own.
“Lord Nelthorpe!” Jenna protested, while Sancha exclaimed in a volley of Spanish and the footmen traded exclamations.
“Silence, all of you!” Tony barked, keeping Jenna flat beneath him while his ears strained for the sounds of crackling underbrush, stealthy footsteps, the metallic click of a rifle being loaded or cocked. After a few long moments, during which he heard nothing but a distant birdsong and his own ragged breathing, he straightened.
What he saw made the breath catch again in his throat. A bare inch above where Jenna’s head had been a moment before, embedded in the tree truck behind them glittered the metal casing of a rifle bullet.
