by Liz Carlyle
But quite probably the lady would have lost, for despite her own Scottish title and her status as the dowager marchioness, the patriarch supremacy of English law died a hard, slow death. But from all that Cole had heard, Lady Mercer—or Lady Kildermore as she would otherwise have been called—had seemingly forgotten St. Peter’s admonition about women being the weaker vessel and having a meek and quiet spirit.
At that recollection, grief stabbed Cole, piercing his armor to remind him of Rachel. How different the two women must have been. Unlike Lady Mercer, Cole’s wife had been the embodiment of all the Bible’s teachings. Was that not a part of why he had married her? At the time, she had seemed the perfect wife for a religious scholar, for a man destined to enter the church, as his father before him had done. Yes, like Uncle James, Rachel had known her duty quite thoroughly. Perhaps it was that very devotion to duty, Rachel’s own meek and quiet spirit, which had been the end of her. Or perhaps it had simply been Cole’s callous disregard for her welfare.
Shifting uneasily in his mahogany armchair, Cole shook off the memories of his dead wife. It should have been harder to do. What he had done should have haunted him, but most of the memories were so deeply buried that he was not sure if it did. He forced his attention to return to his uncle, who was still pacing across the red and gold carpet, and ranting to the rafters.
Suddenly, Lord James wheeled on him, standing to one side of the desk, his feet set stubbornly apart. One fist now clutched the advertisement “You remain on half-pay?” The question was blunt.
Cole inclined his head slightly. “At present,” he acknowledged.
“And what then?”
“When my leg is fully healed, I will rotate to garrison duty.” Cole shot his uncle a wry smile. “By autumn, I’ll be posted to Afghanistan. Malta or the Indies if I am among the more fortunate.”
Lord James resumed his pacing for a time. At last, he spoke again. “Good. Then we have a little time.”
“I beg your pardon?”
But Lord James did not respond. Instead, he seemed to collapse into his desk chair, looking suddenly pale and drawn. He cleared his throat sonorously. “Look here, Cole—it is like this. I simply cannot bend her to my will.” He said it quietly, as if it shamed him to confess such a fail ing. “I have done my damnedest Lady Mercer will not even receive me. Not unless I insist upon consulting her in regard to the children, and then her solicitors must be present. Can you imagine such audacity?”
Cole felt a grin tug at his mouth. “Shocking, my lord,” he managed to reply.
As if pleased by his nephew’s sympathy, James nodded, then continued. “She has spent the months since my brother’s murder hiding out at Kildermore Castle, a cold, godforsaken place hanging off a cliff over the Firth of Clyde. I was powerless— indeed, our legal system is apparently powerless—to stop her. Curse her impudence! She poisons her own husband, and it would seem she has gotten away with it. Nothing can be proven. Not only is she an adulteress, she is a murderess, and now, she thinks to undermine my authority over her children!” James shook his head until his jaws flapped. “I tell you, Cole, I greatly resent it.”
All you resent, thought Cole sardonically, is that the awe-inspiring family title is not now yours. But wisely, he held his tongue. Lord James reared back in his chair and rested his hands atop his paunch. “I simply must have someone inside that house, Cole,” he muttered.
Briefly, Cole considered the point He personally knew at least two hundred good soldiers who were without work since the war’s end. Several had the makings of a good spy, but he was loath to pitch anyone into the viper’s pit which passed for the Rowland family. “You require an investigator, do you not?” he mused. “To discover what happened to your brother?”
Quickly, his uncle shook his head. “No, no. Too late for that! What I require is someone to watch her. I will have my nephew, Cole. It is in young Lord Mercer’s best interest, because his mother is unfit to raise him.”
“Is she indeed?” asked Cole softly, his tone hinting at doubt.
James swore violently under his breath. “Why, she drives men mad with lust!” he insisted. “Indeed, that besotted, brazen Delacourt practically lives under her roof now! And one has only to look at that younger boy to plainly see that he is no child of my brother’s, though I suppose one cannot prove it.”
“What, precisely, do you want, Uncle James?” asked Cole very softly.
“I want her every move watched with utmost care. I want her every indiscretion, her every temper tantrum, and indeed, her every movement documented.” James pounded his fist upon the desk for emphasis. “And I want those boys properlyeducated, until such time as I can get them out of that house, and into this one. Or at minimum, enrolled in a decent school.”
Cole felt a moment of concern on behalf of Lady Mercer, for James’s ruthless determination was apparent. And had his uncle’s concern been less personally motivated, Cole might have agreed with his assessment. From what little Cole knew of her ladyship, it was quite possible that she was not fit to parent her sons. Even he, a man who had no interest in the beau monde, had heard the whispered rumors of her lovers and of her husband’s apparent murder.
Indeed, the tale about Lord Mercer’s death was rather more than a rumor, for poison had been mentioned at the inquest. And her ladyship’s rather obvious affection for David Branthwaite, Lord Delacourt, was the talk of the ton. Their relationship had begun long before Mercer’s death and had continued unabated. Fleetingly, Cole felt sorry for the children, then just as quickly squashed that notion, too. None of it was his concern. No one had felt sorry for him when he had been left in similar straits— nor had he wished them to, he inwardly insisted.
Cole looked up at his uncle and spread open his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“I see your predicament, my lord. I wish I could be of some service, but this is clearly no matter for a military man.”
“You misunderstand me, Cole. What I want is a tutor.”
“A tutor?” Cole lifted his brows inquiringly.
“Good God, Cole!” James laid his palms flat upon the glossy desktop and leaned halfway across it “How plain must I make my meaning? I want you to answer Lady Mercer’s posting. I want you to apply to her in Brook Street And who could be more qualified? You are a brilliant scholar.”
Cole drew back in his chair. “Absolutely not”
“Cole, please understand. If you cannot do this for me, think of young Lord Mercer. He is left at the mercy of that— that harridan. The child is your cousin, for pity’s sake.”
“I am sorry to disabuse you, my lord—but neither of those children is any kin of mine.”
Lord James’s breath seized, as if he had been stabbed in the back. His dark eyes narrowed. “After all this family has done for you, Cole, you cannot know how those words wound me. These boys are mere babes. How can you be so selfish, when you have had the advantage of the best schools? Eton, Cambridge, King’s College, for God’s sake! Your academic achievements are nothing less than stellar. Moreover, you have a vast deal of experience in educating young men of good families.”
“I am now a cavalry officer, sir. A return to teaching is utterly out of the question. I am no longer fit to be a companion to young men of good families. And more to the point, Lady Mercer would never agree.”
“Cole, sometimes I despair of you, my boy! I truly do! You must not tell LadyMercer who you are! It has been ten years or better since you met her—and in any case, I cannot imagine she would have troubled herself to remember you. Besides, war has aged and hardened you a bit”
Oblivious to the insults he had just leveled, James held out his hands as if the matter were settled, and only the details wanted ironing out “We shall dissemble your credentials just enough to explain away your years in the army,” he continued. “And of course, I shall make certain that your references can be verified—”
“It is out of the question, my lord,” Cole interjected. He rose abrupt
ly to his feet, pulling out his father’s gold watch as he did so. “I regret that I must take leave of you, sir. I am engaged to dine at my club with Captain Madlow at half past.”
James jerked his impressive girth from the chair and circled around the desk. “Cole, you owe me this. Far be it from me to remind you of all that I have done for you, but look at the facts—”
Cole threw up a hand to forestall his uncle. “The only fact which matters to me is that you propose to do something deceitful. I must assume that your usual good judgement has been exhausted by your concern for the children. Were it otherwise, I am persuaded you would never propose such a thing.”
“Cole, Cole!” James let his face fall forward into his thick fingers. “Have you no gratitude?”
“Yes, my lord. I am exceedingly grateful. And yes, I do care about the innocence of children. God knows I lost my own innocence rather too soon. I am sorry that my— my cousins have lost their father under such unfortunate circumstances. But I do not choose to teach again, and I shan’t be wheedled into misrepresenting who and what I am.”
Suddenly, the door to his uncle’s study drew open with such force that the candles upon the desk very nearly guttered out.
“Upon my word, it is Cousin Cole!” said a deep, overly polished voice from the doorway. “What a delight.” His cousin Edmund Rowland strolled casually toward the desk, his hand extended limply in greeting. “Father failed to mention your coming, dear boy. Are you to dine with us?”
Cole stared down his nose at his uncle’s dandified son. “No, Edmund. I thank you, but I am otherwise engaged.”
“Yes, well!” Edmund gave a neat little tug on his shirt cuffs. “I am sure you must be exceedingly busy, what with your . . . well, with whatever it is you military fellows do when there are no infidels in want of killing!” He laughed uproariously.
“Oh, shut up, Edmund,” said James on a resigned sigh. “And sit down if you plan to stay. Cole and I are discussing what is to be done with Lady Mercer.”
Edmund’s thin, black brows flew up at that. “Oh, dear Cousin Jonet! Why, I know perfectly well what I should like to do with such a lively wench as she.” He beamed insinuat ingly, showing his perfect white teeth, then slid into the chair next to Cole.
James hissed aloud. “The children, you dolt! What is to be done with her children!”
“Why I hardly think I care, Father.” Edmund turned a sarcastically inquiring glance upon his sire. “Indeed, I find the lot of them rather inconvenient Do not you? Two small boys standing in the way of all that wealth and power? Tsk, tsk! Damned inconvenient —that is what my lady wife says.” He looked at Cole, flicking his gaze up and down, then settled on Cole’s red and gold regimentals. “Though what business it is of yours, Cousin, I cannot begin to imagine.”
“Precisely my point,” said Cole, trying to keep the muscle in his jaw from twitching.
He stood, still half turned toward the door, and yet suddenly hesitant to leave. He wanted to leave, did he not? Setting aside his uncle’s insulting request, Cole avoided being in the same room with Edmund whenever possible. Still, something in his cousin’s snide tone held Cole’s boots fast to the carpet. Just what it was, he could not say. Edmund was always malicious.
“I have asked Cole to go to Brook Street as tutor to Stuart and Robert,” said James impatiently. “We are discussing the particulars.”
Edmund barked with laughter. “Half-pay caught you a bit short, old boy? I would be better pleased to go to the devil myself. I can hardly envision your return to academia, but then, one must earn one’s crust, and the war does indeed seem to have ended.”
“I shall go to Brook Street tomorrow,” said Cole abruptly, turning to hold his uncle’s stunned gaze. It seemed as if the words were spoken by someone else, and yet they tumbled forth with perfect clarity. “I shall wait upon Lady Mercer at three, if that is convenient to her schedule. You will send word of my purpose in coming, and ask her permission for me to do so. You will explain to her my credentials—including my military service.”
“I—yes, I suppose...” answered James with uncharacteristic docility.
Cole crossed his arms over his chest. “Moreover, Uncle, it is your burden to persuade her to accept me, for I shall not bully her. Nor shall I lie. Nor shall I spy for you. Is that understood?”
“I—well, I do not know.” James slid a beefy hand down his face. “I am gravely concerned... about the children.”
Suddenly, Edmund leapt from his chair. “Why, what nonsense! You cannot send him! Cole has no business in this! None whatsoever.”
Cole ignored his cousin, focusing his full attention on his uncle’s increasingly florid visage. “I shall see to the children, my lord. Rest assured that I shall have only their best interests at heart That is your concern, is it not?”
He waited for his uncle’s reluctant nod before continuing. “Should I observe anything which is inappropriate, unsafe, or unseemly, I will discuss it with both you and Lady Mercer at once.”
“Discuss it with her?”
Cole would not be swayed. “That is only fair, do not you agree, since you hold joint guardianship?”
James scratched his jaw hesitantly. “Cole, I am not perfectly sure that will serve...”
Cole went to the door and laid his hand upon the brass handle. “I realize, my lord, that this is not quite what you wanted, and I am sorry for it. This is all I have to offer. Consider it until tomorrow morning, and if you can think of someone who can better do the job, I shall be all gratitude.”
Cole was halfway down the steps in the pouring rain when he realized he had walked right past Findley, who had been holding his coat and hat. As if to remind him of his folly, a cold drop of water trickled off his hair and slithered behind the facing of his collar, sending a shiver down his spine.
Now, what the devil had he just done? And why? Cole turned around to run back up the steps, wondering if perhaps he had taken grapeshot to the head instead of the leg.
———
The sun had barely risen over Mayfair when an urgent knock sounded upon the door to Lady Mercer’s private parlor, a small but elegantly appointed sitting room which connected her bedchamber to that of her late husband. For a moment, Lady Mercer did not respond, so engaged was she in staring over her writing desk and through the window into the quiet street below. Lightly, she laid a finger to her lips, then took up her quill once more. The knock came again, heavier this time.
Lady Mercer sighed deeply. Apparently, there would be no escape into solitude today. “Come in,” she finally said, pushing back her chair and standing.
Her butler entered, wavered uncertainly in the door, then hastened forward, a small silver salver extended. “A message, milady,” said Donaldson in his faint Scots accent. “I asked that the boy wait belowstairs, should wish tae send a reply.”
Jonet Cameron Rowland, Marchioness of Mercer, Countess of Kildermore, ‘Viscountess of Ledgewood and Baroness Carrow and Dunteith, inhaled sharply. “From whom?”
Donaldson watched her sympathetically. “I regret tae say ‘tis Lord James again, milady.”
Lady Mercer snatched the note from the salver. “You say his servant waits?” she asked darkly.
“Aye, but in the kitchens!” Donaldson threw up his hands, palms out. “Cook will’na let him from her sight, she swears it.”
With a terse nod, Lady Mercer went to her desk and took up a heavy gold paperknife, delicately carved into the Celtic cross of her ancestors. With a flick of her wrist, her ladyship laid open the letter and held it across the palm of her hand as her eyes darted over it.
She was a willowy, delicately boned lady, with hair as black and slick as a raven’s wing. In her girlhood, she had been considered a great beauty, but age and experience had stripped much of the vivacity from her face, leaving in its place an intense, almost cold, wariness. One could see it in the wide, expressive blue eyes, which were quick to narrow, and in her full, mobile mouth, which was more often
than not drawn into implacable lines.
Lady Mercer’s gaze was steady and certain, and capable of pinning a careless servant to the wall like the hurl of a corsair’s blade. Moreover, her wit was as quick as her temper, and she did not suffer fools—gladly or otherwise. After two children and eight-and-twenty years, Lady Mercer still had a figure to turn a man’s head, while her cutting expression could just as quickly snap it back again, should she wish it. With her patrician forehead, elegant cheekbones, and fair, flawless skin, she looked every inch the Gaid-healach aristocrat, and she was.
There were many who thought Lady Mercer proud, brash, and volatile, and of late, a few had callously added the term cold-blooded to her emotional repertoire. Whatever she was, she was much as life had made her, but by virtue of their many years of close companionship, Donaldson was also aware of a few things which were not commonly known of his mistress. That she could be generous to a fault and unfailingly devoted to those whom she trusted.
Woe betide her enemies, but those whom she loved, she loved deeply and faithfully. All of this despite a life that was very different from the one that she had wished for. Donaldson stood stoically to one side, watching as the dull black bombazine of Lady Mercer’s skirt began to tremble. At once, her eyes began to blink spasmodically and her knuckles went white. Across her hand, the letter began to quiver. Tension thrummed through the parlor like a gathering storm. Prudently recollecting that one word—volatile—the butler narrowed one eye and drew back incrementally as her ladyship hissed like a cornered cat, seized up her inkhorn, and hurled it viciously against the hearthstone with a bloodcurdling scream.
“Roast in hell, you black-hearted bastard!” she exploded, dark ink splattering up the pale pink marble of the mantel.
“Milady!” Donaldson laid a gentle, steadying hand upon her trembling forearm.
“God in heaven, what now?” Gently, he dragged her toward the small sofa near the fireplace and urged her down.
