by Liz Carlyle
“Why, no, indeed,” murmured Delacourt, drawing out that most vile of foppish accoutrements, the quizzing glass. “I have not had that pleasure.”
The butler turned to Cole. “David Branthwaite, Viscount Delacourt.”
Cole murmured a polite greeting, his eyes taking in every detail of the man whom his Uncle James had claimed was “practically living under Lady Mercer’s root”
Apparently, his uncle had once again been correct in his assessment. Moreover, there was no doubt whatsoever that Delacourt was a popinjay of the first order. Perhaps not an out-and-out dandy, for his clothing was just a little too subtle for that, but rich and arrogant nonetheless. He seemed utterly to ooze wealth and charm from his every pore, and Cole hated him on sight, a most unchristian sentiment. Delacourt was young, too, not more than six-and-twenty at most. Younger than Jonet Rowland. It really was shameful.
Abruptly, Cole all but clicked his heels, making a perfunctory bow. “Your servant, Delacourt.”
“My servant, do you say?” said the young man archly, lifting the glass to sweep his brilliant green gaze down Cole’s length. “It looks instead as if someone’s called out the cavalry.” He dropped the device abruptly and pinned Cole with a dark, assessing look that was in deep contrast to his superficial manners and appearance. “Do tell me, sir. How is it that we’ve never met? I rather fancied I knew all of Jonet’s family.”
Cole inclined his head stiffly. He had not missed Delacourt’s deliberate use of Lady Mercer’s given name. “I am a nephew by marriage to Lord James Rowland, her ladyship’s brother-in-law,” he said rigidly. “James has asked that I tutor her children, his wards, for a time.”
A definite chill fell across the corridor at that remark. Delacourt’s elegant brows went up a notch, and he pulled back incrementally. “Has he indeed?” he said coolly. “James is ever thoughtful, is he not? Now, if you will excuse me, Captain, I have come to wait upon her ladyship.” And on that remark, he turned and strolled languidly down the hall, seeming perfectly at home.
At once, the door to the drawing room flew open and Lady Mercer stepped into the hall. She stood there, hands clasped before her like a little girl impatient for some long-awaited treat, watching Delacourt walk toward her. There was a sweet look of anticipation fixed on her face, and a hint of something else, too. Relief, perhaps? If she saw Cole, she gave no indication of it. Abruptly, Donaldson handed Cole his hat and threw open the door. Cole fleetingly wondered if perhaps Delacourt and the butler had greased the front steps to ease his way down. It would be dark soon, and the air did indeed hold a bit of a chill. Cole settled his hat on his head, then set a brisk pace along Brook Street, feeling as if he had just escaped a world to which he could never belong, filled with people whom he could never understand.
But there were the children to think of, and he did understand them. He was worried. And what was worse, he did not fully comprehend why. His concern aside, however, Delacourt’s animosity was too strong to have been misunderstood. There was something else, too, which could not have been misinterpreted. Something far more disconcerting. With his thick auburn hair and brilliant green eyes, Delacourt was the very image of young Robert Rowland. Just as James had hinted. Damn it all, he hated it when his uncle was right.
Indeed, Cole felt a sense of heated disappointment in Lady Mercer, followed fast by anger—even more heated— aimed at himself What business was it of his whom the lady took to her bed? And when had he become so bloody self-righteous?
Cole was not precisely sure as to when he had made the decision to go north through Mayfair, and wind his way over to High Holborn, but he realized he had done so at about the same time he grasped the fact that he had missed Red Lion Street and was halfway up Holbom Hill. Vaguely, he looked about and jerked to a halt, but after the initial wave of confusion passed, he realized that he was really not as absentminded as he had feared. As so often was the case, Cole’s feet had simply taken him where his heart needed to go.
He glanced to his right, where a pair of inebriated law students were picking a careful path along Shoe Lane. They were headed, he had no doubt, to The Mitre. Cole vaguely recognized them as pub regulars, and so he slowed his steady gait just long enough to pass a few amiable words of greeting. As soon as they had crossed the light traffic to the other side of the street, however, Cole spared them no further thought, his destination now certain.
He stepped off the street to see the soft lamps of Saint Andrew’s cut into the felling dusk, casting a welcoming light into the graveled walk beyond. Cole approached the door, pushed it inward, and made his way toward the chancel. Smoothly, Cole slid into the second pew, dropped to the kneeler, and proceeded to do something he had neglected to do for far too long. He prayed. He prayed for guidance in choosing the right path toward helping Stuart and Robert Rowland. And he prayed to be delivered from the unthinkable temptation Jonet Rowland presented. But more importantly, and perhaps even more sincerely, Cole prayed for the same thing he always did.
Absolution.
Other than the soft crackle and hiss of the newly lit fire, all was silence inside Jonet’s drawing room. Despite the elegance of his dinner attire, Lord Delacourt sprawled gracelessly across her long rosewood couch, a well-shod foot dangling aimlessly off one end, the opposite elbow splayed over the side. With the hand that was not thus engaged in propping up his handsome face, Delacourt swirled a dram of brandy about in the bottom of an etched crystal goblet, his expression uncharacteristically grave.
Her eye discerning, Jonet studied him. He looked so mature tonight. Older even than his years might dictate, for Jonet knew that he was not yet five-and-twenty. Delacourt was to celebrate his birthday in another ten days, and Jonet had chosen his gift weeks ago.
They were close, too close for the strictures of society, yet she had long ago ceased to trouble herself over what the ton talked about behind their backs. Initially, even Henry had not cared—until the intensity of the gossip had become too much to bear. Certainly Jonet had not meant to bring harm or humiliation to anyone, but there were some things in life she simply would not surrender. Her relationship with Lord Delacourt was at the top of the list, second only to her children.
Delacourt cut a glamorous swath through the salons and ballrooms of London. Despite his youth, his effect on women was already becoming the stuff of which torrid rumor—if not outright legend—was made. Oh, Delacourt was brash, even occasionally arrogant, but that did not overly trouble Jonet. She let her eyes drift approvingly over his length. Before her mourning had begun, the young lord had made her a handsome, gracious escort And at present, he was an affectionate companion who carefully hid his own pain behind a facade of cutting wit. But the pain was nonetheless there, acute and real. The knowledge left Jonet reluctant to add to his troubles. But there was, simply put, no one else to whom she might turn for solace, and sharing her concerns about Cole Amherst— or at least some of her concerns—had already brought her a measure of peace.
Abruptly, Delacourt spun about to a fully seated position and sat his empty glass upon the table between them. “Blister it, Jonnie, if I’ve a clue as to what’s best done,” he said bluntly, running a hand through hair that was such a dark shade of auburn it appeared black in the candlelight “It was well done to send for your Bow Street fellow, but what sort of hearsay he shall turn up on a man such as Amherst I cannot imagine.”
“Captain Amherst’s credentials are impressive,” agreed Jonet, leaning forward to take up the brandy bottle from its salver. “I daresay he is all that he claims. I simply hope he isn’t something more.”
“He is very striking, m’dear,” said Delacourt casually, his languid gaze on her hand as she filled his glass. “I hope that you do not fancy him.”
Jonet narrowed her eyes. “I should slap you senseless, David, for suggesting such a thing.”
With an arm that was long and graceful, David reached across the narrow table and slid one finger beneath her chin. “Go ahead, Jonet, if you dar
e. And you are a very daring woman.”
With a heavy dunk, Jonet put down the bottle. “Do not be impudent, David! This is a serious business. These are my children. You know I’ll run no risk where they are concerned.”
The young man looked suddenly solemn, yet he shrugged his shoulders uncertainly beneath the fabric of his fine claret-colored coat. “What would you wish me to do, my dear? Have some Southwark sea dog slit his throat?” He gave a little shudder. “That is very vulgar, not to mention messy. But I will do it, if it pleases you.”
“Rather tempting, but I think not, you vicious boy.” Jonet gave him a sweet smile, then snapped her brows together as a troublesome thought recurred. “And another odd tiling, David. Amherst refuses to live here. Have you any idea why? Surely lames wants his spy within the house—at all times, not just during the day. I wonder he did not jump at such an opportunity.”
David leaned across the table then and laid out his right hand, palm up. Reflexively, Jonet slid hers into it, and lightly, he squeezed it “All of our jesting aside, Jonet, I shan’t let him hurt you,” he said softly. “You know that, do you not? I would never have let Henry hurt you, and I shan’t let Amherst”
“Ugh!” answered Jonet “Let us not talk of Henry. I vow his very presence haunts this house.”
“Would you be better pleased to remove to my seat in Derbyshire? You are very welcome to, you know.” Instinctively, he stroked his thumb back and forth over the palm of her hand in a gesture that always soothed her. “Or perhaps we might return to Kildermore, where at least we can reside under the same roof without setting all of London ablaze with gossip.”
Jonet lifted her eyes from their clasped hands and stared up at him. “We cannot hide, David,” she said bleakly. “It was no safer at Kildermore than it was here. You know that. Please do not press me to leave again. I must remain fixed in London until I can discover just where the danger lies.” She looked plaintively into his deep green eyes. “You understand that, do you not? That we can never be safe until I have put this matter fully to rest?”
David ran his free hand down his face, looking suddenly weary. “Yes, you are right. If we rid ourselves of Amherst, there will simply be another of James’s schemes to replace him. Let him stay, I suppose. Whilst he is here, I shall make every excuse to be in and out of this house. I shall dine here whenever possible—if you will have me?” He paused for Jonet’s sarcastic look, laughed lightly, then continued. “And your man from Bow Street can make it a point to have him watched should it become necessary.”
Slowly, Jonet nodded and drew her hand from his. “Yes, Charlie has already set a footman on his heels,” she answered, sliding back into her seat to gaze at him across the table. “Oh, David,” she said a little despairingly, “I grow so tired of all this. Let us talk of more pleasant things.” Abruptly, she got up from the sofa, crossed the room to a stout mahogany secretary, and pulled open the top drawer.
She returned to her chair, a tiny velvet box held in her outstretched hand. “I cannot wait, David. This is your birthday present. May I give it to you now?”
David pulled a hesitant face. “I hope, my dear,” he said in a chiding tone, “that you have not been extravagant again this year. Last year’s jeweled snuffbox must have cost a king’s ransom.”
Hand still outstretched, Jonet bit her lip and shook her head. “Have no fear,” she finally said. “This one cost me nary a farthing.” She dropped the velvet box into the palm of David’s hand, sinking back into her chair as he flipped it open to stare at the ornately carved gold ring.
With a sharp intake of breath, David lifted it out and held it to the candlelight, turning it this way and that as he watched the gold gleam. Carefully, he slid it onto his right hand and studied the deeply etched crest for a long, expectant moment.
“My dear,” he said at last, “where did you get this?” His voice was a little accusatory.
Jonet leaned forward and poured herself a drink, striking the rim of the goblet a little too hard. The chink of glass on crystal pierced the silence, and Jonet noticed that her hand was shaking ever so slightly. But indeed, she had not expected this to be easy.
“It is a family heirloom of the earldom of Kildermore, David,” she said lightly. “The ring is very old, and legend says that it will bring its owner good luck and great fortune. I want you to have it.”
“No, I cannot take this,” said David, his voice unsteady. He replaced the ring and shoved the box away from him. “It is simply not done. People will talk.” His gaze lifted to hold hers, his eyes questioning and intense, as if he searched her face for some hidden meaning.
“Nonsense,” she retorted. “I want you to have it. I find I no longer care what people say about us. Put it in your vault where it will be safe. I certainly understand if you prefer not to wear it in public, but it would mean a great deal to me to know that you have it.”
Jonet was saved from further argument by Donaldson, who arrived to call them in to dinner. Quickly, she snatched up the box and pressed it into his hand. “David— please? It is an outward token of my love and esteem for you. Come, can you not accept that?”
After another long moment, he mutely nodded and slipped the box into his pocket.
Then, impulsively, Lord Delacourt slid his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of her neck and bent to kiss her lightly on the forehead.
———
Cole returned to Brook Street the following morning, his mind somewhat more settled. During the seemingly endless night, he had finally decided what to do. He was going to accept the post as tutor to Lord Mercer and his young brother. He did not fully understand why he had reached such a decision, but when he had weighed all the factors and made up his mind, his choice had brought him a measure of inner peace, and he had at last been able to sleep.
More surprising than that, however, was Cole’s decision to accept Lady Mercer’s edict that he live in her home on Brook Street He hoped he was doing it for the right reasons. But in truth, he had already heard enough, and seen enough, to make him very ill at ease. Although he was far more trusting of James than was Lady Mercer, Cole, too, wondered about his uncle’s true motivations. Moreover, he had thought a great deal about Stuart’s reticence and apprehension. What could make a nine-year-old boy behave so strangely?
There were other signs, too, that all was not well at Mercer House. The footmen who quite obviously were not footmen, the gardener who did more watching than gardening. Edmund’s snide remarks about finding Lady Mercer’s children inconvenient had also continued to nag at him. But most disturbing of all was Lady Mercer’s erratic behavior. Initially blinded by his own unfamiliar and unsettling emotions, Cole had failed to fully note the nuances in her demeanor. Upon further consideration, however, he conceded that she had at times appeared almost... worried. Perhaps that was too strong a word. Nonetheless, he suspected that some of what he had taken for anger might instead have been thinly veiled anxiety.
And so, in the end, Cole had accepted the fact that it was left to him to make certain that all was well. After all, he reminded himself, there were the children to consider. He was admitted to Lady Mercer’s house without incident by the two sturdy footmen, who were now surprisingly civil. The shorter of the two dutifully trotted off with Cole’s card and returned a moment later to say that her ladyship was at work in the book-room, and would be pleased to see him there.
There was a comfortable sort of warmth within the book-room, which was long and narrow, yet inviting despite its size. With its high, elegant ceiling, and a bank of deep windows heavily draped in bottle green velvet, the room looked to be an oasis of masculine affability. The interior was warmed by a burnished oak floor, and softened by an Oriental carpet in time-worn shades of burgundy and brown. At the long end of the chamber stood a fine chimneypiece of pale green marble, topped by a high oak mantel. Cole could see that the hearth had long since been swept The room was filled end to end with fine leather-bound books, and it possessed a
simplicity of décor which Cole found tranquil and inviting.
Beyond any doubt, this was a man’s room. And yet, Cole knew instinctively that it belonged to her. To the woman who sat sewing to one side of the hearth, the two silky border collies lounging at her feet. As he crossed the threshold, Cole remembered his words of yesterday and wished he had not spoken them. He wished he had not lost his temper with Lady Mercer, though he had no intention of apologizing for that which she had so deliberately goaded. He must have hesitated in the doorway for several moments after the footman announced him. She did not rise, but instead put her sewing aside and motioned him toward a chair.
“Good morning, Captain.” Her voice was throaty, with a pleasing, almost masculine resonance.
Despite its haughty edge, Cole felt lust stir inside his chest, and ruthlessly crushed it. Rogue, the younger collie, leapt up to sniff lazily at Cole’s boots as he crossed the length of the room, but Scoundrel lay quietly upon the carpet, tucked beneath the chair at his mistress’s heels.
“Lady Mercer?” Cole swallowed hard and reluctantly took the chair across from hers. It placed him a little nearer to her than he cared to be. “I believe I spoke precipitately yesterday.”
“Indeed you did,” she agreed with a regal tilt of her head. “And on any number of points. But to which of those precipitate remarks do you refer, Captain?”
She shifted in her chair, sending the carved jet cross sliding seductively along the creamy flesh above her neckline. Her demeanor was still cool and detached, reminding Cole yet again that his duties here might be more difficult, and far more complex, man he had first believed.
“I refer, ma’am, to my refusal to take up residence here,” he said calmly.
Her deep blue eyes flew open wide at that, and suddenly, Lady Mercer no longer looked detached. She looked agitated. Perhaps even apprehensive. Cole had no wish to frighten her. “If you have changed your mind, my lady, you need only say so. However, your sons... well, I am a little concerned, that is all.”
