by Liz Carlyle
Lady Mercer looked up at him with a perfectly straight face, and suddenly, Cole wanted to burst out laughing. She really was the most perplexing woman. The scholarly moralist inside him knew that he should have been appalled by her jest, not to mention her apparently total lack of contrition. A moment ago, he had been angry, and now, he could find little of that emotion inside himself. He felt confused and uncharacteristically unsteady. With a bemused expression, Lady Mercer reached into her sewing basket and tugged out another bit of fabric. Cole looked at it in some amazement, his senses reeling again.
Bloody hell. The Marchioness of Mover was darning stockings? Her children’s, by the look of them. How out of character it seemed. But what was her character? What manner of woman was she, really? In truth, Cole suddenly realized, he knew so little. He did not like her, he reminded himself. No, he did not. But he could not help but admire her at times. Forcing away those thoughts, Cole flipped open his folio and began to talk of lesson plans.
Chapter 4
The Captain Encamps Behind Enemy Lines
An hour later, Jonet watched in silence as Cole Amherst left the book-room, his backbone rigid, his gait smooth and soldierly. Good Lord, she was relieved to see him go. Absently, she slicked her hand back and forth over Scoundrel’s silky head. Jonet felt inordinately stupid for having surrendered to her fears; for letting her knees almost buckle beneath her from the grief and the anger. For having believed, even for a moment, that it was safe to take comfort from Captain Cole Amherst.
Instinctively, however, she had yearned to do precisely that Just why, she could not say. Perhaps it was the uniform? That perfect, ramrod straight posture? Or his incredibly wide-set shoulders? Lightly, Jonet laughed at her foolishness. Yes, Amherst certainly looked to be the sort of man a weak woman might lean on. But she was not weak. It was a luxury she could ill afford. Thank heaven she had quickly set matters aright between them. Jonet knew how to drive to an inch; men or horses, it made no difference. Both were carefully honed skills, and neither suitable for the faint of heart From a young age, she had learned when to push them forward, and at precisely what point one should hold them back.
And how to show them who held the reins. Now, both talents had become almost instinctive. And in her world, both were survival skills. Jonet snagged her lip and bit a little too hard, wincing at the pain. Only with Cole Amherst did her control seem to slip. How very rare that was. She almost never let a man get the upper hand on her.
But all was not lost Indeed, there was some small element of promise. Amherst’s visit had been relatively short, yet in that time, they had managed not only to reach an uneasy truce but they had also formulated a lesson plan for Stuart and Robert that should carry them successfully through the following three months. In his quiet but insistent way, Amherst had given her a list of items he required for the schoolroom.
Her eyes fell upon it, taking in the neatly lined columns and small, precise letters. The man seemed entirely serious about his business. In fact, Amherst had obviously given the needs of her children a great deal of thought. And amazingly, he had included her in his planning without her having demanded he do so.
There was something else she found very odd, too. Cox, one of the new footmen whom Charlie had handpicked from amongst his regimental cronies, had followed Amherst home the previous night. Amherst had not gone directly to James Rowland’s house, as Jonet had assumed he would. Instead, he had walked a long distance up High Holborn, then gone into the Church of Saint Andrew, of all things, where he had remained for the better part of an hour.
Cox was hardly a swift thinker, but he had had the presence of mind to peek into the church to see if perhaps Amherst had gone there to meet someone. But Amherst had been alone, engrossed in his meditation. Afterward, he had strolled down to The Mitre, a public house near Bloomsbury which was always filled with an odd assortment of actors and poets, and by a great many impoverished law students from the nearby Inns of the Court.
There he had ordered a light dinner, washed it down with two pints of cider, and politely refused both a game of cards and a willing prostitute. Amherst spent the remainder of the evening chatting, then went quietly home to a respectable set oflodgings in Red lion Street. Strange behavior indeed for a nefarious spy. Suddenly Jonet choked on a swell of doubt. Could she be wrong about Amherst? Or more to the point, could she be wrong about James Rowland? Was the man nothing more than the pompous prig she had always believed him? Such a possibility was unthinkable. The danger was too great to have been underestimated; too vile to attribute to the wrong party. If Jonet admitted that she might be wrong about James, she would have to acknowledge that she did not know who or where her enemies were. And were they even her enemies?
Perhaps she had panicked unnecessarily.
During the initial hours after Henry’s death, the nervous magistrate, Mr. Lyons, had intently questioned Hannah, the chambermaid, who was but one of many women who had warmed her husband’s bed. It had been difficult indeed for Hannah to explain how she had been the one to discover the master lying dead in his bedchamber at three in the morning. Hannah had left the room a quaking bundle of nerves, but Jonet had no reason to believe the maid would have actually killed anyone, vain and silly though she was. Surely the girl could not have formed a real tendre for Henry?
Nonetheless, Jonet had dismissed her, as she had all the servants, giving them two months’ pay and a letter of reference.
Could Henry have died by his mistress’s hand? Glorianna Lanier was a thin, energetic, rather volatile widow of questionable conduct Not the sort Henry usually chose, for she was still accepted in society—but only just. Yet, surely Henry had been worth more alive than dead, as far as Mrs. Lanier was concerned? But there again —his own lofty opinion notwithstanding —Henry was hardly the most skilled or patient of lovers. Had his mistress killed him, it would likely have been out of sexual frustration, not torrid passion.
David had suggested that perhaps it was a political enemy, for he had been on the wrong side of several heated debates last year. Yet Henry’s attendance in Parliament had been sporadic; he went only when his vote might benefit him. Indeed, though few would have admitted it, many had disliked him, for he had been both arrogant and self-indulgent. But one could trip over another just like him in almost any London drawing room, so common were men of Henry’s ilk.
So why kill him? Only James, or someone within his family, had a true motive for that. Absently, Jonet slid her hands up and down her cold arms. Cole Amherst’s departure seemed to have stripped the room of all its warmth and tranquility. Cutting off her foolish thoughts, Jonet rang the bell, deciding that a fire would be needed after all. As she waited, she took up her thin black shawl, wrapped it about her shoulders, and curled up in a chair by the hearth.
She was so bloody tired. So tired of being constantly vigilant In Scotland, where she had gone to seek solace and safety, Jonet had begun to wonder if she would ever feel rested or warm or secure again. But now, she had the most fanciful notion that if Cole Amherst were near, she would feel immeasurably safer. Ha! Only yesterday she had imagined him to be her worst enemy. She still was not sure just who or what hewas. Nor did she really like him, for she could sense his subtle air of moral superiority. And yet, his mere presence brought a sense of security into a room that not even David or Charlie could provide.
Agnes, her parlor maid, came in. Seeing Jonet shivering in the chair, she pursed her lips into a silent scold and began at once to build up a fire. Jonet managed a grateful smile. When she had been thrown into a panic in Scotland, Jonet had believed that if she surrounded herself with people she trusted—like Agnes and Charlie —they would provide her with a sense of security, but it had helped little. Dear heaven, how she hated that The awful uncertainty. Jonet had never before been an indecisive person. What little had been hers in life to control, she had controlled with a strong sense of purpose. It had earned her nothing but criticism, and a reputation for being too willful. Jam
es Rowland, she knew, had been foremost among her detractors.
Well, they could all go straight to the devil as far as Jonet was concerned. Her world had been set on its ear the day she had given birth to her first child, for it was only then that she had realized that she was wholly responsible for someone other than herself. Suddenly, she had known that she must take command of her life. She could no longer afford to be sad or meek or sniveling. To go rambling haplessly through life, as if she had surrendered both her spirit and her sense. It simply would not do.
What sort of children could such a pathetically weak woman hope to raise? After her wedding, Jonet had tried to make Henry love her; indeed, she had tried to love him. Too late, she realized that she had been nothing more than a challenge to his manly pride, and when he finally lost all interest in his much-coveted wife, Jonet had not felt the loss too deeply. But now that Henry was dead, her life and most everything in it was at last hers to control, and yet she felt more lost and alone than ever. More useless, more ineffectual. She longed for someone whom she could rely upon.
Good heavens, what was wrong with her? Someone to rely upon? How naive! She could rely upon no one but herself. She had learned that lesson long ago, and learned it the hard way. Still, in her mind’s eye, all she could see was Cole Amherst, with his tawny hair and lean hips. That determined, long-legged gait, the way he had of fixing his brown-gold eyes upon a person, then piercing through to their soul.
Jonet had never met a man who exuded such quiet confidence, such forceful, focused intellect —or so much raw power held in check. Her strange attraction to Amherst disturbed her to the point that, at times, she wanted to be deliberately sharp with him. She wanted to challenge him, and yet Amherst rose to the bait only on his terms. Strangely enough, Jonet had discovered that she respected that. How different life might have been had she had a real marriage partner. Instinctively, she knew that it would have been different, though she had seen precious few good marriages in her day. Certainly her parents’ marriage had been a poor example) for her father’s notorious indiscretions had put even Henry to the blush.
At last, Agnes put the poker back into the rack with a clatter and left the room. The greedy flames licked up beyond the kindling to eat away the coals, reminding Jonet that her day, too, was swiftly disappearing. Other than a quiet two hours with the boys, followed by dinner with David and Ellen, she had nothing more to look for ward to.
What she had looked forward to, strangely enough, was dinner with Cole Amherst, but he had vexed her by claiming a previous engagement. Jonet burned to know where he was going, and with whom he would dine. Did he have perhaps a mistress? A sweetheart? She felt a stinging sense of disappointment at that thought. He could well afford to keep a wife in good style; Jonet could discern that much with one sweeping glance. And even had he been born a poor man, which Jonet rather doubted, a man such as he never stayed so for long. Which only begged the question of why he had come to school her children.
Jonet shook her head against the smooth leather of the chair. The villain she sought had to be James, she reminded herself with a measure of regret. There was no other reason he would send such a man into her house.
———
Cole walked with the butler into the hall to await Jonet’s carriage, which was to take him back to his rooms. The morning breeze had been fierce, and Cole gladly took his greatcoat from the butler’s outstretched hand, studying the man’s face again as he did so. Curiosity finally bested him. “Sir, you look somewhat familiar to me,” Cole said. “Lord Robert tells me you were in the Peninsula. I wonder—had we the pleasure of meeting? I was with the First Royal Dragoons.”
Donaldson looked at him a little warily. “I’m no certain, sir. Tis possible, I’m sure.”
“What regiment were you with?” Cole persisted.
“Royal Scots, sir.”
“Ah!” said Cole appreciatively. “Quite gallant soldiers. Such bravery at Salamanca. You seem to have made quite an impression on Lady Mercer’s sons.”
At last, the butler smiled. “Aye, they’re good lads, sir. But young ones see only the heroic, never the brutality —which is as it should be,” he added.
“Very true,” agreed Cole, pleased that the butler’s reticence seemed to be weakening.
“Tell me—were you at Vittoria? I understood Robert to say you were wounded. Is that when you returned to England?”
“Aye, but tae Scotland, sir,” the tall man corrected, looking rather chagrined. “I got the business end of a bayonet at Vittoria, I did. I was invalided oot and missed the rest o’ the war.”
“I see,” said Cole solemnly. “What did you do thereafter?”
Donaldson blinked at that. “Why, I went back home, sir. To Kildermore.”
“Kildermore?” Cole was a little surprised. “Do you mean Kildermore Castle? Lady Mercer’s childhood home?”
“Oh, aye. Lady Jonet—that is t’say, Lady Mercer—took me back into service at once.”
Cole considered that for a moment “Well, Donaldson, you were a fortunate man. Not many soldiers came home to find gainful employment awaiting them.”
The butler inclined his head slightly. “Most fortunate. But Lady Jonet made it plain that there would always be a place for me. She said I was t’go straight there, soon as I was discharged.” The butler drew himself up another notch. “There’ve been Donaldsons at Kildermore for three hundred years. I was born there, and God willing, I’ll die there, too.”
Cole was amazed. “You have known her ladyship for quite a long time?”
“Why, all my life, sir. There’s naught but six months between us, me being the elder.” Suddenly, Donaldson clapped his mouth shut, as if he feared he had said too much.
Cole considered asking further questions, then thought the better of it. There was no need to press his luck with this man. But perhaps he had already learned something very important He was not perfectly sure. Just then, the clopping and creaking of a team and carriage slowed to a halt outside.
“Well, Donaldson,” Cole said briskly, “I shall return with my things shortly, but I must regrettably go out again for the evening. However, some night in the near future, perhaps you will give me a game of cards? Or permit me to stand you a pint? Then we old soldiers can exchange war stories, eh?”
For a brief moment, Donaldson looked taken aback. Suddenly, his amiable face split into a wide grin. “Aye, Captain. Suppose there’d be little enough harm in that”
———
In the late hours of the afternoon, Cole found himself completely unpacked and all his possessions neatly arranged by Jonet’s efficient staff. Moreover, he was already dressed and ready for dinner in Albemarle Street, where he was to join his friend and fellow officer, Terrence Madlow. Absently, Cole tugged out his watch to see that he was, as usual, too early.
Lest heated thoughts of Lady Mercer again return to bedevil him, as they had done with a rather disturbing frequency these last few days, Cole looked about for something to occupy his mind. Suddenly, he remembered that he was in need of a good Latin dictionary for the schoolroom and that he had neglected to put it on the list he had given Lady Mercer. Undoubtedly, her vast library would contain such a thing.
A few moments later, Cole entered the book-room, which at first he took to be empty. Suddenly, a soft curse sounded from a poorly lit corner. Cole looked down the length of the room to see a tall, russet-haired woman of an uncertain age reaching up most awkwardly for a book perched upon a high shelf. Caught in mid-stretch, she looked at Cole, blushing effusively. “Oh!” she said softly, and drew back her hand.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. I thought the room unoccupied.” Cole turned to go.
“Oh, no! I wish you would not hasten away,” the woman said. She came swiftly across the room, her head cocked inquisitively to one side, her hand outstretched in greeting. Her eyes were so pretty, her gestures so very like Jonet’s, Cole realized at once that she must be a relation.
“I b
elieve you must be Captain Amherst?” she said pleasantly. “Have I guessed aright?”
“Indeed. But I fear you have the advantage of me, Miss—?”
“Cameron. Miss Ellen Cameron, Lady Mercer’s cousin,” she explained, giving Cole a smile which softened her rather plain face. She leaned forward to rest her hands atop a high-backed settee. “Upon my word, I shall scold Jonet soundly. How very like her to forget to tell you that I am here. It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”
“A great pleasure, Miss Cameron,” he said, studying her across the furniture. “Indeed, I see there is much resemblance between you and her ladyship.” In fact, there was a great deal of resemblance in the bones of the face, but Ellen Cameron was a larger, less dainty woman. She also looked serious and capable, and in that regard, very unlike her delicate flower of a cousin.
Under his gaze, the lady seemed to blush a little. “Oh, I rather fear that Jonet is the beauty in our family, sir. She has blue eyes, and her mother’s thick, black hair. But I have the traditional Cameron coloring, with this mop of red, and eyes more green than blue. Jonet and I grew up together at Kildermore Castle.” She looked at him carefully. “Do you know it?”
Cole shook his head. “No, I have not the pleasure.”
Miss Cameron’s eyes softened almost passionately. “How unfortunate for you! It is the most beautiful place on earth. So romantic! All craggy cliffs and stone turrets— with the ocean dramatically crashing down below.” She laughed lightly, and Cole began to wonder if the lady was flirting just a bit. He looked at her again and quickly discarded the notion. She was a little silly, but unless he had badly misjudged, that was all.
Cole smiled back. “Well, castles and such aside, beauty is generally a fleeting thing, is it not, Miss Cameron?” he said, and without waiting for her answer, barged ahead.
