A Woman Scorned

by Liz Carlyle

  ———

  Cole had no inkling of what had prompted Jonet to leave the table so abruptly. All he knew was that he was now left to stare across the snowy linen at Delacourt, profound dislike seething through his blood. As the two footmen cleared the uneaten course they had just laid, Cole carefully examined his feelings. He could find no rational explanation for such heated enmity. What he should have felt was guilt. Though the viscount’s conduct toward Jonet had been annoyingly attentive, Delacourt had behaved with all propriety. Why, then, did the young nobleman’s demeanor so aggravate him?

  Because Delacourt was a duplicitous, false-hearted bastard, that was why. Cole suddenly realized that Delacourt, too, was eyeing him suspiciously. Normally, the viscount asked Jonet to remain when port was served, but this time they were alone. Cox filled the last of the two heavy goblets with the dark red wine, settled the bottle on a small salver at the viscount’s elbow, then drew shut the double doors.

  Smoothly, Delacourt lifted his glass in a toast “To our lovely hostess,” he said softly, staring across the rim at Cole.

  “Indeed, to our hostess,” agreed Cole brusquely. He sipped from the glass, then put it down again.

  “The vintage does not suit?” asked the viscount lightly. “Or is there something else, Amherst, which is not to your taste?”

  “I have no notion what you may mean, Delacourt,” answered Cole evenly. “The port is fine. I thought the meal quite excellent.”

  “Yes, Jonet’s cook is splendid, if perhaps a little conventional,” agreed Delacourt. “Nothing, of course, that can compare with Jacques, the chef who was recently let go.”

  “Was he indeed?” asked Cole, already weary of the viscount’s superior air.

  “Indeed,” echoed Delacourt “But as it happens, that is not the issue to which I was referring.”

  Cole felt his impatience rise. “Delacourt, I fear the army has worn away whatever polish my social skills may have had,” he said caustically. “In truth, I have no taste for witty after-dinner repartee. I wish you would simply say what you mean.”

  Lord Delacourt smiled wickedly, his teeth wide and glit tering in the candlelight.

  “Excellent! Then let me be perfectly blunt—indeed, almost ungentlemanly. I wish to say simply this: I have my eye on you.” He dropped his voice to a lethal softness. “Just as surely as you watch her, I watch you.”

  “I do not know what you mean, Delacourt,” Cole answered, his voice low and serious. “And what business is it of yours whose eyes are where, come to that?”

  Delacourt seemed completely unruffled. “I am speaking of Lady Mercer, of course. I have taken it upon myself to ...” The viscount cast his gaze aloft as if searching for just the right phrase. “To look after her interests, shall we say?” he finally finished.

  Cole fought a scalding burst of anger. “It is my opinion, Delacourt, that your despicable behavior has precluded your rights in that regard,” he retorted, his teeth nearly clenched shut.

  The arrogant viscount threw back his head and laughed richly. “Why, now I must confess my own confusion, Amherst. I have not a clue as to what you are trying to imply.”

  Cole felt a wave of bone-deep mortification. Dear Lord, he was on the edge of saying something that was entirely out of line. Worse, he very much feared he might be wearing his heart on his sleeve, and Cole had no intention of giving the haughty

  Lord Delacourt something else to peer at through his quizzing glass. Slowly, he drew a deep, steadying breath, and spoke as calmly as he could. “Just this, Delacourt. Lady Mercer has already suffered greatly. To now be heartlessly betrayed by someone for whom she cares deeply would be a cruelty beyond bearing.”

  The color seemed to drain from the viscount’s face. “Pray continue, Amherst,” he said coldly. “I confess, you have my full attention now.”

  Cole held his gaze without wavering. “If you care for Lady Mercer as deeply as you would have others believe, then I beg you to be a little more solicitous of her welfare.”

  “You’d best explain yourself, sir,” retorted the viscount, his voice blatantly hostile now. “Those words sound perilously like an accusation.”

  “Make of them what you will,” growled Cole.

  Delacourt leaned halfway across the table, an ugly snarl marring his handsome face. “See here, Amherst—you can go to the devil if you mean to imply that I would do anything which is not in Jonet’s best interest—”

  Cole cut rudely across him. “I speak not of her interests, Delacourt, but of yours, which I am given to understand have recently been fixed elsewhere.”

  After a long, expectant pause, the viscount settled marginally back into his chair and took up his glass again. “You know nothing of my interests, Amherst, and nothing at all about where they are fixed.”

  “Very little,” agreed Cole grimly. “But I daresay it would deeply wound Lady Mercer to learn of your little love nest near Drury Lane.”

  Delacourt looked up from his port, his eyes wide and mocking. “Why, that sounds like another threat, Amherst. I was given to understand you were the quiet, studious type. Do you now fancy yourself Jonet’s protector?”

  “I fancy only that you are a self-serving young coxcomb who spares no thought for the welfare of others.”

  The viscount gave another bitter laugh, then took a healthy pull from his glass. “By God, I should call you out for that, Amherst.” But oddly, his temper seemed to have cooled.

  Delacourt’s sudden equanimity served to further inflame Cole.

  “By all means. But you would be a fool, sir. For you will lose.”

  “I daresay I might,” agreed Delacourt with a casual half-shrug. “I have heard that you have a steady hand. Are you an exceedingly good shot?”

  “Quite.”

  A smile seemed to play at one corner of the viscount’s mouth. “Well, then! I should dislike above all things to ruin a good coat in a duel which I am destined to lose. Perhaps we ought to reconcile our differences, lest our wardrobes suffer to no good purpose” The viscount took up his glass once more, his anger quite obviously spent.

  Cole was incensed. “By God, sir, I believe that Lady Mercer’s honor is a very good purpose,” he said stiffly. He was beginning to wish Delacourt would call him out, despite the fact that in his saner moments, he harbored dark and serious doubts about Jonet’s honor.

  “Oh, come now, Amherst! Lady Mercer and I are just old friends.” Delacourt gave his light, elegant laugh. “You are simply jealous. Confess it.”

  “I am her children’s tutor, Delacourt.”

  “True,” agreed Delacourt flippantly. “But if you want Jonet, I say carpe diem, old boy. One never knows—perhaps she fancies you. One can never be sure.”

  “Good God, you really are a fool, Delacourt” Blood lust thrummed through his veins, and Cole, who had never fought a duel in his life, was suddenly more than willing.

  “Ah, perhaps!” He smiled wolfishly again. “But I am not a coward, which I daresay you are, Amherst. Drawing a sword takes but a moment’s bravado, you see. Opening one’s heart to pain, to rejection—or even to passion— requires a far more sustained courage.”

  “What the devil are you talking about, Delacourt?” Cole fumed. “I swear, you speak in circles.”

  One of Delacourt’s dark brows arched high. “Oh, I think perhaps you want Jonet,” said the viscount softly. “But you are afraid to pursue her. Admit it.”

  Cole shoved back his chair with every intention of hauling Delacourt out of his, but he was forestalled. The double doors burst open simultaneously and a panic-stricken Robert bolted into the room. Stuart was at his heels, his face bloodless.

  Robert hurled himself at Cole, seemingly oblivious of Lord Delacourt. “Come quick, sir!” the boy cried. “Come upstairs at once! It is Rogue. He’s—” Suddenly, grief overcame the child, and he began to heave with sobs.

  Holding Robert tightly in his arm, Cole snapped his head about to look at Stuart.

  “
What is it?” he demanded. “Tell me what has happened!”

  “Rogue. He’s sick, sir” Stuart answered, his mouth tremulous. “He staggered around a bit, then crawled beneath the sofa. He-—oh, he looks very ill, sir. He won’t come out at all.”

  “Oh, he’s going to die,” wailed Robert, pulling one hand from Cole’s neck just long enough to wipe his nose. “I just know it!”

  The haughty Lord Delacourt completely forgotten, Cole rose from his chair, put Robert down, then strode from the room with the boys at his heels. “Stuart,” he ordered, “find Nanna. Tell her to bring her basket of herbals—and any other medications she might have.”

  ———

  Ten minutes later, the kitchen beneath Mercer House was deadly quiet, the clanging of pots and pans now stilled, the scullery maids long since sent away. Only Cook remained, while Cole and Nanna stooped low over the dog, who now lay limply across a rug near the hearth.

  “Aye, it’s a poison o’some sort,” whispered Nanna under her breath. Cole shuddered at the words he had dreaded to hear. He had arrived in the schoolroom to find Rogue under the schoolroom sofa, his breathing shallow. Cole had carried the dog belowstairs, saying he needed constant supervision.

  But the truth was, he wanted neither Jonet nor the children present if matters took a turn for the worse, as he very much feared they would. On his knees beside the dog, Cole ran a soothing hand down Rogue’s spine, looking up at Nanna as he did so.

  “What do you think happened?” he asked softly as the collie shuddered beneath his hand. “Could this be the same thing which killed Mercer?”

  “Aye, p’rhaps, but this time we’re like tae lose something a wee bit more valuable,” hissed Nanna as she clawed through her basket “Sheepdogs earn their keep, and niver do ill toward the innocent.”

  Cole let that remark pass without response. The old woman was clearly too distressed to guard her tongue. “Did the dogs go outside this afternoon?”

  Nanna stopped rummaging through the huge willow basket she had carried into the kitchen and looked pensively down at him. “Aye, Stiles took ‘em down tae run in Green Park—just as usual.” Suddenly, relief passed over the old woman’s face.

  “Aye, mayhap that’s it Like as not the dog took it intae his head to eat something he oughtn’t.”

  “Perhaps.” Cole studied the dog. “I suppose what we need is a purgative?”

  Nanna shook her head. “Nay, I think no’ a purgative... T’would just force the poison intae the bowels. If it isna already there. T’would surely help to know what the poor wee thing ate.”

  “What then?” asked Cole anxiously. “What would you do if one of the boys had eaten something which you suspected was poisonous? Give milk? Induce vomiting?”

  “Aye, an emetic,” she answered swiftly, still poking through her basket. “Twill force up whatever may be left in the belly and keep it from the bowels.” Suddenly the old woman produced a stout brown jar with a cork. “Ipecacuanha root,” she announced in a satisfied voice.

  “Will that make him vomit?” Cole asked anxiously.

  “Oh, aye. It will do.” Nanna nodded solemnly. “Mayhap tis too late, though.” She looked down at Cole, her broad, wrinkled face anxious. She pulled two more vials from her basket, then looked down at Cole. “Are you to help me, then? Twill no be a pleasant job, I’m telling you straight out.”

  Cole slicked his hand down Rogue’s coat again. “Yes, I am going to help.” Nanna stared down at him for another long moment, looking as if she might say something further. Then abruptly, she called Cook to the hearth, and in calm, precise tones, she began to explain just what things would be needed.

  Chapter 7

  In Which The Captain Suffers A Sleepless Night

  It was almost midnight when Cole trod wearily up the three flights of stairs from the kitchen to the schoolroom. Above stairs, all was quiet, with no light visible beneath the children’s doors. Jonet, it would seem, had finally managed to ease their worry, at least enough to permit them to sleep a bit. Cole very much feared that he would not be so fortunate. The entire evening had been a nightmare. The ordeal he and Nanna had suffered through had temporarily obliterated the embarrassment of his argument with Lord Delacourt. Now, with poor Rogue asleep downstairs, the horror of it came back in full force.

  What had he been thinking? And what the devil had Delacourt meant by his veiled insinuations? Cole did not know. He knew only that he had humiliated himself in his ineffectual, and probably unnecessary, attempt to defend Jonet. And Delacourt, damn and blast him, had seen through it. Yes, Jonet’s scornful young lover had somehow glimpsed what Cole wanted no one—not even himself —to see. That he was already half in love with Jonet Rowland.

  There. It was out at last. How mortifying it was to feel such a potent mixture of strong, almost unmanageable emotions for another person. A person one hardly knew, and dared not trust. Tonight, he had been angry with Jonet for drinking too much, aggravated by her capacity to drive him mad with sudden lust, frustrated with her inability to see what a vain popinjay Delacourt was—and yet, he had felt compelled to protect her. And in so doing, Cole had all but accused the viscount of infidelity.

  But Delacourt had not bothered to deny it Cole snorted in disgust. Yes, it would be very convenient for the viscount if Jonet were to turn her attentions elsewhere. Then he could snuggle into his new love nest without that most tormenting of emotions— guilt. Cole realized that he was standing at the schoolroom, one hand clasped over his face as if to shut out the truth.

  Slowly, he noticed that someone was tugging at his shirtsleeve, his waistcoat and frock coat having been left somewhere in the kitchen. Cole looked down to see Stuart at his elbow. The boy was barefoot, attired only in his nightshirt.

  “Sir,” he whispered plaintively. “Is Rogue going to be all right? Mama said we must remember him in our prayers, then go to bed. She said that you’d take good care of him. But I just cannot sleep.”

  Gently, Cole encircled the boy’s shoulders with his arm and drew Stuart into the schoolroom. Through the deep windows that fronted the house, Cole could see that the rain had finally begun in earnest. In the distance, lightning flickered, too far away for the rumble of thunder to be heard. Along the walkway below the windows, the watch was calling midnight, his lantern swinging eerie shadows up the walls of the house across the street. Nanna, bless her, had left a lamp burning low on the table.

  Cole propped one hip on the corner of the table and stretched out his hand to tip up the boy’s chin. “listen, Stuart—Rogue is still quite ill. But I do believe he will be all right in a day or two.”

  “Can I see him, sir?”

  Gently, Cole shook his head. “You need your sleep, as does Rogue. And the dog must rest He is very weak, because we gave him something which helped him to vomit whatever it was he had eaten.”

  Stuart jerked his eyes away and stared across the table. He looked small and very frightened. “What he ate was Robin’s kidney pie,” said the boy softly.

  A long, dreadful silence hung in the air. Finally, Cole sighed. “Yes, I know that,” he answered gently. “But no doubt he gobbled down something in the park today.”

  Stuart cast up a doubtful glance. “Collies are pretty smart dogs, sir,” he answered.

  Cole considered it for a moment. It was a very good point, and it nagged at him. “Well, it is very hard to say what it was,” he answered calmly. “Do you think you can sleep now?”

  In the pale light, Stuart nodded solemnly, his young face still rather drawn. Affectionately, Cole patted his narrow shoulder. “Then take yourself off to bed, Stuart,” he said softly. “I plan to work a bit, but you have only to call out if you need me. Do you understand?”

  Solemnly, the boy nodded, and rose from his chair. Then, like a stealthy ghost in his flowing white nightshirt, the boy drifted out As the door clicked shut, Cole stared down at his pile of paperwork and immediately gave up. Frustrated by things he did not want to consider, he tore o
ff his spectacles and tossed them on top of the heap.

  He was weary, but not sleepy, and he could not bear the thought of an empty bed, so Cole simply flung himself across the long, leather couch and dragged an arm across his eyes. Unfortunately, it shut out nothing but the light and did little to calm his tumultuous thoughts.

  Ruthlessly, Cole kicked off his shoes and stretched out his legs. Stuart’s remarks had raised a chilling issue. There was no escaping the fact that his altercation with Delacourt ought to be the lesser of his concerns this night Cole’s pride would not loll him. But something had very nearly killed Rogue.

  Neither Nanna nor Cole had spoken the words aloud, but it had been plain that they’d both realized, just as Stuart had, that the dog had eaten food intended for Robert. Stuart had thrown his away, and the scraps from dinner were long since gone. Another quick conversation with Cook had indicated that the meat had been bought fresh at the usual butcher’s the previous afternoon, and had been served in one form or another at all three meals. Had there been complaints? Why indeed not! Was there anyone ill among the staff? Heavens no! And it had required all of Cole’s charm and a touch of Nanna’s authority to smooth Cook’s feathers following that little exchange.

  Cole forced himself to recall that not six months ago, someone in this house had likely been poisoned, and if so, the murderer was still at large. It was of some comfort that these dreadful happenings exonerated Jonet, at least in Cole’s mind. Jonet’s face when she spoke of her sons was lit by a maternal light so bright that there could be no mistaking the depth of her devotion. With the lamp still low, Cole lay on the sofa, listening as the wind whipped the rain back against the glass in spattering sheets. Summer rainstorms always left him melancholy and restless, even under the best of circumstances.

  Another discomfiting memory stirred in the recesses of his mind. Yes, it had been just such a night—a rainy summer’s evening —when he had gone to his late wife’s house to ask for her hand in marriage. How far away it all seemed now. And yet, not for enough. God, no. Never far enough. Cole had known Rachel only as the daughter of his mentor, a man whom Cole had both admired and emulated. Her rather, Thomas, had taken Cole under his wing during his early years at Cambridge. Cole, ever hungry for a father figure, had been glad when their friendship had deepened into something more when he joined the faculty. He and Thomas had shared much, and when his old friend had lain dying, Cole had been stricken by a grief more profound than anything he had felt since the death of his own parents almost twenty years before. Of course he had asked what he might do to alleviate Thomas’s suffering. Strangely, it had come as no great surprise when his friend had asked him to look after Rachel and—if he could find it in his heart to do so—to take her as his wife.