by Liz Carlyle
After a long, silent moment, a deep, wrenching sound tore through her chest. Sweet heaven, she was crying. Jonet Rowland lay across his lap, her face pressed to his chest, sobbing as if her world had just ended. And just what was he supposed to do about it? Gentlemanly instinct surged forth, but could not find a foothold. Lightly, he patted her on the back. “Shush, shush,” he whispered. “It will be all right, Jonet. It will be fine.”
Cole cast his eyes heavenward, but divine guidance was not forthcoming. He saw only the high, shadowed ceiling of the schoolroom hanging over his head. Good Lord, what a horrible night! First dinner, Delacourt, and then the dog. Now, he had a case of sexual frustration he would likely never see the end of. The only thing hotter was the throbbing lump on the back of his head, which burned like the devil’s doorstep. And in between, he’d been stabbed—well, severely poked—in the throat with one of those nasty little Scottish knives. It only wanted this—a weeping female!
Cole patted her on the back some more and jiggled her up and down a bit. Was that what one did? He could not remember ever having seen a woman cry so unabashedly. Cole’s mother had been effervescently cheerful. His Aunt Rowland had been too proud to cry openly. And as for his wife... well, Rachel had simply not possessed passion sufficient to fuel such an emotional outpouring. Clearly, Jonet suffered from no such limitation. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder if the woman possessed any restraint at all. In his arms, she sagged pitifully. Deep, tremulous sobs tore through her. Pressed against his inner arm, her too-thin ribs shuddered and heaved. But oh, God! How sweet she felt. Weakly, Cole realized that he was still in serious trouble. Even more so, perhaps, than he had been when Jonet had lain naked in his bed.
His traitorous shaft began to stir at the memory. Just then, as if matters could get any worse, the schoolroom door cracked open. Charles Donaldson stood framed in the darkness. Given the commotion, and Cole’s run of luck, he realized he should have expected it. In the light of the low-burning lamp, the butler looked embarrassed and confused, the huge Adam’s apple in his throat working furiously. Abjectly, Cole stared back with what he knew was a bewildered expression. He realized how unseemly he must appear in the butler’s eyes, but Cole did not know what else to do. Should he put Jonet down? Give her to Donaldson? No ... somehow that did not seem at all proper.
But Donaldson made the decision for him. Apparently, overwrought females did not fall within the scope of his duties, either. Returning Cole’s perplexed expression, the Scotsman gave a little shrug and quickly shut the door. His meaning had been plain. Better you than me. Jonet still sobbed, but a little gentler now. Quietly, and despite his better judgement, Cole shushed her with breathless little noises, his lips pressed close to her temple. It seemed the only decent thing—oh hell, be honest!—it was what he wanted to do.
“Now, now,” he soothed. “What is this all about, Jonet? I think you had best stop crying and tell me.” He smoothed one hand down her back.
“N-n-noo,” she whimpered, her grip on his shirtfront tightening. “Just le-le-leave me alone.”
Cole had no notion of what he ought to do next. Plainly, she was not rational. And despite some of his uglier accusations, Jonet did not strike him as an irrational woman. Arrogant, infuriating, volatile, and lusty—yes. But she was irrational only when she was distraught. And she was distraught only when her children were in danger. Cole exhaled on a sigh. Perhaps there was some seed of logic here after all.
“Jonet, darling,” he coaxed, barely hearing the endearment he used. “What is it? Is it Stuart? Robert? Is it the dog? What?”
“Y-y-es,” she breathed into his chest. Cole could feel the warmth of her tears through his shirt.
Deliberately, Cole bounced her a little as one might a distressed child. “Now, now, Jonet,” he crooned. “Poor old Rogue is fine. The boys are asleep. It was just an accident. The dog simply ate something he shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, yes,” she answered bitterly, lifting her face from his chest. “Something he shouldn’t have. Something that was intended for Robert That is what he ate.”
Her explanation chilled Cole to the bone. He did not like having his worst imaginings cast into stone cold words for yet a second time this awful night. “I think you ought to tell me what you imagine has happened, Jonet.” Cole paused. “In truth, I begin to think there’s a great deal you ought to tell me.”
Slowly, Jonet slithered off his lap and sat a little bit away from him on the sofa. In her lap, she clasped her hands tightly. Snuffling like an abandoned orphan, she looked nothing at all like the arrogant noblewoman who had greeted him with such open disdain just a few weeks earlier. Jonet’s hair was a mess, and the blanket she had purloined from his bed was now slipping off one shoulder, taking her still unfastened nightrail along with it.
To preserve his own sanity, Cole reached out and pulled up the thin fabric, carefully tucking the blanket about her. Jonet remained silent, her hiccuping sobs fading away.
“Jonet...” Cole encouraged.
Eyes fixed on his knees, she exhaled sharply, then dashed away a tear with the back of her hand. “It is obvious, is it not? Someone put something in Robert’s food.”
Cole knew better than to insist that she was wrong. Thus fer, firm, stoic denial had gotten him nowhere. And in truth, had not that very thought crossed his mind? “I considered that possibility, Jonet,” he confessed. “In fact, I asked a great many questions of the kitchen staff.”
Her head jerked up at that. “Did you?” Jonet seemed almost relieved. She had the look of a woman who had been carrying a heavy burden alone for far too long. Cole was blindsided by a wave of shame. He should never have belittled her reactions. Jonet’s fears were quite real, and not without foundation. “Yes, I did ask, Jonet. But there was nothing . . .” He let his words trail away, then picked them up again, his tone more plaintive. “Jonet, the dog ate only a few bites of his pie. Cook bought the meat and prepared it herself. And no one was in—” Cole blanched, realizing the lie before he spoke it.
“What... ?”
“I was going to say that no one unknown to us had access to—”
“James,” hissed Jonet. “His servants—where did they wait this afternoon?”
“In the kitchens,” he reluctantly admitted. “But my darling, I daresay Cook would have noticed if two strange men had gone poking through her pantry.”
Cole winced at his own words. So he was back to “my darling” again. Strange how those endearments kept popping out of his mouth. It had to stop. He simply ought not think of Jonet Rowland, the Marchioness of Mercer, as his darling or his love or even his dear—because she was not and never would be any of those things. Not really. Not to someone like him. But Jonet was softly speaking, and Cole dragged himself away from the bleakness of his future and back into the danger of the present.
“. . . and these things just seem to keep happening,” Jonet was quietly explaining. “I really begin to fear that I will go mad if one more so-called accident occurs. And that will do my boys no good at all. None whatsoever.”
Cole turned to face her on the narrow sofa and took her hands into his. “Jonet, perhaps I have no right to ask, given what just... what we almost...” Words failed him, and he exhaled sharply and began again. “What I mean to say is that I think that you must trust me enough to tell me everything.”
“Everything?” she echoed. Jonet looked tired and confused.
Cole nodded. “Yes. Begin with your husband—with Henry’s—death. I am sorry to ask you to do this, but I think you must tell someone.”
Wearily, she shrugged. “To what end? I have been over the last six months a thousand times, and the conclusion seems obvious.”
“And that is?”
Jonet’s face remained expressionless. “Why, that I poisoned my husband.”
Cole simply stared at her. “Even you suspect it,” she said softly. “I know that you do. But I did not do it.”
Cole felt relief surge forth. He wa
nted so desperately to believe her. And yet, for a moment, she had frightened him very badly. And deliberately, too, he thought. “Just tell me exactly what happened the night your husband died,” he ordered flatly.
Eyes bleak, she nodded. “What harm can it do?” she asked rhetorically. And then, in a voice that was surprisingly calm and neutral, Jonet began to speak.
Chapter 8
Lady Mercer’s Dark And Dangerous Tale
Jonet’s story was simple enough. The New Year’s Eve dinner was a tradition at Mercer House. Despite the fact that much of society removed to the country for the winter, a table of a dozen or so close friends and family members could always be counted upon each year. This year the evening had been relatively informal, and the meal unremarkable. No one had been taken ill, although most had imbibed heartily of both food and drink. Afterward, a few guests had withdrawn to a card table at the far end of the drawing room, while the more energetic had danced until the early hours of the morning.
“And who was in attendance?” asked Cole. “Can you recall?”
“Oh, I shall never forget,” Jonet answered hollowly. “But why am I telling you all of this?” Her distant gaze drifted across the room, refusing to hold his. “Why do you care? I do not understand you, Cole.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he understood himself no better than she did. “Just tell me, Jonet,” he answered instead, his voice too rough.
Succinctly, she nodded. “Yes, all right. There was Lord James, of course. And Edmund and Anne Rowland. William and Lady Constance Carlough. And David—”
“You mean Lord Delacourt?” asked Cole sharply.
“Yes, of course,” answered Jonet, as if there was nothing unusual about a lady of the ton inviting her lover into her husband’s home.
And indeed, there was not. Cole found such understandings distasteful, but they were hardly unusual. Moreover, his opinion was of little consequence. “Yes, go on.”
Jonet snared her lip as if struggling to remember. “There was Lord Waldborogh, and his widowed sister, Lady Diana Trimble, whom I believe Henry ogled for the better part of the evening. Oh! And Lord and Lady Pace.”
“Pace?” Cole frowned. “I thought he and Mercer were on opposite ends of most debates.”
Jonet smiled weakly. “Henry was always on the end which best suited his purposes. I believe that of late, Lord Pace had persuaded him to his side on a number of issues, but nothing of any consequence.”
Cole filed that fact away for later consideration. Jonet’s tone was still emotionless, as if she had considered these very same details a hundred times. Perhaps she had.
“And who else, Jonet?” he gently prodded.
“Sir Ronald Holt, Henry’s gaming companion, and his wife.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “And of course, there was Mrs. Lanier.” Her voice dropped a note. “I daresay you know who she is?” Jonet’s tone made it plain that she did.
Cole paused for several seconds, then discreetly cleared his throat. “I understand,” he answered carefully, “that she and your late husband were... close.”
“As often as possible.” Jonet gave a harsh laugh. “But Glorianna seemed harmless enough.”
Cole caught the strain in her voice. “ ‘Seemed’? Have you now reason to believe otherwise?”
Jonet shrugged, sending the blanket slithering back down her shoulder. Inwardly, Cole sighed, but he dared not touch her again. “Oh, Ellen wants to believe Glorianna killed Henry—but I cannot agree. He was too valuable alive.”
With the back of her hand, Jonet swept away her hair, which kept tumbling seductively over her shoulder. Cole’s stomach did a flip-flop, but he stayed the course. “Jonet, there was talk about an argument that night. It was said that you and Henry quarreled.”
She paused for a long moment. “We quarreled often. But not that night.”
Cole sensed that she was being deliberately vague. “Jonet—there was a quarrel.”
Jonet pursed her lips stubbornly, then, finally, she looked up at him with surrender in her eyes. “Toward the end of the evening,” she said bleakly, “Henry and David had an argument in the book-room.”
Cole looked pointedly at her. “Precisely what happened, Jonet?”
Jonet looked reluctant. “I overheard the beginning of their quarrel from the corridor. And so I went in, and told them that their voices could almost certainly be heard through doors which connect it to the drawing room. Those doors close quite loosely, you know and—” For no discernable reason, Jonet’s explanation jerked to a halt, and she colored furiously.
“No, I did not,” said Cole dryly.
“Well, they do,” she answered, then lifted her chin and continued. “And so I pointed that fact out to them, and they finished their discussion in more hushed, if not more civil, tones.”
Cole studied her for a long moment. “Did they quarrel over you, Jonet?”
Jonet chewed at her lip for a moment. “You must understand—it was not that Henry cared about my relationship with David, it was simply that that gossip had gotten out of hand.”
“Did they quarrel over you, Jonet?” Cole repeated, his voice more demanding.
In her lap, Jonet’s hand fluttered uncertainly. “Yes,” she said at last. “If you must know, Henry insisted that David and I stop seeing one another. He had already tried that with me, and I told him to go to hell. And so he threatened David instead.”
Cole felt suddenly ill. “With what did he threaten Delacourt?”
Jonet avoided his eyes. “He made several wild suggestions,” she said vaguely.
“Initially, he said he would seek a divorce. He said that all of society believed us to be lovers, and that he could no longer tolerate the humiliation. He said”—her voice choked for a moment—”he said that, if necessary, witnesses could be paid to give the evidence needed to charge adultery.”
Cole realized at once she was not being entirely-honest, but the horror of what she had said stunned him. “My god, Jonet! You would have been ruined”
“Oh?” She looked at him disdainfully; “And what am I now, Cole? Something less than a picture of moral rectitude, would you not say?”
Cole had no answer for that, but some very unpleasant thoughts were beginning to take shape in his mind. “And what was Delacourt’s response to Mercer’s demand?”
“Nothing,” she said hesitantly. “I stopped them, saying that if they must quarrel, to be discreet. I was shaken, but I suggested that we all go into the drawing room, and behave as if nothing untoward had occurred.”
Cole sensed that Jonet was holding something back. “Did anyone notice that you had all come in together?” he probed.
“I daresay they did. And that horrid man—that Mr. Lyons, the magistrate —he thought that it was I who had started the quarrel. He implied as much by the look on his face.”
“Did you tell him that it was Lord Delacourt and not yourself?”
Jonet drew herself up to her full height, and suddenly, despite her pink nose and disheveled nightclothes, she looked every inch the haughty noblewoman. “I did not. He did not ask. He merely hinted at what he believed—and it will be a cold day in hell before I stoop to defend myself from idle gossip.”
“But Jonet,” Cole persisted. “Did you not clarify this during the inquest?”
“Oh!” Jonet pulled a stubborn face. “And just what was I to say? Would you have me discuss my private life in public? Besides, at the time, I was just so sure Henry had died of natural causes, and the inquest happened so quickly...”
Cole sighed and ran a hand down his face. He was afraid he was beginning to see what part Jonet’s pride might have played in this whole debacle. “Yes, very well,” he muttered. “Let us return to the dinner party. Were there any other guests present? What happened next?”
“No others,” said Jonet. “Lord Pace was the last to leave, at about two. I remained behind with the staff. Henry disappeared, as he often did. I supposed he had arranged to
meet Mrs. Lanier.” A shadow of pain flickered in her eyes. “But I was wrong. It seems he went straight to his room after all.”
“And did you see him again? Did you go to his room for any reason?”
Jonet shook her head, and refused to look up from the fists she held clenched in her lap. “We had not that... that sort of relationship.”
“I did not mean to suggest—” Cole felt heat suffuse his face. He was glad Jonet was not looking at him. “What I meant was, perhaps you went in to say goodnight? Or to try and reason with him?”
Beneath the lawn of her nightrail, Jonet’s slender body jerked convulsively. “No,” she answered, her voice a choked whisper. “We didn’t even have that sort of a relationship.”
“Yes, I see ...” In the dim lamplight, Cole watched her quietly for a long moment, and slowly, Jonet recovered herself. His heart ached for this woman—the one who gave every impression of having been deeply affected by her husband’s death. She seemed so far removed from the cold, insolent marchioness whom he had met upon his arrival at Mercer House that Cole could scarcely reconcile the two. And what of the woman whom he had almost bedded tonight? Ah! She, too, was different—but in yet another way.
In the back of his mind, of course, he could hear his Uncle James warning him, cautioning him to be wary of Lady Mercer’s sharply honed feminine wiles—laughing at him, even, for taking her so recklessly to his bed. Cole struggled to shut away the noise. Almost making love to Jonet had been a dreadful misjudgment, yes, but surely Jonet’s grief was real?
But upon careful consideration, Cole realized that it was not so much grief that seemed to torment Jonet as it was a deep and abiding sadness. A kind of distant regret, a wistful longing that her marriage could have been different Admittedly, she had not loved Lord Mercer. It was almost as if she needed to mourn for her husband —and came away as saddened by the fact that she could not, as she was by his very death. How well Cole knew that sort of anguish.
But perhaps he was merely painting her with the pigments of his own torment. How foolish that was. Jonet had little reason to mourn a man whom she had been forced to marry; a man who had never harbored any intention of honoring his wedding vows. Indeed, some would suggest she had had cause to hate her husband. James would insist that hate him she surely did. But neither hate, nor guilt —nor even lust—had anything to do with Cole’s purpose in talking so openly with Jonet now. Slowly, it had dawned on him that he must get to the bottom of Lord Mercer’s death, and not just for his own peace of mind.
