by Liz Carlyle
“Oh, aye! Ye mean the fits and the spells.” Donaldson shook his head. “No, no’ a’tall. Tis true that as a girl she was a wee bit unruly,” he admitted. “But no lass e’r had a better heart. And her feelings run deep, that they do. Once, you could see ‘em plain on her face, too, but that was before...”
Cole looked at him expectantly, hoping that he would go on without being prodded. He felt shameless enough for discussing Jonet as it was. The butler took the bait.
“But that’s how we grew up, sir,” he added, peering intently across the table as if he were explaining something of great importance. “Running wild along the seashore and o’er the moors—all of us—Miss Ellen, sometimes, too. Lady Jonet could’na know what sort of future she was tae have. We were too young to understand titles and duties and expectations.”
Cole sighed inwardly, feeling just a little of the shock Jonet must have felt when her life in Scotland had jerked to a halt, flinging her into the arms of a man whom she had not wished to wed, and apparently, into a lifestyle she had wanted even less. But Donaldson was still staring into his tankard and mumbling about the past.”And if you want to know about her temper,” the butler was saying, “it is true that Lady Jonet has always been her own person—a passionate and stubborn lass, too. But on edge like this? No. Tis something altogether recent But it’s hell she’s been through, no mistake. T’would unhinge anyone.”
“Yes, I daresay it might,” Cole admitted. For a time, he sat quietly, simply staring into the darkness of the public house. A nagging sense of urgency dogged him. Urgency not just in the sense that they needed to return to Mercer House, but also in that now familiar sense that something was terribly wrong, and that he had very little time left in which to rectify it. “Tell me,” Cole said suddenly, “what was the late Lord Kildermore like? Did you know him?”
It was as if a dark cloud passed over the butler’s eyes. Donaldson put down his tankard and pensively ran his finger around the rim. “Aye. Knew him well enough.”
Cole leaned urgently across the table. “Then tell me, what manner of man was he? I must confess, I have heard little which is flattering. Perhaps you have a more balanced view?”
“Ah, I doot it,” he said bitterly. “He was a laird who kept servants in their places, and tae his way of thinkin’, that meant tending his cattle, scrubbin’ his castle, or warming his bed. Reckon someone forgot tae tell him that the right of first bedding went out with the Jacobites.”
Cole gave a grunt of disgust “Not a very pleasant sort, it sounds.” Suddenly, he was struck by an appalling thought.”Donaldson, you’re not—I mean—he’s not your ...”
The ugly question was almost past his lips before he could stop himself. The butler’s fine black brows went up at that, and suddenly, he looked startlingly sober.
“D’ye mean was he my father, aye?” he said grudgingly. “Weel—go on! You’re not the first tae ask. And the truth is, I do na’ know. Kildermore was na’ in the habit of claiming his bastards. My mother was a chambermaid, but she died giving birth—”
“I am sorry,” interjected Cole, aghast. “It’s none of my concern. I merely wish to ascertain Kildermore’s nature. I suppose I hoped to find some decency in the man, but it seems there was little.”
“Decency?” Donaldson shook his head, then, almost as a begrudging afterthought, he lifted one shoulder. “In his own way, he seemed fond enough of Lady Jonet. Doted on her a bit when he was home, which wasna often, mind. And when Miss Ellen’s parents died, he took her in straightaway.” The butler’s eyes narrowed a bit. “But for the most part, he was thought tae have no conscience a’tall. Yet when his health began to fail, I think the guilt caught up w’him.”
“The guilt?” Cole lifted his gaze to meet Donaldson’s.
“Aye, for having married off his daughter to Lord Mercer. No one knew better what sort of man the marquis was than did Kildermore.” Donaldson gave a bitter grin.
“Birds of a feather, they were.”
Reluctantly, Cole drew the watch from his waistcoat and stared at it. It would soon be time for dinner. “Look, Donaldson,” he said abruptly, “it grows late. I daresay we’d best return. Might we continue this discussion later tonight?”
The street was almost empty when they stepped out of the Drum and Feather. Cole paused for a moment on the footpath to look down the lane into Carnaby Market. In the fading light, the cobblestones glistened with rain, as the last of the day’s heat rose up from the street, bringing with it the odor of damp horse manure and old soot Grateful to have at least escaped the smoke and noise of the public house, he walked quietly beside Donaldson as they set off toward Mayfair.
Donaldson’s stride was long and straight, and Cole wondered yet again if the man was as drunk as he wanted Cole to believe. He had carefully led Cole to reveal more than he had meant to say. Admittedly, Cole’s relationship to James gave Jonet’s staff cause to be suspicious. But if it had been the butler’s way of measuring Cole’s character, Cole was certain he had passed.
Chapter 10
Lady Mercer Seizes Command
Late that evening, Jonet sat alone in the book-room, staring through the thick glass as rain descended over Mayfair yet again. The normally comforting smells of beeswax, old books, and well-burnished leather went all but unnoticed. Tonight, there was no fire, and none should have been necessary. She should not have been cold. But she was. The insidious damp felt pervasive, as if it had crept into her soul. With quick, jerking motions, Jonet dragged her damask shawl tighter, then drifted toward the window.
Behind, in a distant corner, a mahogany longcase dock dolefully tacked off the minutes, each slower than the one before. As the dock struck half past the hour, a watchman appeared in the street below, his call lost in the clatter of a passing carriage and four. In the aftermath, an oppressive silence fell over the house like a heavy blanket. Jonet dropped her forehead to the cool glass. Oh, God! She was lonely. The knowledge fisted hard in her stomach like a driving blow.
“But why now?” she whispered into the heavy darkness. Why now—after all the years of being alone and empty— why had it begun to torment her almost past bearing? Tonight was a dark sheet of emptiness, like the rain which slicked the cobbles and ran down the windowpanes, sliding silently into another empty tomorrow. There was no one— nothing save her own black thoughts—left to bear her company tonight. Now the emptiness, like the fear that so often haunted her, was a tangible thing.
Jonet had sent David away immediately after dinner, and the children had been long since tucked into then-beds. She wanted Cole. She had willed him to come to her. But he had not. He was avoiding her. And now she was left to acknowledge the almost girlish naiveté that had brought her to this empty room alone. She had hoped to meet him here.
Jonet had often seen Cole linger in the book-room at odd hours of the day, his head bent to some thick, musty tome, his long, elegant fingers splayed carelessly at his temple, and his gold wire spectacles slipping, unnoticed, down his nose. She could almost see his quick hand sliding the quill across the page, then darting toward the inkhorn and back again. As with all his motions, his reading and writing were possessed of a smooth, economic grace which never seemed hurried; merely certain and solid. And so, after dinner she had made her not-so-subtle excuses to David and she had come here to wait, hoping against hope that Cole might seek her out—or at least stumble upon her unawares. She would take what she could get, it seemed.
All through dinner she had watched him, yet he had guardedly avoided her eyes. No doubt there was something in his gold-brown gaze he did not wish her to see. With every unspoken word, every subtle gesture, it had felt as if Cole was emotionally distancing himself from her tonight. And as she had stared at him across a chasm of white linen and glittering crystal, Jonet had been left to wonder if it had anything to do with the woman who had called for him earlier this afternoon.
That classic face and shock of red-gold hair were indeli bly imprinted on her mind.
The lady’s air of youthful innocence had utterly disarmed Jonet. Indeed, in her confusion, she hardly remembered Ellen explaining who the woman was. Exactly what had Ellen said? And what had she called her? Louisa... Lauderwood. Yes, that was it. And undoubtedly, Cole had found it no great sacrifice to spend the afternoon reading to her and her father. She had seemed just the sort of woman who would appeal to him—in something more than just the baser physical sense.
Jealousy, an emotion Jonet had virtually no experience with, had begun to claw at her gut as soon as the woman had swept past Ellen and out the door to her waiting carriage. Jonet had wanted to confide in her elder cousin, to cry on her shoulder as she used to do as a girl, but she had been too ashamed to let even Ellen see her humiliation. And in that moment, she had found herself blindly and bitterly hating the lovely Miss Lauderwood.
For pity’s sake, when had she become so acrimonious? With such a childish attitude, it was no wonder she had found tonight’s dinner interminable. Not even Ellen’s cheerfully sustained efforts at conversation could have concealed the fact that Cole and David had been looking daggers at one another again. Jonet had no idea what they could possibly find to quarrel over. David was a little arrogant, yes, but it was a part of his attraction. And as for Cole, his normally steady disposition seemed a degree less so today. No doubt she had driven him to exasperation with her behavior last night. Perhaps he had even been repulsed by her.
No! Damn it, that was not it. Heat suffused Jonet’s face and throat, and spread lower still. She knew that Cole had found her more than attractive. The evidence—the heat of his stare, the desperation in his touch, and yes, the urgent quickening of his body —had been all too apparent. And if he had desired her once, albeit briefly, could he not be made to do so again?
At breakfast this morning, she had been convinced that he would never be so persuaded, and she had been willing to accept that, and settle for something less. Now, all Jonet’s noble thoughts of compromise—of grasping Cole’s tentative gestures toward friendship instead of tempting him to something more passionate— had all but vanished in the aftermath of Miss Lauderwood’s visit. Dear heaven! She could not bear the thought of another woman having Him.
Jonet lifted her head from the glass. It had been so long since she had thought about anything other than her children’s welfare that she found it hard to believe lust could have seized her with such a stranglehold. But it had, and most inopportunely, too, for she’d wanted Cole Amherst the first day she’d seen him. Raw, unslaked desire had knifed through her shield of fear and rage, and nothing had been the same since.
Perhaps she ought to seduce the man and get him out of her system? Could it be just that simple? Could she do it? And more importantly, would he? Was it not said that men found her a sorceress? Jonet had never understood it, but enough of them had thrown themselves at her feet to make her realize that she must possess some superficial quality that engendered the inane devotion of men. Indeed, there had been a time not so long ago when it had been wildly fashionable to court her. With a persistence that bordered on the farcical, the bucks and beaus of town had desperately vied for nothing more than a waltz, or the opportunity to see her safely home. Wagers had been lost, swords unsheathed, and ill words spoken amongst men who had accounted themselves friends mere moments earlier. And all the while, Jonet had looked on, confused.
Young, inexperienced, and bored to distraction, she had not done enough to sharply discourage them. Her actions, she now knew, had been born of some foolish hope that her husband would regret his shabby treatment of her; that through the eyes of her many suitors, he would come to see her as someone worthy—and not just of his bed, but of his devotion. Jonet laughed aloud at her own naivete.
Cole wasn’t fool enough to imagine her a sorceress. And there was no manipulating him, for from the very first, Cole had proven impervious to her greatest weapons. Her initial line of defense—to outsmart him—was hopeless, since the man had a brilliant mind. Flirtation was of no use; his disdain could chill blood. And her attempts at condescension left her feeling shallow and unworthy, as if he had won every encounter by virtue of rising above her mean behavior.
Indeed, it often seemed Cole had a way of picking out her every human shortcoming and gently holding it up for her inspection. One could never persuade such a man to do anything that was against his nature. Nonetheless, he was a man—every golden, rock-hard inch of him. Which only begged the question again. Could she seduce him? There was only one way to find out.
———
With one boot propped high on the brass fender, Cole stretched out in his chair and listened to the rain with the satisfaction of an old soldier who is snug and dry, and knows too well the value of being so. Across the narrow surface that served Charles Donaldson as both table and desk, Cole and the butler eyed one another smugly as the second wave of rain began to spill from the downspouts and gush past the foundations of Mercer House.
Belowstairs, the damp could not reach them, for the butler’s abode was strategically placed on a wall which abutted the huge kitchen hearth. Tonight, Cole found it an exceedingly comfortable haven. After suffering through another miserable dinner with Jonet, Ellen, and Delacourt, Cole had accepted with alacrity Donaldson’s invitation to resume their discussion over a “wee dram of whisky.” The wee dram had quickly become the better part of a bottle, and Donaldson’s hospitality showed no sign of abating.
“Will ye have anither, Cap’n?” asked Donaldson, his words cutting through the haze of Cole’s thoughts. The butler tipped the bottle unsteadily forward. Smoothly, Cole shoved his glass in place just in the nick of time, then raised it high as Donaldson topped his own.
“And to whom shall we drink this time, sir?” Cole asked, cheerfully striking the rim of Donaldson’s glass with his.
“Ah—! I have it!” proclaimed Donaldson. “To the River Zadorra! May it e’er run red with Frenchie blood!”
By midnight, Jonet still had seen nothing of Cole. No light burned beneath his bedchamber door, the schoolroom lay dark and empty, and both boys were still sound asleep in their beds. As so often was the case, Jonet had found herself roaming the empty corridors of Mercer House like a restless spirit. It was the sound of loud, argumentative voices that caught her attention belowstairs. Carefully, Jonet made to her way through the darkened kitchen. The sound, she quickly realized, was coming from Charlie’s sitting room. Just as she made her way past the hearth, her fears were subdued by a burst of loud laughter.
“No, no! I must beg to differ, Donaldson!” she heard Cole loudly assert. “I claim that honor on behalf of the cavalry! Had they not smashed the French rear guard, the battle might have dragged on interminably.”
Relief coursed through Jonet. War stories. They were not arguing at all, and it was no longer a secret just where Cole had hidden himself for the evening. “Aye, weel” she heard Donaldson growl, “the last thing I remember was taking a Frenchie bayonette in the arse, so I canna argue what I didna see, but it was the infantry that carried the day, and no mistake, Cap’n! I wish I hadna missed the sight of those Frogs bolting for Pamplona, tha’ I do!”
Swiftly, before her courage could fail, Jonet knocked loudly on the door of the butler’s pantry. Immediately, a hush fell over the room, much as it did when one caught Stuart and Robert making mischief in the attic. “Come!” Donaldson finally barked.
Jonet pushed open the door to a sight that, had she not been weak with dread, would surely have left her whooping with laughter. Donaldson sat tipped back against the wall in a high-backed chair, his stocking feet propped upon his desk, and his black coat tossed into a nearby heap. Across the narrow room, Cole Amherst sprawled in a worn armchair by the hearth, one boot propped on the fender, his cravat gone, and his hand clutching a fistful of Scotland’s best. “Your ladyship!” answered Donaldson as both men mapped to their feet. The butler’s chair fell to the flagstone floor with an awful clatter.
Cole politely inclined his head as the but
ler scrambled to right his furniture. “Lady Mercer,” he said coolly, “I believe you have caught us unawares. Do excuse us.” His unruffled tone was belied by the color flushing up his face.
Staring at the open throat of Cole’ shirt, Jonet’s courage wry nearly faltered. “I—no, not at all,” she managed to stutter. “Do sit down. I merely wished—that is to say— I wondered, Captain Amherst, if I might have a word with you in my sitting room? At your convenience.”
Cole looked at her in some surprise. “My lady, it is past midnight. The children—?”
“Are perfectly well,” she interjected. “But if the hour is too late, we may speak another time.”
His expression guarded, Cole set down his glass. “I am at your service, of course, ma’am,” he said cautiously. “If you will but give me a moment to restore my cravat to some semblance of order, I will wait upon you shortly.”
———
The haute monde, who had once watched in mute amazement as the most dashing men amongst them paid court to the Marchioness of Mercer, would scarce have recognized her tonight. The woman who now paced anxiously across the floor of her sitting room bore little resemblance to the femme fatale who had so proudly sauntered her way through the salons and ballrooms of London. As she paced, she clutched her hands before her in a nearly white-knuckled grip, for it seemed to Jonet that hours had passed, and still Cole had not arrived. Perhaps he had already sensed the torment which had sent her searching for him. Perhaps he knew what she wanted. He seemed just that sort of man, capable of seeing past her defenses and into her heart with an ease which left her reeling. But in truth, it would have taken little to see through the facade she had thrown up. Jonet knew that for a woman who was considered the epitome of boldness, she had faltered badly in making her request to Cole.
Suddenly, he appeared in her open doorway, his height and broad shoulders nearly filling it. Despite his size, he still looked graceful, his hips almost lethally lean, as he halted just across her threshold. He did not, however, look altogether pleased to be summoned to her private quarters, and Jonet wondered if his earlier civility had been displayed as much for Charlie’s benefit as for her own. Now, he leaned one shoulder negligently against the lin tel and regarded her in a moody silence. His warmth of this morning seemed to be burning down into something else altogether. His indolent grace was a dangerous sign. Of course, she knew that he had been drinking off and on all evening. Not heavily, but consistently.
