A Woman Scorned (21 page)

Cole willed himself to be calm, but inwardly, he was far angrier on Jonet’s behalf than he should have been. His feelings for her were sharp, almost painful, and he did not understand them. With one hand, Cole pulled off his spectacles, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. James always made his head ache. “Sir,” he said bluntly, “I shan’t act as your spy. I believe we have already discussed that.”

James puffed out his cheeks impatiently and drew his breath to argue, but Cole cut firmly across him. “Indeed, Uncle, I have something of an argument with you. I discovered too late that you failed to fully explain my circumstances to Lady Mercer. I daresay I ought to have left as quickly as I came when I learned that you had failed to secure her agreement.”

“Agreement!” spouted James indignantly.
“Agreement
, do you say? One cannot reason with a madwoman, Cole. A horsewhip! The woman threatened me with a bloody horsewhip, for pity’s sake!”

Cole suppressed a hiss of impatience. “Good heavens, James! That was no horsewhip. Just a riding crop. Mine, to be precise.” Casually, he leaned forward to refill his coffee, steeling himself to tell a blatant lie. “No doubt Lady Mercer was merely tidying up. I am sure she meant you no harm.”

“Balderdash, Cole, and you know it!” James looked truly angry now.

“Do I?” he asked coolly, lifting his cup and staring over the rim with a hint of a challenge.

But James was having none of it. “You bloody well do! She would have striped the hide from my face had you not dragged her away from me! And I daresay the Marchioness of Mercer has little need to go about ‘tidying up’ after her fine Scottish servants.”

“Pray come to the point, Uncle,” said Cole a little grimly. “As it happens, the boys are awaiting my return to the schoolroom, and it is plain to me that you have not come to see them.”

James’s face flooded with red. “By gad, you’re an unnatural nephew, Cole. Just think how it would look if I waited upon you without first asking for the children!” he blustered. “Lady Mercer would think I have given up! That I do not mean to assert my rights!”

“Precisely my point, sir.” Cole pushed away the coffee he had just poured. “Now what do you want?”

“Nothing,” said James coldly, jerking his ponderous weight out of the chair. “Nothing which you will tell me, that is plain enough.”

Smoothly, Cole rose to his feet. “The boys do go on perfectly well, sir. And Lady Mercer, despite her rash temper, seems a loving mother.” Cole softened his tone a bit. “Should I see anything to the contrary, surely you must know that you can trust me not to remain silent?”

“I am not entirely certain, Cole,” grumbled his uncle, a little mollified as they made their way toward the door. “I bloody well hope you have not fallen under that woman’s spell.” Abruptly, James halted and eyed his nephew up and down suspiciously.

Cole felt his face go tight with the indignity of it. The truth hit a little close to home. “I should hope, sir, that you know me somewhat better than that,” he retorted coldly.

“Oh, I suppose so,” muttered James gruffly. “She is hardly the type of woman
you
would consort with, is she? You are far too morally discerning, I daresay, to fall in with the likes of her.”

“Let us just say that the lady is not at all to my taste, sir,” replied Cole as he laid his hand upon the door handle. “Nor can I imagine that I am hers.”

Jonet did not hear his last eight words. She spun quickly away from the doors and strode across the room to stand before the fireplace, her head bowed, her chest choked with an emotion she did not understand. A crushing sense of despair hit her, and she sank into the broad armchair by the hearth. Down the hall, the drawing room door clicked smoothly open, and heavy footsteps sounded toward the front entry. In the corridor, James’s pretentious voice echoed as he called for his coachman and footman to be sent up from the kitchens.

Thank God he was leaving.

Wearily, Jonet toed off her slippers, curled up in the chair, and let the waves of regret and relief roll over her. There was little doubt now about what James wanted Cole to do—but apparently, Cole was not amenable to his uncle’s scheme. That was something, was it not?

And yet, her sense of disappointment deepened, far outweighing the relief. There were other feelings, too. Deep, perplexing emotions which Jonet did not want to consider, much less feel. It was as though a dozen different currents tugged at her, any one of which could drag her beneath the churning surface. She was strong, yes. But good God, was she strong enough?

Well, she had to be, did she not? She had no choice, and never had. Life had taught Jonet that she was a survivor, that she was
hard
. But Cole Amherst was harder. She knew it instinctively. And deep inside, Jonet also knew that she should be grateful that it was not he whom she was pitted against. Oh, yes. Better an unseen enemy than an invincible one.

It was clear that Cole was as in command with his uncle as he was with everyone else. And now, had there been any doubt, Cole had made it equally clear that he held her in no great esteem. Indeed! The proud Captain Amherst was apparently “too discerning” in his tastes to “consort with the likes of her,” or so James had said. What lowering words those were, no matter whose mouth they came from.

At times, Cole could be exceedingly kind, it was true. But his air of moral superiority was real. She had not simply imagined it. She would never be the sort of woman Cole Amherst would . . . would
befriend
. Even the obtuse James knew Cole better than to think otherwise. And Jonet, who had always been a clever, confident woman, knew it, too. Why, then, did Cole’s words cut her so deeply?

He was nothing to her
. Brutally, Jonet shoved herself upright in the chair and jerked her spine perfectly straight. Amherst’s opinion mattered no more than anyone else’s—which meant it mattered not one whit! Jonet was not blind. On those rare occasions when she ventured beyond her front door, Jonet could hardly misconstrue the whispers, the stares, and—other than David—the almost total lack of callers. She, who had long been the toast of London—a woman who had had her choice of escorts every day of the season, and who had been invited to bed by half the House of Lords—was now a pariah to the
ton
.

Strangely enough, the loss of society’s esteem had not surprised her. What had surprised her had been how little she had cared. Cole meant no more to her than they did. Absently, Jonet pressed the heel of her hand against her brow and rubbed.
Another headache
. She was dimly aware of the clock striking the hour as someone pushed open the drawing room door. Startled, Jonet snapped her gaze upward.

Ellen came into the book-room, carrying a swath of black silk draped over her arm. She pursed her lips into a vexed smile. “Oh, there you are, Jonet! Will you please have a look at this gown?” Her cousin crossed the room, her arm outstretched. “I have stitched these jet beads across the bodice, just as you like it. Now, have I enough, do you think?” With a sigh, Ellen dropped the gown into Jonet’s lap.

Jonet looked down at the dress, lightly fingering the fine fabric. The work was exquisite. “Oh, Ellen!” Admiration battled with exasperation. “You need not be forever doing things for me. I can very well stitch my own beading.”

Ellen looked aggrieved. “Is the work not to your liking?”

“Oh, Ellen! Do sit down.” Jonet motioned to a chair opposite. “You are like a sister to me. It troubles me to see you behave as if you are anything less.”

It was an old argument, and one that Jonet and Ellen had had many times before. Since marrying Henry, Jonet had tried to continue treating her cousin as a member of the family. But Ellen had resisted. And despite Ellen’s arguments, her remaining alone at Kildermore had been quite out of the question, given her age and unmarried status. There had been a time when she’d assumed Ellen would want a home of her own, and so Jonet had dragged Ellen to balls and routs, introducing her to suitable men. But her cousin would have none of it. Ellen’s wishes remained a mystery to Jonet.

Jonet drew a deep breath. “You are angry with me again, are you not? I daresay I have done something to deserve it, Ellen, but I know not what.”

“I am not angry, Jonet!” answered her cousin. “It is you, I believe, who is distressed. Has Captain Amherst done something to upset you?”

“No, nothing,” lied Jonet softly.

“Now, now my dear!” Ellen’s face tightened, but her tone softened. “Indeed, Jonet, I fancy that you are just a little too intrigued by him. You cannot lie to me, you know.”

Jonet gave Ellen a dry smile. “No, I cannot, can I? But I do not think that—”

Her words were forestalled by Charles Donaldson’s entrance. Across the room, his eyes caught and held Jonet’s for a long moment as a look of understanding passed between them.

“A caller, my lady,” he finally announced, flicking a look toward Ellen. “It is Pearson from Bow Street. He has brought his final report on Captain Amherst.”

“Well!” announced Ellen a quarter hour later as Donaldson escorted the Bow Street runner from the book-room. “I must say, Jonet, you never cease to surprise me.”

“In what way, my dear?” Jonet turned her pensive stare from the cold hearth to study her cousin’s face.

Ellen shot her a wry look. “Uncle always bragged that you were hard as flint. I might have known you would not be so foolish as to trust Captain Amherst altogether.”

Jonet jerked from her chair and crossed to the window, bracing her hands on either side of the embrasure. Blindly, she stared down into the side street as her groom brought Pearson’s horse around. “I trust no one,” she finally responded, her voice low.

Ellen seemed not to have heard her. “I wonder what Lord James will do next.”

Turning her face from the window, Jonet stared over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Ellen let her eyes drift over Jonet. “Oh, James is up to something, and no mistake.”

Jonet snorted in a most unladylike fashion and pushed herself away from the window. “James has been ‘up to something’ from the moment I wed Henry, Ellen. To what specific iniquity do you refer?”

Ellen lifted her shoulders and looked up, her eyes wide. “I daresay he means to discredit your morals by setting up Captain Amherst as a credible witness. Perhaps he thinks to catch you out in some terrible indiscretion?”

“What are you saying, Ellen?”

“Why, my dear, I hardly think I know.” Again, she shrugged equivocally. “Perhaps James is disturbed by your relationship with Lord Delacourt. Indeed, he may have chosen to believe—unfairly, of course—what is said of you two.”

Carefully, Ellen folded her hands into her lap, hesitated but a moment, then spoke again, more gently. “In truth, my dear, mightn’t it be best not to see Delacourt for a time? Just a few months,” she swiftly added. “Your mourning will be over, and then you may—”

“And then I may do
what?
” interjected Jonet peevishly.

“Marry David?
Et tu Brute?
Do you think I poisoned my husband as well?”

“That is not what I was suggesting, Jonet!” insisted Ellen hotly, springing up from her chair. “I neither know nor care what you plan to do with Delacourt! I am merely suggesting you keep your distance from him—and from Captain Amherst, for that matter!”

“Oh, Ellen!” said Jonet softly, opening her arms and drawing Ellen into a light embrace. “I must mind my sharp tongue.” Gently, she patted her cousin on the back. “Come, now! You can trust me to curb my Cameron wickedness in front of Captain Amherst!”

“I suppose so,” came Ellen’s worried response.

Jonet pushed Ellen back a little and smiled at her. “Do you think me so incorrigible, then? I can behave if I must. And I do not think Captain Amherst will pay overmuch attention to me. In fact, I have reason to believe he thinks me far beneath his notice.”

Ellen sniffed with disdain. “Oh, that sort of man would, wouldn’t he?”

A little hurt by Ellen’s agreement, Jonet let her hands drop. “Perhaps you are more to his liking.”

“How silly,” insisted Ellen, snatching Jonet’s black silk dress as they strolled toward the door.

Jonet held open the door as her cousin passed through.

“Perhaps,” she softly responded. “But neither of us can ignore him, particularly when he’s to make a rare appearance at dinner tonight.”

Cole dressed for dinner with a little more than his usual care. In light of his new duties, he had at last felt compelled to temporarily put away his regimentals and dust off his civilian wardrobe, which was plain to the point of severity. There had been no place for peacocks in the hallowed halls of Cambridge, and in truth, despite his financial situation, Cole had always dressed essentially as his father before him had done. Which was to say, rather like a vicar. And so he carefully attired himself in a plain gray waistcoat and matching breeches, then topped it off with his best black frock coat.

Well, that was that
, he thought, turning to study himself in the mirror. A true country parson in the making. Ruefully, he poked through the heavy walnut wardrobe into which Jonet’s servants had carefully placed his things. It was of no use. All of his coats were just as black and just as severe. Fleetingly, he thought of Delacourt’s dapper wardrobe, and wished on his next breath that he looked half as slender and elegant. Then, angry with himself, he slammed shut the wardrobe door, very nearly catching the loose ends of his cravat in it. That simply would not do. He did not have—and did not want—the services of some puffed-up valet to press and re-press his linen merely because he had not the patience or the intelligence to care for it properly.

Ruthlessly, Cole lashed his cravat into its usual severe style, but a little tighter and a little higher than usual—not out of any point of vanity, but mostly to punish himself for being so witless and facile as to worry about how he looked in comparison to another man. His orderly Moseby had often remarked that Cole’s attire wanted only a hair shirt to make it fully effective punishment. It was true that Cole liked to be turned out with military precision, but he had always seen it as his duty to look the part of a dedicated officer. Particularly at a formal occasion such as dinner.