A Woman Scorned (27 page)

But Jonet was glaring at him as if he’d said he ate puppies for breakfast. “Oh, for pity’s sake!” he hissed. “Don’t look at me like that! You’re safe in your own home! Really, Jonet, I sometimes think you are just a bit too melodramatic.”

Cole never saw the blow coming. Jonet’s hand cracked across his jaw and snapped his head halfway around. Eyes watering, face stinging, he stared at her, open-mouthed. Jonet’s face was tight with emotion, her bottom lip trembled, and her eyes welled with tears. “You arrogant, selfrighteous swine!” Her voice was a rasping whisper. “How dare you tell me what I can or cannot do inside my own home to protect my own children? You know nothing!” Her voice took on a hysterical edge. “Do you hear me?
Not one bloody thing!”

She came at him again, smacking and clawing like a wildcat. Not knowing what else to do, Cole threw his arms around her waist, pressing her arms to her sides. Kicking and flailing, Jonet hissed like a cornered animal, then sunk her teeth into his shoulder. Out of desperation, he yanked her off her feet, resolutely carried her to the sofa, and collapsed. Jonet landed awkwardly, half across his lap. For a moment, she continued to flail ineffectually, and then suddenly, she fell against him like a dead weight.

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 far, 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 wanted 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.

 8 

Lady Mercer’s dark and dangerous Tale

J
onet’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.