A Woman Scorned
Titles by Liz Carlyle
My False Heart
A Woman Scorned
A
Woman
Scorned
L
IZ
C
ARLYLE
SONNET BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore
“Oh, I daresay I know why James sent you here, Captain Amherst,”
Jonet snapped, swishing across the room as boldly as she dared. “What I begin to wonder is whether you do.”
Crossing her arms over her chest to keep her hands from visibly shaking, she turned her back to him and stared out the window. In her agitation, Jonet had given no thought to how rude and haughty such a gesture might appear. Amherst, however, seemed to have grasped it rather quickly. Almost at once, she was shocked to feel the heat of his hand on her shoulder, burning through the fabric of her gown. She whipped around to face him, a cruel reprimand dying on her lips.
Amherst’s face was so close she could see the insolent curve of his lip and the shadow of his beard beneath his skin. He was so tall she could feel the warmth of his breath across her forehead. Like a heavy shadow falling, the man loomed over her. Jonet could smell him now, his angry heat edged with nothing but a hint of soap as he pressed his fingers into her upper arm. His hands were powerful, and a little rough. A deep tremble ran through her, but whether it was outright fear or perverse lust, Jonet could not have said. One was as bad as the other.
Amherst leaned another inch nearer. “If I am as dangerous as you seem to believe, Lady Mercer,” he said in a soft, lethal undertone, “perhaps you ought not to turn your back on me whilst I’m in the room.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Sonnet Book published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
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Copyright © 2000 by S. T. Woodhouse
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ISBN: 0-7434-1778-X
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Contents
1.
A brave Officer is tactically Deployed
2.
After long years, How should I greet Thee?
3.
In which Lady Mercer rallies her Troops
4.
The Captian encamps behind Enemy lines
5.
In which Captain Amherst prevails
6.
Lord Delacourt issues a Challenge
7.
In which the Captain suffers a Sleepless Night
8.
Lady Mercer’s dark and dangerous Tale
9.
Colonel Lauderwood issues an Order to retreat
10.
Lady Mercer seizes Command
11.
In which Lord Delacourt is sadly Abused
12.
In which Mrs. Birtwhistle makes a Strategic error
13.
The Widow Rowland gets what She deserves
14.
In which Lady Delacourt tells All
Preview of
Beauty Like the Night
To my most distinguished & learned colleagues
the ladies & gentlemen
of
The Romance Journal
who have propped me up
with faith and cheer
lo these many years.
Prologue 
The golden Axe falls in Brook Street
A
t the advanced age of seven-and-fifty, Henry Rowland, the sixth Marquis of Mercer, was still a fine figure of a man. His broad shoulders bespoke power, his hooked nose revealed arrogance, and his tightly clenched fist showed an implacable resolve. But above all things, his lordship’s appearance proclaimed wealth, for the marquessate of Mercer was an exceedingly rich one. Had there been any doubt—and among the two men present there was none—the issue might easily have been settled by a sweeping glance at Mercer’s dinner attire, which gave every impression of having been sewn to his skin.
His lordship was a big man, too, standing—under normal circumstances—just under six feet, with a trim waist and calves that were still long and muscled. Dr. Greaves let his gaze slide down those legs, and ended by studying Mercer’s perfectly shod feet. As with everything else his lordship wore, the shoes were the best Bond Street had to offer, with soles that were barely scuffed. Dr. Greaves could plainly see that, given his unusual vantage point.
“Indeed! Fine figure of a man,” proclaimed the doctor in a solemn, carrying voice. Then, casting a furtive glance at the weeping woman in the adjoining sitting room, he poked out a tentative toe and gave Mercer a hearty shove with the tip of his boot.
As he had been throughout the whole of his life, his lordship was unyielding.
“Bloody rigor mortis setting in,” grumbled the plump, elderly doctor. “Dead at least two hours, I daresay.”
“Good God, Greaves,” hissed the magistrate at his elbow. “Devil take you and your bad back! Get down on that damned carpet and do something!”
The doctor quirked a thick gray eyebrow. “And what, pray, would you have me do, Mr. Lyons? Lord Mercer is quite dead, you may be sure.”
“Blister it, Greaves! I want him examined properly,” the magistrate retorted, dropping to his knees on the carpet and striving to look solicitous. For the fourth time in an hour, Lyons felt for a pulse and found nothing. “Just be
sure
,” he insisted, glancing up from the floor. “Be
unerringly
sure that Mercer has been sent on to his great reward by natural causes, or the Home Office will make certain that I see mine sooner than I’d be pleased to!”
With a heaving grunt, Greaves lumbered down onto his knees on the floor of Lord Mercer’s opulent bedchamber and began a routine examination of the well-dressed corpse. His heavy but confident hands flew, lifting this, prodding that, and checking his lordship’s body for any indication of the cause of death. Nothing. Just as he had expected.
“Heart failure,” he grunted, shifting his weight to rise.
“Be certain,” the magistrate cautioned again, his voice a lethal whisper. “Other than a recent bilious complaint, Mercer was in perfect health.”
“Do you say so?” Greaves scowled. “He bloody well isn’t now, is he?”
Lyons sat back on his haunches and let his shoulders sag.
Murder in Mayfair
. He could hear the patter of avaricious street hawkers as they peddled their headlines up and down. Wearily, he sighed. “Look here, Greaves. According to the valet, his lordship suffered only minor complaints. Not a bit of him gone to fat. No excessive use of alcohol or tobacco.”
“Excessive whoring mayhap,” muttered the doctor, his tone barely audible.
“What?”
With a grim smile, Greaves looked up. “There was a New Year’s Eve dinner here last night, did you not say? By chance, was the indefatigable Mrs. Lanier in attendance? Perhaps the poor devil finally fucked himself to death.”
“Lord, you are disgusting, Greaves! Besides, he’s on the floor.”
The doctor shrugged in the way of men who have lived long and seen much. “Mercer was not known to be overly discerning with regard to who, when, or where.”
“Look,” said Lyons, exasperated. “All I know is, according to the valet, there was one hell of a row downstairs last night—and loud enough for the watchman to hear when he passed by at eleven. And plenty of other witnesses, too.
Wellborn
witnesses, if you take my meaning.” He jerked his head toward the young couple seated together inside the sitting room, their heads leaned companionably together.“Care to hazard a guess as to what it might have been about?”
“Have you any proof?” asked Greaves, his attention suddenly engaged.
“Not precisely,” Lyons hedged. “Though I cannot help but wonder why Lord Delacourt is already here, consoling the grieving widow. The arrogant bastard showed up not five minutes after I did, behaving as though he already owned the place. Which I daresay he now has every hope of doing!”
“Do not be ridiculous, Lyons,” argued the doctor. “This house and everything in it now belongs to a nine-year-old child. Lord Stuart Rowland is the new Marquis of Mercer.”
“
Hmph!
” said Lyons, his gaze fixed upon the sitting room sofa. The lovely Lady Mercer chose just that moment to sob, loudly and deeply, as if her very life had ended. She then fell into Lord Delacourt’s embrace, her perfect nose pressed into his elegant lapel. “Just look at that, Greaves! For whom is this little charade enacted, eh? All of society knows she hated her husband.”
“Perhaps not without reason,” said the doctor softly. With a strong tug, he rolled the body over onto its side to check for some sort of exit wound. Not that one could expect any, when there was no entry wound. There was no wound of any sort. No blood. Not even so much as a good conk on the sconce from the force of his fall. Apparently, the marquis’s head was as hard as his heart had reputedly been.