A Woman Scorned (32 page)

“Frankly, sir, I wanted to revisit that conversation we had last week about Lord Mercer’s death.” Cole leaned a little forward in his chair. “Such things would normally be none of my concern, but the children . . . well,it is a most awkward situation.”

“Yes, yes. I comprehend!” said the colonel, sliding a little deeper into his seat and crossing his hands over his ample girth. “Go on, Cole. You’d not ask such things without good cause.”

Cole thought of how Jonet had looked in the kitchen this morning, and in his bed last night, and was no longer sure his questions were quite so honorable. But he was tormented by doubt. Just what was the truth about Jonet, her life, and her husband? Although it was a moot point, for he could never permit it to be put to the test, Cole yearned to know if he could trust her in any measure at all where his heart was concerned. “There is something, sir, which troubles me, and I can make no sense of it, particularly in light of our talk last week. You see, I have heard that Lady Mercer . . . well,never mind what I have heard. What I want to ask about is Lord Delacourt. Have you met him?”

Lauderwood nodded. “Yes, I have had that . . .
pleasure
if one may call it so.”

Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Then you may understand when I say that there is something about the man which I cannot trust. He is entirely too smooth, indeed, almost treacherously so, and I find myself wondering—” Cole paused, then tossed discretion to the wind. “Wondering if he had anything to do with Mercer’s death.”

“Other than comforting the grieving widow and hastening the inquest, do you mean?”

Cole smiled grimly. “Yes, other than that.”

For a long moment, Lauderwood said nothing. Finally, he spread his hands open, palms up. “
Cui bono
, Cole,” he answered. “That is what you must ask if you seek to find Mercer’s killer. And I do not see how it can be Delacourt.”

“Yes,
who benefits
, indeed,” said Cole in a musing tone, unwilling to violate Jonet’s trust and tell Lauderwood of Mercer’s quarrel with Delacourt. Still, something did not fit. “And so you are suggesting it must be James or Lady Mercer who killed Henry?”

“I think one must consider every possibility,” replied the colonel evasively.

Cole found himself wanting to argue on Jonet’s behalf. And yet, to do so would mean breaching her confidence with regard to her fear for her children. But he was not yet done with Delacourt. “Does Lady Mercer’s close . . .
relationship
with Delacourt have anything to do with the fact that both her father and her husband were friendly with the previous Lord Delacourt?”

Lauderwood screwed up his wrinkled face a moment. “Oh, no, I fancy not! That friendship fell out when she was but a babe. As I recollect, Kildermore and old Delacourt quarreled rather nastily during a house party at Delacourt’s. Anyone who was anyone—which is to say, the most wellbred of London’s worst scoundrels—always gathered at his Derbyshire estate for the hunting season. Delacourt was a widower then, and his ne’er-do-well friends came and went at their leisure.”

Cole mused over that. “And over what did they quarrel, sir? Have you any idea?”

Lauderwood grunted, and rubbed the stubble of his beard with one hand. “No one seemed certain. ’Twas said one of Kildermore’s hounds turned on one of Delacourt’s while they were in the field. Not at all the thing, you know! Others said ’twas a bad turn of the dice. Eventually, there was a duel. Mercer stood as second for Kildermore, and after that, Delacourt cut ’em both off. Removed to Derbyshire for good, and never spoke another word to them.”

“How odd!” Cole stared at the old man for a long moment. “Given all that, I marvel at Mercer’s tolerance of his wife’s friendship with young Lord Delacourt.”

Lauderwood lifted his bear-like shoulders in an amiable shrug. “Oh, I rather doubt Mercer cared whom she saw, so long as she didn’t cuckold him publicly. The devil was infamous for flaunting his mistresses all over town. Lady Mercer went her own way after she gave him his heir. Delacourt is but one of the many peacocks who have flocked after her.”

“Indeed,” said Cole dryly. “I understand Lady Mercer has had several admirers.”

“Many women of the
ton
have admirers, Cole,” replied the colonel sagaciously. “Collect ’em like bric-a-brac, some do. Damned hard to know if any of it is serious. Lady Mercer is but one example.”

Cole struggled to keep his tone casual. “It is said that she has had many lovers, too,” he pressed, feeling a little sick with dread.

“Certainly she has had many
offers
,” chuckled Lauder-wood. “And little enough reason to turn many of them down, I daresay. But since young Delacourt came to town some years ago, she has thrown nothing but crusts to the others.”

Cole could not suppress a scowl. “I cannot think what she sees in that pompous fop.”

Lauderwood eyed him narrowly. “I rather fancy his being young, rich, handsome, and influential cannot hurt. The old man left him a vast fortune.”

Cole fiddled nervously with his cuff, finally arranging it to his satisfaction. “And other than Delacourt, whom has Lady Mercer—er, favored, do you know?” he finally managed to ask.

Lauderwood shrugged noncommittally. “Oh, there have been a scad of ’em, though as I said, none as constant in their attentions as Delacourt.”

“I think it a poor measure of constancy when one keeps a lightskirt set up,” Cole bitterly retorted. “Does he still do so, do you know?”

Lauderwood merely stared at him for a long moment. Cole felt a piercing shaft of anger when he realized how greatly the colonel’s answer mattered to him.
Why?
He did not know. He knew only that he was torn in the most visceral of ways, half hoping that Delacourt would be decent, and honor whatever commitment he had given Jonet, and half hoping that he would forsake her altogether, leaving the way clear for . . .
for what?

Good God, what madness! Yes, he was a man—and like most of them, his flesh was weak. Since his wife’s death, there was no denying that he had taken women to his bed from time to time. He was not proud of it, but his need was often raw and undeniable—and now, infinitely more tormenting for his having lived under the same roof as Jonet Rowland.

Now that sanity had returned, Cole knew he would never presume—or lower himself—to take a lover. It would be wrong for a dozen different reasons, not the least of which was morality. Better to look about him for a wife—one from his own social class—if he could not manage his needs. But the thought of another such marriage—and the horrid ring of the words
duty
and
convenience
—made Cole ill.

The colonel cleared his throat, eyeing Cole suspiciously. “So far as I know, Delacourt is still seen regularly in the environs of Drury Lane.” Cole felt an irrational wave of relief. Abruptly, Lauderwood motioned toward a table between the windows. “Now be a good chap, Amherst, and pour us a drink. Gossip parches me.”

Grateful for the delay, Cole agreed. He found a decanter of madeira, poured out two healthy measures, then returned to his chair. “Ah,” said Lauderwood appreciatively. He downed a third of the glass, then, despite his clouded eyes, leveled a steady gaze in Cole’s direction. “Now, in all seriousness, Cole,” he said coolly, “I hope you are not fool enough to fall victim to the lady’s charms? I daresay James initially sent you there to snoop about a bit, eh? Just do it, and get out, man.”

“He suggested something of that sort,” Cole reluctantly agreed.

Lauderwood nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, he thinks Lady Mercer rid herself of her husband in order to wed Delacourt. And he means to find out how, does he not?”

“Well, actually, no,” Cole admitted. “Much to my own surprise, James seems to hold out no hope of bringing his brother’s killer to justice. It seems his pride is wounded, and he is more intent on controlling the children. Indeed, he wishes to take them under his wing and raise them as he sees fit. But Lady Mercer will have none of it. She hates and distrusts him.”

“Perhaps James does not wish to think too much about his brother’s murder,” mused Lauderwood. “Mayhap he fears the suspicion might fall too near home.”

“I’ve considered it,” admitted Cole.

The colonel drained his glass and pushed it toward Cole. “Well, never stand too close to a cockfight, Cole. ’Tis family business—and not
your
side of the family, no matter how much James whines.” His eyes narrowed. “And another word of warning—watch your step! Any man with a set of ballocks between his legs is going to be smitten by Jonet Rowland if he isn’t damned careful.”

Cole tried to shrug indifferently, and at once, the colonel jerked forward in his seat, the buttons of his ivory waistcoat straining. “Understand me, Cole,” he said urgently. “I neither know nor care what the lady is guilty of. If she’d bludgeoned Mercer with a coal shovel, I wouldn’t give a damn. Never liked him. He was indiscreet. Can’t forgive a man that, myself.” The old man sniffed disdainfully. “But the fact remains that Lady Mercer is a
femme fatale
of the first water. I have no wish to see you hurt while trying to protect her. She is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

Cole felt a flash of anger. Why must everyone assume that because a woman was strong, she needed no one? What if Jonet was
not
capable of taking care of herself this time? Perhaps this time, something more than a few loyal servants and a faithless lover would be required. The circumstances into which Jonet had been thrust were treacherous enough to try the most hardened of soldiers. Indeed, he was beginning to think that neither Lauderwood nor society knew the woman who stood so proud and so alone behind what he was beginning to believe was nothing more than a beautiful, brittle façade.

They had not seen her clasp her children to her bosom, fighting for them as the most ruthless tigress might guard her cubs. They had not seen her in her apron, with her hair askew, looking as untidy—and yet as serene—as the most cheerful of scullery maids. And they certainly had not seen her pulling off her nightrail, her cloud of dark hair settling all about her shoulders, her breasts heavy, her nipples taut with . . .

“Cole—? Are you listening to me, boy?”

A little brusquely, Cole dragged off his glasses and tossed them onto the pile of newspapers. “Sir, I really do not think we need to discuss—”

“Now, mind me, Cole!” interjected Lauderwood, his face full of reproach. “Forget James’s dirty work. What you want is a wife. Give up the army—it’s gone to hell anyway—and go back home to Elmwood. Speak to the bishop. Tell him that you are ready to do what you have spent a lifetime preparing for, Cole. Get that black-haired siren out of your blood before she dashes your heart on the rocks.”

Cole gripped the arms of his chair, thrust himself out of it, and strode to the window. He could feel the heat of irrational anger and suppressed lust coursing through him again. With one hand set at his hip, the other dragging his hair back from his brow, he stared blindly through the glass and into the modest garden beyond. “Jack,” he finally said, speaking over his shoulder, “you need not worry that I will involve myself in an illicit affair. Certainly not with a woman above my station. And most assuredly not with one who already bestows her favors on another. I should hope you know me better than that.”

Lauderwood said nothing. Cole turned away from the window to face the sofa. His strident words seemed to hang suspended in the parlor for a moment, floating unanswered, along with the dust motes, in a low shaft of sunlight until Cole began to wonder just who he was trying to convince.

“Oh yes, Cole, I know you.” Lauderwood’s gentle tone broke the silence. “And I know that underneath all that military brass and moral resolve, you have a heart too soft for your own good.”

“Please, sir, I beg you! Flatter me no further!” Cole tried to smile, failing miserably. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’d best take myself off. I am wanted elsewhere.”

“Ah, yes! That’s it. Pry out all my information, and refuse my good advice.” Lauderwood grumbled a bit beneath his breath, then looked up at Cole, his thick white brows drawn together. “Well! Am I to see you at dinner soon?”

Bending low, Cole took Lauderwood by his gnarled hand and clasped it hard between his own, his irritation all but forgotten. “It would be my great pleasure, sir. Shall we say one day next week?” The old man nodded, and Cole headed for the door. Suddenly, another question occurred to him, and he turned about abruptly. “One more thing, sir. What news, if any, of my Cousin Edmund’s predicament?”

Lauderwood chuckled. “Bad, and getting worse, as I understand it. Shall I make inquiries?”

Cole shook his head. “No, but Edmund surprised me with a visit this afternoon. And I must tell you, Jack, he did not look well. Moreover, I cannot think why he called upon me. We barely speak.”

The old man smiled grimly. “Oh, the worthless bastard wanted something, Cole. Depend upon it. Perhaps to borrow money? Or perhaps he is merely a vulture, preening over his uncle’s carcass, and hoping that eventually there will be something for him to pick from the bones.”

Cole returned to Jonet’s house, carefully considering all that he had learned from Jack Lauderwood. Despite the colonel’s probing suggestions, Cole had found it a relief to talk to him. But Lauderwood’s rather poor opinion of Jonet reminded Cole of one very important thing. He could not leave the situation with Charles Donaldson unresolved. Indeed, as a gentleman, he should have sought a private moment with the butler first thing this morning. Last night, the butler had seen him in what had looked like a very compromising position with his mistress. Indeed, she was Cole’s mistress, too, and he ought to take pains to recall it. He was by no means her social equal, as his afternoon with Lauderwood had so painfully reminded him.

Nonetheless, Cole would take every possible step to safeguard her reputation. The fact that Jonet’s reputation was not particularly pristine was hardly an issue. Cole would not have it worsened by his own conduct. Moreover, he had a deep-seated curiosity about the former soldier who now served Jonet so steadfastly. Cole entered the long formal dining room just as Donaldson pushed through the swinging door from the china closet to set down a pair of exquisite Georgian candlesticks. The butler placed them carefully atop a mahogany sideboard, then stepped back as if to admire his handiwork.