A Woman Scorned (48 page)

Cole’s hands came up to cover hers. “It would not matter to me, Jonet, if you were the scullery maid,” he whispered, his eyes dark and serious. “I think you know that. In truth, I would almost be relieved, but such is not the way of life. We do not get to choose who we are, and oftentimes, not even what we will be.”

Jonet smiled weakly, staring down at the cat, who had just darted from the shrubbery. “Oh, how well I know that!” she said, bending forward to trail her fingertips down the cat’s fur. “I never wanted to be heir to Kildermore. I never even loved it the way Nanna or Ellen or even Charlie did! And most certainly, I had no wish to marry for position, nor to be fawned over by men who . . .” Her voice almost broke, but she caught it. “I just wanted a good husband, Cole. A man who would love me. I just wanted ...a
normal
life.”

Beneath his calm exterior, Cole was intently studying Jonet. She was deeply disturbed, more so than he had seen her in some days. His mind raced. Clearly, that bastard Delacourt was up to something. Had he somehow been in touch with Jonet? Probably. And what hold could he possibly have over her? Obviously, it was not a hold she greatly resented, and irrationally, that both angered and wounded him. He had thought a great deal about Delacourt since coming to Elmwood, and his suspicion had grown.

Over and over, his mind returned to Jonet’s remarks about her husband’s argument with Delacourt on the night of his death. Delacourt, who had pushed Lord Mercer’s inquest to a hasty end. And Delacourt, who faithlessly kept a mistress behind Jonet’s back. The man was nothing but trouble.

Cole forced his voice to be calm as he tipped up her chin again. “Jonet, my dear,” he said firmly, “it is time you explained yourself. I must confess, you worry me with this strange talk. I begin to fear that Lord Delacourt is some sort of threat to you.”

“Oh, no,” she said stridently, shaking her head.“But our . . .
friendship
is quite complex.” Jonet looked blindly down at Elmwood’s expectant barn cat, who was now persistently twining herself around their ankles.“You see, David is—to my way of thinking, and perhaps even to his own—the rightful heir to Kildermore. Beyond that, I cannot say more.”

Cole drew back an inch. “Jonet, I fear that makes no sense at all.”

But Jonet continued on as if she could not hear him. “It is simply this, Cole. If life were fair, all that I possess—my estate and my titles and my wealth—all would be his. I would be plain Lady Jonet Cameron, a bad-tempered Scot of no particular merit. And if I wed you, society would account me quite fortunate to snare such a fine catch—just as I account myself now.”

In astonishment, Cole stared at her. “But Jonet . . . surely you cannot mean . . . what you are really saying is—” “

I really do not think I can say anything more,” she said softly. “You must trust me, Cole. And you must do so based on a half-truth. I am sorry for it.”

Suddenly, a feeling of sick dread seized Cole. There were but few conclusions that could be drawn from Jonet’s comments. None of them made sense. And none of them were pleasant. He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Darling,” he said urgently, “listen to me! Did Henry know of this? Did he understand?”

Jonet laughed bitterly. “Oh, no one knew better! Indeed, I think he took a perverse sort of pleasure in it. Until the gossip became too much. And in the end, that is what so angered David. The threat that . . .” Shuddering, she let her words slip away.

“The threat that
what
—?
” Cole rasped, his fingers digging into her flesh.

Jonet’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Now, I have answered your questions as best I may. I can only hope that you will trust me, and let this be the end.”

“Do not be ridiculous, Jonet.” Cole jerked to his feet and paced away, leaving her on the bench, swaddled in the folds of his greatcoat. “You cannot begin such a tale as this and not expect to finish it! And if you cannot—or
will
not—then Delacourt most certainly shall.”

Jonet leapt up, leaving the coat to slither unheeded to the ground. “What do you mean, Cole? Where are you going?” she demanded hotly, and Cole could sense that his briefly compliant fiancée was gone, and that her banked temper had burst into full flame.

He spun about to face her, his boot heel squeaking sharply in the wet grass. “I am going to London, madam,” he said, biting out each syllable. “And when I get there, I am going straight to Curzon Street, where I mean to jerk Lord Delacourt up by the coat collar and shake a few answers out of him. I have meant to do so for quite some time, and now I see that I can delay no longer.”

Jonet stalked after him, her fists balled tightly at her sides, the pregnant cat bounding awkwardly at her heels. “You have deliberately chosen to misunderstand me, Cole!” she shouted, her voice rising as they moved swiftly toward the house. “And I shan’t have it, do you hear! That sanctimonious shroud of yours is worn perilous thin, sir! I see the truth—that you can be just as petty and obstinate and jealous as the rest of us!”

Stopping cold in the middle of the garden, Cole ran an unsteady hand down his face and stared at her. “I daresay I may be, Jonet. But I am not—and never have been—a fool.”

By the time Cole was ready to set out for London, Jonet was in a true fit of temper. She had paced the floor of her bedchamber, alternately searching for something to hurl at his door, then consigning almost every man she’d ever known to the fires of perdition, her father, her husband, David—and sometimes even Cole—amongst them.

She and Cole were barely speaking. Following their heated discussion in the garden, he had stalked into the house and immediately begun shoving shirts and stockings into an old leather saddlebag. For a few moments, Jonet had tried to reason with him, dogging his footsteps from bureau to wardrobe and back, circling around the bed until she was breathless, and ripping out clothes as fast as he packed them.

As usual, it had all been for naught, since Cole was the most implacable, exasperating man she had ever known. And so she had resorted to threats. She was never going to touch him again. She wished his penis would wither and die. Most assuredly, she was never going to marry him. No, she
was
going to marry him. And then she would make his life a living hell.

The result had been predictably laughable. With his long, hard jaw set at its obstinate angle, Cole had merely stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “Jonet,” he’d finally said, as he’d fastened the buckle of his bag, “you are a sharp-tongued shrew. But you are my shrew, and I mean to keep you safe. Long may I live to regret it.”

“Oh, God!” she had cried, clawing madly at her hair. “I
hate
it when you are reasonable.”

“Which is all of the time,” Cole had firmly responded.

And so she had ceased to argue. By heaven, let him go rail at David if he wished. Perhaps that was the best solution of all. Let those bold, brash men unbutton their breeches, whip out their cocks, and measure them against one another. Then, they could simply settle it—whatever
it
was—between themselves.

Oh, she loved David dearly, and yet she spared him precious little pity, either. He had brought much of Cole’s antagonism upon himself, by means of his usual highhanded arrogance and deliberate provocation. And now that it had come to this, what would David tell him? One never knew what he might do. Perhaps he would tell Cole to go to the devil. Or perhaps he would merely laugh, and spill the whole ugly truth. Certainly, it was his to spill. As usual, she was little more than a hapless bystander in this farce which seemed to constitute her life.

Soon, Jonet found herself standing in the circular drive of Elmwood, her arms crossed resolutely over her chest, one toe tapping furiously in the gravel. Mr. Moseby had brought around a sleek, long-legged chestnut, which looked as if it might well eat up the ground from Cambridgeshire to London. With a little grunt of displeasure, Cole hefted over the saddlebag and deftly secured it. They were alone in the drive. He really was going to leave her. Suddenly, Jonet’s resolve melted, and she started toward him. “Cole,” she said softly, “if you must go, you will travel safely, will you not?”

Cole looped his reins loosely over the saddle and turned to face her, placing the palms of his hands lightly upon her shoulders. “Yes, I will travel safely,” he promised. But his voice was weary, his face lined with fatigue, and Jonet was left to recall how willingly and unselfishly he had taken on the responsibility of her children’s welfare. And how very much she needed him.

For a moment, she considered forswearing David altogether, if Cole would just stay with her and not go to London. Twice, Jonet opened her mouth to speak, and could not find the words. “Cole,” she finally managed to say, “you must understand that David would never do anything to harm me or my children. He has no reason to do so.”

“I suppose that I must pray that you are right,” Cole grimly responded.

“Oh, Cole,” she said despairingly, her hands going up to cup his face. “I know that David has been rash, perhaps outright rude to you. But he is young, and his burdens are many. If there is something which must be settled between you, then by all means, go. Just be mindful of the fact that you are both older and wiser, and so it is left to you to be reasonable. And above all, you must remember that David would never hurt me.”

Cole looked at her sadly. “Perhaps that is so, Jonet,” he softly admitted. “But what might he do to protect you? Or to protect his honor? Or the honor of someone else?”

Steadily, Jonet held his gaze. “Do you not think, Cole, that I have considered such a thing? Do you believe me such a blind fool as all that? But when all is said and done, David would never hurt my children. And that is why this whole thing makes no sense.”

Cole opened his mouth to tell Jonet that at the least they did agree on one thing. It did indeed make no sense. But further debate was forestalled by the sound of a carriage rumbling across Elmwood’s moat. He stepped from behind the chestnut to watch as the coachman drew around the circle and stopped. At once, the door flew open, and Nanna’s round, wrinkled face popped out. Eagerly, Jonet hastened toward the carriage, both hands extended as if to help the old woman down.

It was only then that Cole realized the carriage was driven by Charlie Donaldson. Thank God. In short order, the steps were down, and Nanna and Ellen Cameron were standing in the driveway. The old nurse looked to be her usual acerbic self, but Donaldson looked measurably thinner and more pale, while Miss Cameron looked even worse. Clearly, the illness had taken a toll on them. As the ladies greeted one another, Donaldson secured the team, then motioned Cole to the far side of the carriage.

Discreetly, the butler returned to Cole the engraved breastplate of the First Royal Dragoons. “Verra quick of you, Capt’n, to send that along with your messenger,” he whispered, cocking one dark brow. “And I came wi’ all haste, but as you see, Miss Cameron is no’ verra well.”

Grimly, Cole looked at Ellen, then back to Donaldson. “No, she isn’t, is she? Nor, by the look of it, had you any business driving them here. But tell me, what caused the illness? Does Dr. Greaves know?”

Donaldson looked chagrined. “Aye, sir, it must ha’ been the cream,” he confessed, lifting one shoulder apologetically. “There was a footman and tweeny laid low across the street.”

“So . . . not poison after all?” Cole murmured. “Perhaps I overreacted.”

Donaldson shook his head. “Ye canna be too careful, sir. You did what was best.” His eyes drifted down Cole’s riding gear, and over to the horse’s saddlebag. “But where d’you go now, Capt’n?”

Cole’s eyes had drifted toward Jonet. “To London,” he said quickly, his attention snapping back to the butler. “And I don’t mind saying I’m relieved to see you. But listen, Donaldson—you did not by chance tell Lord Delacourt of our whereabouts, did you?”

“Indeed not, sir!” He drew himself sharply erect. “I told no one, as you ordered. Why?”

“Because I mean to have a few answers from him,” answered Cole grimly, watching as Nanna picked up the cat to stroke her sagging belly. “If he should come here, Donaldson, tell him that I have said he is not welcome. Under no circumstances should you let him in.”

Jonet’s butler shifted uneasily. “Have ye some cause to think ill of him, sir? I mean, I daresay her ladyship might take exception to his new mistress an’ all—but I do na’ think he means any harm.”

Cole studied Donaldson appraisingly, realizing once again that not much got past old soldiers. He realized, too, that there was little he could say to Donaldson regarding his uncertainties about Delacourt. They were too nebulous, and potentially too damaging.

Moreover, he was beginning to understand that Jonet might well know, and probably did not care, about Delacourt’s mistress. Perhaps he should have been relieved, but he was far from it. The tangle of truth and suspicion, heightened by Jonet’s reticence, had conspired to give Cole a splitting headache, and that grave feeling of unease which had lessened since leaving London was back in full measure.

On top of that, he wanted to strangle Delacourt, but a long, tiresome journey lay between Cole and his quarry. In exasperation, he lashed his riding crop ruthlessly across the shank of his boot. Damn it, he could not hope to lay hands on Delacourt before midmorning at the earliest, and would probably have to roust the insolent bastard from his bed at such an early hour. For the nonce, he must console himself with the fact that Donaldson had arrived at Elmwood to help ensure the safety of Jonet and the boys in his absence.

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