by Liz Carlyle
For as long as Cole could remember, he had never felt true enmity toward anyone or anything. Yes, he had despised much of what Eton was, but he could not remember ever having despised what it had given him, for it was only there, in the classrooms, that he had truly begun to excel. To develop the knowledge, the insight, and the self-confidence which had been lacking, and which would finally set him free.
For a moment, Cole let the more satisfying memories wash away the bad as he paced the length of the room in silence. It was not a large chamber, but it was well lit, spotlessly clean, and amply stocked. Bookshelves covered one wall, a sturdy desk stood in one corner, and a narrow worktable filled the center. A long, leather sofa stretched beneath a pair of deep, lightly draped windows, which overlooked the front of the house. Yes, under normalcircumstances, this was a place where he might have found some measure of happiness. Where he might have immersed himself in the satisfaction of his work and enjoyed the tutelage of two young men who were no doubt ripe with the promise of youth.
But the circumstances which had brought him here were far from normal. He was not wanted. Lady Mercer had made that plain. She did not trust him, believing him to be loyal to his uncle, whom she clearly considered her adversary. Obviously, the idea that Cole might actually have come out of a sense of duty, that he ought feel some sympathy for the plight of her fatherless children, had never crossed her egotistical mind. At first glance, she seemed everything the world accused her of being—arrogant, cold, conniving... and hauntingly beautiful, of course.
Good God, how the woman had flirted with him. Even Cole, in his self-confessed ignorance, could hardly have missed that fact. It had been her intent to unsettle him, to toy with him, like a cat with its prey. She had strolled languidly across the room, coming so close that Cole had been able to see every silken eyelash as she had swept them down across her ivory cheeks. She had stood so near that he had been able to inhale the exotic, spicy, almost masculine scent she wore. Deliberately, she had lifted her stormy blue eyes to his, then touched the tip of her tongue to that tiny, almost invisible mole at the corner of her mouth, her every move calculated to torture him.
Cole was very sure of her purpose because, to his undying shame, it had worked. Despite his contempt and mistrust, he had felt a stab of desire for her, and Cole reminded himself that it was not the first time the lady had had such a disquieting effect on his senses. But this time he believed her behavior had been willful, almost malicious. Jonet Rowland had deliberately challenged his every masculine instinct. And his traitorous body had reacted, just as she had probably known it would. Gentlemanly deportment be damned. He had found himself shaking inside with a rage which was wholly unfamiliar to him. The woman had so incensed him that he had resorted to insulting her, more or less to save his own sanity. It had been all that he could do not to jerk her violently into his embrace and kiss her insolent mouth until she was weak in the knees. Ah, yes—that was what he had burned to do, but could he have accomplished it? It might take a great deal to weaken such a strong woman.
Cole was no angel, and he knew that some women found him attractive. Yet his monkish existence and military life left him so rarely in the company of females—and never one so dangerous—that he had scarce known what to do, while Lady Mercer knew precisely what she was about. It seemed to Cole that the woman raised sexual frustration to a form of torture that even the Spaniards would have admired.
Merely at the memory of it, his groin tightened and stirred, annoying him to no end, and making him ache with need. Clearly, he had now ventured well beyond his narrow range of social skills. Perhaps now that he was on military leave, he had no business in town. Perhaps it would have been better, after all, to have forced himself to return to Elmwood.
Lost in such thoughts, Cole walked to the window and pulled away the under-drapes to stare into the street below. It was quite late in the afternoon now, and those few carts and drays whose business brought them into the exalted environs of Mayfair had now slowed to a trickle. Suddenly, the door flew open, and Cole spun about to see an explosion of boys and dogs burst into the room. The dogs, border collies by the look of them, seemed as large as the boys, and moved almost as quickly, their claws clacking back and forth on the wood floor like hail spattering a windowsill. In the doorway behind, Nanna stood, looking grim. Cole was beginning to believe her hands were permanently affixed to her hips.
The smaller of the two boys managed to squeeze between the prancing dogs and the table to stand just in front of Cole. He narrowed his eyes and studied Cole’s regimentals. “Are you a Dragoon?” he boldly demanded. “I said you were, and Stuart says you ain’t”
Cote glanced through the door toward Nanna. “Ma’am, if I might have a few moments alone with Lord Mercer and Lord Robert? I do assure you that they will not get the best of me quite as quickly as you fear.”
The elderly nurse crossed her arms. “I’m tae stay near, sir,” she said in a warning tone. “I’ll be just in the hall here.”
The dogs lay down in a patch of sun beneath the table, and Cole returned his attention to the boys. “You must be Lord Robert Rowland,” he said, bending down to the younger boy and putting out his hand. “I am Captain Amherst.”
The boy reached up to pump Cole’s hand enthusiastically.
“Pleased-t’make-your-acquaintance,” he said, rapidly running all the words together.
He pointed perfunctorily at the dogs. “You can call me Robin. An’ this is Scoundrel, and this here is Rogue. Are you a Dragoon, sir?”
Cole held up a staying hand and turned toward Stuart Rowland, the seventh Marquis of Mercer. He was a lanky, good-looking boy, a little solemn for his nine years, and with the unmistakable Rowland coloring. “And you must be Stuart, Lord Mercer?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy, rather reluctantly taking his hand. “Good afternoon.” Stuart quickly broke off the contact, leaving Cole to study him. The boy’s hair was dark, his gaze somber and mistrustful behind eyes that were hazel and deep-set He looked familiar, too, for Stuart’s eyes were the very same that Cole had often seen staring back at him from the portraits which lined the corridors of Lord James’s country house. At the moment, however, Stuart’s gaze was shuttered, almost afraid.
“Well, that’s that, then, isn’t it?” said Lord Robert He seemed cheerfully unaware of his elder brother’s discomfort, or of Cole’s burning curiosity. “Now, are you a Dragoon, sir? Stuart says you ain’t That you’re life Guards. But I said that he was wrong.”
Cole turned his attention from Stuart and tried to frown disapprovingly at the younger boy’s interruption. It was rather difficult, for the child was so charmingly impertinent, not to mention persistent. “Aren’t, Robert,” Cole corrected. “Please do not speak cant in the schoolroom. And yes, I am a Dragoon. But there is a possibility that I may become your tutor. For a few months, until something more permanent can be arranged.”
“Dragoons!” Robert gave his brother a rather smug look. “Told you so! Told you so!” he taunted. At once, the room exploded and all hell seemed to break loose.
Stuart’s hand lashed out, whacking Robert soundly across the back of the skull. Robert went for Stuart’s throat then, fists and elbows flying as he lunged. The dogs erupted from beneath the table, aimlessly growling and snarling as they darted through the room.
Stuart leapt backward, knocking over a chair. A pile of books went tumbling to the floor. Cole tried to grab them, but the bigger collie plowed between, scrabbling wildly across the floor in a valiant attempt to seek and destroy the enemy, whom he had yet to identify.
“Stop!” shouted Cole, finally battling back the fray long enough to push the boys apart His voice must have carried its old level of command, for Scoundrel and Rogue bolted beneath the table to cower. The boys, however, seemed not to notice. They continued to ineffectually lash out at each other with feet and elbows.
“Gentlemen, let be!” Cole gave them both a swift shake and tore them further apart �
��There will be no hitting. Military regulations do not permit it, nor do I.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed still further. He crossed his thin arms over his chest “Then I’ll —I’ll just bayonet ‘im. You can do that in the army, I know it for a fact, ‘cause Donaldson took a bayonet in his arse at Vittoria, and couldn’t sit down for a week, and then they had to send ‘im home, and Duncan had to put horse poultices on ‘im for ever so—”
Cole smacked his hands palms down upon the table and leaned intently forward. “Sit down, gentlemen!” he bellowed. “There shall be no biting. No bayoneting. No shooting. No knifing. No violence of any sort!. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” muttered Robert, righting the chair, which had been knocked over, and settling into it.
Stuart shot his brother one last ugly glance. “Oh, all right,” he reluctantly agreed, shoving in his shirttails with a suppressed violence.
“And don’t say arse.” added Cole for good measure, wondering even as he said it just what he had gotten his own arse into. Nanna, it seemed, had been right Lady Mercer’s children really did appear to be willful, undisciplined hellions. Blood would always tell, it seemed.
Robert squirmed in his seat, then brightened a bit He was obviously the more blithe of the two boys, but even his ebullience could not hide the fact that he was just a little uneasy. “Anyway, sir, I knew you were a Dragoon when I saw you spying on us from the alley.”
“Shut up, Robin!” snapped his elder brother. “Don’t be bloody stupid!”
“I wasn’t spying.” Cole looked quickly from one to the other, wondering what lay behind their words. “And don’t ever say bloody again, Stuart! Moreover, do not call your brother stupid. He is mistaken, that is all. I was merely strolling in the alley so that I would not arrive early for my meeting with your mother.”
“But Duncan was worried you might be a spy,” argued Robert, obviously reluctant to let go of his notion. “I saw him watching you. He thought you were a suspicious character lurking about,” he added, dearly parroting something he had heard.
Stuart darkened his scowl. “A ‘suspicious character’ does not walk up the alley in broad daylight, you lack-wit. A ‘suspicious character’ will just leap out of the dark and throttle you senseless. Or murder you when no one is looking—just like with Papa.” His manner seemed on the surface merely scornful, until one realized that an element of some darker emotion lay behind it. A sudden, oppressive chill settled over the room, and Cole felt the skin prickle up the back of his neck Trying to ignore it, he turned his full attention to the younger boy. “Duncan? Is that the big, red-haired fellow in the back? Your gardener?”
“Ha! Fooled you “ said Robert, his saucy grin returning. “Duncan’s our head groom from Kildermore Castle. But now, he’s to stand out back, and keep watch for— ouch!”
Stuart’s blow made solid contact this time, his open palm smacking Robert soundly across the back of the sconce. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Robin! You’ve a mouth as big as a beer keg!”
Cole dropped his head into his hands, suppressing the urge to walk straight down to Whitehall and plead for a speedy dispatch to the Punjab. Even excessive heat and questionable rations had to be easier than this. At least in the army, Cole knew how to command his troops. “Please do not ever take our Savior’s name in vain, Stuart,” he managed to grumble from behind his splayed fingers.
How in heaven had he ever thought himself qualified for this job? It had been years since he had tutored, and even then he had taken one student at a time, aid always older boys than these. It should have been a simple job, but it wasn’t. It simply wasn’t.
“Are you done being our tutor now, Captain Amherst?” Robert’s question was soft this time, a little chagrined. Cole looked up to see a face that seemed to be the epitome of childhood innocence. Robert’s eyes were wide, a startlingly vivid shade of green, and his dark auburn hair curled, almost pixie-fashion, about his ears. He could hardly have looked more unlike his brother.
“No, Robin,” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’ll not escape me quite that easily. Now, I wish to speak with your brother, and I do not want you to interrupt. I shall ask him some questions about his previous studies, and then I shall do the same with you. Is that understood?”
One foot thumping rhythmically against his chair leg, Robert snagged his lip andnodded. “Very well,” said Cole, turning to face Stuart. His gaze was hooded, his expression stark but otherwise unreadable. Had the child been a few years older, Cole would have said that something besides his father’s death weighed heavily upon his mind. But honestly, what could it be? Lord Mercer was only nine years old. Cole shrugged off the strange sensation and spent the next half hour trying to ascertain just where both boys stood in terms of academic development.
It was quite late by the time Cole concluded his interviews with Robert and Stuart. He had taken two pages of notes about their past studies, and completed a list of books and supplies that would be required to go forward. If he went forward, and he was not at all sure he should. But the niggling sense that something was very wrong with Lady Mercer’s children continued to plague him.
When at last Cole quit the schoolroom, the house had fallen quiet. No doubt the servants were already belowstairs beginning their preparations for the evening. There would be dinner to cook, draperies to draw, and even in May, hearths to be swept and laid for the night. The upstairs hall beyond the schoolroom was empty, with no sign of either the nurse or the butler.
And what was the butler’s name? Donaldson. A very familiar looking fellow. Indeed, he was apparently a former soldier, if Robert had been correct in his childish chatter ing. Had Donaldson’s path perhaps crossed Cole’s somewhere on the Continent? It was, he supposed, rather unlikely. And yet, Cole decided, making his way downstairs, there really was something about the fellow that sparked a sense of recognition.
It struck him as odd, too, that Donaldson was such a handsome fellow, and rather young to be a butler. What was it James had said? That Lady Mercer had dismissed all her servants and brought new ones down from Scotland? That story, perhaps, explained the erstwhile head groom who was now reposing as a slipshod gardener. Or did it? No, it just confused things all the more. The man really had seemed to be watching more than he had been gardening. He had been trampling a bed of young daffodils, for pity’s sake.
Cole tried to shrug off the thought It seemed that Lord Robert Rowland’s fanciful ideas were contagious. Nonetheless, there was no denying the fact that the boy was bright beyond his seven years, and highly intelligent often meant wildly imaginative. The older boy, Stuart, Lord Mercer, was more introspective, harder to read. And yet he was definitely on edge, and the cause seemed to be something more than simple grief.
Cole had paid little attention to James’s rantings before, but now his words took on a new significance. Why bring servants all the way from Scotland? And why hire two bully-boys right out of St. George’s-in-the-East and rig them out as footmen? As Cole skimmed his hand lightly along the banister on his way down the next flight of stairs, another thought struck him.
He hit the landing and froze in his tracks. Why was young Lord Mercer so frightened? Unease was far too weak a word for what Cole had seen flash across Stuart’s face. It really had been stark fear; a fear that had long ago gone beyond panic and become hopelessly familiar. He had seen it before, on the faces of young but stoic soldiers after a seemingly ceaseless battle. That, more than anything else Cole had seen today, began to chill him to the bone.
He remembered himself all too well at just that age, unexpectedly orphaned and scared out of his wits. It was a very difficult age at which to lose one’s parents. And while it was true that Stuart had lost only his father, Cole harbored grave misgivings about the parent who was left to him.
In Cole’s case, his Uncle James had not helped matters at all, shipping Cole straightaway to Eton and demanding Cole’s undying gratitude, as if his wife’s nephew was some sort of charity case. Cole ha
d been halfway through his studies at King’s College before he had realized that he was not a poor relation. That although he would never be a rich man, he was moderately wealthy, at least by the standards of rural gentry. Moreover, Cole had finally realized that he had the freedom to live a life which was independent of the Rowland family. And since that day, he had more or less done exactly that. But young Stuart had nowhere to go. He had no one to look after his happiness and his well-being. No one except his guardians, James and Jonet. Small wonder, then, that the child was so troubled. Cole was troubled, too, because he realized one more thing. He realized that it would be very, very hard to go away and leave those frightened and fanciful children to the devices of two people whom he did not fully trust.
Sobered by that thought, Cole was halfway down the last flight of stairs when he heard the front knocker drop peremptorily. From his stance half a story above, he could see that Lady Mercer’s ruffians were nowhere in sight. Instead, Donaldson slid from the shadows to open the door, and a startlingly handsome young man stepped into the corridor.
“Evening, Donaldson,” said the gentleman briskly, giving the butler a blinding smile and handing him a fine, gold-knobbed walking stick.
“Good evening, your lordship,” answered Donaldson as the man shrugged out of an elegant black greatcoat. “Lady Jonet awaits you in the book-room, I believe.”
“Ah, fine and good!” said the man, briskly rubbing his hands together. “Is there cognac? Upon my word, it is unseasonably chilly to be so near to June, do you not think?”
Donaldson nodded. “Aye, sir. And I’ve set a bottle of your favorite on the sideboard by the door.”
“Just so, Charlie! You are a prince among men. What would we do without—well, hello. Who’s this?” The young man looked pointedly up at Cole just as he descended the last three steps.
Donaldson stepped back. “Lord Delacourt, have you met Lady Mercer’s distant cousin, Captain Amherst?”