by Liz Carlyle
“To—to the country?” echoed Cole.
Grinning, Robert gave a big nod. “Oh, yes. I know. I saw Nanna packing our clothes, just as she does when we’re to go to Kildermore. Are we going all the way to Scotland again, sir? Or someplace else?”
Cole hesitated for a moment. “Er—someplace else,” he answered vaguely.
It rather shocked Cole to realize that until now, he had no notion of where they would go. He had simply promised Nanna he would send word as soon as they were safely out of London. So desperate had he been to get the children out of the house that it had hardly seemed to matter where they went, as long as they went away from Mercer House.
Oh, he had thought vaguely of sending them down to Brighton, but there they would be too easily recognized, and Cole would not have been able to remain with them without further tarnishing Jonet’s reputation. There was the Lake District, but that was far away. Nonetheless, there were hundreds of pretty little villages with adequate inns where tourists might spend a few weeks in relative obscu rity. But suddenly, all of those ill-formed ideas went flying out the carriage window, and Cole knew where they would go. Where he must go—eventually. A place where there would be no prying eyes, nor any gossiping tongues.
They would go to Elmwood. Elmwood was little more than a day’s journey by coach, and yet, it was far removed from London in a way which had little to do with time or distance. Certainly, there could be no safer place for a boy to romp and enjoy life. He, of all people, should know that The first eleven years of his life had been spent there hi otter boyhood bliss.
To be sure, he did not want to do it. He was not at all certain he was ready to return to the home he had once shared with Rachel, nor to face the memories they had left behind. And yet, what other alternative was left him? At least this way, he did not have to go alone.
Could he do it? Yes. But the decision left him feeling inordinately weary—and strangely, more achingly alone than he had felt in a very long time. Slowly, Cole let his head fall back against the velvet squabs and squeezed shut his eyes, feeling the rumble and sway of the well-sprung coach. Suddenly, they lurched hard to the left, and Cole knew without looking that they had made the sharp turn into Curzon Street.
Dread lay in his gut like a cold, dead weight. The house was fast approaching. Dinner, even in the most fashionable of homes, would be long over. What would Jonet be doing now?
Cole shut his eyes tighter still, very much afraid he knew. And it hurt. Oh, God yes. It hurt But he would disturb her—even from that, if he must And he would shut away the envy and the anger and the pain if it killed him. But what right had he to feel angry? Some might call Jonet faithless. He, however, could not fairly do so, despite his ugly words of this afternoon. Jonet was rash, passionate, and deeply sensual— but she was not the wanton he had once believed. As to where she was tonight, Jonet had openly offered him the right to replace Delacourt in her bed, and he had refused her. That had been his choice. He could not now be angry with her for maintaining her relationship with Delacourt. Her lifestyle really was none of his concern.
Or was it? Perhaps her soul was his concern. He was ordained, was he not? He had made a commitment to God—albeit one which he had not always honored. In truth, he had strayed badly. He had proven himself unworthy. But no one, he reminded himself, was without sin. And the fact that he had not taken a parish did not obviate his duty to lead others, as best he could, down the path of righteousness.
Suddenly, Cole wanted to snort with disgust The path of righteousness indeed! Yes, he had helped Jonet find heaven last night, but the only path they had taken had been the one from her sitting room to her bedchamber. He had stripped her naked, had enjoyed—deeply enjoyed—carnal knowledge of her body, and then had ... why, yes —he had refused to make an honest woman of her! The fact that her question about marriage had almost certainly been rhetorical was hardly the point. “Cousin Cole?”
Robert’s drowsy voice cut through the gloom.
Cole sat up and laid a hand lightly across the boy’s knee. “Yes, Robert?”
“Do you think God always answers our prayers?” he mumbled.
“Our prayers?” echoed Cole uncertainly. His palms began to sweat. “Like when I prayed to go to the country for my birthday,” said Robert, his voice fretful from lack of sleep. “I mean—if there is something we need really, really badly, and we ask him for it, does he always give it to us?”
Weakly, Cole smiled at the innocent child. “Oh, yes,” he replied softly. “He does indeed. Though not always in just the way we might expect”
And then, in the darkness of the carriage, Cole paused for just a moment to consider carefully what Robert had asked, and to ponder the accuracy of his own response. Perhaps there was some essential truth there; something that had almost escaped him. Something, even, that went far beyond the boy’s simple question, or his own inadequate answer.
Suddenly, Stuart’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. “Where exactly in the country are we going, sir?” His tone dropped doubtfully. “And what will Mama say?” Just then, the coach began to slow.
“Why, I am taking you to my house, Stuart,” Cole calmly answered. “It is in Cambridgeshire. And I am going now to fetch your Mama. I am sure she will wish to go, too.”
———
Cole was admitted to Delacourt’s imposing town house by a tall, supercilious footman. If the servant was surprised to hear his master’s knocker sounding so vigorously at such an hour, he gave no indication of it. Cole had not a second in which to take in his surroundings, for at that precise moment, the sound of rich, unmistakably feminine laughter drifted from what appeared to be a drawing room just beyond the entrance hall. And just as unmistakably, the laughter was Jonet’s.
At least, Cole thought ruefully, he would be disturbing them from nothing more intimate than a glass of after-dinner brandy. Only now did he fully appreciate the fact that neither his temper nor his heart could have borne anything more. The realization made him want to shove a fist through the solid slab of oak which constituted Lord Delacourt’s front entrance.
Aft, God! What he would have given to avoid coming here and humiliating himself in just such a way. He could already see the haughty, faintly humorous expression on Delacourt’s face. But the children came first. Cole drew a deep breath.
“I apologize for the lateness of my call, but I fear I must disturb his lordship and his guest,” Cole began, dropping his card onto the small tray the footman produced. “If you would be so kind as to give them this, I think that they will not object to seeing me.”
The footman looked at him impassively. “I am very sorry, sir. Lord Delacourt is not at home.”
More feminine laughter peeled out of the drawing room, but Cole barely noticed it as his emotions ratcheted up from simmer to boil. “What do you mean, not at home?”
Cole demanded. “I know perfectly well that he is here, and that he is entertaining Lady Mercer.”
The footman’s mouth gaped open ever so slightly, and Cole realized that he should have expected to be refused admittance. But in that moment, the only thing that mattered was speaking with Jonet Delacourt and his prevaricating servants could go to hell. Cole would not stand in me middle of the hall and plead. Not when time might be of the essence.
Impulsively, he pushed past the footman, who made no real effort to stop him, and strode down the hall toward the drawing room. The doors were already flung open to reveal a well-lit chamber, elegantly furnished in opulent shades of blue and gold. Just inside, two servants were engaged in laying out a coffee service. In his wrath, Cole did not notice that the room was just a little more crowded man he ought have expected, and that the coffee service appeared tamer generous for two people.
Instead, he stepped brazenly into the room. From across the wide swath of blue and ivory carpet, his eyes were drawn at once to Jonet, who sat in a delicately carved chair, her face alight with a charming, vaguely humorous expression.
“Excuse
me, Lady Mercer,” he began, his voice overbold, yet uncertain. Just then, the servants stepped away from the table, and three sets of wide, feminine eyes swiveled toward him. But before Cole could assimilate the fact that Delacourt was nowhere to be seen, Jonet was out of her chair and anxiously crossing the room toward him.
“Cole?” she said apprehensively, her expression stark, her hands reaching out for his. “Cole, what is wrong—?” All of the color had drained from her face.
In the distance beyond her shoulder, Cole was vaguely aware that an elderly, well-dressed woman was rising somewhat feebly to her feet. Beside her, a plain-looking lady of an uncertain age sprang from her chair to assist. Cole turned his full attention on Jonet as she slid her hands, small and cold, into his. “What is wrong?” she demanded unsteadily. “Tell me!”
“Calm yourself, Jonet,” he said softly. “The children are well, but we must speak privately. In fact, circumstances require us to leave here at once. Can you make your excuses to—to these people, and go?”
Only now was it dawning on Cole that Delacourt was not there. Indeed, if one looked closely at the arrangement of chairs about the low table, and at the number of coffee cups laid out upon it, one was forced to conclude that he never had been. Suddenly, Cole realized that he knew nothing of the viscount’s private life, and had no notion who these two anxious-looking ladies might be.
Jonet withdrew one hand from his and turned to face them. “Lady Delacourt, Miss Branthwaite,” she said rapidly, “I believe you have not the pleasure of knowing my late husband’s cousin, Captain Cole Amherst. Cole, this is Lady Delacourt, David’s mother, and his elder sister, Miss Charlotte Branthwaite.”
His face flushing with heat, Cole made his bow, but Jonet was still speaking. “And now, dear ladies, I must beg you to excuse me. I believe...” she returned her gaze to Cole, anxiously searching his face. “I believe that I am needed by my children?”
Cole urged Jonet from the room and down the hall, snaring her wrap from the footman as they passed. He knew that what they had just done had bordered on the edge of insult, but he found himself desperate to rejoin the boys. Mere seconds later, they found themselves standing alone on the front steps. Jonet’s coachman leapt eagerly forward, but Cole threw up a staying hand and pulled Jonet a little nearer.
“Jonet, I must explain the situation to you quickly,” he said softly, his eyes holding hers in the dim light “I do not mean to press you, nor did I mean to be rude to your friends, but the boys are waiting in the coach.”
Jonet’s grip on his arm tightened spasmodically. “But you said they were well —”
“Yes, and I mean to keep them that way,” he answered, placing his hands lightly upon her shoulders. “But I regret to tell you that almost everyone else in the house was taken ill tonight, unfortunately Mr. Donaldson and Miss Cameron among them.”
Jonet drew in her breath sharply, but Cole continued speaking. “We know not why, nor who will be next. I sent for Dr. Greaves, but he cannot be certain of the cause of the illness, and out of an abundance of caution, Nanna has packed up the children and I have taken them away.”
Jonet shook her head as if trying to clear her vision. “I do not understand. Where are you taking them?” Her voice was edged with rising fear.
Cole tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Us, Jonet,” he said gently. “I am taking us to Cambridgeshire. To my estate. I think it is the safest place, but I have told no one as yet, not even Nanna. Please say that you will come with me.”
Jonet’s expression was tight. “You ... you think it was poison, do you not?”
Cole shook his head. “No, in truth, both Nanna and Greaves think it’s most likely dysentery. Someone—a friend of Cook’s —brought clotted cream into the house yesterday. Do you remember eating any?”
Numbly, Jonet shook her head. “No, I... cannot think that I did.”
“And what about the boys?” Cole urged.
“No.” She shook her head more definitely this time. “No, the boys do not care for it.”
Cole felt relief surge through him. Perhaps that’s all it was, a mere accident. Nothing as black as he had imagined. Still, he could no longer afford to make such assumptions. “Then will you agree to this scheme, Jonet?” he asked, his voice soft, his mouth close to her ear. “Will you come with me to Elmwood? I swear, I will keep you safe. All of you.”
Jonet lifted her gaze to his, and Cole could see a little glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“Yes, but the boys... will they not be frightened?”
Cole shrugged. “Stuart we cannot hope to fool. But Robert thinks that it is a surprise trip for his birthday. I think that will make for as good an excuse as any. Once we are settled, and if none of us has fallen ill, then we can decide what ought next to be done. Or perhaps the doctor will be able to give us clearer guidance.”
Mutely, Jonet nodded. Her only remaining questions were for the health of Ellen and her staff, and after reassuring her that they were as well and as comfortable as they could be, Cole bundled her into the carriage. She was immediately greeted by Robert, who hurled himself into her lap with exuberant thanks for his special birthday gift.
Chapter 12
In Which Mrs. Birtwhistle Makes A Strategic Error
After a late and restless night at a posting inn outside Loughton, they crossed over into Cambridgeshire in the early afternoon, and by teatime, Jonet heard Cole direct the coachman to skirt Cambridge to the east Their route took them deep into the countryside, through a land so peaceful it made something hard and choking swell in Jonet’s throat. Cole now rode outside on the box, as he had done off and on since leaving London. Inside, however, the confines of the carriage were taking a toll on the boys. Initially, Jonet had seriously watched them for any sign of illness, sending up a prayer of thanks when none was forthcoming. Quite the opposite, in fact, for they had quickly escalated from curious to rowdy, and were now fast approaching quarrelsome.
The day was hot and thick with the promise of more rain. Jonet’s head pounded, and her stomach churned, and twice, as the boys’ behavior worsened, she had threatened to cancel the trip, something that really was not an option. Cole would not have brought them here—and would not willingly have traveled in such proximity to her—had he not thought it absolutely necessary. In truth, Cole had been assiduously avoiding her for the last several days, and almost everything that had occurred between them had been solely due to her maneuverings. She had first cajoled him into her bed, and then begged to accompany him to St John’s Wood, while he had done both without really wanting to.
But now, he was quite obviously taking pains to afford her no such opportunity. Last night at the inn, Cole had taken but one large room for both her and the boys, insisting upon one that was strategically placed at the end of a corridor. Throughout the night, he and the coachman had alternately stood watch outside the room’s only door. Where, or even if, they had slept was a mystery to Jonet.
Moreover, she had not failed to notice that he had discreetly covered the crests of her carriage, and had registered them under an assumed name. What else, she wondered, had he done in his quiet, certain way? She had learned not to argue with him. Indeed, she had Cole’s quick confidence to thank for this very journey, and although it was frustrating to be traveling just now, Jonet could not but think that what he had done had been for the best. And in truth, she was more eager to see his home than could possibly be wise.
At that very moment, Robert managed to poke Stuart in the ribs with the sharply whittled stick he’d coaxed off the potboy at the last posting inn. Stuart’s ensuing scream and Jonet’s snapping temper were enough to bring the carriage rocking to a halt. In a trice, Cole was down and jerking open the door.
“Out!” he bellowed, his brows a fretful knot. “Out, you rapscallions! That’s quite enough. Up on the box and leave your mother in peace, or I swear, I’ll have an inch of hide off the both of you.”
Stuart pulled a face. “But sir, he sta
rt—”
“Did not!” interjected Robert swiftly.
“Did too!” insisted Stuart, elbowing his brother in the ribs.
Cole’s jaw twitched. “I don’t care!” he roared, one hand set stubbornly at his hip, the other stabbing violently sky-ward. “Up on the box! Account yourselves fortunate. At least you’ll have something to look at.”
The boys trundled out, tails tucked between their legs, though it was nothing but false piety and Jonet knew it. The opportunity to sit atop the box was a rare treat. As Cole settled into the opposite seat and dragged one hand wearily through his wind-tossed hair, Jonet could not suppress the smile that teased at her lips. “You played right into their hands, you know,” she said calmly.
The coach lurched forward and the boys squealed with delight. A little defensively, Cole crossed his arms over his chest “I daresay I did,” he finally admitted, his voice softening. “But better that than to have them run you ragged.”
Cole sounded so sweet, so truly concerned. Jonet did not know why it inspired her to such devilry and made her forget her pride. “You are very good, sir,” she said calmly, her gloved hands folded demurely into her lap. “Not to mention practical and clever—and exceedingly attractive. Are you perfectly sure you’ll not reconsider my offer of marriage?”
Cole looked both stunned and mystified, as if she’d dubbed him upside the head with his own cricket bat. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Jonet!” he muttered, sinking a little lower in the seat and looking like a man beleaguered. “Not now—! Not on top of all else! I swear, I cannot think straight.”
“Very well, not now,” she easily agreed. “I allow, it would be inconvenient. But if not now, when?”