A Woman Scorned

by Liz Carlyle

  “So noted,” he snapped, and whipped up his horse.

  The remainder of the long journey passed swiftly although it did not seem so to the two men who pushed their horses north at a near-brutal pace. They stopped only when absolutely necessary for rest and water. For the most part, they did not speak but merely eyed one another with dark, sidelong glances. Had Cole not been nearly terrified, he would have undoubtedly found their behavior laughable. Yet he found himself strangely glad for Delacourt’s companionship.

  It was nearing dusk when Cole finally spied the brick gateposts of Elmwood coming into view. Wordlessly, he raised his hand to point them out, and they turned their horses into the long stretch of drive that ran beneath the sweeping rows of elms. Under the dense foliage, it seemed both darker and colder, and Cole was struck with a bone-deep sense of foreboding.

  Delacourt sensed it, too. “What do you mean to say when we arrive, Amherst?” he asked, his voice suddenly unsteady. “Tell me what you wish for me to do.”

  “I am not sure.” Wearily, Cole scrubbed a hand down his face. “I think that we should find Jonet and the children, and take them all into the library. Once we have them safely together, you occupy the children, and I will take Jonet aside and try to explain. Though how the devil I’m to do it, I do not know. She will be utterly devastated.”

  Delacourt crooked one brow. “I detest belaboring the obvious, Amherst, but we have no evidence. And there is always a possibility that Jonet will refuse to believe us. The truth is so heinous, I can scarce believe it. Indeed, I persuaded the magistrates to end their investigation, merely to save Jonet’s feelings! Now I feel like a damned fool.”

  Sickly, Cole stared at the younger man. “You feel like a fool? How the bloody hell do you think I feel? I ran off to throttle you, leaving the people I am responsible for —my future wife and children—to be murdered in their sleep or worse, may God forgive me.”

  For once, Delacourt looked contrite, and not a little sympathetic. “You have done all that could be done, Amherst, and that is far more than anyone else had managed to do. In any event, we are here now. All will be well. Nothing can possibly have happened in such a short time. Besides, did you not say that they had all been ill?”

  But just then, the house burst into view. Despite the late hour, Charlie Donaldson stood on the top step, a broom in one hand. With a soldier’s instinct, the butler must have sensed their disquiet Tossing down the broom, he hastened down the steps just as Delacourt dismounted. Donaldson’s eyes widened at the sight of the man whom he had been ordered to bar from the house, but he said nothing. Cole let his horse’s reins drop. “Where is Jonet?” he asked harshly.

  Donaldson snapped to attention. “Out wi’ the children, sir.”

  Suddenly, Cole froze. “Out where? With whom?” he asked sharply.

  Suddenly, he realized that Delacourt was wrong—! Something had happened. Or was about to happen. He knew it with a cold, sickening certainty. All of his hard-fought control threatened to snap. Panic warred with anger. “Damn it, Donaldson—where? And where the hell is Miss Cameron?”

  “I do na’ know, sir,” he responded, his lace suddenly draining of all color. “Oh, my God,” he said, his voice a weak, tremulous whisper. “You canna mean ... oh, God! Come inside at once. Mrs. Birtwhistle may know where they’ve gone.”

  Cole burst into the entrance hall, Donaldson and Delacourt on his heels. He strode rapidly through the house, hoping for a few pathetic moments that the butler was mistaken. Perhaps Jonet had merely taken the boys into the gardens, and had since returned. But it was immediately clear that the drawing room and parlor were empty. The library and study were shut up, and instinctively, he sensed that the entire house was empty as well.

  His heart leapt into his throat. Where in God’s name were they? And what had he allowed to happen this time? Cole didn’t give one whit for Delacourt’s sympathy, because he knew how easy it was to fail to take care of one’s family. And he had done it again. Cole’s plan to remain calm went up in smoke as their heavy boots thundered down the corridor toward the back of the house. “Mrs. Birtwhistle!” he shouted, never breaking his stride until he pushed through the heavy kitchen door.

  “Mrs. Birtwhistle! Where the devil is Mrs. Rowland?”

  The housekeeper and the new cook stood over the sturdy worktable, peering unhappily down at a pile of withered turnips. Terrified, the old woman jerked her head up, her hand flying to her heart. “Oh! At the st-stables, I b-believe,” she managed to say. “Gone but five minutes, sir. Is ought amiss?”

  At no time did it occur to Cole to introduce Delacourt, nor did the housekeeper seem to care. “With whom did she go?” he sharply returned.

  Mrs. Birtwhistle’s clawlike hand spasmed against her starched fichu. “Why, with that nice Miss Cameron, sir! She came in just beside herself, saying that she wanted the children to come with her to see some kittens, and she wanted Mrs. Rowland to go, too.”

  “God damn it all!” muttered Delacourt, bringing his fist down on top of the table. The housekeeper leapt back a pace as one of the turnips rolled off. “Which way are the bloody stables?”

  The three of them exited the back of the house just as Moseby brought their horses around. “Leave them and follow us, Moseby,” said Cole.

  Cole spoke softly as they walked, briefing Donaldson and Moseby. Together, the four of them approached until they were within a stone’s throw of the building. Cole prayed to God that they were wrong, knowing all the while that he prayed in vain. Evil surrounded them, and the source of it was Ellen Cameron. It always had been.

  She had never seemed what she had appeared to be, and underneath, he had sensed it. How could he have failed to trust his instincts? Through the falling dusk, Cole could see that the door stood open. Down the center aisle, in a stall near the end, a pale light shone, casting eerie, shifting shadows up the wall, as if someone working inside the stall carried a lantern. Silently, Cole motioned Moseby around back and Donaldson toward the loft. Together, he and Delacourt approached the open door. A strange, pungent odor assailed him. Delacourt’s nostrils also flared wide, and he flicked Cole a worried glance. They stepped gingerly across the threshold just as a boyish giggle escaped the rear of the building.

  “That one! The black one!” chortled Robert “He’s mine. I saw him first”

  “I don’t care,” dinned Stuart “I would rather have the yellow one. Mama? May I have the yellow one? Please? The one with the white ear?”

  Oh, God! Sick, Cole stared into the gloom, watching the wicked shadows dance. Jonet and the boys suspected nothing. Unwittingly, trustingly, they had allowed themselves to be trapped in the back of a stable. There was no means of escape. And what now? What evil had Ellen planned? Did she have a knife? A gun? But they could not blindly rush in! Ellen carried a flaming lantern, a far more deadly weapon hi a dry, dusty stable. Stealth was their only weapon. Praying that one of his horses would not whicker in greeting, Cole jerked his head sharply, indicating that Delacourt should follow him. The smell grew thicker. What the devil was it? Turpentine? Oil? And something else. Alcohol?

  “Mama,” whined Robert, as if his mother were ignoring him. “Can I have the black one?”

  “I—yes, I daresay you may if Mr. Moseby agrees,” Jonet finally answered. Her sharp voice, edged with concern, carried easily over the stall. “Ellen! What, pray, is that smell?”

  “Hmm? What?” The lamplight shifted erratically, and Ellen Cameron’s pleasant voice could be heard. “Oh, the smell? Why, it is my own secret concoction, cousin. I sprinkled it on the straw to keep down the fleas. Poor kittens! Yes, yes ... oh, are they not cute? Look, Jonet—blue eyes! I think this one must be yours.”

  Jonet ignored her explanation. “But Ellen, it smells like... like brandy and—ugk— something else,” she responded fractiously.

  Cole and Delacourt had neared the half-open door. Inside, something bumped against the wall. Through the opening, Cole saw a flash of green muslin. El
len Cameron was backing out the door with the lantern in her hand. Cole leaned toward Delacourt “The lantern!” he mouthed. “Take her down if you can but do not let the lantern fall! I shall try to seize it.”

  Even in the dim light, Delacourt looked pale. “This place is a tinderbox! Be careful!”

  Cole nodded, and they took two steps forward. But they were still several feet away when Ellen darted into the walkway and shoved the heavy stall door shut behind her. From inside the box, Jonet’s voice rang out, sharp and angry. “Ellen? Ellen! Open this door at once!”

  As if she had not heard her cousin’s demand, Ellen laughed softly, then whirled about Aloft, she held the burning lantern by its handle, sending an eerie yellow light swinging up and down the walkway. The lantern was huge, and brimming with oil.

  Ellen faltered when Cole stepped out of the shadows. From inside, Jonet’s fist pounded on the wall, “Ellen! Open this door now!”

  In the background, one of the boys began to sob. “Mama, I want out!” Robert wailed. “Its too dark in here!” Ellen stared at Cole, her lamp held high. High enough to send it hurling over the wall with one good swing. Which was exactly what she meant to do! Dear God! The door was secured from outside. The inside would ignite like dry kindling. A dreadful accident, Ellen would no doubt have claimed.

  Both the children were now beginning to wail.

  “Jonet!” Cole shouted, willing away the fiery vision. “Jonet, I am here. There is no need to be frightened. But you must all be very still. Miss Cameron is playing a game.”

  “A.. a game?” Jonet’s voice was incredulous and unsteady.

  “I don’t want to play a game!” cried Stuart pitifully, beating on the door. “I want out!”

  In the pale lamplight, Ellen Cameron’s mouth curled up into an insane smile. “Ah, but play we shall,” she whispered into the darkness. “And a dangerous game at that, Captain Amherst. I always knew you were too smart by half.”

  Delacourt shifted his weight as if to rush her. “Tut, tut!” Ellen sharply reproved, thrusting the lamp forward in a swinging swoosh! of light “I shouldn’t come closer, my lord, if I were you!” Her eyes were alight with an unholy gleam.

  “Don’t be a fool, Ellen!” responded Delacourt. “I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Damn! Delacourt had drawn his pistol. Cole prayed he wouldn’t shoot. If Ellen fell, the burning lantern would tumble into the hay. Oil would spill everywhere. Even on this side of the box stall, the blaze would likely be uncontrollable. There would be no getting them out alive.

  Ellen lifted her chin and laughed, a sharp, wicked sound. “Never fear, my lord! I mean to play my game to the end this time. Come one step closer, and you’ll smell burning flesh all the sooner!” She jerked her head toward the bolted door.

  “You heartless bitch!” hissed Delacourt in a voice so low Cole barely heard it. The smile slowly slipped from Ellen’s face.

  “Why, you know nothing of heartlessness, my lord,” she said softly, setting her head at an angle and studying him intently. “You with your lofty title and fine estates! You know nothing of what it is like to be no one. Just a woman, torn from the home she cherishes! Begging off relatives! Pushed to marry so she won’t be in the way!”

  Her tone took on an edge of madness.

  “Ellen—.’” Pleadingly, Cole’s voice cut her off, then dropped to a whisper. “Think of the children! For God’s sake, put down that lamp and let us talk!”

  “No!” Ellen’s gaze began to shift anxiously back and forth between them. “No, we will not talk! I deserve to be the Countess of Kildermore! I love it better than anyone! And I know you’re in love with Jonet—like every other man who crosses her path! Jonet, the beauty! Jonet, who has everything.” Ellen’s voice almost broke, and as if in response to her weakness, she forced the lantern higher, sending it swinging precariously from its bracket “While all my life, I’ve been like a dog, something you might throw a bone to. Well, you’ll not be so quick with your charity now, will you?”

  “Ellen,” said Cole harshly, “it is not too late. Please!” Desperately, Cole tried to maneuver toward a solution. If Delacourt grabbed Ellen, could Cole safely wrestle the lamp from her grip? Or would she be too quick for either of them? Clearly, Ellen was insane. She had little to lose now. Talking was futile. Stalling was increasingly dangerous.

  Just then, a light dusting of hay drifted down through the lamp’s glow, settling like snow over Ellen’s hair and shoulders. For one brief moment, her gaze flicked upward into the darkness of the loft, and just as quickly, back down again. The day had been hot, with nary a breeze to stir the air. That meant only one thing. Donaldson! The well-trained soldier had strategically positioned himself over the enemy. Suddenly, a huge cloud of hay cascaded from the loft. It was enough to send Ellen stumbling backward, coughing and flailing as the dust settled.

  Cole had but a moment to decide. He darted forward. His fingers brushed the lantern just as Ellen regained her balance. She jerked hard against his grasp. Hot glass scorched the back of his hand. Twisting his knuckles away, Cole struggled to grip the handle.

  Suddenly, Delacourt dived in low, trying to knock her off balance. Ramming his head into her chest, he tightened his arms and tried to squeeze the breath from her. Ellen grunted viciously. The lantern swung wild. From above, Donaldson dropped with a thud, landing in the darkness behind Cole. Still, Ellen fought, cursing and biting as Delacourt tried to wrestle her under control. She had the strength of a madwoman. Cole shifted forward, leaning over her, fighting to keep the lamp upright.

  With a last desperate snarl, Ellen sunk her teeth into Delacourt’s ear and jerked. Blood trickled off his earlobe as the viscount cursed, then shoved her roughly away from the door and into the depths of the stable. Cole followed the struggling pair, fighting to steady the lantern. Finally he got a solid grip. Seizing the moment, Donaldson rushed in. He rammed back the door latch and rushed a white-faced Jonet and the sobbing boys to safety.

  As they disappeared into the darkness, Ellen cried aloud, the low, keening wail of a mortally wounded animal. At last, she let go of the lamp, slumping awkwardly in Delacourt’s arms, and striking her head against the corner of the last stall. Muttering a curse, she looked up at them, her expression glazed. Roughly, Cole jerked her to her feet as Moseby stepped out of the gloom, a length of thin rope at the ready. It was over.

  ———

  It was almost midnight when Cole left the magistrate’s office and began the short ride back to Elmwood, his emotions a maelstrom of sorrow and relief. Relief that the secret evil which had for so long threatened Jonet was now over, but sorrow for all that had happened, and for what he must now tell her. His hat in his hands, Cole stood for a long while in the driveway, quietly drinking in the sounds and smells of Elmwood at night, and finding himself strangely comforted by the light which shone in his parlor window.

  At last, he went up the steps and pushed open the door, only to find Jonet waiting in the darkness of the hall. She came silently toward him, her expression perfectly mirroring his own emotions. Her arms came around him then, and for a long, silent moment, they simply held one another, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin. Cole let his hands slide up and down the black silk of her mourning gown, soothing as best he could the trembling which still vibrated deep within her.

  “My darling, I am so sorry,” he murmured into her hair, trying to infuse a lifetime of meaning into the inadequate words. Jonet was his everything. His hope. His dream. His future. And he had very nearly failed to protect her. Cole was very much afraid he would never get over that terror. But eventually, the soft sound of Delacourt deliberately clearing his throat interrupted them. Cole opened his eyes to see the viscount framed in the parlor door.

  Nodding in acknowledgement, he set Jonet gently away and stared deep into her blue-black eyes. “I think we three need to talk, my dear,” he said softly. “Are you up to it?”

  “Yes,” she answered hollowly, hardening her ex
pression. Together, the three of them went in, Delacourt pausing long enough to pour out a tumbler of cognac. Without comment, he pressed it into Cole’s hand.

  Despite the summer evening, a small fire burned in the parlor hearth, no doubt for Jonet’s benefit. The shock she had sustained had been profound. She had been betrayed by someone she held dear, and the worst was yet to come. Gently, Cole urged her into a chair by the fireplace and set his glass upon the mantel. Delacourt took the chair oppo site, his eyes never leaving Jonet’s face. Standing to one side, Cole rubbed pensively at one temple with his fingertips.

  “I think,” he said softly, “that we must all decide what we are to say to the children in the morning. But first, my dear, I am afraid I have some... grim news.”

  As if impelled by instinct, Jonet’s hand went to her throat, as her gaze, flat and distant, turned to Cole. “Ellen is dead, is she not?”

  Slowly, Cole nodded. “Yes. It was... yet another unforeseen tragedy.”

  Delacourt leaned urgently forward in his chair, but he did not look surprised. “She did herself in, is that what you mean to say?”

  Again, Cole nodded, heartsick. Although Ellen Cameron had been tormented and evil, Jonet had loved her. “It happened at the King’s Arms,” he said quietly. “The constable secured her in an upstairs chamber to await the London magistrate, and while we talked in the taproom, she somehow...”

  “Hung herself?” finished Jonet flatly as she stared into the fire.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God,” said Jonet softly. “And may God forgive her! But I am relieved. For it is better that than a lifetime in Bedlam or a public hanging.”

  “Bloody hell,” whispered Delacourt, then he tossed off the rest of his cognac. “First murder, then suicide! Gad, who’d have guessed old Ellen was mad as a March hare? And yet, we should have put it together. No doubt her knowledge of plants and gardening gave her a passing familiarity with poisons. Yet no one ever suspected that she’d done in old Mercer.”