“Indeed?” Cole calmly replied. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Well, then!” said Miss Cameron brightly as she tugged a small book of verse from the shelf. “Shall I see you at dinner?”
Her question pulled Cole back into the present. “Why, no, Miss Cameron. Not tonight. I fear I have a previous engagement, but Lady Mercer has kindly said that I must dine with the family on most evenings.”
Miss Cameron blinked. “Well, of course!” she responded. “Are you not a cousin, too? Jonet is very generous, and particularly so with her family.” She smiled a little tightly. “That is one of the advantages to being securely on the shelf, Captain Amherst. I have the freedom to come and go as I please, and Jonet includes me in everything.”
“Everything?” Cole was a little taken aback. “Were you here, then, Miss Cameron, on the night Lord Mercer died?” He blurted the question out quite coarsely, yet Jonet’s cousin seemed to take no offence.
“No, but I was invited,” she insisted. “As I said, Jonet invites me to
everything
. But I had been here for all of Christmas, and I really wanted to go home. To my aunt’s, I mean. And so I said—well, really, I fibbed a little—and said that I had a headache in the afternoon.”
“How shocking,” Cole teased. “You must be very wicked indeed.”
She made a sour, childish face. “Well, I will confess that I did not like many of the people who were coming to dine. But now, I feel inordinately guilty for having left poor Jonet here alone after what happened . . .” Lamely, her words trailed away.
“Yes, I think I see,” said Cole gently. “But you must not feel guilty, Miss Cameron. I am sure you did all that you could. It was time for God to call Lord Mercer home.”
“Was it?” she asked a little sharply. “There are some who might disagree, I daresay.” Abruptly, Miss Cameron stacked up the two books she had chosen. “Well, delighted to have made your acquaintance. Shall I see you at dinner tomorrow?”
“Yes, perhaps.” Cole paused to make her a little bow, then held the door as Ellen Cameron passed through it. He stood there for a long moment watching her skirts go swishing around the corner, until suddenly he found himself swept back into the book-room on a tide of boys and dogs, which had come rolling down the back stairs.
“Scoundrel! Rogue!” shouted Stuart ineffectually as the dogs circled around them, tails wagging violently. “Sit! Stay!”
“Captain Amherst! Captain Amherst!” chimed Robert boldly. “Did you really move your things in? Are you really going to stay here? Have you really come to teach us? Stuart said you’d not come back, but I said—”
“Did
not
!” interjected Stuart loudly, affectionately roughing the coat of the old collie as he passed by. “What I said was, he won’t come back if he’s got any sense.”
Automatically, Cole lifted a leg just as Rogue came shooting between his knees. “Er—well, that rather settles it, doesn’t it? I have no sense. I always feared that might be the case.”
“Oh, who cares?” asked Robert rhetorically as the dog whipped another quick circle around him. “Mama says you’re to stay, and that we are to work with you on our Latin—and our
cricket
! And she says we’re to call you Cousin Cole, but only if you agree. Do you? Do you agree?
Sit down,
Rogue!
Anyway, don’t you think we ought to call you that? Cause now we know you’re not a spy or a suspicious character—and Mama says that since we are in mourning for Papa, we may have only family here—and Lord Delacourt, of course,” he belatedly added.
Cole glanced over at Stuart, who merely rolled his eyes dramatically. “You must get used to it. Robin never stops talking, whether or not he has anything meaningful to say.”
With an amused smile, Cole pulled out his watch and looked at it again. His meeting with Ellen Cameron had made him very n early late, which was all but unheard of. “I am afraid, gentlemen, that this discussion must wait. I am tardy for a dinner appointment.” He glanced back and forth between them, his face grave. “But I have selected your first extracurricular assignment. Search this library from top to bottom until you find a Latin dictionary, then bring it—along with yourselves—to the schoolroom tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp.”
“What’s extracur’icler?” Robert looked suspicious. “It sounds like
something extra
. More work, belike.” The boy crossed his arms over his narrow chest.
“Well,” said Cole slowly, wondering if he had been engaged to tutor the youthful equivalent of a Spitalfields horse trader. “It is something in addition to your regular assignments. So of course, there must be, ah—
extra credit
.”
“Oh—?” Robert squinted one eye. “Of what sort?”
“Well, the gentleman who finds it will . . .” Cole paused to think of a suitable reward. “Ah, yes! Will accompany me to the best match of the season at Lord’s. Eton versus Harrow!”
“Yes!” said Robert, suddenly agreeable. He danced off to begin, Rogue at his heels.
Stuart, however, did not move. “Mama won’t permit us to go to a cricket match, sir,” he said very quietly. “We are still in mourning.”
The child looked so bereft and so solemn that Cole could not help but lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps I may persuade her, Stuart,” he said softly. “The match isn’t until mid-June, and it will have been almost six months by then. If nothing else, we shall take a carriage, and you may watch them play from the window.”
The boy’s face brightened a little at that. “Yes, I suppose we could do. Even Uncle James could not object to that, could he?” His dark brows drew into a little knot. “He’s forever sending Mama scolding letters, you know. Telling us how we must go on, how we must show respect, and all that rot.”
“Yes,” murmured Cole, his jaw tight.
All that rot indeed
.“I am sure you respected your father a great deal, Stuart.”
Stuart lifted his steady gaze to Cole’s and nodded. “Oh, we did, sir. We liked Papa well enough. I cannot think why Uncle James persists in annoying Mama. She becomes quite upset every time his letters arrive.” The boy shrugged his narrow shoulders. “We really could do without that just now,” he added, sounding far older than his nine years.
Cole bent down to look Stuart straight in the eye. “Never you mind Uncle James. He’s my uncle too, as it happens. And I learned years ago just how to manage him. Leave him to me. Now, go help your brother look for the dictionary, and I shall take you both to the match, right?”
“Found it! Found it!” screeched Robert from the back of the library, just as Cole walked out the door and into the hall.
Stuart’s footsteps pounded toward the back of the room. “Oh, you simpleton!” Cole heard him say in the distance. “That’s the
Greek
one.”
“Same blasted thing,” wailed Robert insistently.
“Oh, good Lord! It is
not!
”
“Is
too!
”
“Is
not!
”
“Horse’s arse!”
“Dog turd!”
By now, Cole’s hand was on the front doorknob. After hesitating a moment, he decided that he was officially off duty, then yanked it open and headed down the steps.
Despite his dire prediction of tardiness, Cole arrived at his club a few moments before his friend, and to Cole’s great surprise, Terry Madlow was soon followed into the dining room by his widowed father-in-law, Jack Lauderwood, a retired army officer. The old colonel moved with great care nowadays, for he was almost completely blind. His illness had begun insidiously during Cole’s first months in the army, but by the time the First Royal Dragoons had been deployed to Portugal, Lauderwood had been unable to see well enough to command the field. His son-in-law, Captain Terrence Madlow, along with Cole and many others, had sailed without their mentor.
“Amherst!” Lauderwood’s huge fist swept across the table to shake Cole’s hand with bone-crushing enthusiasm.
“Colonel! What great good fortune. I had not heard of your return from Lincolnshire. I trust you found your estate well run?”
“Well enough,” agreed the old man, taking the chair his son-in-law gently pushed him toward. Together, the three of them enjoyed a simple meal and bottle of wine, passing the time between courses by talking of the war. Cole enjoyed the opportunity to relax in the company of men whom he liked and trusted. Until that moment, he had not fully appreciated how much the situation with Lady Mercer’s children had weighed upon his mind.
“Now then, Terry!” boomed the old colonel, settling back in his seat as the last course was removed. “My shotbag is plump, so have that waiter fetch me a bottle of his best port and three glasses. You two must take up a deck of cards and never mind me, for I shall go on perfectly well.”
With a wink in Cole’s direction, Madlow rose to do his father-in-law’s bidding. Lauderwood leaned amiably across the narrow table, his clouded eyes skimming over the room. “Cole, my boy,” he said, returning to their dinner conversation for a moment. “I see very little these days, but even I can see that what we have here is a room full of fine officers gone to waste. The army has lost its sense of purpose, I believe, and I fear it shall never be recovered.” His voice was a little tired.
“Perhaps, sir. But thank God we are at last at peace.”
Lauderwood laughed genially and reared back into his chair. “Trust you to point that out, my boy! I am fond of you, Cole. Exceedingly so. But upon my life, I shall never understand how you made such a good officer. You really are not the type, you know.”
Cole smiled lightly. “That is true, I suppose.”
Lauderwood pursed his lips for a moment. “Now, tell me,” he said, leaning forward again eagerly. “What of this tomfoolery Terry is giving out about your moving to Mayfair? Quite shocking, that.”
At that moment, Terrence Madlow leaned across the table to set down a bottle, as well as the three glasses that were caught neatly in the fingers of his right hand. “I told you, Jack,” he answered with a wicked grin. “Cole’s just helping out his cousin, Lady Mercer.”
Cole rolled his eyes, then focused on his glass as Madlow filled it. “You may recall, Colonel, that the uncle who raised me was the younger brother of Lord Mercer? He has become greatly concerned about his nephews, Lord Mercer’s two sons.”
“Ugh,” grunted Lauderwood. “Nasty business. They do say Mercer was poisoned. Not surprised to hear it.”
“But is that really true?” Cole asked impulsively, well aware that Lauderwood knew everyone in town. “I mean, I did hear that rumor put about, but no one seems to have been apprehended. Perhaps it was his heart? Mercer was not a young man.”
“I know for a fact that it was suspected there was something in the wine he drank,” answered the colonel as he took his glass from his son-in-law. “An old doctor I know—Greaves by name—lives just over in Harley Street. He was brought to the scene by the magistrate.”
Madlow interrupted. “Yes, Jack—but they were at a dinner party, were they not? And did not everyone drink the same wine?”
Solemnly, Lauderwood shook his head. “No, this was afterward, as I understand it. Greaves was hard pressed to make a diagnosis. The few symptoms indicated heart trouble, but there was a decanter of red wine and a set of goblets kept in the sitting room which connected his bedchamber to his wife’s. The decanter and one goblet were found empty on his night table. The dregs in the decanter appeared suspicious, but nothing could be ascertained.”
Cole exhaled sharply. “And so he went upstairs to bed, poured himself a glass of wine, and collapsed onto the floor?”
“More than one.” Lauderwood scratched his head. “So Greaves says. Now, mind me, Cole, this is quite confidential—but Mercer had apparently developed some sort of bilious complaint the preceding week. Nothing serious, but his doctor had suggested a little red wine before retiring. He did not normally drink it.”
“I wonder how many people were aware of his doctor’s recommendation?” mused Cole. “Not many, I daresay.”
“Oh, I know precisely,” answered the colonel. “Greaves was there when Lyons, one of the parish magistrates, interviewed the servants. The only people who knew were his butler—who kept the tray replenished—his valet who’d seen ’im drinking it, and of course, his wife.”
Cole swallowed hard. This was very grim news. Very grim indeed. “And where does the investigation stand now, Colonel? Have you any idea?”
Lauderwood shrugged. “Officially, it is at a stalemate,” he answered. “Greaves says the butler and the valet had no motive. And in any event, they have since been dismissed by her ladyship. To be sure, no one in the Home Office is apt to support charging Lady Mercer with the crime.”
“Why?” asked Terry Madlow innocently.
Lauderwood made an exasperated sound. “She is a peer, for pity’s sake. It just isn’t done. Not without absolute proof.”
“But there was an inquest, was there not?” insisted Madlow.
The colonel snorted. “Yes, and a bloody quick one, too. Just the way Lord Delacourt wanted it, if the rumors of his influence can be believed.”
“And so that is the end of it?” asked Cole archly. “The coroner’s report no doubt mentioned something vague about death by causes unknown, leaving Lady Mercer to be tried, convicted—and metaphorically hanged—by public opinion? That hardly seems fair.”
“Fair?” echoed Lauderwood. “Better to be hanged by public opinion than by the end of a rope, I daresay. And there are a great many who feel that is just what she deserves. I am sorry, Cole, if that offends you, but that is the truth. She’s a pariah now. An outcast. Only Lord Delacourt has continued his friendship with her. And there are some who say that dalliance, too, is swiftly coming to an end.”
“To an end?” asked Cole, his heart lurching foolishly. “I will admit, the man looks a little vain and egocentric, but do you think he would cast her off on such scant evidence?”
The colonel pulled a rueful face. “Well, Delacourt is a great favorite with the ladies. Rumor has it that he has set up a new lightskirt—an actress—in Long Acre. Quite the dasher she is, too, so I hear.”
Cole was stunned into momentary silence, remembering the elegant young man he had met, and the look of sweet anticipation on Lady Mercer’s face when she’d greeted him. “But . . . are you sure, Lauderwood? How do you know?”