“Yes, I am.” Suddenly, Ellen’s gaze shot from the table to the hearth, then she flew across the floor to kneel by the dog. “Oh, poor puppy! He’s looking much better today.” She turned to smile over her shoulder. “I believe Captain Amherst and Nanna worked something of a miracle last night.”
“Quite so,” agreed Jonet. “Now come sit down, Ellen, and see if this bacon is fit to eat. I believe I have it just the way you like it this time.”
Dutifully, Ellen took her seat. Jonet watched in silence as the others ate and chattered gaily. How different the children seemed this morning, now that all danger to their dog was past. Last night, they had nearly broken her heart with their weeping. Jonet had not known what to do. It seemed her poor boys were beset by misfortune on all sides. First their father’s death, then the series of so-called accidents, and all of it compounded by a mother who—she had to admit it—was no longer entirely balanced. On top of everything else, it seemed patently unfair that their beloved pet should be taken ill. But there was no question that the dog was rapidly improving, and no question that she had Cole to thank for it. Clearly, he had astonished Nanna with his efforts. Jonet had been subjected to a long recital this morning as her old nurse had sung Cole’s praises. Though she was far too stubborn to admit it, Nanna had been completely won over by his willingness to roll up his cuffs and help.
Jonet stared down the table, studying the perfect angle of his jaw as Cole turned to laugh at some jest that Robert had made. How kind he was to the boys. Inwardly, she sighed. How wonderful it would be to spend every morning like this. Then she sharply chastised herself for returning to the forbidden topic. But the sad truth was that Jonet had never wished for a title or any part of the lifestyle which went with it. All she could ever remember wanting was this; her family surrounding her, especially her children and the man she . . . she . . . what?
Loved?
But good Lord . . .
did she?
The realization stole upon her quietly, and wrapped itself around her heart, just as she watched Cole reach across to help Robert butter his toast. As usual, the boy had made a mess of it, and Cole was calmly wiping butter from both table and child, his golden hair falling forward to catch the morning light. Jonet froze, a mug of tea halfway to her mouth. She had never known a more desirable man, but the coursing river of emotion which she felt for him ran far deeper than simple lust. Yes, that was undoubtedly love.
And she had walked into it blindly.
In a very short time, Cole Amherst had somehow—certainly not deliberately—managed to melt her stone cold heart to a puddle, wreaking havoc with all her well-laid plans. The fact that he certainly had not set out to do so hardly mitigated the damage. Her resolve, her mistrust, her carefully calculated aloofness—all of it lay in ruins within days of meeting him. And her pride had followed last night.
Ellen brought her back to reality. “Well,” her cousin said briskly, “what does everyone have planned for the day?”
Tearing her sidelong gaze from Cole’s elegant jaw, Jonet looked at her cousin, trying not to stutter. “Plans? Why, I daresay that the boys and I will go to church later, then pass a quiet afternoon at home. I hope you will join us.” She returned her gaze to Cole. “And you too, Cole, of course.”
For a moment, he looked taken aback. “I—no, I thank you, ma’am,” he responded. “I attend a church near High Holborn, and I—”
“Well, that seems too far away!” interjected Ellen. “You must go to St. George’s with us.”
Jonet noticed that Cole looked distinctly uncomfortable, and she came to his rescue. “Ellen, I daresay Cole has a personal preference with regard to his church. We should accept that.”
Ellen dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, then shrugged amiably. “To each his own. For my part, I plan to spend the afternoon working in Aunt’s gardens.” Her brows drew together in concern. “Do you know, Jonet, since old Manning died, her gardens have really deteriorated.”
“Have they indeed?” Jonet returned.
“Oh, it is quite sad!” confirmed Ellen, cheerfully stabbing into her bacon. “I often remarked to Aunt that she really should dismiss that obnoxious young gardener whom Lady Pace recommended. The man does not know a weed from a root! What was she thinking? That is what I should like to know!”
Jonet, who knew nothing of gardening, murmured some polite response.
“Do I take it, Miss Cameron,” interposed Cole, “that you are fond of gardening?”
Ellen, who was always reticent about her skills, looked suddenly shy. “Why, I quite like it well enough I suppose. There are so few hobbies available to us ladies.” She smiled brightly. “And how shall you spend your afternoon, Captain Amherst? Have you plans of your own?”
Jonet watched as Cole’s eyes hooded over. “Very pleasant, indeed,” he said quietly. “I plan to pay a call upon a very dear friend.”
In the early afternoon, Cole set aside his pen, put away his books, and rose reluctantly from his desk. For some months since the war’s end, he had been engaged in an examination of Descartes’s study of nature, and while he disagreed with a few of the man’s theories, the work gave his mind some respite from his constant thoughts of Jonet. Cole stared down at the tidy desk and sighed.
He knew perfectly well what he was doing. It was not the first time that he had used his work as a means of escaping a personal relationship which seemed beyond his understanding. Descartes’s philosophies were deep, yes. But not nearly as deep as his confusion over Jonet. Nonetheless, the afternoon was upon him, and Cole was in dire need of both fresh air and good advice. And so he carefully put on his red and gold regimentals, dusted off his hat, and went downstairs.
For a long moment, Cole paused upon the top step. For once, the London air was almost as fresh as it would have been at home in Cambridgeshire. Relieved to have escaped the confines of the house, Cole drew in a deep, satisfying breath, then very nearly choked on it. Bowling around the corner was a very familiar looking carriage. It bore the Rowland crest, but this carriage did not belong to Jonet. Which could only mean one thing.
Damn
. Not again.
“Whoa up!” cried the coachman, tipping his hat to Cole as they drew alongside the stairs. At once, the footman leapt down to open the door and put out the steps. But to Cole’s increasing irritation, it was not Lord James Rowland who stepped out after all. It was worse.
“Cousin!” cried Edmund, his arms open wide in an expansive gesture. “What great good fortune to find the prodigal returning to his very doorstep! It will save me the dread inconvenience of battling my way past Jonet’s gargoyles!”
“I fear you very much mistake me, Edmund,” returned Cole, stepping deliberately down onto the foot-path and slapping his hat onto his head. “I was just on my way out.”
Edmund’s long face seemed to fall in disappointment, but even he could not dissemble the mocking glint in his eyes. “Oh, come now, Cole! Surely you can spare a moment for your brother? After all, I am nearly that, am I not?”
Cole was not fooled by his cousin’s humble demeanor. Edmund had always hated him, and despite Cole’s efforts to the contrary, he found he liked his cousin even less than his uncle.
But in all fairness to Edmund, his cousin’s hatred was not, strictly speaking, irrational. While it was true that there had never been any love lost between Cole and James, in those early years, they had needed each other. Or perhaps
used
each other was a more accurate way of expressing the bond they had once felt. Orphaned at age eleven, and without the skill to make his way in the world, Cole had wanted his uncle’s love and approval very desperately.
For his part, James had made good use of his wife’s young nephew, for he made a practical tool with which to occasionally flog his adored but otherwise indolent son, Edmund. And for a time, Cole had deferentially borne the brunt of his cousin’s consequent jealousy.
For a time. But it was long past. “What do you want, Edmund?” he asked quietly.
“What do I want?” Edmund’s brows flew elegantly up. “Why, I want to
not
be seen gossiping in the street by half the residents of Mayfair, for one thing. Might we go in?”
Still, Cole hesitated. Jonet would not want any of her Rowland in-laws in her house. But Edmund was correct. Already, passers-by were looking at them curiously. “Yes, of course,” Cole finally responded. “However, I can spare but a moment.”
They went down the hall to the drawing room, and Cole motioned his cousin to a seat. “May I offer you a glass of something, Edmund?”
Edmund settled back, smoothing his hands along the arms of his chair in a gesture that made Cole’s skin crawl. “Ever the gentleman, aren’t you, old boy?” he answered mordantly. “Here you are, wishing me to the devil, but striving to maintain that gentlemanly façade. By God, I credit you. Small wonder you were always Father’s favorite.”
Cole stood rigidly, hands clasped behind his back. “What do you want, Edmund?”
His cousin’s mocking eyes flashed again. “Why, perhaps I merely want to inquire as to how dear Cousin Jonet goes on. After all, you were sent here by Father to . . . to do precisely
what,
Cole?” The dark brows went higher still, and his voice took on an unmistakable edge. “I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not here to help ensure that the poor widow gets just what she deserves? And yet, weeks have passed without so much as a word from you. Such inattention to duty becomes you very ill.”
“I am here to educate the children,” answered Cole, taking one step toward Edmund. “And what Lady Mercer deserves is to be left in peace to grieve for the loss of her husband.”
“Indeed? And what of those children, Cole?” asked his cousin sharply. “What do they deserve, do you imagine? To have Lord Delacourt as a stepfather? Does it not occur to you how much better off they would be under the supervision of Father and me?”
“No child deserves to be torn from a loving mother, Edmund.”
“Ha!” he barked. “A
loving
mother? A woman whom all of society knows to be a cold-blooded—”
“You will hold your tongue, Edmund!” interjected Cole harshly, his hand coming up to stay him. “You insult Lady Mercer at your peril. She is an innocent woman, and I’ll not stand idly by whilst you imply otherwise.”
“Innocent?” Edmund laughed, but it was a strange, almost desperate sound. “You forget, dear cousin, that I was here on the night of Mercer’s death.”
“No, Edmund,” replied Cole calmly. “That is one fact which most assuredly had not escaped me.”
“I find I cannot like your tone, Cousin.” Edmund’s chin went up a notch. “I never left this room, save to go in to dinner. Try to find a witness who will say otherwise, if you will.”
“That sounds rather like a challenge, Edmund.”
A lazy smile curved his cousin’s mouth. “Oh, if it is a challenge you are interested in, my friend, then it is a pity you did not overhear Delacourt’s quarrel with Mercer that night. Several of the dinner guests did. Not that it was any secret what Mercer meant to do. It is a nasty business, divorce.”
Cole’s voice was icy calm. “Another word from you, Edmund, and we shall be meeting at dawn on Hampstead Heath. And I know you dislike above all things to bestir yourself before noon.”
The desperation in Edmund’s eyes could no longer be hidden. Abruptly, he jerked from his chair. “I do not fear you, Cole,” he hissed, but his face belied his words. “I simply want what is best for the family.”
“Do you?” said Cole quietly. “Then it would appear that you and I possess vastly different views of what is best for this family. I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”
Cole did not trust himself to see his cousin out. The temptation to shove him down the steps might be more than his Christian fortitude could bear. And so he rang for Stiles to escort Edmund to the door, desperately hoping that Jonet would not get wind of their cousin’s visit.
He watched his cousin go, an aching bitterness in his heart. Edmund must be very desperate indeed to call upon him at Mercer House with such bold questions. What did he hope to gain? Did he imagine that if young Lord Mercer and his fortune were entirely at James’s disposal, that James would be more inclined to settle his gaming debts? Or had he something more sinister in mind? Cole was not certain, but he knew one thing. He was more than a match for Edmund.
When his temper had cooled to a manageable level, Cole took up his hat and started toward the front door again, whereupon he very nearly tripped over Ellen Cameron, who was dressed to go out, a small wicker basket swinging neatly from her elbow.
“Good afternoon, Miss Cameron.” Cole pulled open the door to allow Ellen and her basket to pass through. “Are you on your way up to Cavendish Square?”
Ellen smiled brightly up at him. “Indeed. Are you off to call upon your friend?”
“I am.” Noting that no carriage awaited in the street, he touched her lightly on the arm. “Do you go alone, Miss Cameron? May I give you my escort?”
Ellen stepped lightly down onto the cobbled footpath that lined the street, the hems of her green muslin walking dress swishing neatly over the steps. “I thank you, Captain Amherst, but it is a short walk up to Aunt’s house. I daresay it is out of your way.”
Cole fell quickly into step beside her, suddenly anxious to discover what light Ellen might shed on Lord Mercer’s death. “Then let me see you across Oxford Street, at the very least,” he insisted, relieving her of her basket. “Even on a Sunday, it can be quite busy.”
“If you wish,” Ellen answered blandly. They reached the corner, and Cole gave her his elbow. The intersection was empty, save for a coach that turned up David Street and continued into the heart of Mayfair, its black leather harnesses jingling brightly beneath the warm summer sun.
As the clatter receded, Cole looked down at the woman on his arm. “Miss Cameron, you seem rather subdued today.”
Wearily, she sighed. “I am a little worried about what happened to Rogue.”
Cole wanted to question her further, but he was unsure of just how much Jonet shared with her cousin—or with anyone, come to that. “Do you think it was someone intent on deliberate malice, Miss Cameron?” he finally ventured.