A Woman Scorned (31 page)

For once, Ellen did not have a ready answer. One hand came up to push the hair back from her face in an awkward, uncertain gesture. “Well, it is not my place to say, but ever since his lordship died, awful things certainly . . . seem to happen.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she thought Lord Delacourt capable of murder, but he dared not. They walked a few paces further. “Tell me, Miss Cameron,” he said in a musing tone, “do you think one of the servants might have poisoned him? Lord Mercer, I mean?”

Ellen’s hand tightened upon his arm. “Initially, I would not have dreamt of such a thing,” she finally responded.

“And now?” he encouraged.

“I cannot think
why
they would do,” Ellen reluctantly responded. “Of course, there was Hannah, the chamber-maid. I often thought her rather too saucy with Lord Mercer. But that means little.”

“Did you share your concerns with Lady Mercer?” Cole probed.

Ellen hesitated, very nearly halting on the footpath. “Sir, it was hardly my place to interfere in Jonet’s . . . understandings with her husband.”

Ellen had opened the door for yet another question, and a rather dangerous one at that. Cole wondered if he dared to pose it. In the distance, he could see New Bond Street, filled with the clamor of afternoon traffic. He took a deep breath. “Lady Mercer tells me that you also suspected a—a friend of Mercer’s. A Mrs. Lanier?”

“I was not aware, sir, that my cousin confided in you to such a great extent.”

“I believe her ladyship is worried on behalf of her children, Miss Cameron,” he said smoothly. “They are entrusted to my care, and so I begged her to make me aware of the situation in every detail.”

Slowly, Ellen nodded. “Well, I suppose that is only prudent. And yes, I did say that perhaps Glorianna had poisoned Mercer, but I daresay that was wishful thinking on my part.”

“Wishful thinking?” A hackney coach passed a little too near the footpath, and Cole urged Ellen a little closer to the wall. She looked up at him in some surprise, but whether from the question, or from the fact that he had pressed her a little nearer to him, Cole could not say.

“Oh!” she said sharply, coming away from the wall. “I do not wish her ill, if that’s what you mean! It’s just that I do not know Glorianna Lanier very well. And I suppose one hates to think of those whom one
does
know well as being—well—
murderers
.”

“I take your point,” responded Cole dryly. Soon they turned left onto New Bond, and Ellen made a few banal comments on the heat and the rain, but she still sounded sad. At last they reached Oxford Street, and Cole led her carefully through the scattering of Sunday traffic to the corner of Vere. He had pressed her as far as he dared. “If you are sure, Miss Cameron, that I cannot see you further, I will bid you a good afternoon.”

“Yes, thank you for your company. Shall I see you at dinner?”

“I am not certain,” Cole answered carefully. He looked at her again, at the pale, tight skin of her face. “Miss Cameron? Are you truly all right?”

“Oh, well enough, I suppose.” She made a pathetic, dismissive gesture. “But I grow increasingly concerned for Jonet and the boys. And for myself. I really do wish we might go away. To Kildermore. I cannot help but feel we would be so much . . .
safer
.” Her voice was wistful.

Cole tried to look sympathetic. “Safer? Indeed! I do not comprehend, Miss Cameron.”

“Jonet needs to escape London. And I need to escape my aunt, who is increasingly determined to see me wed. Just yesterday she wrote, saying she’d found a widowed solicitor who was perfect for me, never mind his forty five years and six children.” Ellen tried to laugh and failed.

“And you have told your aunt your opinion in this matter?”

Ellen looked up, her eyes empty. “Sir, I am an unmarried woman. We do not have
opinions
.”

Lightly, Cole patted Ellen on the arm.“No one can force you to wed, Miss Cameron.”

“Of course not,” she said with an accepting shrug. “And you are very kind. Now, I mustn’t detain you when your friend awaits.” And on those parting comments, Ellen Cameron turned away.

Cole retraced his steps back along the empty footpath and down to the main thoroughfare, musing upon his conversation with Ellen. What was it about her that left him feeling puzzled? One certainly could not describe her as flirtatious, which was always a relief around unmarried women of a certain age. Cole had learned early on to avoid that sort. They toyed with a man in a way that Cole did not understand. But that was not Ellen Cameron’s problem. The fact was, she reminded him of someone . . .

Suddenly, it came to him.
Rachel!
Oh, she and Ellen looked nothing alike, it was true. Ellen, with her dark hair and eyes, was striking, but far from beautiful, while Rachel had been a pale flower, a traditional English beauty. And yet, they both had that same facile pleasantness that many men found charming. Today was the first day Ellen had ever spoken of her own wishes, but only briefly.

It was the way of many women, he had come to believe. A price exacted by a society that was ruled by—and based almost solely upon the needs of—men. As a theologian, it had troubled him deeply. And he had deliberately taken great pains to give Rachel alternatives. At times, it had seemed as if he had spent every moment of his marriage working to find a way through the shell that shrouded her individuality; to discover her hopes, her dreams, her needs.

Perhaps he should have spent more time preparing himself to step into his father’s shoes, to assume the vicariate of St. Ann’s, as had been his lifelong goal. Certainly, Cole had had the bishop’s blessing. It had been but a matter of time.

And yet, all of his emotional energy had been focused on his marriage, a marriage that to all outward appearances seemed happy enough but beneath the surface felt cold and barren. How could he have safeguarded the souls of his parishioners when his own knew no peace? His heart had cried out for something untamed, something more compelling. Not
excitement,
precisely—but something which would stimulate his mind and open his heart to life and passion.

In his own quiet way, Cole had always needed to
feel
strongly, no matter what circumstance life brought his way. And since life had brought him Rachel, he had simply altered his circumstance. After convincing himself that he was answering the call of patriotic duty, or attending to the will of God, or some such balderdash, Cole had circumvented his failure to instill in his marriage the passion he had yearned for by making his own challenge. He had gone off to war.

But it had surely not been God’s will that his child would die as a result?

He could not get past that question. He never would.

He had left his wife, and inadvertently, his unborn child. Cast them to the winds of providence, while he was out gallivanting about on the Continent. He could have served, perhaps, as a chaplain, but that thought had never occured to him. He’d wanted a war to fight in, not to pray over. Too late, Cole had realized that the impetus behind his glorious military career had had nothing to do with God, and everything to do with his own shortcomings. That lesson had been taught to him by means of a letter from his parish priest, a letter which had arrived months after his wife and child were dead and buried. And their loss had been Cole’s fault, as surely as if he had done the deed himself.

Perhaps it was what he deserved, but it was most assuredly not what they had deserved. Despite all the years—and all his prayers and tears—there had been no babe to bless his union with Rachel. What a stunning blow it had been to learn that she had been with child at the time of his leaving. He rather doubted that she had known it. But now, years later, he still wondered, tormented by the uncertainty of it. Surely she would have told him, had she known?

Surely his own wife would not have denied him the honor and the right to care for her and his unborn child at a time when he would have been most needed? But in truth, he simply did not know. Rachel had accepted his decision to enter the army with the same quiet acquiescence that she had brought to every aspect of their life. She had offered no strong objection, she had shed no tears.

But his wife and his child were gone, and a hundred ugly questions had been left to haunt him. Had she felt alone or frightened? Had she eaten properly? Had she rested as she should have? Had the midwives, the surgeons—even the priest—been fetched at the appropriate times? And good God, had she suffered? Had the child suffered?

But the sad truth was, Cole did not know the answers to these questions. Nor had he asked. Since coming home to England, Cole had been unable to dredge up the courage required to go home—to Elmwood—and find out. He, who had fought so bravely for King and Country, could not now bear to return to the home he loved, for if he had stayed at home in the first place, keeping fast and faithfully to his marriage vows, none of it would have happened.

 9 

Colonel Lauderwood issues an Order to retreat

A
fter leaving Ellen Cameron near Oxford Street, Cole turned east and set off for Montague Place, to an address not far from his old lodgings in Red Lion Street. He paused to shake off the memories that troubled him. Trying to take account of his surroundings, he was rather surprised to realize he had made his way to Bedford Square. Cole quickly crossed it, and finding a familiar doorway just a little further beyond, he thumped twice on the ornate brass knocker. He very much hoped that Jack Lauderwood was still in town, for he could think of no one else he would be comfortable discussing his present situation with.

Well, perhaps not all of it—but heaven knew he needed to speak with someone rational. Of course, he had thought at first to go to the Madlows’, but Louisa’s father was by far the better choice. Not only was the colonel a man of discretion, but for all his hearty bluster, he was also surprisingly well informed. Moreover, he was not apt to pry quite as deeply into Cole’s business as Terry and Louisa would undoubtedly have done.

Cole was greeted at the door by Lauderwood’s manservant, and shown immediately into a cheery, sun-washed parlor, where it was evident that the colonel had just awakened from an afternoon snooze. Lauderwood hefted himself into a seated position on a worn leather sofa, which was surrounded by rather wrinkled copies of the
Morning Chronicle
and the
Times
. Obviously, someone had been reading to the colonel earlier in the day.

Lauderwood ran one hand down his face, then gave himself a good shake, like a grizzled mastiff trying to stir from a nap. Then, realizing that Cole had already entered the room, he sprang to his feet. “Come in, come in, my boy!” he said effusively, motioning Cole toward the seat nearest his. “To what do I owe this pleasure, eh?”

“Must I have a reason for calling on my commanding officer, sir?” Cole smiled broadly, and took the proffered chair.

“No! No!” boomed the colonel cheerfully. “No reason a’tall! Been awhile, though, since I commanded much of anything. But if you have no purpose in coming, you won’t object to reading to me for a spell, will you?” The colonel paused to poke a finger at the heap of newspapers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

“Nothing could give me more pleasure, sir,” Cole returned, taking up the newspapers.

“Right, then,” said Lauderwood briskly, leaning back and making himself comfortable. “Just finish reading the obituaries, eh? Need to know if I’m to bury friends or enemies this week. Louisa ran out on me. Wanted luncheon with her husband, and won’t be back until it’s time for my tea.”

“Umm.” Cole’s answering smile was laced with doubt, and the old man let the pout slip from his face. Louisa was the most devoted of daughters, and they both knew it.

“Just the
Times,
mind,” Lauderwood added, still waving his finger as Cole settled his spectacles onto his nose. “And then we will get down to what you have really come for, eh?”

Cole passed the next quarter hour finishing off what the allegedly indolent Louisa had left undone. When all of the paper had been finished, Cole folded it neatly and returned it to the table, at which point the colonel reared back in satisfaction and stared at him. “Fine and good,” he said. “Now—! It is your turn, Amherst. I know perfectly well you have come here for information!”