“Nor do I care.”
“Well, you just asked—!”
“Another of my mistakes, your ladyship! I really wish to hear no more of it.”
“Well, fine—!” The fists went to her hips.
Cole narrowed his eyes and lifted his hands heavenward. “Yes! Fine—! Now fetch your mount.”
“I daresay that a gentleman would fetch it for me,” Jonet insisted, tilting her head toward the horse, which was tethered but a few yards away. She steeled her gaze and pinned him with it.
“I believe, madam,” he answered coldly, “that we have already established my many failings in that regard.” But Cole relented, and after thrusting his reins into her hand, he stalked off toward her horse.
“Cole,” Jonet said a moment later as he lifted her up into the saddle. “I’m sorry.” She reached down to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “I really don’t think you’re an overbearing ass.”
“But merely obstinate?” he growled, shoving her left boot in its stirrup and trying hard to maintain his stern expression. “And let us not forget
witless
.”
Jonet’s brows went up elegantly. “Well, my dear, if the shoe even occasionally fits—?”
Cole was afraid to say anything more. The ride home was long and silent.
Cole and Ellen Cameron dined alone that night. The meal was blessedly simple, and for once, Ellen had little to say. It seemed to Cole that she was distressed by something, but given the rate at which his social skills seemed to be deteriorating, it did not seem wise to broach the subject. Moreover, he had no wish to talk. He was too incensed by the fact that he’d very nearly ravished Jonet in broad day-light. And that Jonet had so boldly gone off to Delacourt’s to dine alone with him. Both were scandalous, the former unforgivably so.
Over the meat course, Ellen finally began to talk desultorily about her day, and about the tailor’s visit to Stuart and Robert. Then, just as the fruit was served, she shoved back her chair a little abruptly and set the back of her hand to her forehead. For the first time that evening, Cole looked—really looked—at her. All thought of his own tribulations fled at once.
Ellen’s face was alarmingly pale, and a fine sheen of perspiration had broken out across her brow. “If you will excuse me, Captain Amherst,” she said unsteadily, “I must beg to be excused. I find I do not feel entirely well.”
At once, Cole leapt from his chair and snapped his fingers for the footman. Gravely concerned, he circled the table and touched Ellen lightly on the forehead. “She is burning up with fever, Cox,” he said quietly. “Fetch Mr. Donaldson at once.”
But matters quickly went from bad to worse. Donaldson could not help them. He had taken to his own bed not a quarter hour earlier. Cook, the scullery maid, and the bootboy had quickly followed suit. With Jonet away, in short order, the house was thrown into chaos, as Nanna, Cole, and the footmen rushed up and down the stairs toting water pitchers and chamber pots. Through all the illness, however, a burning fear began to nag at Cole.
In the midst of all the mayhem, Cole managed to pull Nanna to one side. The old woman looked shaken and tired. Cole was himself too terrified to feel anything but the panic that coursed through him. He had not seen cholera since the war, but he knew all too well the symptoms, and to his untrained eye, this looked dangerously like it.
“What is it?” he asked Nanna quietly as a pale housemaid carrying a stack of linen brushed quickly past. “Have you any idea?”
Breathing laboriously, the old woman shook her head and drew a handkerchief from her apron. “I canna say, sir,” she answered, mopping her brow. “But whativer it is, ’tis verra quick.”
Cole looked at her handkerchief with some alarm. “Good God, you are not—?”
Again, Nanna shook her head. “No, I’m weel enough, but we badly need a physician. I canna manage this.”
Cole considered it for a moment. Ellen was beyond helping them, and no one else in the house had lived in Mayfair any longer than he had himself. He rather doubted that any of them knew the local physicians. But there was always Dr. Greaves, Lauderwood’s friend. He lived less than half a mile away, and he had been to the house before. Quickly, before he could think the better of it, Cole stopped a passing footman and shouted out an urgent command to fetch Dr. Greaves, giving his address as just “Harley Street.” As the frightened fellow darted off to do as he was bid, Cole returned his attention to Nanna.
He kept his voice to a whisper. “Can it be poison?”
Nanna’s eyes welled with tears. “Och! What kind of animal could do sich a thing?” Clearly, she, like Cole himself, had not wished to consider it. “Oh, I
hope
’tis only a bloody flux, though God knows that would be bad enough!” The old woman twisted her handkerchief into a knot and looked at Cole a little desperately. “The boys—?”
Cole explained that he had somehow found the presence of mind to confine the boys to Stuart’s room and set a footman to guard the door. But an hour later, as one foot-man fell ill to be replaced by yet another who did the very same, true panic begin to claw at Cole’s gut.
Damn it!
Where was Jonet when he needed her? The thought of her dining privately with Delacourt—if that was indeed all she had gone to do—had been painful enough. But now her entire household was falling ill, and Cole had no notion of what ought to be done. He had to know just what was happening.
Soon Agnes, the parlor maid, collapsed, and Cole carried her carefully up the back stairs to her room in the attic. It seemed but a matter of time before the boys, and perhaps even himself, became sick. With Donaldson and half the footmen abed, what then? Who would guard the house? Again, he stopped Nanna in the corridor.
“Nanna,” he said urgently, “ I want you to think over the last two days. Have any strangers been into the household? Has any food been served to part of us, but not the others?” The old woman merely blinked. “
Think
, Nanna!” he insisted. “I am trying to determine who among us may fall ill, and who may be expected to remain healthy. If we cannot determine this, I am very much afraid we need to get the children out of the house.”
“Strangers?” Nanna licked her lips uncertainly, then nodded. “Aye, the chimney sweep was here not two days past. And Mrs. Trelawney, the cook across the street, called yesterday w’some clotted cream for Cook.” The old woman paused. “That would be all, so far as I know.”
Dr. Greaves was blessedly prompt in coming. After he had seen each patient in turn, he met Cole in the corridor. Together, they went into the drawing room, where Cole poured out two generous tots of brandy and motioned the physician toward a chair. With a weary glance, the old man set down his black leather bag, took the glass, and sank into the chair with a deep sigh. “You have a very sick household here, Captain Amherst,” he said gloomily. “You must warn her ladyship that the next few days will be crucial indeed.”
Cole slid forward in his chair, clasping the brandy snifter between his knees. He really did not like the question he was going to have to ask next. “Please, Doctor, I must know—is there any chance that this is poison?”
“Poison?” The doctor ran a gnarled hand down his face. “What a strange question. But I suppose, under the circumstances . . .” Greaves let his words trail away.
“
Well—?
” Cole grasped the arms of his chair tightly. “Are you saying that it could be?”
The doctor slowly shook his head. “Ordinarily, such a thing would never occur to me, Captain. And in truth, we may never know. But if I had to guess, given the symptoms, I would have to say we are looking at a simple case of dysentery.”
“Dysentery?”
The doctor nodded gravely. “Yes, not that there is anything really
simple
about it, mind you. Nonetheless, if the victims are otherwise healthy, there is no reason they cannot survive it.”
Still holding his glass, Cole leapt from his chair and began to pace the floor. He
had
to make sure the children were safe. He turned on his heel and stared pointedly at Greaves. “You must understand, Doctor, that young Lord Mercer and his brother are upstairs. There has already been, as you know all too well, one probable poisoning in this house. I must have your assurance that these children are safe.”
Greaves shook his head sadly. “That, sir, I would be a fool to promise. It could be any number of things; poison, spoilt food, or even some contagion. I do wish I could say otherwise, but I cannot.”
Cole quickly drained the last of his brandy, then set down the glass with a clatter. “Then I pray you will excuse me, sir. I have things to which I must attend. Thank you for coming.”
It took less than ten minutes for Cole and Nanna to dump out the contents of Cole’s huge trunk, then shove it full of enough clothing for a long journey. By the time he had managed to drag it downstairs, Jonet’s traveling coach was waiting in Brook Street. Then, at the last instant, Cole rushed back up the stairs, unlocked his top desk drawer, and withdrew the brace of pistols he kept secured there. But this was peacetime, not war. He felt inordinately foolish packing them. No doubt Jonet’s coachman was in the habit of traveling armed, and there was probably a loaded pistol holstered inside the carriage. And yet, he could not help himself. He shoved them into his saddlebag, his every instinct screaming that this was war. But unlike the battles he had fought before, the enemy was unknown.
In the street below, the coachman was loading two portmanteaus, and together, he and Cole hefted up the trunk. Miraculously, the stable staff seemed to have escaped the illness. But Cole had taken no chances, and he had ordered everyone but the coachman to stay away. As the last leather strap was drawn taut, Nanna rushed the boys out of the house and into the waiting carriage. Quietly, Cole ordered the coachman to drive to Lord Delacourt’s.
And they were off. The carriage rumbled slowly down Brook Street, gathering speed en route to Curzon Street, where Delacourt’s town house was located. The utter humiliation of what he was about to do chilled Cole’s blood. Perhaps he really was mad. Perhaps Delacourt would finally call him out for his audacity. But of course, Cole would have to sacrifice his honor and refuse him, because at present, he had far more important things to worry about than his pride. A small, sleepy voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Sir,” Stuart began, his voice grave, “where are we going?”
Cole cleared his throat carefully. “Well, gentlemen, it is to be a surprise.”
Yes
,
and a bloody big one
, he inwardly added.
Especially to me
.
“Oh, I just knew it!” interjected Robert, sitting straight up and clapping his hands with glee. “This is a surprise for my birthday, is it not? I knew—oh, I just
knew
that you and Mama would do something famous!”
“Your—your birthday?” Cole answered awkwardly.
In the dim light of the carriage interior, Cole could see Stuart cut a sidelong glance in his direction. “It’s next week,” he said quietly, in answer to Cole’s unspoken question. As usual, the boy was too bright to be fooled, but his eyes were trusting.
Robert was still babbling. “Oh, yes! Next Thursday, I shall be eight years old!” he continued. “And I have been wishing and hoping and praying for a really wonderful surprise. And since I was so sick of being cooped up, I decided to pray for a trip to the country. That is what I should like above all else, to go to a place where we can ride and play. And that’s where we’re to go, is it not, Cousin Cole?”
“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 obscurity. 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 in utter 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.