A Woman Scorned (52 page)

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 expression. 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 opposite, 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.”

“Because it was an accident,” murmured Cole. “She never meant to kill Mercer. She had no claim to his title, only Jonet’s. But after Mercer died, I daresay she took a secret pleasure in seeing Jonet vilified.”

“Yes, by God, I think she reveled in it! She wanted us to think her a silly, simpering spinster. But it was nothing more than a carefully crafted role,” said Delacourt softly. “But why now? After all these years?”

Cole shook his head. “Ellen once said that
heaven had no rage like love to hatred turn’d
—”

“—
nor hell a fury like a woman scorn’d,
” finished Jonet softly, her gaze distant and unseeing. Slowly she glanced from David to Cole. “But she referred to herself, did she not? She felt scorned by the world, even by fate itself. She always envied me. And slowly, she came to hate me, didn’t she? She truly came to hate me.” Her words were edged with pain.

“I daresay a lifetime of envy finally drove her mad,” answered Cole softly, going down on one knee by Jonet’s chair and taking her small, cold hands into his own.

Jonet stared down at their entwined fingers. “Yes, I think you are right. Ellen’s aunt had become increasingly desperate to get her wed to someone. Not out of cruelty, mind you, but because she knew her own health was failing.”

“Yes,” interposed Delacourt. “But Ellen probably saw it as her last chance to seize what she wanted. Else she might be married off, and sent to live who knows where. And then, you and the children would have been beyond her grasp. The possibility of inheriting, of being able to live independently—and at Kildermore—must have tantalized her.”

Jonet gave a little cry, a sharp, agonizing sound. “Oh, I knew Ellen loved Kildermore more than I ever did,” she agreed, her voice tormented. “All my life, I have had to live with the fact that she envied my position as heir. A position I never even wanted! And so I tried . . . oh, I tried so hard. To give her
everything
—money, society, sisterhood! But it was not enough!”

“No,” said Delacourt grimly. “Apparently not.”

“Good God, she meant to kill my children,” Jonet cried, her voice anguished. “She poisoned food, she hired thugs, and whispered her little insinuations. And then she stood in the wings and watched us all suffer! And for what? To inherit a title? A house? Oh, for that, I shall never forgive her!” Slowly, she lifted her eyes to Cole’s. “Do not fear that I shall grieve over her, for I shan’t. My children have been saved from a monster.”

“Good,” said Delacourt firmly. “And you need no longer worry about the opinion of the
ton
. After this, your position in society will be restored to you in full measure.”

“Oh, David, I hardly think I care!” Her gaze turned to Cole, softening. “But I do care about protecting my boys. What shall we say to them?”

“The truth,” Cole answered hollowly. “Or at least a carefully worded version of the truth. We will say that Ellen was . . .
not well
. Unfortunately, we cannot shelter our children from all the world’s evil. Stuart and Robert have not only been left fatherless, they have been terrorized in a way no child should ever suffer. I’d gladly tarnish Ellen’s memory to give them peace, if I must.”

Jonet looked up at him then, her expression measurably calmer. “Yes. Yes, you are right,” she said, her voice lifting. “This horrible nightmare is over, and we are safe. Now we must look to our future—one which will be bright and happy. I am sure of it.”

“Well! That, I daresay, is my cue,” answered Delacourt, jerking from his chair. “Having unintentionally flung myself upon your hospitality, Amherst, I am now for bed.” Swiftly, he bent down to peck Jonet’s cheek, and then, the viscount was gone.

Slowly, Jonet rose from her chair and closed the distance between them, taking Cole’s hands in hers. “You are wrong about something, my darling,” she said quietly. “My boys have suffered a great loss, yes. But I believe they have not been left entirely fatherless.”

Roughly, Cole pulled her into his embrace and gazed into her eyes for a seemingly timeless moment. “Do you still mean to have me, then?” he asked softly.

Jonet looked at him in some surprise. “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “I need you, Cole. And I most assuredly mean to have you. And I swear that I will do my best to be a good and obedient w—”

But Jonet never finished her sentence, because her husband-to-be was kissing the almost certain lie from her lips, worshiping her deeply and desperately with his mouth, and cradling her head between his big, capable hands.

And what did it matter, really? They both knew that Jonet would never be good. And probably never obedient—unless it suited her to do so. There were some burdens on this temporal earth which God simply expected a man to bear, Cole decided. And Jonet was his.

The fact that her mouth felt like his heavenly reward was not lost on him.

 Epilogue 

The very ecstasy of Love

T
he afternoon sun was setting, casting a warm, pink glow over the westerly sky. One hand set at his hip, Cole stood alone at his bedchamber window, drinking in the brisk spring air and gazing at the burgeoning swath of yellow that had recently brightened his garden. In his left hand, he held open a book, the phrases running absently through his head.

“
To everything there is a season
—
?
” he muttered, staring over his spectacles as Stuart went ripping through the bed of daffodils. Robert and the dogs followed on his heels, howling wildly.

“Ugh! That theme is overused!” Cole shook his head, then pensively, he pinched the bridge of his nose and tried again. “
Easter
,
a new beginning
—
?
No, no . . . too trite.”

Suddenly, two very warm hands encircled his waist and ran up his waistcoat. “What is too trite, my darling?” asked Jonet lightly, pressing her cheek against his back.

Cole’s attention snapped back to the present. With great care, he set aside the book and spectacles, turned gently in his wife’s arms, and smiled down at her. “Never mind,” he said, his eyes taking in the deep green silk of her dress. “My dear,” he said, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, “you look the very image of springtime. That gown is most becoming.”

Jonet looked coyly up at him from beneath a sweep of black eyelashes. “
Most
becoming?” she echoed, her voice suddenly dark and sultry, her busy fingers now massaging the back of his shoulders. Beyond the window, the boys’ happy shouts filled the air.

Cole set his wife a little away from him. “Jonet?” he said, tilting his head to study her suspiciously. “What are you up to?”