“
Dragoons!
” Robert gave his brother a rather smug look. “Told you so! Told you so!” he taunted. At once, the room exploded and all hell seemed to break loose. Stuart’s hand lashed out, whacking Robert soundly across the back of the skull. Robert went for Stuart’s throat then, fists and elbows flying as he lunged. The dogs erupted from beneath the table, aimlessly growling and snarling as they darted through the room.
Stuart leapt backward, knocking over a chair. A pile of books went tumbling to the floor. Cole tried to grab them, but the bigger collie plowed between, scrabbling wildly across the floor in a valiant attempt to seek and destroy the enemy, whom he had yet to identify.
“Stop!” shouted Cole, finally battling back the fray long enough to push the boys apart. His voice must have carried its old level of command, for Scoundrel and Rogue bolted beneath the table to cower. The boys, however, seemed not to notice. They continued to ineffectually lash out at each other with feet and elbows.
“Gentlemen, let be!” Cole gave them both a swift shake and tore them further apart. “There will be no hitting. Military regulations do not permit it, nor do I.”
Robert’s eyes narrowed still further. He crossed his thin arms over his chest. “Then I’ll—I’ll just
bayonet
’im. You can do that in the army, I know it for a fact, ’cause Donaldson took a bayonet in his arse at Vittoria, and couldn’t sit down for a week, and then they had to send ’im home, and Duncan had to put horse poultices on ’im for ever so—”
Cole smacked his hands palms down upon the table and leaned intently forward. “Sit down, gentlemen!” he bellowed. “There shall be no hitting. No bayoneting. No shooting. No knifing. No violence of any sort! Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” muttered Robert, righting the chair, which had been knocked over, and settling into it.
Stuart shot his brother one last ugly glance. “Oh, all right,” he reluctantly agreed, shoving in his shirttails with a suppressed violence.
“And don’t say
arse
,” added Cole for good measure, wondering even as he said it just what he had gotten his own arse into. Nanna, it seemed, had been right. Lady Mercer’s children really did appear to be willful, undisciplined hellions. Blood would always tell, it seemed.
Robert squirmed in his seat, then brightened a bit. He was obviously the more blithe of the two boys, but even his ebullience could not hide the fact that he was just a little uneasy. “Anyway, sir, I knew you were a Dragoon when I saw you spying on us from the alley.”
“Shut up, Robin!” snapped his elder brother. “Don’t be bloody stupid!”
“I wasn’t spying.” Cole looked quickly from one to the other, wondering what lay behind their words. “And don’t ever say
bloody
again, Stuart! Moreover, do not call your brother stupid. He is mistaken, that is all. I was merely strolling in the alley so that I would not arrive early for my meeting with your mother.”
“But Duncan was worried you
might
be a spy,” argued Robert, obviously reluctant to let go of his notion. “I saw him watching you. He thought you were a suspicious character lurking about,” he added, clearly parroting something he had heard.
Stuart darkened his scowl. “A ‘suspicious character’ does not walk up the alley in broad daylight, you lack-wit. A ‘suspicious character’ will just leap out of the dark and throttle you senseless. Or murder you when no one is looking—just like with Papa.” His manner seemed on the surface merely scornful, until one realized that an element of some darker emotion lay behind it.
A sudden, oppressive chill settled over the room, and Cole felt the skin prickle up the back of his neck. Trying to ignore it, he turned his full attention to the younger boy. “Duncan? Is that the big, red-haired fellow in the back? Your gardener?”
“Ha! Fooled you,” said Robert, his saucy grin returning. “Duncan’s our head groom from Kildermore Castle. But now, he’s to stand out back, and keep watch for—
ouch!
”
Stuart’s blow made solid contact this time, his open palm smacking Robert soundly across the back of the sconce. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Robin! You’ve a mouth as big as a beer keg!”
Cole dropped his head into his hands, suppressing the urge to walk straight down to Whitehall and plead for a speedy dispatch to the Punjab. Even excessive heat and questionable rations had to be easier than this. At least in the army, Cole knew how to command his troops. “Please do not ever take our Savior’s name in vain, Stuart,” he managed to grumble from behind his splayed fingers.
How in heaven had he ever thought himself qualified for this job? It had been years since he had tutored, and even then he had taken one student at a time, and always older boys than these. It should have been a simple job, but it wasn’t. It simply wasn’t.
“Are you done being our tutor now, Captain Amherst?” Robert’s question was soft this time, a little chagrined. Cole looked up to see a face that seemed to be the epitome of childhood innocence. Robert’s eyes were wide, a startlingly vivid shade of green, and his dark auburn hair curled, almost pixie-fashion, about his ears. He could hardly have looked more unlike his brother.
“No, Robin,” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’ll not escape me quite that easily. Now, I wish to speak with your brother, and I do not want you to interrupt. I shall ask him some questions about his previous studies, and then I shall do the same with you. Is that understood?”
One foot thumping rhythmically against his chair leg, Robert snagged his lip and nodded. “Very well,” said Cole, turning to face Stuart. His gaze was hooded, his expression stark but otherwise unreadable. Had the child been a few years older, Cole would have said that something besides his father’s death weighed heavily upon his mind. But honestly, what could it be? Lord Mercer was only nine years old. Cole shrugged off the strange sensation and spent the next half hour trying to ascertain just where both boys stood in terms of academic development.
It was quite late by the time Cole concluded his interviews with Robert and Stuart. He had taken two pages of notes about their past studies, and completed a list of books and supplies that would be required to go forward.
If
he went forward, and he was not at all sure he should. But the niggling sense that something was very wrong with Lady Mercer’s children continued to plague him.
When at last Cole quit the schoolroom, the house had fallen quiet. No doubt the servants were already belowstairs beginning their preparations for the evening. There would be dinner to cook, draperies to draw, and even in May, hearths to be swept and laid for the night. The upstairs hall beyond the schoolroom was empty, with no sign of either the nurse or the butler.
And what was the butler’s name? Donaldson. A very familiar looking fellow. Indeed, he was apparently a former soldier, if Robert had been correct in his childish chattering. Had Donaldson’s path perhaps crossed Cole’s somewhere on the Continent? It was, he supposed, rather unlikely. And yet, Cole decided, making his way down-stairs, there really was something about the fellow that sparked a sense of recognition.
It struck him as odd, too, that Donaldson was such a handsome fellow, and rather young to be a butler. What was it James had said? That Lady Mercer had dismissed all her servants and brought new ones down from Scotland? That story, perhaps, explained the erstwhile head groom who was now reposing as a slipshod gardener. Or did it? No, it just confused things all the more. The man really had seemed to be
watching
more than he had been
gardening
. He had been trampling a bed of young daffodils, for pity’s sake.
Cole tried to shrug off the thought. It seemed that Lord Robert Rowland’s fanciful ideas were contagious. Nonetheless, there was no denying the fact that the boy was bright beyond his seven years, and highly intelligent often meant wildly imaginative. The older boy, Stuart, Lord Mercer, was more introspective, harder to read. And yet he was definitely on edge, and the cause seemed to be something more than simple grief.
Cole had paid little attention to James’s rantings before, but now his words took on a new significance. Why bring servants all the way from Scotland? And why hire two bully-boys right out of St. George’s-in-the-East and rig them out as footmen? As Cole skimmed his hand lightly along the banister on his way down the next flight of stairs, another thought struck him.
He hit the landing and froze in his tracks. Why was young Lord Mercer so frightened?
Unease
was far too weak a word for what Cole had seen flash across Stuart’s face. It really had been stark fear; a fear that had long ago gone beyond panic and become hopelessly familiar. He had seen it before, on the faces of young but stoic soldiers after a seemingly ceaseless battle. That, more than anything else Cole had seen today, began to chill him to the bone.
He remembered himself all too well at just that age, unexpectedly orphaned and scared out of his wits. It was a very difficult age at which to lose one’s parents. And while it was true that Stuart had lost only his father, Cole harbored grave misgivings about the parent who was left to him.
In Cole’s case, his Uncle James had not helped matters at all, shipping Cole straightaway to Eton and demanding Cole’s undying gratitude, as if his wife’s nephew was some sort of charity case. Cole had been halfway through his studies at King’s College before he had realized that he was
not
a poor relation. That although he would never be a rich man, he was moderately wealthy, at least by the standards of rural gentry. Moreover, Cole had finally realized that he had the freedom to live a life which was independent of the Rowland family. And since that day, he had more or less done exactly that.
But young Stuart had nowhere to go. He had no one to look after his happiness and his well-being. No one except his guardians, James and Jonet. Small wonder, then, that the child was so troubled. Cole was troubled, too, because he realized one more thing. He realized that it would be very, very hard to go away and leave those frightened and fanciful children to the devices of two people whom he did not fully trust.
Sobered by that thought, Cole was halfway down the last flight of stairs when he heard the front knocker drop peremptorily. From his stance half a story above, he could see that Lady Mercer’s ruffians were nowhere in sight. Instead, Donaldson slid from the shadows to open the door, and a startlingly handsome young man stepped into the corridor.
“Evening, Donaldson,” said the gentleman briskly, giving the butler a blinding smile and handing him a fine, gold-knobbed walking stick.
“Good evening, your lordship,” answered Donaldson as the man shrugged out of an elegant black greatcoat. “Lady Jonet awaits you in the book-room, I believe.”
“Ah, fine and good!” said the man, briskly rubbing his hands together. “Is there cognac? Upon my word, it is unseasonably chilly to be so near to June, do you not think?”
Donaldson nodded. “Aye, sir. And I’ve set a bottle of your favorite on the sideboard by the door.”
“Just so, Charlie! You are a prince among men. What would we do without—well,
hello
! Who’s this?” The young man looked pointedly up at Cole just as he descended the last three steps.
Donaldson stepped back. “Lord Delacourt, have you met Lady Mercer’s distant cousin, Captain Amherst?”
“Why, no, indeed,” murmured Delacourt, drawing out that most vile of foppish accoutrements, the quizzing glass. “I have not had that pleasure.”
The butler turned to Cole. “David Branthwaite, Viscount Delacourt.”
Cole murmured a polite greeting, his eyes taking in every detail of the man whom his Uncle James had claimed was “practically living under Lady Mercer’s roof.” Apparently, his uncle had once again been correct in his assessment.
Moreover, there was no doubt whatsoever that Delacourt was a popinjay of the first order. Perhaps not an out-and-out dandy, for his clothing was just a little too subtle for that, but rich and arrogant nonetheless. He seemed utterly to ooze wealth and charm from his every pore, and Cole hated him on sight, a most unchristian sentiment. Delacourt was young, too, not more than six-and-twenty at most. Younger than Jonet Rowland. It really was shameful.
Abruptly, Cole all but clicked his heels, making a perfunctory bow. “Your servant, Delacourt.”
“My
servant,
do you say?” said the young man archly, lifting the glass to sweep his brilliant green gaze down Cole’s length. “It looks instead as if someone’s called out the cavalry.” He dropped the device abruptly and pinned Cole with a dark, assessing look that was in deep contrast to his superficial manners and appearance. “Do tell me, sir. How is it that we’ve never met? I rather fancied I knew all of Jonet’s family.”
Cole inclined his head stiffly. He had not missed Delacourt’s deliberate use of Lady Mercer’s given name. “I am a nephew by marriage to Lord James Rowland, her ladyship’s brother-in-law,” he said rigidly. “James has asked that I tutor her children, his wards, for a time.”
A definite chill fell across the corridor at that remark. Delacourt’s elegant brows went up a notch, and he pulled back incrementally. “Has he indeed?” he said coolly. “James is ever thoughtful, is he not? Now, if you will excuse me, Captain, I have come to wait upon her ladyship.” And on that remark, he turned and strolled languidly down the hall, seeming perfectly at home.
At once, the door to the drawing room flew open and Lady Mercer stepped into the hall. She stood there, hands clasped before her like a little girl impatient for some long-awaited treat, watching Delacourt walk toward her. There was a sweet look of anticipation fixed on her face, and a hint of something else, too. Relief, perhaps? If she saw Cole, she gave no indication of it.
Abruptly, Donaldson handed Cole his hat and threw open the door. Cole fleetingly wondered if perhaps Delacourt and the butler had greased the front steps to ease his way down. It would be dark soon, and the air did indeed hold a bit of a chill. Cole settled his hat on his head, then set a brisk pace along Brook Street, feeling as if he had just escaped a world to which he could never belong, filled with people whom he could never understand.