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This morning's incident had given her a more penetrating insight into the flaws of her own character than she'd really wanted, showing her to be just as capable of such lapses and just as lacking in self-control, as Nelthorpe himself.
True, her thinking had been clouded by a sudden paroxysm of grief, Nelthorpe's suspicions forcing her to confront again all that had been taken from her. Just when it seemed that she was beginning to pull free from the morass in which she'd been dragged after the double blows of losing Garrett and his child, anguish struck her unawares, sucked her back into the vortex of pain and despair in which she'd spent most of the hellish first months after Waterloo.
Sometimes she wondered whether she would ever be completely free of it. Only to feel in the next moment a stronger guilt that she would ever wish to lose sight of the enormity of what she had lost in losing Garrett.
Pushing that thought aside, she made herself focus on the implications of her lapse in behavior. But more troubling than the lack of self-discipline that had led her into his arms was the stark realization that, even in anguish, she would not have lain with a man for whom she cared nothing.
She couldn't, for instance, imagine having reached out to Lane Fairchild, despite his consideration for her.
So she had to admit there was something about Nelthorpe that attracted her on a level deeper, more fundamental, than mere lust. A conclusion that alarmed her far more than having to admit her other faults.
Much as he'd pleasured her-and she wasn't hypocrite enough to deny the pleasure he'd given her-in his embrace she'd also found comfort. And not just the simple comfort, after eight months of desolate loneliness, of being enfolded within strong masculine arms.
She'd wept afterward on Nelthorpe's chest at the tenderness of it, with guilt that she was alive and Garrett was not, with shame at replacing him in her arms with this man of whom he would never approve.
For much as Garrett might- might- forgive an act committed in the fog of grief and passion, she was certain he would neither understand nor forgive the...affection she was beginning to harbor for Anthony Nelthorpe.
She wasn't sure what to do about it herself, she concluded as she entered her chamber. She knew her battered spirit was still too fragile, her feelings too entangled in grief and regret, to allow her to become emotionally tied to any man.
She should put some distance between herself and Nelthorpe, let this confusing boil of emotions cool.
Besides, she concluded as she rang for Sancha and threw open the door of her wardrobe, Nelthorpe had won their wager this morning. She could dispense with the pathetic illusion of trying to reform him.
Colonel Vernier's timely appearance offered her a chance to replace Nelthorpe's escort with a man to whom not even Nelthorpe himself could fault her for turning. Who would question her forming a preference for the company of this well-respected soldier of unimpeachable character, a member of the dearly familiar army world in which she'd spent her whole life?
Should the colonel reciprocate her interest, she would have the opportunity to see, as she'd previously decided would be wise, if she could not forge a connection with this man of whom Garrett would certainly approve.
She also needed the lucidness of mind-a state she had difficulty maintaining when the viscount came near-to consider what to do about the attack on her life, if such the events of this morning proved to be.
Not for Jenna Montague Fairchild to run away while some man tried to solve her problems for her.
Upon that resolve, Sancha walked in. Stopping short at the sight of Jenna at her wardrobe, she said,
"Mistress, you go out? I thought you would rest."
"Lady Charlotte bids me to nuncheon," Jenna answered, not wishing to bring up with the too-perceptive Sancha the part Colonel Vernier had played in the invitation. "Getting out will clear my head, help me to think what should be done about the...incident this morning." Thank heaven Sancha knew about only one of them. "You did warn John Coachman and the grooms to say nothing, did you not?"
"Yes, my lady. Like you ask, I go with the carriage to the mews and beg all the men to stay silent. I tell them we do not wish your cousin or aunt to be alarmed, since Lord Nelthorpe decided the shot was accident."
"Good. By the way, what made you so amenable to doing Nelthorpe's bidding? I felt sure you would protest being hurried back to the carriage."
"One day when you were out, my lord sent for me. He told me he feared your fall was not accident."
"The devil! How dare he do such a thing behind my back, as if I were a child incapable of defending myself!"
"He said he did not wish to worry you when you have so much grief already."
Her irritation softened. It was hardly fair to hold such consideration against him.
"He knows you, my lady," Sancha said. "He knows you cannot hide your anger, if you think someone harmed you or the babe."
"It appears I shall have to develop the ability to dissemble, then."
Sancha considered that. "So what mean you to do now?"
"Try to discover if someone did cause that fall. Manson summoned a hackney for the widow who confronted me the day of our reception. I mean to discover her direction and call on her."
Sancha raised her eyebrows. "It is wise to go to her, when she wished you ill?"
"I want to watch her face and read her reaction when I mention my loss. That will tell me whether she was involved or not."
"She might also strike again, if she believes you suspect her."
"She's not that large or strong. I can defend myself if I must, Sancha."
"Aye, my lady, I know you are strong and swift. But I do not like this. Why not work with his lordship on this?"
"Work with him!" Jenna echoed in surprise. "I thought you considered him the Evil One!"
"People change, mistress. He is not so bad a man now, I think."
Nor am I as good a woman as I once thought. "I know," Jenna admitted with a sigh. "Therein lies the problem."
Sancha stared at her for a long moment. "We do what we must when it is time," Sancha said gently.
"Colonel Garrett would not wish you to grieve forever."
Jenna wasn't ready to discuss that, not even with her sympathetic longtime friend. "Perhaps not. But he would disapprove if I kept Colonel Vernier waiting, so you must help me into a fresh gown and get the last of the tangles out of my hair."
Tacitly accepting Jenna's change of subject, Sancha went to fetch the hairbrush. "I will keep watch, but you must be careful, my lady. Not just with the widow, but also here. We do not truly know these people, Colonel Garrett's family. Can we not stay elsewhere?"
'"Twould look most peculiar if we were to leave my husband's home for no pressing reason. English ladies do not live alone, Sancha."
"Then I think you must let Lord Nelthorpe help you find the truth of this."
Torn between resentment and admiration at how Nelthorpe seemed to have won over the previously disapproving Sancha, Jenna replied a bit sharply, "When did you develop such an admiration for Lord Nelthorpe?"
Sancha shrugged. "He kept you safe, my lady."
That being the truth, she dare not protest further, lest Sancha become more suspicious than she already was about the nature of Jenna's involvement with Nelthorpe.
He'd kept her safe from her assailant, she thought as Sancha helped her into the gown. But not from herself.
Sobered by that fact, Jenna decided that when she returned from nuncheon at Lady Charlotte's, she would pen Nelthorpe a letter conveying her gratitude for his previous service, but asking him not to call again-a feat she wasn't sure she could accomplish while in his physical presence.
The coward's way out, she admitted with chagrin. But this newly self-aware Jenna Montague would no longer be arrogant enough to underestimate Anthony Nelthorpe's power over her will, her emotions or her senses.
Early that evening, Tony sat in the hackney Carstairs had summoned for him, headed in defiance of all his good resolutions toward Fairchild House.
He'd gone home determined to put the matter from his mind and study a portfolio of papers that had just arrived from the estate manager at Hunsdon Park. Time he began, as his benefactor Mr. Harris had advised, to learn the business of managing his own lands.
He'd bathed and changed, then lunched in the library with the papers spread across the wide desk.
All to no avail. That well-honed soldier's instinct sat heavy as a stone in his gut, the sense of unease distracting him, making the figures dance before his eyes. Neither coffee to keep him alert, nor wine to relax him, were of any use in shaking that strong foreboding.
Then in the late afternoon a package arrived, barren of card or note. Inside was a new linen shirt-doubtless to replace the one, buttons ripped off in Jenna's quest to reach bare skin, that he'd reverently folded and placed in the back of his wardrobe.
Was this her way of making restitution for damage done? Or an attempt to try to nullify what had happened?
Giving up on the papers in disgust, he'd stumped upstairs to get himself into his evening rig and set off for Fairchild House. Though he'd not allowed Jenna much time to sort out her feelings, he couldn't stand the uncertainty any longer.
After he'd asked to see Jenna, the butler escorted him to a small parlor, his well-trained servant's impassive face telling Tony nothing. So his pulses leapt when a quarter of an hour later, the door opened.
