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The colonel's eyes narrowed. "Danger? What danger?"
Briefly Tony related the facts about Jenna's accident, the shot fired at her and inquiries he had begun. "I have not yet been able to investigate all the possibilities, but since I-I am not in a position to safeguard her, I felt it necessary to bring this to your attention. I've urged her to remove from Fairchild House until the matter is resolved, but thus far she is resisting. I'm hoping you will add your entreaties to mine."
The colonel sat silently, obviously pondering what Tony had related. "You have no real evidence that her fall was other than accidental?"
"No," Tony admitted. "Not being able to talk with the groom responsible, I have no way of determining for certain whether he deliberately switched mounts and then withheld information about the borrowed horse's temperament, hoping Jenna would induce the mare to bolt."
"Although it's possible, I suppose, it doesn't seem reasonable to me that any lady of the ton-one of them a countess, no less!-would have the means or experience to arrange such an accident. To conspire with a groom," Vernier exclaimed with a grimace of distaste, "much less to engage some assassin to shoot at her. And it doesn't seem unreasonable to me that a servant discharged for his negligence would have made up a story to cover his guilt-or be melancholy over a lost love."
"The latter story was my invention!" Tony protested.
"Still, your conclusions seem a bit far-fetched. Scheming relations, jealous former lovers, mysterious assassins-and you offer no proof beyond vague suspicions?"
"That shot was not fired by any wandering hunter."
"So you say. You've no proof of that, either."
"Her maid thinks the danger real as well," Tony said doggedly.
The colonel sniffed. "She, of course, being trained in intrigue?"
"She traveled all those years with the army, and developed an instinct for danger as keen as any soldier's," Tony snapped back.
"I'm sorry, Nelthorpe, but I simply don't find your so-called 'evidence' convincing, nor with all I have to do before my imminent departure do I have the time to indulge in a game of blindman's bluff with some probably imaginary villain. It would be most disconcerting as well to discover Lady Fairchild to be involved in so tawdry a scheme. However, since it is her welfare we are discussing, I will mention the matter to Lord Riverton. He has many contacts in and out of the government, and can investigate this properly, if he thinks it warranted."
"So you'll not urge her to leave Fairchild House?"
"On what grounds?" The colonel waved an impatient hand. "I'm to have her spurn the hospitality of her relations, insinuate that her own husband's cousin and member of a family with an impeccable reputation for honor and valor, might have tried to engineer the demise of her child, on the basis of no hard evidence whatsoever?"
"Then you don't really care about her," Tony said, his jaw tight.
"That is both presumptuous and preposterous, sir," Vernier retorted hotly. "I found, while investigating her fitness to become my wife-"
"You investigated her?" Tony said incredulously.
"-that she had been often in your company and so made some inquiries about you. Although your war record is unexceptional, your conduct prior to your military service leaves much to be desired, while your father-"
"Let's leave my father out of this."
"Given the man's character, or lack thereof, I can understand that wish. The bare truth, I'm afraid, is that your reputation remains unsavory. Though it may be easy for you to imagine rogues under every bush, I myself would not consider accusing-or suspecting-members of my own class of such villainy on the basis of nothing but wild supposition. And if you claim to actually wish the best for Lady Fairchild, then I suggest you prove it. Summon whatever nobility exists within your dubious character and distance yourself from her before her own stainless reputation is soiled by your own. Now, sir, I must ask you to leave. I have important work and little time left in which to accomplish it."
The colonel stood, indicating the interview was over. Hands curled into fists that he burned to smash into the colonel's handsome, self-righteously smug face, Tony gave him a brief nod and stalked out.
He was streets away before the fog of rage cleared enough for him to consider what he must do next.
Spotting an entrance to the archbishop's gardens off Lambeth Road, he turned his mount from the busy street and rode in.
It appeared he'd held his temper and abased himself to no purpose. Tony liked neither the man's evident opinion that his diplomatic work was more important than investigating a possible danger to Jenna nor his insinuation that if the matter were true, the scandal sure to follow its disclosure would render Lady Fairchild less worthy to become Vernier's wife.
Perhaps what Jenna needed right now wasn't a scrupulously honorable man who assumed, until he had
"hard evidence," that all aristocrats behaved with equal honor, but a rogue who thought like a rogue. And if the colonel could not be bothered to concern himself with taking measures to protect Jenna's safety, Tony would have to confront Jenna himself and insist on it.
A small measure of warmth kindled in his chest. To do so, he would have to see her again-soon. That resolve made, he kicked his horse to a trot. On the ride back, he'd ponder how to best accomplish that.
Just before he exited the park, he passed a woman walking, market basket over her arm. His horse was three paces beyond her before something familiar about her face and form made him pull up his mount and turn in the saddle.
A second look confirmed that first impression. Shock and incredulity warring in his mind, he wheeled his mount and rode back to dismount beside her.
"Miss Sweet?" he demanded incredulously.
The tall woman stared back at him, her expression wary. "Tony Nelthorpe," she said quietly.
"Yes! What are you doing here? How have you been all these years?" He clamped his lips shut before he could add, "Why did you leave without a word?"
"I'm quite well, thank you. I've lived here for a decade and been married nearly two to a very kind man."
If she'd lived here that long and read the journals, she would have known from the gossip in the Society columns when he'd been in residence. He gave her a twisted smile. "I was about to ask why you never contacted me, but I imagine such news as you had wouldn't have encouraged you to think it worth your while to communicate."
A flicker of a smile touched her lips. "So you are still honest with yourself, I see." That face he'd loved so dearly in childhood, still remarkably unlined, studied his for a long moment. "The only thing I regretted about quitting Hunsdon all those years ago was having to leave you in your father's care."
"I...missed you." Dreadfully. "But Papa said you'd found a better position, so I hoped that things went well for you, and I see they have. I am happy for that."
"So that's what he told you." For an instant, a bitter expression marred the serene face. "I always wondered what he'd said-if he said anything. Whether you hated me."
"I was confused...angry, even," he admitted. "Lonely. But I never stopped cherishing the friendship you'd offered me. 'Twas my dearest childhood memory." He laughed gruffly to cover the emotion.
"Practically the only pleasant one I had."
Her eyes mirrored distress. "When you were sent down from university and the stories began to circulate, I was afraid that you'd become a younger version of your father."
"I've much to answer for in those days, but I hope I've avoided that fate," Tony retorted.
"I blamed myself. But then you left for the army, and, I heard, acquitted yourself well, so I prayed there was still hope."
He smiled. "I'm not yet a candidate for canonization, but I am trying."
"I believe you are." Once again she studied him for a long moment. '"Tis so long ago, I suppose it makes no difference, but I feel I must tell you why I left, even though you needed me so much. I had no choice, you see. I...I feared I might be with child."
He couldn't have been more shocked if she'd said she'd gone to become a courtesan or tread the boards of the Theatre Royal. "With child? Whose?"
"Whose dp you think?" she asked quietly.
The knowledge hit him with the force of a punch to the gut, twisted his insides with revulsion and regret.
For a moment, he thought he would be ill.
She grasped his hand. "You mustn't think I ever encouraged him-"
"No! I know you would not. Just as I know that he would have given you no choice."
"Once it...began, I knew he would not stop. I feared, until he tired of me, he would not even let me leave. So I had to sneak away in the dead of night."
"Where did you go? How did you live?"
"How did I manage not to end up on the streets, you mean?" she asked wryly. "I've been very fortunate. My old governess took pity on me, took me in. Soon after, I met a kind older man who had the goodness of heart to overlook my soiled past. We've been very happy."
"And the child?"
"Is married now to a fine young man. She believes my husband to be her father. We never told her differently."
Fury at his father, pain for all she must have suffered, engulfed him. "I'm so sorry. I-I wish there was something I could do. Something to make up for-"
