Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  “Alex, you will not involve yourself in this!”

  “Do not be a blockhead, my lord. I am your wife and thus I am more involved than anyone, with the possible exception of your stubborn self. Yes, I shall begin with Lady Avery. I wonder if her spouse ever tells her anything.”

  Douglas’s face was red. “Alex, I forbid—”

  She gave him a lovely smile and said, “Would you like a cup of tea, my lord?”

  He growled and took his tea. “You will take no risks, madam, do you understand me?”

  “Oh yes, Douglas. I understand you perfectly.”

  Sometime later, Douglas said to his wife as they walked up the central staircase, “Well, damnation. I forgot all about Corrie.”

  “It’s all right, Douglas. I didn’t. I selected several lovely patterns for her and some very nice white muslin and pale blue satin.”

  Douglas knew it wasn’t going to be good. He cleared his throat. “Did Miss Plack sew up the gowns?”

  “No, there wasn’t time, but Maybella assured me that all would be well. She said that Corrie’s maid could sew in a closed carriage. Indeed, I am expecting them to arrive in London today—even though Simon was complaining that he had contracted the plague—and Corrie will be wearing one of her new gowns.”

  It was difficult, but Douglas did manage not to put his head in his hands. “Simon’s town house is on Great Little Street, is that right?”

  Alexandra nodded. She was thinking hard, not about Corrie but about Georges Cadoudal. She said, “It’s been so long since Georges kidnapped me and took me to France. It was a matter of revenge then, Douglas, against you. But it isn’t the same now. This is someone hiding, lurking in the shadows, trying to kill you without you seeing his face.”

  Douglas grunted.

  “I wonder if Georges did marry Janine, that wretched hussy who betrayed you.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Could he have spoken with such hatred of you that any children he might have had are now out to avenge him? It makes no sense for the simple reason that there wasn’t any hatred. You and Georges parted amicably, like you told the boys, and I should know. I was there. I wonder, do you think perhaps that Georges is still alive?”

  “I’ll make certain, one way or the other. I agree with you. Given what happened then, Georges’s involvement doesn’t make any sense to me either.”

  She stopped in her tracks, halfway down the vast corridor, and grabbed his arm. “You were on a mission in France before Waterloo. I remember that since you tried to keep it from me.”

  “It was not a particularly dangerous mission, just the extraction of one of our highly placed spies.”

  “You told me that much, but nothing more. Now, was Georges involved in that?”

  “I never saw him. Perhaps he was close by.” He didn’t say another word. He wasn’t about to tell her the rest of it for the simple reason that it had nothing to do with this.

  “Spill it now, Douglas, or I will do something you won’t like.”

  He hesitated, and she said, “I even learned to speak French to help protect you. Not that it did me much good.”

  “The informant said something about revenge against me would be lovely.”

  Alexandra shuddered. “I knew it. It is what I expected.”

  He’d managed to sidetrack her, but not for long. She would remember that he hadn’t told her about that mission to France before Waterloo, and what had happened. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d survived.

  JAMES WALKED TO Great Little Street, at the request of his father, to see exactly how bad Corrie looked in her maid-sewn gowns whose fabric and pattern his mother had, unfortunately, selected.

  He arrived at Number 27 Great Little Street and rapped the bronze lion’s-head knocker.

  A red-faced butler took one look at him and quickly stepped back. “Please hurry, my lord, before it is too late! I don’t know what to do.”

  James ran past the butler’s flapping hand up the stairs and through the wide double doors into the Ambrose drawing room. He came to a halt in the doorway, scared to his toes, to find Corrie standing in the middle of the room, garbed in the most hideous gown he’d ever seen. It was pale blue, lace sewn nearly to her ears, row upon row of flounces sewn on the bottom portion, and sleeves the size of cannons. The only thing that looked good was her nearly invisible waist—she had to be wearing an iron corset beneath that belt because she looked ready to faint. She was crying.

  James shut the door in the butler’s face. He was at her side in a moment, grabbing up her hand that fell out of that huge sleeve. “Corrie, what the devil is the matter?”

  She swiped the back of her right hand over her eyes and gave him the most pathetic look he’d ever seen from her. Another tear trickled over her cheek to drip off her chin.

  “Corrie, for God’s sake, what’s happened?”

  She drew a deep breath, focused on his face, and sneered. “Why nothing, you fool.”

  He shook her. “What is wrong, damn you? The butler was really scared.”

  “All right, all right, stop shaking me. If you would know the truth, I’m practicing.”

  He dropped his hands. “Practicing what?”

  “You’ll just keep digging and prodding, won’t you? Very well. Aunt Maybella said I must know how to turn down the scores of young gentlemen who will be proposing to me right and left. She said to think of something sad and it would make me cry. She said that gentlemen are most profoundly affected by a lady’s tears. They would believe that I am desolate to refuse to marry them. There, are you satisfied?”

  He was staring down at her, dumbfounded. The tears had certainly worked on him, and the butler. He said, “You will not gain a single proposal wearing a gown like that.”

  Her tears dried up in a flash. Her mouth seamed shut. “Aunt Maybella said it is very fine. Your mother selected the pattern and the fabric and my maid sewed it.”

  “In that case, you have to know that it is very bad indeed.”

  She stood there, trying to close the huge mouths of the sleeves, but they’d been stiffened and didn’t move.

  James wanted to laugh, but he wasn’t a total clod. “Listen, Corrie, my father is going to take you tomorrow to Madame Jourdan. She will fix you up.”

  “Do I really look that bad?”

  Sometimes the truth was good. On the other hand, sometimes the truth needlessly devastated. “No. But listen to me. London is a vastly different place. Look at me. I’m not wearing breeches, a shirt open at my throat. Not here.”

  “I like you better in breeches and an open shirt.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen here in London. Now, my mother wants you to come back with me for a visit. Er, do you perhaps have something else you can wear?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Men and women, women and men. It will never work.

  ERICA JONG

  I AM THE jewel of Arabie . . . I am the jewel of Arabie. . . . It was her litany, spoken over and over from the moment she stepped in the carriage with Aunt Maybella to come to the Ranleagh ball just two streets away on Putnam Square, although she wasn’t entirely certain what the jewel of Arabie actually was. She’d thought it ridiculous to take a carriage until she’d tottered down the front stairs in a pair of lovely high-heeled white satin slippers.

  She might indeed look fine, but the fact was that if Willie Marker tried to kiss her again, she wouldn’t be able to run after him and smack him in the head. No, she’d either stumble over her feet or collapse in a dead faint because she couldn’t breathe.

  On the other hand, she could kick him with a deadly heel.

  On the second other hand, Willie Marker was an idiot she didn’t have to worry about here in London.

  No, her only worry here was to snag a husband, and if that meant looking fine through exquisite torture, her aunt was fully prepared to bring out an iron maiden. Maybella, looking very pleased, had patted her hand and told her a lady’s lot wasn’t an easy one. And
what was one to say to that?

  Who wanted a husband anyway? She’d rather have a white poodle on her lap when she drove herself down Bond Street smiling graciously at all the gentlemen swooning at the sight of her.

  She saw a lady throw her head back and laugh at something a gentleman said. What could a man possibly say to make a woman laugh with such gusto?

  Corrie had been looking around the Ranleagh ballroom, near to bursting with scores of laughing, beautiful people who had to be roasting it was so warm this evening, but it didn’t seem to phase any of them. They waltzed and laughed and flirted and drank champagne while she stood, nailed to the spot, so frightened she knew she was going to erupt in hives.

  She was wedged between James’s mother and her Aunt Maybella, and weren’t they having just the finest time, speaking to other ladies who floated by on lovely heeled slippers, some of which were more than two inches off the ground. And all the gentlemen, crooning over Lady Alexandra’s lovely hand, whispering wicked things not an inch from her lovely ear. She heard her Aunt Maybella titter.

  Both her aunt and Lady Alexandra appeared to take it all in stride, indeed, blossoming, as if this was the way things were done, and evidently they were.

  If she were wise, she would watch and listen and imitate.

  She was convinced she’d been introduced to every lady who wasn’t on the dance floor, and said her practiced niceties to such a polished degree that she heard one lady say under her breath to James’s mother that she was a prettily behaved girl. As opposed to what? She’d practiced in front of a mirror until she was fluent in politeness. She smiled and nodded and recited, trying to sound spontaneous, difficult after you’d said the same things twelve times.

  By the time she’d danced with six young gentlemen in forty-five minutes, she couldn’t believe she’d been such a twit to be scared. There was only one Willie Marker in the lot, but at least he was nicely dressed and his hands weren’t dirty. All her aunt could talk about was finding her a right and proper husband, not one that was after things other than a wife, and thus because you never knew what lurked beneath a nice set of shoulders, Corrie was to be very vigilant. Since Corrie had no idea what those other things could possibly be, she was suspicious of every gentleman who asked her to dance until she reached the fourth, Jonathan Vallante, whose eyes bugged out just a bit, and made her laugh. Looking out over the ballroom, she realized this was like one of the big country fairs, except there were no pickpockets lurking and none of these people had to count their money. She saw a man with two gold front teeth. There was another lady with three chins and a lovely diamond necklace that looked in danger of choking her. Corrie realized that if you stripped off all the jewels, loosened all the stays, these beautiful people were much like the ones at home.

  She hadn’t danced in seven minutes, and she wanted to dance again, she loved to dance, she’d discovered, and so where were all these young gentlemen? She tapped the heel of one slipper. She was restless. She’d only attracted six of them. Surely there were more than a measly half dozen. She wanted a long line of gentlemen, queuing right in front of her, peering around each other to get a better view of her.

  Then her ears perked up.

  The duchess of Brabante was saying to James’s mama, “There are the twins, just coming into the ballroom. Ah, what exquisite and delightful boys, Alexandra. You’ve done so very well. What a thrill it must be for you now that they are all so splendidly grown up, watching all the young ladies and their mamas dogging them, hanging on to their every word. Why, I saw one young lady swoon at James’s feet. I was hoping he’d let her fall, but no, James is a gentleman, and before her elbow hit the floor, he caught her. He gave her a scare though, and I thought that was smart of him.

  “I have the same problem, naturally, with my dear Devlin, such an exemplary young man. Being the heir to a duke—not just an earl—naturally all the very best families are after him for their daughters. And how is your dear sister, Melissande? Everyone finds it so terribly interesting that the twins are in her image. Tell me, what does Lord Northcliffe think?”

  Alexandra simply smiled and cocked her head to one side. “Why, I believe he thinks of me most of all, then the boys, perhaps then the estates.”

  The duchess blew out an annoyed breath, but to persist would have made her look a fool.

  That was well done, Corrie thought. Had this odd woman reached the end of her very singular monologue?

  No, she had not. The duchess said, “However do you tell them apart? I swear they are like two stitches on a pillowcase.”

  “Trust me, Lorelei, if one births twins, one can easily tell them apart.”

  “Oh look, three girls are already twittering around them. Oh goodness, I do believe that girl is trying to pass Jason a note. Poor boys! Look there—I see a convoy of white gowns steering toward them.”

  Where were they? Corrie craned her neck, but even in her two-inch heels, she couldn’t see them, and she was tall. Were they already dancing? Was James already dancing?

  The duchess cleared her throat. “My son would be delighted to dance with Maybella’s lovely little niece. Since Maybella is gossiping with Sir Arthur, Alexandra, I will inquire of you since you appear to be a friend of the family.”

  “Oh? Where is Devlin?” Alexandra asked.

  “There, by that huge pot of flowers that is making everyone sneeze. I do wonder why Clorinda needs to pollinate her ballroom.”

  Devlin? A duke’s son? What would a duke’s son want with her? She was practically a nobody from Twyley Grange.

  The duchess gave an imperious nod toward a young man who smiled and nodded, and began a leisurely stroll toward them, pausing to chat with everyone in his path. It will take him an hour to get here, Corrie thought. How much could a man really want to dance with a lady if he didn’t have a little snap in his step?

  His name was Devlin Archibald Monroe, earl of Convers, heir to the duke of Brabante, and Corrie thought he was very nice-looking indeed. He wasn’t much older than James, tall, black-eyed, and his face was as pale as the portrait of a vampire Corrie had seen in a forbidden book a century old, hidden at the back of her uncle’s bookshelf. He had a dark voice that sent lovely shivers up her back.

  He smiled and showed no fangs, and that was a relief. She said her rehearsed speech, he looked amused, and when he asked her to waltz, she lightly placed her hand on his offered forearm and headed to the dance floor.

  Not many minutes later, Alexandra heard a beloved voice and turned, a smile on her face. “Mother, you look altogether lovely this evening. I see Father has deserted you.”

  “James, my dear. Your father escaped me after one dance to meet with some of his cronies in the library. It’s past ten o’clock. You’re here at last. Where have you and Jason been?”

  James moved a bit closer since there were people nearby. “Jason and I wanted to meet with some men down at the docks. No, Mother, don’t chew my ear, there was no particular danger. Besides, Jase and I are very careful now, so please don’t worry or else I can’t tell you what we’re doing anymore.”

  That was a powerful argument, but it was difficult to keep her mother’s worry and advice behind her teeth. She touched his cheek. “I won’t carp at you. Did you learn anything?”

  “Yes and no. One of the men had come from Paris. He’d heard that an English nobleman was going to get his just desserts, nothing more than that. Perhaps it was the same person who informed the War Ministry.

  “I asked if he’d heard of any children, but he didn’t know. He gave us another name, a captain on a fishing boat due up the Thames within the week. Will he know more? I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. Ah, where’s Corrie?”

  “She’s dancing with Devlin Monroe, see over there, on the other side of the dance floor.”

  James shook his head. “No, I don’t see her. I see Devlin, but not Corrie.”

  Alexandra said, “Ah, James, give your greetings to Lady Montague and Sir Arthur Cochrane.”
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  James greeted Corrie’s Aunt Maybella, who was wearing her usual pale blue. He greeted Sir Arthur Cochrane with the deference he automatically accorded an older gentleman who had claims on his father’s friendship. Personally, he’d always believed that Sir Arthur needed to bathe more often and use less pomade on what was left of his hair.

  He said to Maybella, “I’ve been trying to locate Corrie on the dance floor, ma’am.”

  “Perhaps you can spot Devlin. He’s so very pale, you know, with those lovely dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. Ah, the dance is ending. Here they come.”

  “I see him, but I don’t recognize—” James’s jaw dropped.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Love is a universal migraine.

  ROBERT GRAVES

  JAMES STARED, SHOOK his head, looked at every female near to that approaching female, who was laughing, nearly skipping, her step was so light, so filled with excitement.

  No, that couldn’t be Corrie Tybourne-Barrett. Not that creature with hair the color of rich autumn leaves, all piled up on top of her head with ringlets hanging in front of lovely little white ears that were pierced with small diamond studs. All right, maybe it was Corrie—but—his eyes were on her breasts, yes, there were breasts. How had she hidden this incredible creature so thoroughly? He pictured her breeches and old hat and shuddered. He looked at her breasts and shuddered again.

  She was smiling at something Devlin said. She looked fresh and innocent, a babe ignorant of wickedness, and he knew he should warn her about Devlin.

  “Hello, James.”

  “Hello, Corrie. Devlin, did you purchase Mountjoy’s bay gelding?”

  “Yes, I did, as a matter of fact.”

  “A bay gelding?” she asked. “A hunter?”

  He nodded. “Yes, a fine addition to my stables. He likes to chase foxes at night, isn’t that nice?”

  “I suppose so,” Corrie said. “My money’s on the fox, though.”