“I had no idea she was so pretty, Douglas. Her smile makes you want to smile back at her.”
“Yes, yes, who cares? Come along now. I’m an old man and it is after midnight. I have very few miracles left.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” his wife said as she walked up the stairs beside him.
Very few men care to have the obvious pointed out to them by a woman.
MARGARET BAILLIE SAUNDERS
“You’re being a moron, James Sherbrooke. Go away before I knock you in the head with that fireplace poker.”
“No, I will not.” He caught her arm before she could grab the poker. He even shook her. “You will answer me now and truthfully, madam. I want to know exactly what happened between you and Devlin Monroe last night.”
She stepped toe-to-toe with him, tilted back her head, and said, a lovely sneer lacing her voice, “Nothing happened that I didn’t want to happen.”
“You drank too much of that champagne punch, didn’t you? I knew after I tasted it that a score of girls would lose their virtue last night.”
“Nonsense, James. Most girls have much harder heads than you give them credit for. Yes, I drank two glasses of that delightful brain-numbing punch, but Devlin was a perfect gentleman. Do you hear me? A perfect gentleman. Can a vampire be a gentleman? No matter. Now, I am going riding with him in the park this afternoon at exactly five o’clock, if it doesn’t rain, which it looks like it might.”
He took a step back, otherwise he might grab her and throw her over his legs and wallop her again, though he doubted she’d feel it. “How many petticoats are you wearing?”
“What?”
“How many petticoats do you have under that gown?”
A man’s mind, she thought, an astounding thing. “Well now, let me see.” She tapped her fingertips against her chin. “There are my drawers, then my chemise—you know, it’s nearly down to my knees with really pretty lace around the neck, a soft, white muslin—what is this? Your eyes are crossing? You asked—”
“Tell me only about petticoats, not all the rest of it. For God’s sake, Corrie, you don’t talk about your drawers, much less about the soft white muslin chemise, particularly in front of a man.”
“All right, I suppose I don’t want to know about what you’re wearing beneath your breeches either. Now, where was I? There’s the flannel petticoat, just one, to keep me all toasty even when it’s already hot. Then there are four cotton ones, and on the very top is this very pretty white lawn petticoat that, if my gown happens to flip up in the wind, will show even the most critical of ladies that I am well-dressed beneath my clothes. As for what the gentlemen would think, well, you will have to tell me the answer to that, won’t you? There, are you happy now? Why the devil do you want to know about my petticoats?”
“I liked you better in breeches. I could see exactly what was going on with you.”
“Just what does that mean?”
“I could see your bottom. Well, not really; those damned breeches were so loose.”
This was her aunt’s drawing room. Uncle Simon was hunkered down in his study not more than twenty feet away. Her Aunt Maybella, goodness, she could be right outside the door, listening.
“You are not to speak of my bottom, James. Surely that isn’t the thing.”
“It’s not. I apologize.”
“Well, forget my breeches too. You always made fun of them in any case. Don’t you like my gown? Your father selected it. It’s very white, all virginal, don’t you think?”
“You hang around Devlin Monroe much longer and you won’t have a virginal thought in your head. Not to mention the rest of you.”
“Now you’re accusing me of taking off my clothes with a man I scarcely know? Stripping off all those wretched petticoats?”
“I saw you drinking that champagne punch last night. It was dangerous stuff, not at all proper for young ladies. You waltzed with him twice, Corrie. That wasn’t proper of your aunt to allow it.”
“She was flirting with Sir Arthur. I saw you having a wonderful time with that Miss Lorimer, who, my aunt tells me, is considered the very best catch in London at the moment, and isn’t it a pity that she had to show up when I arrived? Did you enjoy yourself with her, James? Did you?”
“Juliette—”
“Her name is Juliette? As in Romeo’s doomed schoolroom girl? That makes me want to—” Don’t spit, not in your aunt’s drawing room. His eyes were gleaming. She didn’t know if they were violet or the shade of blue that made her innards ache, but she saw them gleaming. She tacked right into the wind. “Ah, she’s surely lovely, isn’t she? But you know, James, I’ve heard that she prefers different sorts of things, just like Devlin Monroe, and I don’t think it wise of you to spend too much time with her. You might find yourself without your breeches and wouldn’t that be shocking?”
James could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open, his brain soggy in his head. “What different sorts of things? Are you calling Miss Lorimer loose?”
“You mean do I think she is wicked? Like Devlin Monroe?”
“I never said he was wicked, dammit.”
“Well, I’m really not saying that Miss Lorimer is wicked either, James. I said she prefers different sorts of things and—”
“What sorts of things?” Those ridiculous words danced out of his mouth before he could tell himself that she was stringing him like a sea bass on a fishing line, slowly reeling him in, and he, fool that he was, was leaping toward her hand. He was an idiot. Grab the reins, grab the reins. “No, forget that, be quiet.”
“But you’re interested, aren’t you, James? You want to know what young ladies who are leaning toward debauchery like to do. Admit it.”
He was an idiot, an idiot she was reeling in without a single snag in her line. “All right, tell me.”
She came up close, dangerous since he was perfectly ready to wring her neck, and whispered, “I heard it said that Juliette likes to perform lascivious parts in plays. Like Aristophanes’s Lysistrada, you know, that Greek play where the women tell the men that they won’t—”
He stared down at that face he knew so well he could close his eyes and set his fingertips roving over it and know exactly what he was seeing. The part of him that was still the sea bass being reeled in, said, “How do you know about this?”
She leaned even closer, not touching him. “I overheard some girls talking about it in the ladies’ withdrawing room last night. And since I am interested in Devlin Monroe and the different sorts of things he prefers, I spoke to Miss Lorimer and told her I could perform too, particularly characters of great moral flexibility. She said that was her favorite sort of character as well. She told me that good people were boring, that stepping off the road just a bit was exhilarating. What would happen when she stepped off that road?” Corrie stepped closer. He could feel her breath on his cheek. “I thought about soiling the hem of my gown, and after that first big step, why then, mayhap losing the pins in my hair. What do you think, James?”
The fishing line snapped. James grabbed her shoulders and shook her. He wanted to beat her, but that wouldn’t happen, at least not here in her uncle’s drawing room. Mayhap the next time they were both home, he could take her back to that rock, then he might jerk those breeches of hers down her hips and—“Listen to me, Corrie. I’ve really had enough of this. You might consider forgetting Aristophanes and what those women in his play did, which of course you can’t begin to understand, despite all your talk about moral flexibility. You might consider also forgetting Juliette Lorimer and her plays. You wouldn’t want to perform in a play like that. You wouldn’t want to step off the road and soil the hem of your gown.”
“Why not?”
“You will not, and that’s the end to the matter. Now, I absolutely insist that you forget Devlin Monroe. You will write him a note explaining that you won’t be seeing him again. Do you understand me?”
“You’re shouting, James. I like Devlin; he’s the heir to a dukedom. Goo
dness, he’s already an earl.”
“Enough!”
“You’re only the heir to an earldom.” She leaned close again. “Is it possible that Juliette wants your money?”
It was too much. He finally pulled free of the fishing line. He roared, “If I see you with Devlin Monroe, I will beat you!”
She sneered, a full-bodied, insolent, utterly gratifying sneer. To further enrage him, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to whistle.
He got hold of himself. He said not another word. He turned on his heel and almost ran down Aunt Maybella on his way out of the drawing room.
“James? Jason?”
“I am Jason, ma’am, and forgive me, but I must go.”
“Well, I—good-bye, dear boy.”
Aunt Maybella walked into the drawing room, saw her niece standing by the front windows, her forehead against the glass. “Whatever was Jason doing here?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
One should forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hanged.
HEINRICH HEINE
IT WAS EARLY, barely seven o’clock in the morning. Douglas and James were riding toward Hyde Park, comfortable silence between them, each buried in his own thoughts.
It was a cloudy morning, the early fog yet to burn off.
They turned onto Rotten Row and immediately set Bad Boy and Garth into a gallop. Wind whipped against their faces, making their eyes tear.
“Henry VIII would like this,” Douglas shouted.
“Aye, he’d like it until he saw someone riding toward him, then he’d attack.”
When at last Douglas reined in Garth, he was laughing, exhilarated, ready to consign all the worry about assassins to Hades.
James pulled in beside him, patting Bad Boy’s neck, telling him what a great, fast fellow he was. Bad Boy butted his head against Garth’s. Garth tried to bite Bad Boy’s neck. Both father and son were busy for several minutes separating them.
James was laughing when he turned to his father. Suddenly the laugh died in his throat. He saw a flash of silver glinting off a spear of early morning sun that had broken through the clouds.
He threw himself at his father, hurtling both of them to the ground as a shot rang out, obscenely loud in the quiet morning air.
James flattened himself over his father even as he tried to pull his gun from his jacket pocket. Another shot—a clod of earth flew up, not six inches from Douglas’s head.
“Dammit, James, get off me!” Douglas managed to twist and wrap his arms around his son’s waist. He literally lifted him off and rolled him onto his back, flattening himself on top of him.
Another shot, then another, and Douglas wrapped his arms around his son’s head to protect him. But these shots weren’t close, probably because Bad Boy and Garth were rearing and whinnying, breaking the assassin’s line of sight. “Father, please, let me up.”
Douglas grunted and rolled over onto his back, then came up to his feet and offered James a hand. They fanned the area with their guns, but saw no one. Suddenly, Garth, maddened, started to run. Douglas calmly whistled, bringing him back, Bad Boy was long gone. He stopped close, head down, blowing hard, lipping at Douglas’s hand.
“James, it’s all right now.”
James slowly turned to face his father. “You must teach me how to call Bad Boy.”
Douglas had tried to teach James to whistle for his horse, but James simply never got the hang of a nice ear-splitting whistle, which is what was needed to get any horse’s attention. “I’ll teach you,” he said.
“Father, they were after you, not me. You tried to protect me.”
“Of course I’d protect you,” Douglas said simply. “You’re my son.”
“And you’re my father, dammit.” He fiddled with his gun a moment. “I think I’ll go check those bushes where I saw that glint of silver.”
“The damned fellow’s long gone,” Douglas said as he brushed himself off. His shoulder hurt where James had landed on him. He held his derringer loosely in his hand and walked with his son, who was also carrying a gun, this one big and ugly, a dueling pistol out of Douglas’s library, over to the thick bushes beside the riding trail.
“Nothing,” James said, and cursed. Douglas smiled. “Damnation, the bastard is gone. You can see where he was waiting—the smashed bushes. This isn’t what—”
Douglas suddenly raised his derringer and fired. They heard a yell, then nothing. Douglas was off, James running after him. They came out of the narrow band of trees in time to see a man riding a horse out of the south gate of the park, blood streaming down his arm.
“Too bad,” Douglas said. “I’d hoped to get him through the head.”
“A small target,” James said, so relieved, so surprised, that his heart was near to pounding out of his chest. His father was gently rubbing his thumb over the shiny silver derringer. “Actually, I’m surprised I even hit him. A bullet from six feet is a good range for this derringer and this was a good twenty feet.”
“Oh, God, that was too close, far too close. Father, do you swear you’re all right?”
“Oh yes,” Douglas said absently, staring after the man who’d tried to kill him. He turned to his son, punched his arm. “Thank you for saving my life.”
James swallowed, then swallowed again. His heart was finally slowing. Now the fear was seeping in, making his hands shake. So close, it had been so close. “If I hadn’t seen that glitter of silver—” He swallowed again. “It was you who saved my life and—”
Douglas saw the fear in his son’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around him and held him. “We will get through this, James. You’ll see.”
James said, “I can’t stand this, sir, I really can’t.”
“You’re right. It grows tedious, James, I’ll agree with you there. Perhaps it’s time I did something about this myself. There’s been no more word about Cadoudal’s death or any children. I’m off to France in the morning.”
“But that’s where—”
“No, the enemy is here, James, not in France. I have friends there. It’s time I met with them, tried to get the facts of this insane plot.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, you and Jason are my eyes and ears here in England.”
“Mother won’t be pleased.”
“I’ve a mind to take her with me,” Douglas said. “It’s sure to be safer in France. When I think of how she wanted to come riding with us this morning, it makes my innards cramp. We’ll leave discreetly, before dawn tomorrow morning. I don’t want our enemy to know that we’re no longer here in England. Let the bugger continue to make his plans.” He smiled as he stared toward the south gate. “The bastard will have to tend his arm. That will keep him away for several days, at least. Then he’ll believe he scared me so badly I’m hiding in the house.” Douglas walked to Garth, who was eating some grass beside the path, and said over his shoulder, “Come along, James. We have a lot to do.”
Unfortunately it took them a good while to get home since Bad Boy had run from the park home to his stable.
Two hours later, Alexandra was staring at her husband, her cup of tea forgotten. She cleared her throat, adjusted her brain, set her cup carefully back into its saucer, and said, “I think it’s an excellent plan, Douglas. We will leave very early, slip out through the back gate. James can arrange to have a hackney meet us over on Willowby Street.”
“From there we will meet Captain Finch down at the docks. We’ll be off to France with the morning tide.”
“You’ve already arranged a packet?”
“Of course. One valise, Alex. Pack lightly.”
She rose and shook out her skirts. She walked to her husband, wanting desperately to hold him close and protect him, but knew it wasn’t possible. She smiled down at him, sitting there with his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, a grin on his face. “You’re enjoying this,” she said slowly. “You wretch—you’re enjoying this.”
“It’s been a long time, and n
o, I wouldn’t really call it enjoyment. The danger does add some zest to the blood though, I’ll admit. We’ll have a time of it in France, Alex, and I won’t have to worry about you so much as I do here. Let the villains scrabble about, wondering and looking for me, even believing I’m hiding here. Everything will be all right.”
“Yes,” she said, and sat on his lap. She buried her face against his neck. “Yes, everything will be all right.”
“Remie will continue making his rounds. Also I’ve enlisted a good dozen of our friends to keep their eyes open and watch out for James and Jason. I want the boys kept safe.”
“Yes,” she said, and wanted to weep she was so frightened. “But you know they’ll both be out leading the search.”
“They won’t get knives in their guts, Alex. They’re smart and strong and fast. Ryder and I taught them to fight dirty. Don’t worry.”
She looked at him as if he were utterly mad.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, three hours after their parents had left on a packet to Calais, James and Jason were in the breakfast room drinking tea. James said, “We’re to go about our business, and if asked, simply say that Mother and Father are at home, resting.”
Jason said, looking appalled, “Father would never admit that he needed rest. Can you imagine?”
“No, you’re right.” James frowned. “Actually, it was mother who said that.”
“His friends won’t believe that either. He didn’t tell me if he took any of them into his confidence, but knowing our father, knowing he’ll want us protected while he’s not here, I wager he has. What then?”
“How about that he and Mother have traveled to the Cotswolds to visit Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie?”
“That could put them in danger, at least until the bastards realized they’d been duped and head back to London.”
“All right. We could say they’ve gone to Scotland to see Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 73