Simon said, “You’ve already eaten two slices, and to the best of my knowledge, you weren’t even invited here this morning, you simply arrived. You probably smelled them cooking and hied yourself over, your mouth open. You’ve had quite enough.” He was talking around his second slice, the platter balanced now on his knee, his other hand covering it.
James walked into the drawing room to see Corrie nearly blue, she was trying so hard to stop laughing. Then he smelled the bread and heard his taste buds sing hallelujah. The famous Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, the recipe guarded closely for well nigh onto thirty years, and now they were here.
“Ah, James, is that you?” Simon asked, and quickly slid the platter, now holding only two slices, behind his back. “You’re looking quite well again, my boy. Not at all thin.”
“Yes, sir, I am nearly fit again, and quite on the plump side,” but his watering mouth wanted one of those slices, desperately. He forced himself to turn to the young lady who was trying to see that platter. James knew this was Miss McCrae, the young lady who’d managed to snag Jason’s attention a second time—which was amazing—and then even a third time, something no girl had managed before. She was licking her fingers now, humming with pleasure. James, who knew all about the immense power of the Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, said, “You’re right, sir, I’m a positive stoat. I’m not here to gorge on bread, although I would probably wish to, if I weren’t so fat. Actually, I’m here to take Corrie riding in the park.”
Corrie jumped to her feet, one eye on her uncle and the other on Judith McCrae, who was rising slowly, staring at James.
Uncle Simon swallowed and—it seemed like magic—another slice of bread seemed to appear in his hand and was fast moving toward his open mouth. “Take her,” Simon said, and bit down, nearly shuddering with delight. “Now. Before she tries to nab the last slice.”
“This is quite remarkable,” Judith said, her head cocked to one side, thick black curls nearly hitting her shoulder. “I’ve been told that you and Jason are quite identical, but here, up close, I don’t think you look a thing like your brother.”
“I myself have been told that,” James said. He took her hand, looked into those dark eyes of hers, and said, “You are Miss Judith McCrae, and I am James Sherbrooke. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Thank you,” Judith said. “I am pleasured as well.” She stared up into those incredible violet eyes. “Perhaps Jason is a bit taller than you are, my lord, and now that I am standing only three feet from you, I do believe Jason’s eyes are more violet than yours.”
“That is ridiculous, Judith,” Corrie shouted. “James has the most beautiful violet eyes in all of England, everyone has remarked upon that, and since Jason is said to be his exact twin, then how could you possibly believe that his eyes were more violet?”
“I suppose,” Judith said slowly, never looking away from James’s face, “that I could be wrong about the eyes. But Jason is taller, no doubt about that at all. And perhaps he is also broader in the shoulders.”
James burst into laughter. Corrie whirled around to frown at him. As for Miss McCrae, James knew that she was trying to keep a straight face.
But Corrie, still hooked on Miss McCrae’s line, leapt at that. “Broader in the shoulders? That is absurd, ridiculous! Even though James has been quite ill—nearly dead he was so ill—even so, his shoulders remained exactly the same, and that means he’s perfect. Look at him—I’ve never seen more perfect breadth in the shoulders in all my life! The idea that Jason’s—”
“Corrie,” James said, reaching out to touch her arm, “thank you for defending me, the obviously inferior twin. Now, Miss McCrae has nearly pulled your leg clean off. Let go of the bait now, Corrie.”
“But, she—”
“Let go.”
Corrie stared from Judith to James, reviewed Judith’s outrageous comments, her own responses, and felt like the village idiot. She said, looking down at her slippers, her voice soft, a bit sad, “I fear you might be right, Judith. I have been thinking, actually for some time now, that perhaps it is Jason I prefer, not James here, with his meager shoulders.”
“You may not have Jason! Do you hear me?”
Corrie looked up and grinned like Uncle Simon when he found a new leaf.
“Oh,” Judith said, gasping a bit, “I know when a table’s been turned on me, and this one just flattened me. That was excellent, Corrie. You got me right in the nose.”
Corrie was preening, James laughing, when Judith turned to Lord Ambrose and said, “And now, my lord, perhaps you would like to see the leaf I was unable to identify? Or James, I understand that you have an inquiring mind. Perhaps you would like to see my unidentified leaf?”
Simon jumped out of his seat, outraged. “Excuse me? What is this, Miss McCrae?” He waved the platter, that now held one lone slice in its center, at her, “You told me about the leaf, not anyone else, particularly James, who knows nothing at all about leaves, only what’s hanging about up in the heavens. Besides James is nearly out the door, to take Corrie riding. I wish to see that leaf, Miss McCrae.”
Judith grinned, fluttered her lashes at Simon, and said, “Perhaps if I could have that very last slice, sir, the leaf could be guaranteed to be yours.”
Simon looked at that slice, thought about the three he’d already consumed, thought about the unidentified leaf that might be the brother to the one he’d found in the park, looked back at the slice, and said, “Show James the leaf.” He ate the last slice, dusted his hands on his trousers, nodded to the three young people, and took himself off, humming.
“You, Judith, are quite amazing,” Corrie said. “Now we know what’s more important to Uncle Simon. I will have to tell Aunt Maybella.” She slanted a look at James. “Maybe on a honeymoon, eating cinnamon bread would be the activity of choice?”
He laughed. “Possibly. We’ll see, won’t we?”
They heard the front door open, heard Aunt Maybella’s voice suddenly ring out in outrage. “I smell it! Simon, where are you? You’ve eaten the entire loaf, haven’t you? I will hide that unidentified leaf of yours, you miserable loon, you’ll see! I want some cinnamon bread!”
“Let’s get out of here,” James said, and offered an arm to each young lady.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JAMES GAVE CORRIE a leg up. Once she’d settled herself on Darlene’s back, he mounted Bad Boy. “Both of them look like they’ve been eating your uncle’s cinnamon bread. They need more exercise, Corrie.”
Corrie only nodded. She was looking at Judith McCrae, who’d insisted on walking back to Lady Arbuckle’s house only two streets away. Since it was a sunny day for early October, James had agreed.
“May I perhaps meet you at the Mayfair for an ice, say tomorrow?” Judith had asked Corrie. The date made, Judith walked away, her step bouncy, infinitely graceful.
“She wants Jason,” Corrie said.
“Well, it might be that he wants her as well, but the truth is, you never know with Jason.”
“I think she’s as beautiful as Juliette Lorimer.”
“So you don’t like her?”
Corrie said, “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” and said nothing more until they’d guided their horses through a gate into Hyde Park. It was too early for the fashionables to be out and seen, which was fine with her. She wanted to gallop. However, James lightly laid his gloved hand on the reins. “Not yet,” he said.
“Oh, goodness, you’re still not well enough, are you, James? I’m so sorry, thinking things were like they used to be before—well, of course we’ll walk the horses.”
He reached out his hand and laid it over hers. “Will you marry me, Corrie? No more excuses about me making this dreadful sacrifice, no more whining about missing out on sowed oats.”
“You don’t think I should do well as a barmaid in Boston? It’s in America.”
“No, you would be a miserable serving girl. You would clout any man who was stupid enough to pinch your bottom.”
Her chin went up. “That’s not true. I could do anything I had to do in order to survive. If you were ill and it were up to me, I could drive a dray. I could make meat pies and sell them. James, I would keep you safe and well. You could always count on me.”
He cocked his head to one side, staring at her. He studied the face he’d known for more than half his life, first the child and now the young woman. “You know, Corrie, I believe you would,” he said slowly, and then he reached out and clasped her hand. “We will do well together. Trust me.”
She sighed, shook off his hand, and click-clicked Darlene into a canter along Rotten Row.
The fact of the matter was, he thought, watching her gracefully sway in the side saddle, firmly in control, she would do anything she needed to do, anything she had to do. To save him. She’d already proved that. He sent Bad Boy into a gallop and was riding beside her within a few moments.
“Say yes,” he said, his eyes between Bad Boy’s twitching ears. Then he gave her a sideways glance. “I could teach you things, Corrie, things that would make you feel quite good.”
Oh dear, she quite liked the sound of this. “What sorts of things?”
“Perhaps it isn’t proper of me to get all into details just this moment, but on our wedding night—ah, yes, I’ll just spit it out—think of me kissing the backs of your knees.”
The knees in question froze on her legs. “Oh goodness, my knees?”
“The backs of your knees. That could be one very small thing I will teach you about. No, no more. You must wait. Now, the truth is, I sent our marriage announcement to the Gazette. No one will cut you now, no one will look at me like I’m a debauched rake. It’s done, Corrie. My mother is likely meeting with your Aunt Maybella even as we ride. The wedding must be soon.”
“If I were to agree, I wouldn’t want it soon. I would want the biggest wedding ever seen in London. I would want to be married at Saint Paul’s.”
He smiled. “All right. Let’s go back and speak to our elders.”
“I haven’t said yes, James. This is all supposition.”
He grinned at her. “You are tottering close to the edge.”
“Why are you being so damned agreeable? Are you still too ill to argue with me? You must be, because you like to argue and yell and curse. You like to pretend you’re going to clout me. This agreeable side of you isn’t what I’m used to. Are you tired, is that the problem? Oh dear, let me see if your fever has come back.” And she rode Darlene right into Bad Boy, her hand outstretched, but she didn’t touch his face because Darlene, who’d just come into heat, decided she wanted Bad Boy and what followed was a fracas, a good word that meant everything and nothing, the word that Corrie later used to describe to her uncle and aunt what had happened. Actually, fracas didn’t come close to the chaos of two rearing horses: Darlene shrieking, Bad Boy snorting, amenable to what she wanted to do and trying to bite her neck and mount her, and James, laughing so hard he was nearly falling off his horse’s back.
And in the midst of it all, Corrie, barely managing to stay on Darlene’s back, shouted through her laughter, “All right, James. I’ll seriously consider marrying you! I suppose it could be more fun than being a barmaid in Boston.”
“Is that a yes or another supposition?”
She whispered, looking down at her black boots with their lovely heels, “All right.”
“Good. That’s done.”
James wasn’t about to admit to relief. No, he was facing the raw fact that his doom was now formally sealed, his not inconsiderable wild oats now headed for a deep well.
He met for two hours with Lord Montague, managed to keep his attention focused long enough to get the marriage contract finalized, all the while thinking that at least there’d be laughter in his life. Corrie might drive him mad, make him want to hurl her through a window, but at the end of the day, she’d have him holding his belly with laughter. And kissing the backs of her knees. He grinned. Imagine, kissing the backs of the brat’s knees. Life, he thought, was amazing.
JASON AND PETER Marmot hadn’t found the man in Covent Garden that morning. One old woman, who was selling very well-made brooms, had said through healthy gums, “Old ’orace was lying on his arse today, the lazy sod, likely he was drinkin’ ’is guts out, and all because he’d heard that a man wanted to poke his sticker in ’orace’s belly.”
This didn’t sound good. They made plans to return that night. As it happened, however, Peter hadn’t appeared, and so Jason had gone alone to Covent Garden. He simply walked about, turning down a half dozen prostitutes, guarding his groats, looking at every shadow that crept out of the many alleyways, keeping his hand close to his stiletto and his derringer. It was raucous, as it always was this time of night, yells, laughter, curses. He tried to blend in, all the while looking everywhere for the man Peter had described to him.
He didn’t know what made him turn at the last moment, but thank the good Lord that he did. A man, masked, wearing a black greatcoat, came at him, not with a knife in his hand, but a blanket, and right behind him were two other fellows, both of them with blankets at the ready. Good God, was it Augie and his cohorts again, believing they would succeed at trying the same thing again?
With no hesitation at all, Jason drew his derringer and shot the man in the arm. He yelled, fell back. “Ye foul young sot! Ye shot me! Why’d ye do that? I niver hurt ye, not really, even that first time.”
Ah, so it was Augie and his crew, and he believed he was James. “Where is Georges Cadoudal?” Jason asked.
He kept his pistol pointed at the man in the greatcoat, who’d dropped the blanket to the ground and was holding his arm.
“I doesn’t know no Cadoudal fellow.”
“You’re Augie, aren’t you? And you two must be Billy and Ben. I trust you’re all feeling better than the last time I saw you.”
“No thanks to that little gal,” said Augie.
“Not much of a repertoire you fellows have. All you know is blankets?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a blanket or two. We doesn’t want to kill ye now, anymore than we did the first time. We jest wants to take ye fer a nice ride again, only ye goes and brings a gun wit’ ye. That jest ain’t fair.”
“Just like you did to my brother.”
“What brother? Ye is ye, ain’t that obvious? What’s this brother stuff?”
“You kidnapped my brother, Lord Hammersmith. I’m Jason Sherbrooke, we’re identical twins, you fool. So the man who hired you didn’t bother telling you that, did he? Not very competent of him. No, you two hold still.” To make sure they believed he was serious, Jason drew the stiletto from its sheath along his forearm. “Nice and sharp, a birthday present from my father; he eased it out of a thief’s sleeve in Spain. The first one of you who moves gets my stiletto right through the neck. Now, Augie, tell me. Did this so-called Douglas Sherbrooke hire you again?”
“I doesn’t know what yer talking about, young ’un! Aw, ye hurt me bad, ye hurt me real bad. I jest think I’ll send me two boys ’ere to pin back those ears of yers.”
“If you do, I will shoot you again, this time, in what you call a brain. So send them over here, come on, you puking cowards.”
But none of the three men moved an inch toward him. “Come on, Augie, tell me about Douglas Sherbrooke. He hired you again, didn’t he? He had you set up the pie man, hired him to start talking about Georges Cadoudal. So we’d hear about it and come. This Douglas Sherbrooke—is he young? Old? What does he look like?”
“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, boyo.”
“All right, then. Augie, let’s see if you have any more to say when I take you to my brother and we both beat all the wages of sin out of that stupid head of yours. You will tell us what’s going on here.”
Suddenly, with a sharp whistle from Augie, the two men threw their blankets at him, then all of them simply faded back into that malodorous black alley.
Jason got the blankets sloughed off quickly, fired his
second bullet, heard a yell. He listened, but couldn’t hear anything more now. He trotted to the head of the alley and stopped. He wasn’t about to go into that alley alone, he wasn’t that big a fool.
Well, damn. He’d not done well.
Where was the man who sold kidney pies? Old ’orace? But Jason knew even before he found the man’s body, one alley away, that they’d killed him before coming after him, cutting off a loose end. He turned to see Peter Marmot running up, late as usual, but with a smile so charming, you didn’t long want to punch him in the nose.
Peter stared down at the dead man, stabbed cleanly through the heart, and cursed.
Jason told him about the three villains. “They’re the same three men who kidnapped James. I’ll wager that this so-called Douglas Sherbrooke sent them after me, only they believed I was James. I didn’t manage to keep hold of them, damn me for an incompetent. This poor old fellow, they gave him a name to repeat until it came to our ears—Georges Cadoudal—then they killed him, because, I suppose, he could identify them.”
Peter said, “Let’s try to find some friends of the poor man, see if perhaps they know anything about Douglas Sherbrooke.”
Jason said slowly, “The fact is, Peter, this Douglas Sherbrooke knows all about Georges Cadoudal, knows that my father is worried about him, and thus it’s his name he uses to draw us out. He’s got to be Cadoudal’s son—but why is he after James in particular? Wouldn’t I do as well if his motive was simply to draw out our father?”
But they didn’t find anyone who would admit to knowing Horace until an urchin, with the help of a sovereign tossed to him from Jason, told them his name was Horace Blank, “ ’E made a fetching kidney pie, allus gave me one. I’ll miss old ’orace. ’E lived ov’r in Bear Alley, up on the third floor, right under the eaves.” And then he bit down on the sovereign, grinned as big as a full moon, and was gone.
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 84