They walked to Bear Alley, found Horace Blank’s small lodgings beneath the eaves, and trudged up the narrow dark stairs and went into Horace’s room. The small room was surprisingly clean, with a slatted bed, a small trunk at the bottom of it, and all along the far wall an oven, pans, and many ingredients he used to make his kidney pies. It smelled delicious.
“I never ate one of his pies,” Peter said, and shook his head. “I really don’t like this, Jason.”
They parted company, Peter to gamble at a new gaming hall, owned by a friend of his, so Jason knew he wouldn’t walk out of the place so poor he’d have to shoot himself, and Jason, to return home to change quickly into his evening garb, then off to Lady Radley’s mansion, for a ball. To see Judith McCrae. James had told him about her visit to Corrie and the cinnamon bread farce. “Funnier than anything I’ve seen at Drury Lane,” James said, and Jason wished he’d been there, to snag a slice for himself, maybe right out of Judith’s mouth. Would she bite him? Now there was a lovely thought.
HE WAS GRINNING when he first saw her across the ballroom floor, dancing with young Tommy Barlett, so shy he was staring at Judith’s neck. No, it wasn’t Judith’s neck that held Tommy’s attention. Jason began making his way toward her, speaking to friends and enemies alike, politely nodding to his parents’ friends as well, and smiling at the score of young ladies, and some not so young, who were giving him soulful looks that made him want to run in the opposite direction.
“Hello, Miss McCrae. Hello, Tommy. That is a lovely necklace, isn’t it?”
Tommy Barlett, still breathing in Miss McCrae’s lovely perfume, lust pounding through his young healthy veins, was slow to turn. “Is that you, James? No, it’s you, Jason, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m Jason.”
“What necklace?”
“The one you’ve been staring at that Miss McCrae’s wearing. Around her neck. Never once did you look away from that lovely necklace.”
“Oh, I wasn’t—that is, goodness, is that Mr. Taylor I see over there, beckoning to me? Thank you, Miss McCrae for the dance. Jason.” And Tommy was off, nearly galloping across the ballroom.
“What was that all about?” Judith asked, as she stared after Tommy. “He acted like he was scared to death of you.”
“He had good reason to be.”
“Why? You didn’t say anything to him. Come, Jason, what was that all about?”
Jason grinned down at her. “You smell good.”
She came up on her tiptoes and sniffed his throat. “So do you.”
He never knew what she would do next. It was sometimes unnerving, but more often, it was delightful, like now. She’d sniffed him. “Thank you. Tommy would probably have attacked you if I hadn’t intervened.”
“That shy young man? I doubt that very much. The dance was over. You didn’t intervene in anything at all. What was that about my necklace? Did I tell you that it belonged to my mother?”
“No, you didn’t. It’s unique.”
“So Tommy was admiring it. What, pray, is wrong with that?”
“Shy Tommy was staring at your breasts, not your necklace. He was sly, but I could tell.”
“Oh,” she said, blinking up at him. “I thought he was modest, dreadfully shy, not sly. Goodness, a budding young rake?”
“That’s Tommy all right,” Jason said. “I see people coming this way. Let’s dance.”
“The people you’re referring to,” Judith said as he slipped his arm around her and danced her to the middle of the floor, “are all young ladies. After you. Unfortunately they’re clutched together in a gaggle, not at all a good stratagem. Perhaps I could give them other approaches—to circle you, perhaps, or to form a wedge and force you into a corner where they would have their way with you. Lower that supercilious eyebrow. You know very well they’re not coming to see if I know any new gossip or to compliment me on my necklace. Actually, I shouldn’t want to be alone in a dark room with them.”
“Nonsense,” he said. He whirled her around and around until she was laughing, holding on for dear life, and her perfume smelled like—what? Not roses. He didn’t know.
“Oh goodness, there’s Juliette Lorimer frowning at me. She must think you’re James. Can’t she tell you apart?”
“Evidently not,” Jason said, “even though my shoulders are so much broader than my brother’s.” He danced her through a throng of glittering gowns and jewels. So much wealth, she thought, so many beautiful women.
Jason slowed a moment and grinned down at her. “I have heard of your gluttony. I must say that initially I was appalled until James reminded me of the time he and I managed to steal an entire loaf of Twyley Grange cinnamon bread off a windowsill, reverently placed there to cool. James and I split the loaf, and wanted more.”
“I could have eaten the entire loaf—unsliced—in under three minutes. I had a mere taste, only two slices. You should have seen Lord Montague—he actually hid the plate from me behind his back.” And she started laughing. “What a wonderful gentleman he is. And so very handsome.”
“He is going to be my brother’s uncle-in-law. Amazing, that.”
“So Corrie finally succumbed?”
Jason shrugged. “Evidently so. James is a good talker, he could convince a vicar to share the coins in his collection plate. Corrie wasn’t a big challenge. She also says you’re as pretty as Juliette Lorimer. I think you might be prettier. Thing is, unlike Juliette, you’ve got kindness in you, not to mention more wickedness than one would dream possible in a gently nurtured girl.”
“Ah, and I have guile, Jason. Lots of guile.”
“Not that I’ve ever seen. Indeed, sometimes I think you too candid, too open, what you feel is there for all to see on your face. Take care, Judith. The next time you accept a dance from a young gentleman who looks innocuous, look at his eyes. If they don’t remain on your face, turn him down.”
She laughed, actually laughed at what he’d said. She clutched her fingers into his coat, and laughed more.
He became alarmingly stiff. “I saw nothing funny in that advice.”
“No, no, it’s not that, Jason. While you said it, you were looking at my bosom.”
“That’s quite different,” he said, and stopped because the music had ended, at least five seconds before. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Lovely necklace,” he said, and left her not two feet from her Aunt Arbuckle.
He heard her laughter float after him. He didn’t dance with any other lady, merely thanked his hostess and took his leave. He wanted to tell James what had happened at Covent Garden.
They had to find Georges Cadoudal’s son before he managed to get his hands on one of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LORD KENNISON’S TOWN HOUSE
LONDON
“There is nothing more to be said, Northcliffe. I know nothing at all about any of this.”
Douglas Sherbrooke nodded. “I know that, but the fact is, you knew Georges Cadoudal. You were in Paris when he died after Waterloo. Back in 1815?”
“Yes, of course. It isn’t a secret.”
Douglas looked down at the relic who was old enough to be his own father. A powerful man, was Lord Kennison, still, even though he was more fragile in his appearance than he’d been six months before. Because he loved his brandy too much, he had gout, and his right foot was resting, swathed in bandages, on a brocade hassock.
He had to make certain that Georges was dead, and Lord Kennison was his best bet. “How long had Georges been ill?”
Lord Kennison closed his eyes a moment. Even his eyes hurt. “Good God, Northcliffe, I thought you knew. Georges didn’t die of an illness. Someone shot him down in the street. An assassination, no other word for it. He died perhaps two hours later, in his own bed. I arrived after he’d expired, his family around him. Of course, Georges was quite mad.”
“Yes, I know.” Mad and a genius, was Georges. “He had family, did he not, my lord?”
“Yes, cert
ainly. A son and a daughter. The son is about the age of your boys. I understand you knew his wife, before they were married.”
Janine, he thought, who’d pretended I had impregnated her because she’d been too ashamed to admit to her lover, Georges, that many men had raped her. He nodded. “Yes, I knew her. I never saw her again though, not after 1803. It was a very long time ago, my lord.”
“Poor Janine, she died of the influenza before Georges was killed. Georges’s sister-in-law came to live with them, kept the house. You ask me, Douglas, I’d say that she was a little bit more fond of Georges than a sister-in-law should be. But no matter. They were both past their first youth. And now Georges is long dead. You didn’t shoot him, did you, Northcliffe?”
Douglas was staring thoughtfully into the fireplace, watching the flame lick around a new log, burrowing in to catch fire. He shook his head, still looking into the flames. “I quite liked Georges, but maybe he never believed that. I can imagine someone shooting him because, from everything I heard over the years before Waterloo, he never ceased in his attempts to assassinate Napoleon. So many men would have liked to cut his life short, and evidently someone did.” He did look up now. “It wasn’t me. I was at home, with my two ten-year-old sons and my wife. I had nothing more to do with politics by then.”
“Ah, but a couple of years before, you were in France.”
“Yes, but that was a rescue mission, nothing more than that. Nothing nefarious. I didn’t see Georges.”
“Whom did you rescue?”
Douglas shrugged. “The Conte de Lac. He died five years ago, at his home in Sussex.”
“Could anyone have believed you were there to kill Georges?”
“No, that’s quite impossible. It also makes no sense. If someone believed that I was responsible for Georges’s death, why would they wait fifteen years for revenge?”
Lord Kennison shrugged. It even hurt to shrug, and wasn’t that too much to kick a man while he was down? “I’m tired, Douglas. I can tell you nothing more than you already know. The children, as you’ve already decided, must be behind these attempts on your life. As for Georges, he never said anything about you, at least not in my hearing. I don’t believe there was any enmity there. You remember Georges—if he hated someone, he hated all the way down to his soul. He wouldn’t shut up about how he was going to pull out their tongues. So if it is a child’s revenge, then where did they get this hatred for you?”
“I don’t know. As you said, it makes no sense.” Douglas rose. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. As you know, it was the duke of Wellington who sent me to you.”
“Yes, he told me. Poor Arthur. So many problems clutching him around his throat. I told him to quit, to leave all the mess, and let others deal with it. He wouldn’t ever do that, of course.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Douglas said, and took his leave. He rather liked Lord Kennison, who was probably a lot more honorable than his heir, who was so debauched he’d given his wife the pox.
When he walked out to his carriage, it was to see both Willicombe and his nephew Remie standing there, guns at the ready.
THREE DAYS LATER
SHERBROOKE TOWN HOUSE
James and Jason stepped into the drawing room to see Corrie and Judith seated close on the large sofa, their heads together.
“Good morning, ladies,” James said as they walked into the room. “Willicombe said you were working on wedding plans.” Whose wedding plans? he wondered, sneaking a look at his brother, who, in turn was staring at Judith McCrae, a look on his face James had never seen before.
Corrie looked up at him, had decided during the long previous night to give it up, jumped to her feet, and flew to James, grabbed him to her, and hugged him tight. He grunted with the enthusiasm of her greeting. She looked up at him, lightly touched her fingertips to his chin. “No more whispering. I’ll say it out loud for the world to hear. James, I’ve decided to marry you, decided that maybe it won’t be so bad at all. I know most of your bad habits already. If you’ve more, you’d best not tell me because it might tip the scales the other way.”
“I don’t have any more,” James said, and heard Jason snicker behind him.
“At least none that would make you break things off.”
“I will speak to Jason about this later.”
“Corrie, I do appreciate you coming right out with your consent, but the fact is I’ve already spoken to your uncle. Everything is in motion.”
“Yes, I know, but I didn’t want you to think I was a pathetic, gutless female who didn’t know her own mind.”
“I haven’t ever thought you were gutless. Pathetic—not for at least a couple of months now.” He saw she would question him and shook his head.
“All right, I’ll wait. I just wish that Jason had managed to catch Augie, Ben, and Billy. Just imagine Augie thinking it was you again—and using the same blanket trick again. Did he think you stupid?”
“Probably so,” Jason said, and found himself staring at his brother, and his soon-to-be sister-in-law. Imagine, Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, a sister-in-law.
James found that his arms went around his betrothed very naturally. Well, he’d hugged her since she was three years old, that wasn’t so unusual. She felt good against him. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed her in. He was used to her scent, would have known it was her in a dark room, but now there was a light overlay of jasmine. “Your perfume?” he said against her hair. “I like it.”
“Your mother gave it to me, said your Aunt Sophie swore by it, claimed it worked on your Uncle Ryder from fifty feet. She claimed he always came running, like a hound after the fox.”
“Ah. I think I could chase you down. When I caught you, I wonder what I would do to you? Sniff you, I suppose, to make sure you’re the right fox, but then? Hmmm. There’s always the back of your knees.
“Now, you should probably release me, Corrie. There are two other people in the room and all this affection might give them a headache.”
She leaned back in his arms to look up at him. “A headache? Why on earth would seeing me clutching you like the last slice of cinnamon bread give anyone a headache?”
“Jealousy,” he said, and without thought, he kissed the tip of her nose. He set her away from him. “Willicombe,” he said to the three occupants in the room, two of them paying not a whit of attention, “is bringing tea. Jason? Judith? Listen to me now. Tea is coming.”
Corrie heard a giggle and peered around James to see Judith McCrae throwing pencils at Jason.
“Whatever did he say to invite the attack, Judith? Good shot, right in the chest. Pencils could be dangerous, I suppose, so you’d best be careful.”
Judith, holding a final pencil between her fingers, ready to dart it at Jason, turned, grinning. “This fellow, standing here all straight and tall, looking more dangerous than a kilted Highlander, tells me that it is hazardous for me not to wear a necklace. Without it, a man doesn’t have any justification.”
Corrie was on the point of asking what that meant when Willicombe entered, looking in each corner of the drawing room, as was his habit, before clearing his throat and saying, “Cook has prepared some nutty buns. She apologizes that they aren’t the Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, but the men she hired to steal the recipe ended up being bribed and gorging themselves on the real item and falling into a swoon.” He beamed at them. “A room of young people who are looking at each other with such affection. Such a tepid word, affection. Perhaps it is more along the line of fondness and warmth, at least I hope it is more, since two of you are now being fitted for leg irons,” and Willicombe raised a questioning brow at Jason, who picked a pencil up off the floor and hurled it at him.
“Leg irons,” James muttered. “I begin to believe Willicombe as much a misogynist as Petrie.” Corrie poured tea and Judith passed out the nutty buns. James said, “Our grandmother adores these nutty buns. Oh dear, Corrie, you will have to gird your loins; she’s nasty, she will malign you, given no encouragement
at all, but you know that, she’s gone at you often enough. But now that you’ll be one of the family—it doesn’t bear thinking about how she will treat you.”
Judith stopped chewing her bun. “Your grandmother will be unkind to Corrie? How very odd. Why ever for?”
Jason laughed. “You don’t know our grandmother, Judith. She dislikes every female who’s ever had the misfortune to swim into her pond, including our mother, including her own daughter, including Corrie, who is, I understand, an abomination or something of the sort.”
Corrie shuddered. James patted her hand, and said, his voice thoughtful and low, “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should live in a lovely house I own in Kent.”
“Where did you get a house in Kent?”
“It’s one of father’s lesser houses, one built by the first Viscount Hammersmith.”
She took a bite of her nutty bun and licked her lips. “Where is it?”
“Near the village of Lindley Dale, right on the Elsey River.”
She finished off her bun, licked her lips again, this time James watching her tongue, wanting suddenly to lick her. Her throat, her left elbow, her belly—he had to get hold of himself.
She said, “Does it have a name?”
“Yes. Primrose House. It’s not big and grand like Northcliffe Hall, but it would be ours, hopefully for a very long time since I don’t wish to see either my father or my mother depart this earth until the next century.”
Corrie simply couldn’t imagine living with this man. Living with him at Primrose House. Just the two of them. Goodness, she was used to living with Aunt Maybella and Uncle Simon.
Living with James? She thought of her last kiss and his tongue in her mouth, licked her lips again, met his eyes, and flushed to her hairline.
“I believe,” James said slowly, his eyes on her mouth, “that I want to know exactly what you’re thinking.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 85