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

by Coulter, Catherine

  The next morning, as Jason walked down the stairs, the events of that long-ago day tucked back into the shrouded darkness, he heard Petrie saying, “Your step is entirely too light. It shows lack of respect for your betters. You are nearly dancing, Martha, and a lady’s maid shouldn’t dance. Her step should be slow and stately. Her eyes should be looking upon her feet. I won’t have your high spirits in my house.”

  Petrie’s house? Well, why not? It was damned near everyone’s house. Jason started to call out when he saw young Martha standing right in front of Petrie, hands on hips, foot tapping, a lovely sneer on her thin young face. “Well, now, you itchy old codswallop, you’re not even fat and jowly yet, and ’ere—here—you are acting like a stern grandfather without even a flicker of laughter in him. Dear Mr. Hollis must be ten times your age, yet he’s never tight-mouthed and disapproving, and what’s more, he quite likes females, unlike you, who would like to bake all of us in that wonderful new oven the mistress bought.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Petrie. Of course I have a light step, I’m only seventeen years old. Go away now, I heard your master stirring ever so long ago. You do tend to him, do you not?”

  Petrie stared down at her, mouth agape. “I am not an itchy old codswallop.”

  “My ma always said that sour and stiff and nasty is an old man’s sack, no matter you’ve still got all your teeth.”

  Jason realized in that moment that Martha hadn’t dropped a single h and she’d spoken all fluently and fast, her diction and grammar perfect. Anger did strange things to people. He had nothing to do. Martha had quite taken care of Petrie herself. He wondered if Petrie was ready to commit murder. He wished he could simply slip past them. He didn’t want to see his valet/butler when he was mortified. But Lyon’s Gate wasn’t near the size of Northcliffe Hall, so Petrie would have to see him, feel guilt, and suffer.

  “Good morning, Martha, Petrie. No, Petrie, I didn’t need your services. I’m having breakfast now. Martha, is your mistress up and about?”

  “Oh yes, sir. She’s an early riser, that one is, fair to made me turn around me—my—’ours—hours.”

  “Cheeky and fresh,” Petrie said under his breath, but of course, it wasn’t under enough.

  Martha turned on him, recalled the master was three feet away, and gave him a lovely curtsey before she seamed her lips.

  “That was quite well done, Martha.”

  “Thank you, sir. Miss Carrick, she taught me. She’s ever so graceful when she curtsies.”

  “Possibly,” Jason said and walked into the breakfast room. When he sat down, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon, kidneys, he said to Hallie, who was sipping a cup of tea at the other end of the table, “We need a housekeeper, else Petrie will be murdered in his bed by all the female staff.”

  “Cousin Angela wanted to be the housekeeper but she is my chaperone and a gentlewoman.”

  “I will ask Hollis to recommend someone for us.”

  Jason ate while Hallie continued to sip her tea, her fingertips drumming lightly on the tablecloth.

  He missed the London paper he would normally have at Northcliffe Hall. “What’s wrong with you this morning? Didn’t you sleep well?”

  “Oh yes. Actually, I would very much like you to give me permission for Dodger to cover Piccola, er, without charge for his stud services.”

  An eyebrow went up. “No charge for Dodger’s services?”

  “Since we’re partners, I deserve a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”

  He’d handled Piccola several times since she’d arrived. She was a Thoroughbred, a glossy bay with four white socks and a slash of white down her face, a long graceful neck, a sound chest. “Yes,” he said. “If her first foal is a filly, she’s yours, if it’s a colt, he’s mine. All right?”

  “Hmm. If it’s a colt, can I have the next colt?”

  “All right.”

  She gave him a big grin. “Very well, I’ll go speak to Henry. I think she’ll be in season very soon now. As you already know, summer is the best time for mating, so we need to hurry. I asked your uncle Tysen to bruit it about that we were open for business. My uncle Burke as well. Dodger will be very busy.”

  “We are lucky to have Henry back with us again. He told me about the last few years of Squire Hoverton’s life, how Thomas was always—” His voice dried up when she suddenly rose, and he nearly fell off his chair. He couldn’t believe it. She was wearing black breeches, a loose white shirt covered with a black vest, and shiny black boots. She’d tied her hair back with a black velvet ribbon. It was quite obvious that everything she wore was new and well-made. He remembered the first time he and James had seen her at Lyon’s Gate. She’d been dressed in dusty old boy’s clothes. Now that he thought of it, he’d never seen her off Charlemagne’s back, either.

  He found his voice as he roared out of his chair. “Don’t you move, Miss Carrick!” For an instant he couldn’t think. Her long legs were on very nice display, leaving very little to a man’s imagination. Her rear end—

  Thank God Hallie slowly turned to face him and he could make himself look up at her face. He leaned over, splaying his palms on the table. He hit his fork and it flew across the breakfast room, but he paid it no heed. She said, eyebrow arched, “What do you want, Mr. Sherbrooke?”

  He tried to get ahold on himself. He wasn’t her father, dammit, nor was he her husband. But the outrage rolled out; he simply couldn’t hold it in. “You will go upstairs this minute and have Martha put you in a proper gown. You will not show yourself outside until you are properly dressed, more or less like a lady. You will not wear men’s clothing ever again. Is that perfectly clear to you?”

  “Since you’re nearly yelling, yes, of course, it’s clear. Excuse me now, Mr. Sherbrooke, I have work to do in the stables.”

  “Don’t move, Miss Carrick!” His face was red, the pulse pounding in his neck. Luckily his brain was holding on and told him to retrench. “Damn you—” No, no, try again. Calm, he needed calm and control with her. His voice slowed, deepened, surely a master’s voice, a serious man’s voice. “Don’t you realize that everyone in the district will hear of your man’s charade? Don’t you realize you will be labeled loose?”

  “That is absurd. I already have an interesting reputation in the district simply because I am living with a man who isn’t my husband. But let me assure you, no one believes me at all loose.”

  She’d started out all light and dismissive, amused even, but by the time she’d finished, her voice had risen an octave and her face was red. Well, Jason thought, she was an uncontrolled female, what was one to expect? Where he was calm, his reason sound, she was a stubborn uncontrolled twit. He actually flicked a bit of lint off his coat sleeve. “You can’t see yourself from the back, Miss Carrick, whereas I can see every curve—your backside in particular is finely outlined, and your long legs, nicely shaped they are. Trust me on this. Every man who manages only the slightest glimpse of your shadow will be positively delighted. He will immediately see his hands cupping your bottom.” Actually, he was seeing himself doing that, and he would swear his hands tingled.

  She shook her head at him. “I looked at the back of myself in my mirror. My britches are loose. There’s no hugging, no outlining. You’re being ridiculous. Now, good morning to you, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

  He spaced his words out for maximum effect. “If you try to leave the house dressed like that, I will carry you back upstairs, and change you into a gown myself.” He shuddered then. “Do you realize what you look like from the front?” He shuddered again.

  “I look just like you do, like all men do. There’s nothing at all diff—”

  “Would you like me to press yourself against me, Miss Carrick, so you can feel the difference between us? Would you like to simply look at me at this very moment to see the differences?”

  He stepped from behind the table and walked toward her. “Look, Miss Carrick.”

  She looked. “Oh dear.” Then she brought shocked, exc
ited eyes back up to his face and took a step back. “So this is what happens to you when you look at the front of me?”

  “Or the back of you or, I fancy, the side of you, perhaps even from fifty feet.”

  He stopped not an inch from her, took her upper arms in his big hands and shook her. “You’re my bloody partner and you’re a nitwit.”

  She jerked away from him.

  He should simply haul her upstairs, strip off her clothes, burn all the breeches she’d had sewn up for herself without his knowledge. No, it wasn’t possible. Well, it was—Angela would probably be on his side—but no. Better to try a different tack. Shame, that was it. He drew in a deep breath.

  “Attend me, Hallie”—he saw her ease immediately at the use of her first name—“the men working here will tell their wives and their friends how the mistress of Lyon’s Gate prances around dressed like a man. The wives will be horrified, they won’t want their husbands working for us. As for the men who remain, they will sneer at you, they will be insolent, they will look at you every chance they get and trade jests with each other about your endowments and very probably your lack of character. Is that what you want?”

  “The wages we’re paying are far too good for any of the men to quit. Also, I can deal with any insolent man in the world.”

  He nodded. “Possibly you can. But here is the truth of the matter, Hallie. Your reputation will suffer irreparable damage—” He slowed, his voice deepened. “As well as mine. I will be known as the flagrantly debauched earl’s son who openly lives with a woman who is nothing more than his lightskirt. And every man and woman in the district will believe I’m rubbing their noses in my open philandering. It will redound upon my parents and on my twin and Corrie. Do you begin to understand the consequences of your britches?”

  Hallie grew very still. She’d simply not considered this. “Your parents?”

  “Oh yes. As for Angela, she’ll be snubbed. She will be regarded not as a respectable chaperone, but a procurer, no better than a madam who owns a brothel in London.”

  “Surely not. That makes no sense. I simply want to take care of my horses, nothing more than that. It’s so much easier in britches. I could fall and break my neck wearing a wretched gown, you know it. All know it.”

  “I understand your plight, but it can’t be helped. It is the way of the world. Given our very irregular living arrangements, neither of us nor our families can afford any more questionable actions. Britches are beyond questionable. Do you believe me now?”

  Hallie folded; she looked ready to burst into tears. “The three shirts have beautiful stitching and the britches—they’re the finest knit. Oh goodness, and would you look at the boots? You can see your face in them.” She raised eyes now sheened with tears. She looked kicked and broken. “Three outfits, Jason, two pair of boots. They cost me a lot of money to have everything made. It isn’t fair, you know it isn’t.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Everything looks quite fine, and I say that as a man, not a fashion judge.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Does seeing me in these britches really drive you mad with lust?”

  Jason laughed, not about to remind her that she saw proof of his lust. “Perhaps there is a bit of lust mixed with the outrage. Does that make you happy?”

  She searched his face for a long moment. “You truly feel that I will ruin all of us if I step outside wearing britches?”

  “When you saw Petrie this morning, what did he do?”

  “He’s not the one to ask about, Jason. He quite detests women.” She grinned. “Actually, he closed his eyes tight, clutched his heart, and looked ready to swoon.”

  Jason could also imagine Petrie’s eyes rolling back in his head. She was fortunate Petrie hadn’t forgotten himself and blasted her. “Let me ask you another question. When I first met you at Lyon’s Gate you were wearing dirty old boy’s clothing. Did my aunt Mary Rose or my uncle Tysen see you?”

  Her eyes fell to her shiny boots. She’d used her own recipe, one she’d experimented with endlessly to get just right. She’d wanted to look perfect.

  “I didn’t think so. What did you do, change in the woods before you came here?”

  “Perhaps behind a lovely maple tree.” She looked up and smiled. “Then I was riding like you ride, firm in the saddle and not hanging on for dear life in those idiot sidesaddles, and I rode like the wind. It was wonderful.”

  Jason paused. It was true, everything she’d said. “Jessie Wyndham always claimed sidesaddles were the invention of the devil.”

  “She always wears britches.”

  “Jessie isn’t really Jessie unless she is wearing britches and racing, she’s done it all her life. People are used to it. They don’t expect anything else. I’m sorry, Hallie. Perhaps when we are alone—”

  There was a shriek from the doorway.

  “Goodness gracious, burn a feather beneath my nostrils!” Angela slapped her palms over her chest. “My dearest girl, I’ve never before seen a young lady’s, er, after parts in such great detail.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Angela finally stopped patting her lace-covered chest. “Oh dear, Hallie. It’s not that you don’t look delightful in those exquisite pants—I daresay the gentlemen will surely think so as well, as will those males who aren’t gentlemen at all. And that doesn’t include all the men at Lyon’s Gate with the exception of dear Jason here, and I saw that even he was looking at—well, now, never mind that. I’m sorry, dearest, but the men’s britches aren’t possible. However, I have an idea. It’s been done before, at least I’ve heard that it has. Go change into an old gown, and I will see what I can do. Yes, dear, you must. Trust me.”

  Jason, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Angela’s face, and not on Hallie’s britches, said, “Wouldn’t you like some breakfast before you go off to see what you can do?”

  “Oh yes, dear boy. That would be quite nice. Do have my Glenda bring a tray up to my room. Jason, I am very fond of the furniture arrangement. It is so cozy, I feel like I’ve lived in those rooms for a good twenty years.” And she glided out on her fairy feet, humming.

  “Whatever is on her mind,” Jason said, “I fancy it is going to be something very clever. Pick your lower lip off the floor, Hallie. Have faith.”

  Hallie wasn’t so sure. All she knew was she had to give up her wonderful britches. She sighed deeply. “I don’t know what clever can do about this. Oh, all right, I’ll go change into one of my ancient gowns.”

  She sighed again and strode like a young man from the breakfast room, eyes down, shoulders slumped, which meant, he supposed, that her lower lip was still scraping the floor.

  He heard Petrie gasp and choke, a gurgling sound from deep in his throat, which meant he was in extreme distress.

  Jason looked upward. Thank God for Angela. What was she going to do? Whatever it was, he couldn’t imagine it would make Hallie happy. But then again, wasn’t Angela now his grandmother’s cohort? Surely even the good Lord couldn’t have predicted that miracle. Indeed, they visited together at least three times a week.

  He saw Hallie’s britches again in his mind’s eye and nearly groaned. Didn’t she realize she was going to have enough trouble gaining acceptance without adding her quite lovely bottom to the mix?

  Lord Brinkley from Trowbridge Manor in Inchbury, Sussex, brought his mare Delilah the following morning.

  Petrie, elegant in full black regalia, showed him ceremoniously into the drawing room, announcing him in a low, mellifluous voice Hallie had never heard before. She supposed it was because he was more in control of his vocal cords when Martha wasn’t around.

  “Miss Carrick, is it? Delightful to meet you.” Lord Brinkley, a man her father’s age, who could have passed for her father’s father, bowed, quite gracefully for such a portly man.

  “Hello, Lord Brinkley. Welcome to Lyon’s Gate.”

  He smiled at her, thinking she looked quite dashing in her full skirt, blouse, and lovely vest. Rather exotic, actuall
y. He pulled his eyes from the vest. “I knew old Hoverton before he passed on. Fine stables, a bit of corruption I heard at the racetrack, but so long as it doesn’t happen to my Delilah, I’ll live and let live.”

  Hallie, who doubted that horse racing would ever be free of corruption, said, “Delilah is a wonderful mare. I saw her last spring in a race near Spalding, one I might add that all the owners agreed to run fairly.”

  “Did you now? Delilah didn’t win that one, lost out to the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen, truth be told. I don’t remember her name.”

  Hallie grinned from ear to ear, showing beautiful white teeth that Lord Brinkley envied to his boots. “Her name is Piccola and she belongs to me. That’s why I was at the race.”

  “Well, now, is that a fact? I don’t remember you voting for an honest race.”

  “I voted in absentia.”

  “Ah, probably a good thing to have a man dealing with such things since you’re a female. Is Mr. Sherbrooke here?”

  “I believe so. He’s probably at the stables tending to Delilah. Would you care for tea, Lord Brinkley, or would you like to meet Dodger?”

  “Did you know it was Lord Ravensworth—your uncle I believe—who told me I couldn’t do better than a foal off Dodger? He said Mr. Sherbrooke raced him in Baltimore for five years and he rarely lost.”

  Hallie nodded. She wasn’t about to tell him that Dodger, with Jason on his back, couldn’t ever beat Jessie Wyndham. “Come with me, my lord.”

  “Er, you are coming with me, Miss Carrick?”

  “Of course. I am Mr. Sherbrooke’s partner, you know. Didn’t my uncle tell you that?”