The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “Just perhaps there is.”

  Douglas began a tapping rhythm with his cane on the walkway, a sure sign that he was getting excited. “Yesterday I heard that lecherous old reprobate, Lord Crowley, telling some fellows who were nearly ready to fall down dead drunk that he was on the trail of something fantastic, something that would make him very, very rich. I never considered that it could have anything to do with the lamp. Was that what he was talking about?”

  “Well, damn.” Lord Beecham sighed. “I hope it wasn’t, but with my blasted luck, I’ll wager it was.” He sighed again and this time streaked his long fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. Alexandra raised her hand and smoothed down his hair.

  “Please don’t, Alexandra,” Lord Beecham said, taking a step back. “Else your fierce husband will pound me into the walkway. I’m too young to be pounded, only thirty-three. Now, I just managed to escape Reverend Older and he had already heard about it from Reverend Mathers’s brother, whom he refers to as Old Clothhead. Other than you and Alex, Reverend Mathers and me, no one else in London should know about this. But it turns out that Reverend Mathers talks in his sleep and his brother told Reverend Older and God knows who else. Damnation, is there nothing at all sacred? Nothing that a man can depend upon to remain only his?”

  “Yes,” Douglas said absently, stroking his jaw, “his wife. You mean all this started with Reverend Mathers talking in his sleep about it?”

  “I fear so. And now Lord Crowley—damnation, that man makes me want to scrub my soul after I am forced to be near him. On a good day, he might even be worse than my father, who was bad enough, let me tell you. Hell’s bells, I don’t like this. I’ll wager he knows a bit now. At least it is not specific, but he will burrow about, you know his reputation. Perhaps half of London knows what he knows now, at least the scurrilous half. I would not be surprised now if some of these buffoons ended up in Court Hammering trying to threaten Helen. Damnation, now I must think of some way to protect her.”

  “Protect Helen?” Alexandra said, her left eyebrow going up. Her cloak then fell open. Her husband’s eyes glittered before he pulled the cloak shut again and said to her, “You will go to your modiste, tomorrow at the very latest, and you will instruct her to hoist up this blasted gown a good three inches. Just look at Heatherington. The fellow has nice teeth. I would hate to have to knock them down his dog’s throat were he to ogle you, and he would find the temptation well nigh impossible to deny. He will be moaning on the walkway soon, his jaw broken, if you continue to flaunt yourself.”

  “I see,” Alexandra said, ignoring Lord Beecham and eyeing her husband. “Let me see if I have this exactly right. You feel sorry for the gentlemen because I am forcing myself upon them.”

  “Yes,” Douglas said. “Perhaps you can go to the modiste this afternoon.”

  “Look, Douglas. All you can see now is my fist closing over my cloak. May we return to more interesting matters now?”

  “The gown isn’t cut all that low, Douglas,” Lord Beecham said mildly.

  “Just how the hell would you know that, you damned scoundrel?”

  “I swear to you I am jesting with you, nothing more.”

  “I don’t believe you. If by some small chance you are telling the truth, it would mean that you are clearly not yourself, Heatherington. Something is wrong with you. Come, what is it? I know it can’t be this lamp business. I still don’t believe such a thing can actually be real—real, as in you and I could actually touch it and make something incredible happen.”

  “I’m not sure that I believe in it either, but it makes me furious to know that scoundrels are now on the scent. You know Crowley. If he even had only the veriest smid gen of belief, he would go after anyone. I know he would find out about Helen.”

  Douglas eyed him for a while longer. “You are really worried about this?”

  Alexandra eyed the two men and said, “In all truth, knowing Helen, she will take one look at Crowley and put him in the stocks she has at the back of the stables.”

  “Stocks?” Lord Beecham said, staring at her. “As in a man or a woman has to put his head and his hands through these holes and is locked in? And he or she has to just stand there in the middle of a street for all and sundry to come by and taunt him or her?”

  “Oh, no,” Alexandra said, and giggled “the stocks are behind the stable, not in the middle of the street. Helen says taunting is nothing, it is far too lenient a punishment.”

  Both men’s eyes were nearly crossed, particularly since Alexandra had flushed to her hairline.

  “No,” she said firmly. “We can discuss stocks once this is over. Now we will figure out what to do. I am worried about Helen as well, despite her prowess. What if there is some danger? Since things are now getting about, what if some bad man goes to Helen’s house to force her to tell him about the lamp? Perhaps Spenser is right. We need to protect Helen. She is still at home?”

  “She is at home, minding her inn and setting up a marriage between the butcher’s son and her maid, Teeny. Flock, who appears to do everything for Lord Prith, is very loud in his pain over this. My valet, Nettle, must needs share in this unrequited love with Teeny, and he looks like a wounded dog.

  “Helen is fine, Alexandra, surrounded by more people than any of us ever are. I imagine she is trying her very best to decipher the leather scroll.” He paused just a moment, then added, his eyes narrowed, “She is very smart. Given time, I’d wager she could do it.”

  Douglas said, grinning, “Helen could snap the neck of just about any scoundrel I could pick off the streets in Soho. This stock business, Alexandra, I do want to speak more about this later, perhaps tonight in bed, perhaps—” Douglas cleared his throat, then continued, “Besides being beautiful and big and strong, Helen is also smart. I agree with you about that.”

  “What is this, Douglas?” his wife said, coming right up to him, rising on her tiptoes and staring at his chin. “You’re going on and on about Helen again, and it dis tresses me. I know you admire her, Douglas, but it would be wise of you to keep it to yourself. But I will still know even if you do keep it to yourself because I am a part of you, so you must get Helen once and for all out of your mind. Forget about stocks and Helen. Do you hear me, Douglas?”

  Douglas was staring at his wife’s once again open cloak. He swallowed, lightly stroked his fingers down her nose, and said, “I know where my bread is buttered, my sweet. I am merely attempting to reassure Heatherington here.”

  “I don’t need any reassurance,” Lord Beecham said. “Well, I do, and I shall write Helen this very day and warn her to take care. Besides, I have been gone from her nearly two weeks now, and I have learned quite a lot. Perhaps it is time I returned to Court Hammering. Then we will decide what to do.”

  “Not until you tell us all about what you and Helen have discovered.” Douglas began to elbow Lord Beecham along the walkway toward his carriage. “You can even ride with me and Alexandra.”

  “I want to know why Helen isn’t with you, Spenser,” said Alexandra. “I cannot imagine she would let you out of her sight if it came to her precious lamp.”

  “It was a close thing,” Lord Beecham said. He wasn’t about to add that Helen wasn’t with him because he needed time alone to come to grips with himself about her. He had made up his mind. Since he did not yet want a wife, since Helen was a lady, since he could not continue making love to her three times a day, he had to remove the lustful part of himself from her beautiful premises. He had to become her partner, pure and simple. He had thought about it a lot. He knew he could do it.

  Well, damn. He had been gone from Helen for nearly two weeks now, and no matter how busy he kept himself, he still felt, at odd moments, like he had left part of himself back in Court Hammering—possibly the most important part, which was ridiculous. He was simply suffering withdrawal pains, and that didn’t mean a thing in the long stretch of things. Still, it was disconcerting. He would avail himself of an opera girl, perhaps this
very evening, and take her until he fell down dead. It wouldn’t be three times either, it would be five, perhaps even six, which would surely ensure any man’s demise, including his.

  It was the newness of Helen, the splendor of her magnificent legs and—he had seen her breasts only once, in that rotted relic of a cabin when he had helped her to strip off her wet clothes. He nearly swallowed his tongue remembering that day. He had been so frantic he hadn’t even kissed her breasts. He had to stop this. Tonight, he would sate himself with someone new. Three times at least, in fifteen minutes, no more.

  Lovemaking, once a favorite sport, was fast losing its joy. Lovemaking should not be hard work, and suddenly he realized he wasn’t looking forward to any new girl, to taking her three times. He sighed, dropped his chin onto the top of his cravat—not so perfectly tied today, since Nettle was distraught over losing Teeny and wanted his master to be well aware of it.

  “Spenser, what is the matter with you? You’re looking off at that lamppost and there is this strange expression on your face.”

  “He is probably just thinking about his latest conquest,” Douglas said.

  “Actually, he’s right,” said Lord Beecham. “Now, I have an appointment with Reverend Mathers at the British Museum. Since the good reverend talks in his sleep, it also might be wise of me to send him to Grillons’ Hotel, so if he babbles in his sleep his brother won’t be anywhere near to hear him. Douglas, Alexandra’s gown doesn’t need hoisting. If you wish, I will see you two later and tell you more about that bloody lamp.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Heatherington. You move one step and I’ll flatten you.”

  17

  ALEXANDRA CLEARED HER throat. “Actually, Spenser, what Douglas would like to say is that he and I would both like to accompany you to see Reverend Mathers. We would very much like to insert ourselves into your adventure.”

  Douglas raised a dark brow at his wife. “Of course he knows that’s what I said. Yes, we would rather come with you, Heatherington, than go to Richmond. Lady Blakeny may cast me her sloe-eyed looks another time.”

  “Lady Blakeny is tall,” Alexandra said. “Not as tall as Helen, but still tall, curse her.”

  Douglas beamed at his wife, assisted her into the carriage, stepped back for Lord Beecham, then swung himself inside.

  Lord Beecham looked out the carriage window to see Reverend Older still standing there in the walkway just outside of White’s, staring after them. He did not like the look on the man’s face.

  “Perhaps you should find another scholar,” Alexandra said as she arranged her skirts around her.

  “He is the best,” Lord Beecham said. “The very best. He and my mentor at Oxford, Sir Giles Gilliam, were excellent friends. I can remember sitting quietly on a stool in a corner of Sir Giles’s rooms, listening to them argue over some ancient text. It was fascinating.” He could remember not wanting to leave even to relieve himself.

  “I don’t like seeing this different side to you, Heatherington, one that smacks of intellect and admiration of something that isn’t warm and soft and ever so delightful.”

  “He’s referring to the ladies, Spenser.”

  “I know, Alexandra.”

  “I prefer you to be simply a rakehell with no redeeming qualities. I detest having to alter my opinions, particularly when I am convinced they are perfectly right.”

  “I know,” Lord Beecham said. “But Douglas, those other parts of me—they have been dormant for a very long time. They are just now coming back into being. No reason to fret yourself about my changing on you just yet.”

  Douglas cleared his throat. “I have decided to help you, Heatherington here. I will even help you remove Reverend Mathers to Grillons’ Hotel. Yes, you need me, Heatherington. Others might horn in, like Crowley, and the good Lord knows you are gullible. I want to make sure that no one takes advantage of Helen either. Yes, I will make certain that you don’t get your knees cut out from under you by any charlatans and, of course, will ensure that you understand exactly what is being said and exactly how to respond. I have known Reverend Mathers since I was a boy. He won’t mind that I am with you. I will even counsel him how not to talk in his sleep.”

  Lord Beecham said, “I appreciate that, Douglas, I surely do. I am also certain Helen won’t mind having two more partners. Now, have either of you heard that Reverend Older is having particular difficulties, at present, paying his gambling debts?”

  “That conniving old bookend?” Douglas was once again closing his wife’s cloak over her bosom, frowning as he added, “You fear he will continue trying to insinuate his way into this business?”

  “Yes, I know he will.”

  “He was at Ascot a while back and lost some five hundred pounds on a horse from the Rothermere stud that went lame nearly at the finish line. The Hawksberrys were very upset about it—not about Reverend Older, of course—but about the horse.

  “He knows a lot of people, does Reverend Older. We will continue to pay attention to him. I will have one of my footmen follow him about and see if he meets with fellows like Crowley. What do you say?”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea. Let one of my boys change every other day with yours, Douglas. That way, it won’t always be the same face Reverend Older would see.”

  Alexandra said, “I think you should have men following Lord Crowley as well. He seems the more dangerous of the two.”

  “She’s right,” Lord Beecham said. “I have only one bully boy footman. I shall simply hire another.”

  “I will as well,” Douglas said.

  Alexandra said, “I have heard that Reverend Older has this knack of sniffing out money.”

  “He sniffs everything,” Lord Beecham said. “A very cunning man, is Reverend Older. I believe he is quite the best orator I’ve ever heard. I have always liked him. I hope he isn’t a scoundrel.”

  “You gentlemen should see him flirt. He is really quite accomplished at it. I fear to tell you this, but once he did ogle me, just a bit.”

  Lord Beecham said, “The last time I saw him, he told me he was going to marry, retire, and manage the lady’s stud in Wessex. He told me he wants to breed horses.”

  “That old lecher. No, not about buying a stud, Heatherington, but about looking at my wife’s bosom.”

  “Whom does he wish to marry, Spenser?”

  “Lady Chomley.”

  “A lovely woman,” said Alexandra, then she frowned.

  “What? What is it?”

  Alex said, “I have heard it said that Lilac enjoys the more titillating sorts of lovemaking.”

  Her husband gave her a ferocious frown. “What the hell does ‘titillating’ mean? Something that you and I don’t do on a regular basis? Are you keeping some new and perverse sort of pleasure from me, Alexandra?”

  She went red to her earlobes. She pressed her palms to her cheeks. She took an extra moment to clear her throat. “I don’t wish to pursue it at this time, Douglas. Now, Spenser, let me tell you about the twins.”

  After five minutes of hearing about the most brilliant, most beautiful twosome of children in all of England, Lord Beecham said, “If I were some other man, perhaps I should not mind having twins. One to sit on each knee. One to hold with each hand.”

  Both Sherbrookes stared at him.

  “If they yelled their heads off,” Douglas said, “what would you do if you were this other man?”

  “What do you do, Douglas?”

  “I take them riding.”

  Lord Beecham frowned as he looked out the carriage window. He didn’t know why he had said that. It didn’t matter. It was not relevant to him or his life, at least for another ten years or so. Forty-five would be a good age to bring his heir into the world.

  The British Museum was vast in size and very dim inside. Every footstep on the stone floors replayed itself a dozen times all around, each new echo more menacing than the last. It was also damp. There was no need for Douglas to tell his wife to keep her cloak shut, she
was fisting it tightly beneath her chin.

  “It is better in the back rooms,” Lord Beecham said. “There are fires and many branches of candles. It’s downright cozy in the room where I usually meet Reverend Mathers.”

  “A few more windows might make this place less dreary,” Alexandra said. “Perhaps some warm draperies.”

  “Only very serious gentlemen come here,” Douglas said, nodding to the porter. “They need only their intellectual fervor and they’re content. Show the stoics a warm drapery and they would doubtless shudder.”

  It took them five more minutes to walk through the large rooms, all of them empty as gourds. They paused every couple of steps to look at some artifact on display, but mainly, it was so dreary and chill, they just kept walking. There were perhaps a dozen men dotted throughout the rooms, speaking in small groups or hunched over manuscripts.

  Lord Beecham veered off to a small room off the main sweep of the museum. The door was shut. Lord Beecham lightly knocked, then opened it. He was suddenly haloed in warmth. He saw the brisk fire burning in the fireplace, casting shadows throughout the room.

  “Reverend Mathers?”

  There was no answer.

  They all stepped into the room. There was a long table running along the entire side of the room, several branches of candles set at intervals along the table. There were dozens of books, in haphazard stacks, some piled neatly by a clerk’s hand, others sitting alone, one very ancient tome still settling in its dust, its pages parted as if fingers had just roved through them to find a certain section.

  “Oh, dear,” Alexandra said and stepped back against her husband.

  Reverend Mathers was seated at the far end of the bench, in the shadows. He was hunched forward over a blood-red, very large vellum-bound book. But he wasn’t studying or reading or writing with the sharpened quill held loosely in his right hand.

  He looked to be sleeping, but they knew he wasn’t.

  He was dead, a thin stiletto stuck out of the middle of his back.