Lyon's Gate

by Catherine Coulter

  Hallie said, “I’ve been watching them. Their fingers fell out of their mouths when they fell asleep.”

  “Yes, that’s always the giveaway. They’ve tried to fool me into thinking they’re asleep, but it’s the fingers that do them in. James will be here in a moment. What is it? There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Oh no. Well, perhaps. Could I speak to you for a moment, Corrie?”

  Now, this was interesting, Corrie thought, as she motioned Hallie into a small sitting room down the corridor that overlooked the spectacular back gardens. They heard a man’s step in the corridor. “That’s James. He’ll probably pick both boys up and rock them. They always smile at him in their sleep when he rocks them. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

  Hallie sat forward in her chair, realized she wasn’t certain how to introduce the subject of Jason and what exactly had happened five years before. What came out of her mouth was, “Jason said the statue where the man is kneeling between the woman’s legs is your favorite. He also said it was every married woman’s favorite so long as her husband wasn’t a clod.”

  Corrie’s left eyebrow shot up. She laughed, couldn’t help it. “Well, that’s the truth. Oh, I see, forgive me. You don’t understand. But didn’t you look closely?”

  “Well, no, not really. It looked to me like the woman was screaming. It looked to me as if that sort of married thing was painful for the woman.”

  Corrie stared at a young woman who was only two years younger than she. Well, she’d be ignorant as dirt herself if she hadn’t married James. And thank the good Lord, James wasn’t a clod. She grinned. “No, there’s no pain involved. When you decide to marry, I promise I’ll have James make certain the man you’ve chosen knows what he’s doing. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

  Hallie sucked in a deep breath. “That isn’t really what I wanted to ask you. The thing is, well, do you think you could tell me exactly what happened five years ago? Why Jason swears he’ll never marry?”

  Corrie’s face tightened, she tightened all over. She hated thinking of that awful time, and the memories were always there. She saw that Hallie wasn’t asking out of simple curiosity, that there was something else at work. But what? Corrie said, “Was it spoken of in Baltimore? What do you know?”

  “In Baltimore there were rumors that Jason and James had loved the same woman and she’d chosen James.” Hallie shrugged. “He gambled too much, he angered his father, anything you can think of. People talk and gossip because they must, I suppose. All Jason told me was that the girl he loved betrayed him and he was responsible for nearly getting his father and brother killed.”

  “I see.” Corrie fell silent. “I’m surprised Jason said that much to you.”

  “At the time, I told him that my betrothed was with another woman. I suppose Jason told me what he did to make me feel better.”

  Corrie was astonished. “You’re joking, surely. This idiot man was your future husband and he betrayed you?”

  “He must have believed I was very stupid. Actually, he was right. I found out he was marrying me for my money. When I confronted him, he admitted he’d been with this other woman, though only one time, the lying worm swore to me, and then proceeded to promise it would never happen again. I’m not that foolish. It was then that I told him I knew he was a fortune hunter.”

  “Did you shoot him?”

  Hallie sighed. “I would have enjoyed that, perhaps right through his ear, but instead I locked myself in my bedchamber and licked my wounds.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He married a rich merchant’s daughter last year. Poor girl.” She paused a moment. “And that’s why I don’t ever wish to marry.”

  Corrie rose and smoothed down her skirts. “Well, that’s bad enough. I’m sorry you had to care for a man of that ilk. You never suspected?”

  Hallie shook her head, saying as she did so, “Not for a moment. Goodness, I was naïve. However, Jason’s experience must have been much worse than mine. But the thing is, I can’t imagine any girl betraying either James or Jason. They’re both so beautiful and, well, they both appear quite honorable.”

  “Yes, they are. The fact is, I loved James from the moment I first saw him at the advanced age of three. Do you know that most people can’t tell James and Jason apart?”

  Hallie shook her head. “No, that’s not possible. They’re very different from each other. Please, Corrie, tell me what happened.”

  “It was a very bad time, Hallie, for all of us.” Corrie patted her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s right for me to say anything. You must ask Jason. Shall we go downstairs and play whist? Or perhaps we can waltz.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The move to Lyon’s Gate occupied a good three hours, an additional two to install both Martha and Petrie, who had begged Jason to allow him to be both his permanent valet and Lyon’s Gate’s butler, since Hollis had taught him everything over the past five years. Jason had to admit that occasionally he’d missed Petrie’s services in America. He agreed to Petrie continuing as his valet and Hallie agreed to Petrie as their butler. Jason knew she was accepting Petrie in all goodwill and innocence. Well, she’d find out soon enough what a misogynist he was. They hadn’t been in Lyon’s Gate more than an hour before Petrie told Martha she was a mouthy girl with no respect for his craft and skill. Jason had seen seventeen-year-old Martha, hands on hips, chin out, tell him he was an insufferable prune-faced old tick, and he wasn’t even that old yet.

  Old tick or not, it was nice to have someone looking after him again. Jason could always smack Petrie if he stepped over the line with any of the females in the house.

  Good God, he’d moved into a house with a woman he hadn’t known more than two months, and Cousin Angela, whom he’d known a week. His world had turned sideways.

  As for Martha, she was so excited she danced in and out of every room, saying over and over, “Our first ’ouse, er, house. Heavenly groats—ain’t—isn’t—it jest grand, Miss Hallie?”

  “It’s the grandest,” Hallie agreed, and realized she was moving into a house with a man who looked like a god. In the dark hours of the night, she knew she would be quite content to drop him to the floor, hold him down, and kiss him, forever.

  The house was quiet. Jason lay in his bed, the first time he and his new bed had been together. He stretched, pillowed his head on his arms, and stared up at the dark ceiling. There wasn’t much of a moon tonight, so little light came through the windows. Some minutes later, from downstairs, came twelve mellow strokes from the lovely Ledenbrun clock, a gift from his grandmother.

  His first home. Hallie’s first home. Oh yes, he’d heard Martha’s excited voice, anyone who’d been in the house at the time had, much to Petrie’s tight-lipped disapproval. Yes, the house was just grand. He smiled, but it soon fell away. She’d wanted to kiss him. She’d held on until he’d jerked her arms from around his neck.

  Their cook, Mrs. Millsom, so bosomy she could probably balance a vegetable or two quite nicely, had prepared them an excellent dinner—some fish and mutton, if he remembered right, but he’d been so wrapped up in sitting in the master’s chair at his own dining room table in his own dining room, that he really didn’t remember what he’d eaten. Perhaps there’d been some peas as well. He’d been aware of Cook watching him and so he’d complimented her extravagantly. Mrs. Millsom fluttered her fingers and removed herself back to the kitchen, singing if he’d not imagined it, and Hallie had said, “Oh no, not Mrs. Millsom,” but he hadn’t asked her what she’d meant by that.

  He frowned at one memory. Hallie had said as they’d shared a glass of port after dinner, “I’m so excited I can scarcely keep myself from bubbling over—my first home, my first dinner in my own home.”

  And Angela, seeing that he was ready to open his mouth, said quickly as she raised her glass, “I propose a toast: to yours and Jason’s first home and our first home together.”

  It was her home too, dammit. Her di
ning room table in her dining room. Not his alone. He’d seen her looking about, in tearing spirits, and he’d known she’d wanted to ask him to waltz again throughout the house with her. But she hadn’t, probably because of his blatant rejection of her—and that brought Judith McCrae from that hidden part of his brain out in front of his eyes, the girl who’d been a monster, the girl who’d nearly killed him. Yes, whenever he dredged Judith up, his mind settled back into its proper path.

  When he fell asleep, he dreamed of that afternoon again, saw himself jumping in front of his father, felt the bullet tearing into his shoulder, and the endless pain that had drawn him deep into himself, almost killing him. He jerked awake, breathing fast and hard, sweat covering him. He hadn’t had that dream for many months. Now, tonight, in his new bed, it had come and brought it all back. He didn’t want to go back to sleep. He didn’t want to fall back into that nightmare. When he fell asleep again, he slept soundly, nothing at all coming into his brain to break him.

  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 han
ds 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, excited 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?”