Lyon's Gate

by Catherine Coulter

  “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, actually. 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 k
now 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?”

  “Well, yes, but I thought it was all an uncle’s pride, didn’t really take him all that seriously, you know.”

  “He was quite serious, as am I. Come, Lord Brinkley.”

  She actually heard him debating with himself as he trailed after her. “—damndest thing, a girl, nothing but a young girl—yes, she’d fill a man’s dreams and really she looks striking, lovely vest—but here she thinks she knows about breeding racehorses? Well, that Piccola of hers won, now didn’t she? Maybe all Miss Carrick did was wave her ribbons around the mare to encourage her. It just isn’t right for a young girl to see horses mate. So blatant it all is, so immensely intimate, so disgusting actually. Oh dear.”

  Hallie didn’t know whether to laugh or scream as she listened, striding fiercely ahead of Lord Brinkley, forcing his lordship to take some double steps. Jason looked up from reassuring Delilah to see Lord Brinkley trailing Hallie, his head shaking, seemingly talking to himself. She’d already argued with him? Jason had been expecting this. He quickly gave over Delilah’s reins to Henry, their head stable lad, former head stable lad of Squire Hoverton. Henry stood back from Delilah, told her what a purty girl she was, his voice soft as silk, then finally, he lightly stroked the base of her neck, scratching gently here and there, always speaking quietly to her. He slipped her a lovely fresh carrot, a donation from Cook.

  “Aye, would ye look at that, I’ve got me a friend for life, I do. Mr. Sherbrooke, ain’t she a lovely one? Jest look at them ears o’ hers, all turned forward.”

  Jason turned and smiled. “Yes, she’s alert and interested.” Jason was grateful for Henry. He and Hallie had found him living with his widowed sister in Eastbourne, drinking too much ale because he suffered from melancholia. Jason couldn’t recall any individual ever being so excited before at an offer of a job. He had rubbed his hands together, grinning like a loon. Henry indeed had magic hands and a soft country voice that made every horse in the stable whinny and come trotting to him. He’d discovered four additional stable lads for Lyon’s Gate. He gave a quick bow to Lord Brinkley, told him not to worry, and turned back to Delilah. “Here now, beautiful girl, ye just come with Henry, he’ll feed ye all right ’n’ proper, let yer munch on another carrot or two. Jest ain’t ye a fine, fine girl. Yer going to like ole Dodger, he’s going to make a fine pa for yer baby.”

  “Lord Brinkley,” Jason called, as he strided to the elderly man. “I am Jason Sherbrooke.” As he shook Lord Brinkley’s hand he continued. “I see you’ve met Miss Hallie Carrick. Henry will settle Delilah. We will continue with Dodger tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah, may I see the stables, and Dodger?”

  “Certainly. In a while Henry will turn her loose in this small paddock, and you can see how she likes her temporary home.”

  Hallie let Jason give Lord Brinkley the stable tour. Well, she’d nearly gotten through her first dealing with a gentleman whole hide, or almost. It hadn’t been too bad. At least not yet. She was forced to laugh now, thinking back over his monologue. She wondered which one of him had won the argument. Probably the outraged one. She wondered if Lord Brinkley was staying for the mating tomorrow if he found it so disgusting. She knew if he did, he would be embarrassed to his toes if she were also present.

  When the two men emerged, Henry had just loosed Delilah, a lovely chestnut Thoroughbred of perfect size and proportion, only fifteen hands tall. She had a refined head, a long arched neck, sloping shoulders and a deep chest. The only thing she didn’t have was hard legs. They were on the thin side and that was why Piccola had beaten her. She didn’t have the endurance in those too-skinny legs. Naturally, Hallie wasn’t about to say that to Lord Brinkley. Then, to her surprise, Jason said, “You saw that Dodger is immensely strong. His ancestry goes back to the Byerley Turk. Dodger’s endurance is legendary in America. He has dominant characteristics that appear in all of his foals—the most important one for Delilah’s foal is his thick muscled hindquarters and his hard legs. Dodger is bold and spirited, his will to win is unmatched.”

  “Well, he hasn’t won here in England,” said Lord Brinkley. “Hmm, that does make his stud fee cheaper, and that is a good thing.”

  Hallie nodded. “That is true. You are lucky, sir, for as soon as Dodger begins winning races here in England, his stud fee will rise quickly.”

  After a moment Lord Brinkley announced, “Her legs look hard enough to me.” Neither Jason nor Hallie said anything to that, and after a pitiable sigh, Lord Brinkley admitted, “I heard someone say her legs were too skinny, but I ignored it, put it down to spite and ignorance. Her dam was crossed with Sultan, but her beautiful legs didn’t breed true. Still, I’ve always thought her legs quite elegant.”

  Jason said, “Yes, they are elegant, but too skinny as well. But she is sturdy; look at that short strong back. With Dodger, she will birth a foal with his additional endurance. Just look at her. She’s ready.”

  Delilah was prancing, as if for Dodger, back and forth in the paddock, head high, ears forward, tail up, whinnying. Lord Brinkley swelled with satisfaction.

  Hallie said, “Look at the pride in her, my lord, and the graceful line of her neck. The intelligence in her eyes—yes, that will doubtless breed true.”

  Lord Brinkley continued to puff out his chest until he chanced to look down. “My God, young woman, you’re wearing a man’s boots!”

  Hallie immediately removed her booted foot from the bottom paddock rail.

  She said mildly, “Slippers really aren’t the thing for stable yards, my lord. All the mud and muck and scattered pebbles everywhere. These boots were made by G. Bateson, a longtime apprentice of the great Hoby himself.”

  “Hmm. It offended me when Hoby had the gall to die, fell over a boot he was fashioning, face landed in a pile of leather. Aye, I always gave Hoby my custom until that fateful day. Look at those boots of yours. I can see my face in the shine. Don’t tell me your maid knows how to shine a man’s boots?”

  Jason rolled his eyes, but Hallie said, her eyes shining nearly as clear as her boots, “Actually, my lord, I take great pride in the appearance of my boots so it is I who polish them. It takes me a good half-hour, you know, sometimes longer, until I can see myself clearly in the shine.”

  “I must ask your recipe, my dear. I’ll give it to my man.”

  “It’s all in the size of the hand that measures out the vinegar, and my very special ingredient, anise seed. Does your man have large hands?”

  “Oh, aye, Old Fudds has hands bigger than my mother-in-law’s, God rest her soul as of two months ago, amen. Used to sport in the ring, you know, Old Fudds did, not my mother-in-law. Oh dear, what am I to do? That is really a marvelous shine. Anise seed—who would have ever thought it important for anything save making your breath smell strange and sharp? I can see my eye twitching back at me, clear as day in that shine. My eye—been twitching like this for a good twelve years now, drives my wife quite distracted, particularly in company, She believes I’m winking at other ladies.”

  “What do all the other ladies think, my lord?”

  He grinned at Hallie. “They think I’m winking too. Quite dizzies them up.”

  “Then it’s a good twitch, don’t you think?”

  Jason said, “Er, Lord Brinkley, could you care to see Dodger out of his stall now?”

  “What? Oh yes, certainly.” Lord Brinkley gave a wistful glance back at Hallie’s boots, then turned to follow Jason.

  Hallie called out, “I will provide you with an exact measure, my lord, for
Old Fudds.”

  Lord Brinkley stopped in his tracks and gave her a charming bow. If she wasn’t mistaken, he winked at her. Hallie didn’t believe for a moment it was a twitch. She heard him say in a lovely carrying voice, “Nice girl, Mr. Sherbrooke. Does she know a single thing about horses or is she only good at shining boots?”

  “She trained Piccola, my lord.”

  “Hmm. That would raise a man’s confidence, now wouldn’t it? Or terrify him out of his wits. Ah, but it’s still difficult—I don’t like books that don’t fit their covers.”

  “Sometimes the books in question turn out to be unexpectedly interesting though, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The next morning it rained enough to make everyone, horses included, hunker down to stay warm and dry. Lord Brinkley sent them a messenger who looked nearly drowned when he knocked on the kitchen door.

  Jason read the short note, then looked at Hallie. “Lord Brinkley is leaving for Inchbury, doesn’t want to wait until the rain stops. He sends you his direction so you may send him the recipe for his boot polish. He mentions you’re not to forget the exact amount of anise seed for Old Fudds.” He grinned over at her. “That was very well done of you, Hallie.”

  “If he accepts me because of my dandy boot shine, then I’ll willingly accept it. Jason, I don’t suppose Delilah or Dodger have any interest in getting on with the business today?”

  “Not a dollop, at least not when I saw them earlier. Henry came to the back door a few minutes ago, said Dodger was napping, said the nap looked to be a long one. The fact is, Dodger has no interest in females when it’s raining, unlike gentlemen, who are interested in females even when the snow is piled to their noses and—never mind that. Ah, where was I? Oh yes, Henry covered Dodger with a blanket he’d warmed on his own stove top, and kissed his forehead.”