The Sherbrooke Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  Burgess did know that Her Ladyship was to remain indoors but he wasn’t at his post when Alexandra slipped out, James the footman in tow.

  The carriage bowled up Piccadilly, past Hyde Park corner to St. Edward’s Street. John Coachman remained with the carriage and James accompanied Alexandra into Hookams. It was a drafty place, floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed full with books. It was dusty with little space between the aisles, but nonetheless, it had been pronounced a meeting place by the ton and thus the aisles were crammed with chatting gentlemen and ladies. Near the front of the shop, maids and footmen waited to relieve their mistresses and masters of their parcels. Alexandra left James to eye a pretty maid and allowed a harried clerk to lead her to where Sinjun’s novel was. Ah, yes, there, on the third shelf. She reached for The Mysterious Count then froze when a man’s voice hissed low into her right ear.

  “Ah, the little pigeon leaves the nest, eh?”

  It wasn’t Heatherington, she thought. No, he’d been the sheep and the shepherd. She sighed and said, not looking back at the man, “Your approach is not to my liking, sir. It lacks originality. It lacks grace and charm. It lacks wit. You should hire someone to instruct you. I do like your affectation of a French accent though, but it really doesn’t fit all that well with your excellent English. You don’t reverse your words, you know?”

  “Damn you, I do not mean to charm you! I speak three languages fluently!”

  “Well, then, what is your purpose?” She turned as she spoke and stared up at a gaunt, very tall man, dark-haired, eyes blacker than Douglas’s, garbed in gentleman’s morning wear. She knew suddenly that this was Georges Cadoudal. Oh dear, this man’s accent was quite legitimate.

  “My purpose? Well, I will tell you. I have a very small and very deadly pistol here in my right hand and it is pointed at your breast. I suggest, madame, that you come with me, and keep that charming smile on your face. Consider me your lover and we shall deal together famously, eh? Let’s go.”

  Alexandra saw the intent in his eyes, the cold hardness, the determination. “Je ne vais pas!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She smashed The Mysterious Count in his face, hoping she’d at least broken his long nose. Then when he raised his arm to strike her, she screamed, “Merde! Merde! Je vaisà Paris demain avec mon mari! Aidez-moi!”

  He struck her against the side of her head, cursing all the while, whilst the patrons of Hookams stared in frozen shock.

  “James, help! Aidez-moi!”

  “Damn you,” Georges Cadoudal hissed in her face, and then in the next instant, he was gone. James was at her side, shocked to his toes, knowing that he’d failed the mistress, but it had been so unexpected, the attack by the unknown villain.

  “Are you all right, my lady? Oh dear, please tell me you’re all right.”

  Alexandra shook her head to clear it. The blow had made her eyes blur and cross. “Yes, I’m all right.” Then she looked at the novel she was holding and straightened out its ruffled pages. “I coshed him in the nose, James. Did you hear my French?”

  “Merde, my lady?”

  This time it was Heatherington, the man Douglas had told her would toss up a woman’s skirts even before he knew her name, and he was smiling down at her, not the sardonic smile of a practiced roué, but a genuine smile. Oddly, there was a good deal of warmth in that smile. “Ah yes, I heard your magnificent French. Who is the poor soul who dared to agitate you?”

  “He is gone,” Alexandra said. She looked as proud as a little peahen. “My French scared him off.”

  Heatherington gave her a long look, then he laughed, a sound that was rusty because he hadn’t laughed, really laughed in a very long time. It didn’t go with the image he so carefully cultivated for himself. He laughed louder, shaking his head. “Merde,” he said. “Merde,” he said again, then turned away and left the bookstore.

  Alexandra stared after him for a moment, then paid for her novel, ignoring all the whispering ladies and gentlemen staring at her. James walked very close to her until he handed her up into the carriage. They were at the Sherbrooke town house in twenty minutes. As James walked up the front steps just behind her, she stopped and said urgently, her fingers plucking at his coat sleeve, “Please, James, I don’t wish His Lordship to know about the small, ah, contretemps, all right? It was nothing, nothing at all. The man was doubtless confused as to who I was, but nothing more.”

  James wasn’t at all certain she was right. He was worried and rightfully so, for the first person he saw in the entrance hall was His Lordship and he looked fit to kill. In fact, he looked filled with anticipation to kill.

  James had never before heard a man roar, but he did now. His Lordship straightened to his full height, and yelled at the top of his lungs at his wife who only came to his shoulder, “Where the hell did you go? How dare you disobey me! My God, Alexandra, you’ve pushed me too far this time! Bloody hell, it is too much, much too much!”

  James retreated, bumping into Burgess, who glided into the fray without a tremor of agitation showing on his face.

  “My lady, welcome back. Ah, I can see that James here stayed closely with you, as did John Coachman. His Lordship was worried, naturally, even though—”

  “Damnation, Burgess! Be quiet! Believe me, she doesn’t need your protection or interference.” Douglas grabbed her arm and pulled her into the salon. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot.

  “Trying to defend you, damn his traitor’s eyes,” Douglas said, shaking her now, his fingers digging into her upper arms. She said nothing, merely looked up at him. The shock of Georges Cadoudal’s sudden appearance at Hookams had passed during the carriage ride home. Now, she was more calm than not in the face of Douglas’s fury.

  “I purchased Sinjun’s novel,” she said when he’d momentarily run out of bile.

  “Damn Sinjun’s bloody novel!”

  “Douglas, your language is deteriorating. Please calm down. Nothing happened, really . . .”

  He shook her again. “And now you compound your disobedience with a lie. How dare you, Alexandra? How dare you lie to me?”

  No, she thought, it was impossible that he knew anything of what had happened at the bookshop.

  “I ran into Heatherington,” he said, seeing more deceit would come from her mouth.

  “Oh,” she said, then gave him a very tentative smile. Heatherington hadn’t known a thing, not really. “It was just a man who didn’t know what was proper—”

  “It was Georges Cadoudal and he would have taken you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “The good Lord save me from stupid females. Alexandra, you were screeching French loud enough for all of London to hear. I saw another gentleman you haven’t even met and he told me about your merde at the top of your lungs. Everyone knows and I doubt not that I will receive a good dozen visits from people to tell me of my wife’s exceedingly odd behavior.”

  “I said other things too, Douglas.”

  “Yes, I know. You’re going to Paris with your husband tomorrow.”

  “And I screamed for help too in French.”

  “And another thing,” he began, really warming up to his theme now, then stopped cold, for she’d pulled a small pistol from her reticule.

  “I also took this. I’m not stupid, Douglas. That man couldn’t have harmed me. I didn’t leave the house without thought and preparation. I was bored, Douglas, please understand. I was bored and I wanted to do something. All went just fine. He tried but he failed. I also hit him on the head with Sinjun’s novel. He didn’t have a chance.”

  Douglas could but stare down at her. She looked so proud of herself, the little twit. She was completely convinced she was in the right of it. She was innocent and guileless. She had no more chance than a chicken against a man like Cadoudal. He took the pistol from her, his muscles spasming at the thought of having that damned thing turned back on her, and then walked very tall and straight and very quietly from the room. He didn’t say another word.r />
  Alexandra looked at the closed door. “He is trying very hard to control himself,” she said to no one in particular.

  He wasn’t at home for dinner. He didn’t come to her that night.

  They left London at eight-thirty the following morning. Summer fog hung low and thick throughout the city, clinging like a dismal chilled blanket until they were well onto the road south.

  Douglas sat silently beside his wife. She, curse her nonchalance, was reading Sinjun’s novel. The Mys-terious Count. What bloody drivel. Then he remembered Sinjun telling him about his Greek plays, and shuddered. This was probably filled with heroines swooning rather than taking off their clothes. “Why do you read that nonsense?” he asked, thoroughly irritated.

  Alexandra looked up and smiled at him. “You don’t wish to speak civilly to me, the scenery is nothing out of the ordinary, and I don’t wish to nap. Have you a better suggestion than reading? Perhaps you have a volume of moral sermons that would elevate my thoughts?”

  “I’ll speak to you,” he said, his voice on the edge of testy.

  “Ah, that is very nice of you, Douglas.”

  He searched her words and tone for irony but couldn’t detect any. He sighed. “Very well. I was worried about you. You must give me leave to worry, particularly when there is danger I know exists and it could touch you. All right, I apologize for leaving you alone, but you should have obeyed me.”

  “That is kind of you. I do appreciate your concern. I should appreciate it even more if you would explain the nature of the danger to me.”

  “I don’t wish to. I wish you to trust me. Don’t you understand the need to trust me? Tell me you understand.”

  She looked at his austere profile and said, “Yes, Douglas, I understand.” She returned to her novel.

  Douglas brooded in solitary silence for nearly an hour. Then he called out the window of the carriage for John Coachman to stop. They were deep in the country. There were no people about, no dwellings, no cows, nothing of any particular interest, just trees, blackberry bushes, and hedge rows.

  Alexandra looked up, alarm in her eyes.

  “No, it’s just that I imagine you would like to stretch a bit, perhaps relieve yourself, in the woods yon.”

  She did wish to relieve herself, but she imagined that it was Douglas who had the need as well and thus the reason for their stopping.

  He helped her down, clasping his hands around her waist, swinging her to him, hugging her close for a brief moment, then setting her on her feet. “Go to the maple copse. Be brief and call if you need me. French isn’t necessary, but if you would like to, I shall be listening.”

  Alexandra smiled at him, saying nothing, and gave him a small wave as she walked into the midst of the maple trees. It was silent in the wood, the maple leaves thick and heavy, blocking out the sunlight. She was quickly done and was on the point of returning to Douglas, when, quick as a flash, a hand went over her mouth and she was jerked back violently against a man’s body.

  “This time I’ve got you,” the man said, and she recognized Georges Cadoudal’s voice. “This time I’m going to keep you.” She had neither Douglas’s pistol nor James the footman nor John Coachman. But she had Douglas if only she could free herself for just a moment, for just a brief instant.

  She bit his hand and his grip relieved for just a moment. A scream was ready to burst from her mouth when she heard the whoosh then felt something very hard strike her right temple. She went down like a stone.

  Douglas was pacing. It had been a good ten minutes since she’d walked into the maple wood. Was she ill? He fretted, then cursed, then walked swiftly toward the wood, calling, “Alexandra! Come along now! Alexandra!”

  Silence.

  He shouted, “Aidez-moi! Je veux aller à Paris demain avec ma femme!” Even as he shouted that he wanted to go to Paris on the morrow with his wife, he felt his muscles tensing, felt his mouth go dry with fear.

  There was more silence, deep, deep silence.

  He ran into the woods. She was gone. He looked closely, finally seeing where two people had stood. There’d been no struggle. There hadn’t been a sound. Georges had taken her and he’d either killed her or knocked her unconscious. No, if he’d killed her, he would have left her here. Douglas continued his search. He quickly found where a horse had stood, tethered to a yew bush. He saw the horse’s tracks going out of the woods, saw that the hooves were deeper because the animal was now carrying two people.

  He had no horse. There was only the carriage. He couldn’t follow. It was another hour before the carriage bowled into Terkton-on-Byne and he was able to obtain a horse that wasn’t so old and feeble it swayed and groaned when it moved.

  He was furious and he was scared. He was back at the maple wood in half an hour and he was tracking the other horse within another ten minutes.

  He prayed it wouldn’t rain but the building gray clouds overhead didn’t look promising. Cadoudal was heading due south, toward Eastbourne, directly on the coast. Was he intending to take her to France? Douglas’s blood ran cold.

  It began to rain two hours later. Douglas cursed, but it didn’t help. The tracks quickly disappeared, but he had this feeling that Georges, the brilliant strategist, wasn’t going to have an easy time of it with Alexandra. She wouldn’t swoon; she’d try her best to get away from him and that frightened him more than soothed him. Cadoudal wasn’t used to having anyone go against him; he was unpredictable; he could be vicious. Douglas plowed forward toward Eastbourne.

  Just before he reached the town, soaked to his skin and trembling with cold, he knew that it would be next to impossible to find Cadoudal by himself. He would need much more than luck; he would need help. He needed many men to scour the inns and the docks and check into all the ships’ passages.

  He was tired, exhausted really, and knew that there was simply nothing more he could do. Yet he still rode into Eastbourne and stopped at three inns. None recognized his descriptions, that or they’d been paid by Georges to lie. Defeated, he mounted his horse, more exhausted than he was, and rode the fifteen miles to Northcliffe Hall.

  Hollis took one look at His Lordship and called immediately for his valet. Douglas was bundled off to his bedchamber and put into a warm dressing gown. Hollis then deemed it appropriate for him to receive family, beginning with himself.

  He said, “John Coachman told us what happened. I’ve sent out word and there are thirty men ready to do your bidding. You have but to give me instructions.”

  Douglas stared at his butler and wanted to fling his arms around the man. He said instead, his voice slow and slurred with fatigue, “Georges Cadoudal has her, Hollis, and I fear that he has already taken her to France. I did track him nearly to Eastbourne but it began to rain. I had no luck at the local inns.”

  Hollis patted his shoulder as if he were a lad of ten again. “No trouble, my lord. You will provide me with a description of this Cadoudal and I shall give it to all the men. They can be off within the hour. As for you, you will rest before you leave this chamber.”

  Douglas wanted to resist but he was so weary he merely nodded.

  “I will bring you food and some nice brandy. Your brain will commence to work again very soon.”

  So it was that twenty-two men fanned out toward Eastbourne within thirty minutes, such an efficient general was Hollis.

  He said to Douglas, “I also sent word to Lord Rathmore. I expect him shortly. His Lordship has never let you down before, you know.”

  Douglas grunted and sipped at the stomach-warming brandy. He’d eaten his fill, the fire in the fireplace was warm and soothing. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He slept deeply for an hour undisturbed, awoke and was greatly refreshed.

  He opened his eyes to see Sinjun standing by his chair. For an instant he didn’t remember and said, “Hello, brat. Where is Alexandra?”

  The truth slammed through him and Sinjun watched as he paled.

  “I’m sorry, Douglas. Despite what Mo
ther says, I will accompany you to search for her. Shall I notify Tysen?”

  “No, leave him be at Oxford.” Douglas rose and stretched. “I don’t believe this,” he said to no one in particular.

  “It’s late, Douglas. Too late really for you to set out again. ’Tis nearly midnight.”

  “There are twenty-two men out searching, Sinjun. I must join them.” He paused and gently cupped her face in his palm. “I thank you for wishing to come, yet I must ask you to remain here and run things. You know Mother . . . well, I want to be assured that all will be in readiness for Alexandra’s return.”

  Douglas rode from Northcliffe Hall toward Eastbourne. It had stopped raining, thank the benevolent Lord, and there was a half-moon to light the way. He met McCallum, his head stable lad, at the Drowning Duck Inn on the docks in Eastbourne.

  “Ah, Your Lordship needs a pint. Sit down and I will tell you what we’ve learned. I’ve made this inn a headquarters and each thirty minutes a group of fellows come to report their progress to me. That’s right, drink your ale and sit down. Now just listen, my lord.”

  At two o’clock in the morning, five men trooped into the taproom to report that Cadoudal and Her Ladyship had taken a packet to Calais. Unfortunately they couldn’t follow because of the contrary tides and the storm that was now blowing in. There was nothing they could do until the weather cleared and the tide changed.

  Douglas told McCallum to send the men home. He arrived back at Northcliffe Hall at four o’clock in the morning.

  He found himself going into Alexandra’s bedchamber. He lay down on her bed in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, exhausted but wide awake. He remembered every harsh word he’d ever said to her. He remembered the hurt in her eyes when he’d spoken of Melissande and how she would have acted the lady and done as her husband told her.

  He felt pain wash through him, deep aching pain and an emptiness that was at once unusual yet not unexpected, not now, now that he’d finally come to realize that he couldn’t live without his wife.