Sherbrooke Twins tb-8

by Catherine Coulter

  “Thank God,” James said. “Two of you would drive me mad.”

  “James, I will see you at home,” Jason said, smiled at Corrie as if she was still someone he couldn’t quite place, and waltzed away.

  James stood staring after him a moment before he turned, looking thoughtful, and said, “The waltz is ending. No, Corrie, not a third waltz. It wouldn’t do your reputation any good.”

  “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Didn’t you read the deportment book my mother, er, Jason gave you for your birthday?”

  “I enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed the Racine plays. You know, James, the birthday present you gave to me, with all the lovely pictures. You know, the pictures I could look at if my brain ached from all those big French words?”

  “Naturally I remember. It was thoughtfully selected for you. Now listen to me, brat. You don’t dance more than two dances with a gentleman or you’re nearly as good as engaged.”

  “But it wasn’t two dances, at least two full dances. Jason interrupted the last third. Can’t we dance the first third of the next one?”

  James shook his head.

  “But why? How silly that sounds. You’re a good dancer, the best of all my gentlemen tonight. You’re perhaps even more accomplished than Devlin, maybe. I wouldn’t mind dancing with you all evening.”

  “Thank you, but it isn’t done even though I’ve known you forever, and you’re very nearly my sister.”

  She felt the punch of those careless words and sighed. She touched her fingers to his cravat again, pushing it this way and that. “That’s it then. Very well, if you’re not available, then I’ll dance with Devlin. I wonder where he is.” She looked up at him. “Uncle Simon is really keen on me finding a husband now. The dear man really doesn’t want to come back to London in the spring for another come-out. He says one month should be enough to do the trick.”

  “Look, Corrie, it’s not really possible so don’t think you’re a failure if you’re not standing in front of a vicar by the end of the month, this poor sod you’ve yet to meet shackled to your side. An offer now, I suppose that’s possible. At least you’re looking fine now, so there should be some unattached young gentleman ready to leap into your cage.”

  “That’s an interesting image. James, what do you think of when you think about the jewel of Arabie?”

  “The jewel of Arabie? What the devil is a jewel of Arabie?”

  “I think it’s a magnificent diamond that everyone coveted over the years.”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  “Well, perhaps nothing at all if you fail to see any obvious comparisons.”

  “Listen to me, Corrie. Don’t dance with Devlin Monroe. I strongly advise you to avoid him.”

  “He looks like a vampire until he smiles, then he is quite nice-looking indeed.”

  “Vampire? Devlin? Oh, you mean his pallor.” James looked thoughtful, rubbed his chin. “Yes, he’s known for his pallor. A vampire? Come to think of it, perhaps, I haven’t ever seen him during the day.”

  “Really? Oh goodness, James, mayhap-oh, you sod, you’re teasing me.”

  “Of course I’m teasing you, Corrie. But Devlin-listen to me now-he’s got a reputation for being involved in very different sorts of things-”

  “What kind of different sorts of things?”

  “You don’t need to know that. Just obey me and you’ll be all right.”

  “Obey you? You?” She threw back her head and laughed, just couldn’t help it, and many female heads turned to see the source of that laughter-if they weren’t looking already, their focus James, naturally.

  “I nearly raised you. Yes, pay attention to me. I’m older, I’ve had more experience, and most important, I’m a man, and thus I know about other men and their base-well, never mind that. Just avoid Devlin Monroe.”

  “Base what? You mean wicked? You’re saying that Devlin Monroe is wicked? Doesn’t it take a man many years and a lot of concentration to attain true wickedness? Devlin is young. How can he possibly be wicked?”

  James wanted to take that lovely white neck he’d never seen before, he’d swear to that, between his hands and gently slide his fingers around that neck and squeeze.

  “I didn’t say he was wicked. He likes different sorts of things.”

  “Well, so do I. Is this what experience gains you, James? Wickedness?”

  “No, don’t be ridiculous. Forget Devlin. Now, I see Kellard Reems speaking to your Aunt Maybella. He is quite unexceptional. Dance with him. If he ogles your breas-your bosom-tell me and I’ll kick his teeth down his throat.”

  She whispered, nearly choking, “Men say breasts?”

  “Forget that.”

  But she wasn’t about to forget it. Corrie was staring down at herself with new eyes. “It’s, well, so very unambiguous, that word.”

  “Yes, that’s true. Men tend to be unambiguous and straightforward, unlike ladies, who must sugarcoat everything with lace and frills and outlandish words, like bosom.”

  “Breasts,” she repeated slowly, fully tasting that wicked word, and James grabbed her arms and gave her a shake, anything to wipe that thoughtful look off her face. “Listen to me, Corrie, you don’t want to be saying that, particularly in front of a man. Do you understand me? A man might-very well, he will of a certainty get the wrong impression about your virtue and dwell upon activities you might share with him. It’s bosom, Corrie. That’s it. Do you promise?”

  “Ah, there’s Devlin the vampire. Look at that very nice smile of his. White teeth against that white face of his and those really dark eyes-just like Judith McCrae’s eyes, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t think.”

  “Yes, all dark and snapping and-I think I’ll ask him what he’s doing at midnight, and offer him my neck.”

  He remembered his hand pounding down on her bottom that day. That hand flexed, fingers tingled.

  She left him, not even a nod of gratitude that he’d given her valuable advice. No, she’d walked off, fanning herself, because he’d danced her into the floor and she’d loved it. At least she hadn’t given him one of her patented sneers that made him want to rub her face in the mud.

  James stood there, frowning, until he felt some fingers on his sleeve and turned to see Miss Milner fluttering her eyelashes at him. He sighed, only a very brief sigh because he was a gentleman, turned, and dredged up a smile.

  As for Jason, he danced Miss Judith McCrae toward the huge glass doors that gave onto the Ranleagh balcony and gardens below, and pictured her naked.

  She was laughing up at him. What had he said that was amusing? He couldn’t seem to remember. Yes, he pictured her laughing, and naked.

  He slowed because the waltz was coming to an end. “Tell me how long you’ll be in London.”

  “Aunt Arbuckle wants to return to Cornwall by Christmas.”

  “Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

  She paused, then said finally with a smile, “Well, I have a cousin. He owns a stud farm called The Coombes near Waterford.”

  “Is this male cousin older than you, Miss McCrae?”

  “Oh yes, he’s much older.”

  The waltz ended. Jason smiled down at this beautiful young girl. He would like to take her for a nice meandering walk through the Ranleagh gardens, but it wasn’t to be. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her aunt. “My lady,” he said, and gave her a slight bow. “I trust that Lord Arbuckle will feel better soon.”

  Lady Arbuckle said, “That is very kind of you, Mr. Sherbrooke,” and Judith dropped her fan.

  “Oh dear, I am so clumsy. No, no, Mr. Sherbrooke, I’ve got it,” but of course, he swooped down on the fan and handed it to her, smiling as he did so. “It isn’t broken. A pleasure, Miss McCrae, Lady Arbuckle.” He bowed again and took his leave. He spied Tom walking toward the doorway, looking neither to his right nor to his left. He looked like a hound who’d just scented a stag, nostrils flared. It was lobster patties.
Tom could sniff out a lobster patty from a good thirty feet. Jason joined him, and after Tom downed a good half dozen and drank two glasses of the suicide champagne punch, they left the Ranleagh ball to go to White’s, Jason managing to avoid the troop of young ladies and some not-so-young ladies forging his way. He caught his brother’s eye, and nodded.

  That nod meant that they had more plans to make, but not right at this moment. James turned his attention back to the beautiful Miss Lorimer, probably the diamond of the Little Season, who waltzed very well indeed and hummed while she danced. James was charmed.

  When James next chanced to look up, it was to see Corrie dancing with Devlin Monroe.

  “Whatever is the matter, my lord?”

  “What? Oh, nothing at all, Miss Lorimer, just looking out for my childhood friend who continues to disobey me.”

  “Hmmm,” said Miss Lorimer. “It sounds more like you’re her father, my lord.”

  “God forbid,” James said as the waltz ended. He watched Corrie take Devlin’s arm, and walk to the huge banquet table, right to the nearly empty bowl of champagne punch strong enough to wilt a girl’s scruples after one glass. He cursed under his breath.

  When he left Juliette Lorimer with her mama and a warm smile, Juliette said, “I think I will have him, Mama. Even if he were boring or dissolute-which he doesn’t appear to be-one could still look at him, and that would bring enough pleasure, don’t you think?”

  Lady Lorimer looked at the magnificent creature to whom she’d given birth, and said in her matter-of-fact voice, “Given that you are the most beautiful girl in this ballroom, and James Sherbrooke the most beautiful man, I think such a marriage would produce children so beyond mortal people they would likely be shot so civilization could march onward.”

  Miss Lorimer gave a charming laugh. “There’s only one of me, but Lord Hammersmith has a twin brother who is as beautiful as he is. I saw him dancing with a dark-haired girl who didn’t look very interesting at all.”

  “I saw her as well. Very ordinary. But it doesn’t matter. You must remember that his brother isn’t the next earl of Northcliffe, now is he?”

  Miss Lorimer gave another charming laugh and watched James make his way through the throng of guests, all, it seemed, wanting to speak to him, most of them of the fairer sex. It was a very good thing that she was the most beautiful girl in these as well as other parts. Otherwise she just might find herself feeling a bit concerned.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The state of matrimony is a dangerous disease; far better to take drink in my opinion.

  MADAME DE SEVIGNE

  ALEXANDRA SHERBROOKE SHOUTED at her husband even as he eased himself through the front door, “Sometimes I want to shoot you myself, Douglas! Have you lost your wits? Look at you, walking down the street, swinging your cane, yes, I saw you out the window, even whistling, I’ll wager, and not one single friend beside you. I will shoot you myself!”

  And she ran across the entrance hall and threw herself into his arms, which opened just in time. He squeezed her, kissed the top of her head, and said very quietly, “I suppose it wasn’t too wise of me, sweetheart, but I’m tired of shadows and threats and worries that someone might jump out at me.”

  She looked up at him, holding him even more tightly. “You wanted the assassin to come and get you?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s about it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver derringer. “It fires two shots. My cane is also a sword. I was prepared, Alex.” He hugged her again then set her away from him. He lightly stroked his fingertip over her eyebrows. She closed her eyes and moved closer. It was a habit of long standing. “Damnation, I want this over.”

  “I want your friends around you, do you hear me, Douglas?”

  “What? All of us are nearly ready to dodder forward into old age and you still want them around me?”

  “I don’t care if they’re drooling, their presence would protect you.”

  They walked into the library and Douglas quietly closed the door. “I fear that Willicombe will come running in at any minute, and I want some peace.”

  “He is taking your safety more seriously than you are, Douglas. Do you know that he asked me if he could hire his nephew, said he could pound in a nail with his bare fist. Of course I said yes. We now have another footman and guard. This Remie stands watch between midnight and three A.M., then Robert until six A.M.”

  Douglas fetched a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass. “I have thought and thought about this. I swear to you, Alex, I can think of no one who hates me enough to go to all this trouble-it’s all so dramatic, this revenge scheme, if revenge is indeed what this is all about. Georges Cadoudal-I’ve certainly seen him several times over the years once we left him in Etaples in 1803. Since he couldn’t seem to assassinate Napoleon, he set his sights on several of Napoleon’s top generals and functionaries. He killed at least six of them during the last years before Waterloo. But that was over fifteen years ago, Alex. Fifteen years. He died just after Waterloo, sometime in early 1816.”

  “When will we find out if he had children?”

  “Soon, I hope.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Douglas. Remember that special mission you went on in early 1814? All you told me was that it wasn’t dangerous, that you were bringing someone to the safety of England.”

  He suddenly looked much younger and very pleased with himself. “Yes, I did manage to keep that from you, didn’t I?”

  “Who was it, Douglas?”

  “It was a gentleman who had enough money and offered enough information to the War Ministry to earn him safe haven in England. I swore never to divulge his name.”

  “So he would have no reason to hate you. You saved him.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Did Georges have anything to do with this man you brought out from France?”

  “My lord, Remie is now on duty.”

  Douglas nearly dropped his brandy. He whirled around, his hand already in the pocket of his jacket ready to pull out the derringer, only to see Willicombe standing at sharp attention inside the door.

  “How the devil did you get in here without our hearing you, Willicombe? Good God, man, I could have shot you.”

  “You would have to hear me first, my lord, and that, I daresay, is well nigh impossible because I am almost a shadow, exactly in the manner as Hollis. I daresay as well that if you had felt my presence, you would have been flooded with warmth and well-being. Never would you have shot me, my lord.”

  Alexandra smiled. “You’re right, Willicombe. Hollis couldn’t have moved more quietly than you. Where is Remie stationed for the night?”

  “He roams, my lady, roams from the attic to the basement and out to the stable. He lurks in the shadows along the walkways and even slips into the park. He sees all, hears all. He is worth every groat you pay him, my lord.”

  “Well, that is reassuring. Go to bed, Willicombe.”

  “Yes, my lord. Have you found out any more information about the villain who seeks to shorten your life, my lord?”

  “No, not yet. Go to bed, Willicombe.”

  When Willicombe walked on cat’s feet out of the library, gently closing the doors behind him, Douglas turned to his wife. “Did I tell you that you looked quite fetching tonight, save that half of your breasts were on display to every lascivious debaucher in London?”

  Alexandra looked at him beneath her lashes. “It is a remarkable thing to have a husband who still remarks with such earnest attention upon one’s personal parts.”

  “It isn’t funny, Alexandra. I was forced to take myself off to the card room, else I would have shot a good dozen of those lechers.”

  She smiled, hugged him, went up on her tiptoes, and said against his cheek, “Did you remark upon how very lovely Corrie looked this evening? The gown you selected for her was quite flattering.”

  “Isn’t it amazing? I had believed her quite flat-chested. I fear though that there was too much
of her showing as well.” Douglas’s lips thinned. “I told her and Madame Jourdan-you will stop laughing at me, Alex, or I will make you sorry.”

  “I had no idea she was so pretty, Douglas. Her smile makes you want to smile back at her.”

  “Yes, yes, who cares? Come along now. I’m an old man and it is after midnight. I have very few miracles left.”

  “Oh, yes, you do,” his wife said as she walked up the stairs beside him.

  Very few men care to have the obvious pointed out to them by a woman. MARGARET BAILLIE SAUNDERS

  “You’re being a moron, James Sherbrooke. Go away before I knock you in the head with that fireplace poker.”

  “No, I will not.” He caught her arm before she could grab the poker. He even shook her. “You will answer me now and truthfully, madam. I want to know exactly what happened between you and Devlin Monroe last night.”

  She stepped toe-to-toe with him, tilted back her head, and said, a lovely sneer lacing her voice, “Nothing happened that I didn’t want to happen.”

  “You drank too much of that champagne punch, didn’t you? I knew after I tasted it that a score of girls would lose their virtue last night.”

  “Nonsense, James. Most girls have much harder heads than you give them credit for. Yes, I drank two glasses of that delightful brain-numbing punch, but Devlin was a perfect gentleman. Do you hear me? A perfect gentleman. Can a vampire be a gentleman? No matter. Now, I am going riding with him in the park this afternoon at exactly five o’clock, if it doesn’t rain, which it looks like it might.”

  He took a step back, otherwise he might grab her and throw her over his legs and wallop her again, though he doubted she’d feel it. “How many petticoats are you wearing?”

  “What?”

  “How many petticoats do you have under that gown?”

  A man’s mind, she thought, an astounding thing. “Well now, let me see.” She tapped her fingertips against her chin. “There are my drawers, then my chemise-you know, it’s nearly down to my knees with really pretty lace around the neck, a soft, white muslin-what is this? Your eyes are crossing? You asked-”