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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1469-5
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: June, 2004
Dear Reader:
The Sherbrooke family saga continues with James and Jason Sherbrooke, identical male twins who look exactly like their beautiful Aunt Melissande, and not at all like their father, the earl, which riles him to no end.
James, twenty-eight minutes older than his brother, is the heir. He is solid, is James. He’s a student of astronomy, rides like a centaur, and unlike his brother, Jason, enjoys learning the ropes of managing his father’s estates. He no longer sows excessive wild oats, as his neighbor, Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, a brat he’s known since she was three years old, looks forward to doing since she turned eighteen. When she nearly shoves him off a cliff, sneering all the while, James hauls off and spanks her.
A promising start. Then, unfortunately, the earl, Douglas Sherbrooke, is shot at. This leads to Georges Cadoudal, a Frenchman in the employ of the English War Ministry with whom Douglas had dealings some years before. But Cadoudal died in 1815, fifteen years earlier. Were there children who might want revenge against Douglas? But the question is why: Georges and Douglas parted friends—at least Douglas believed that they had.
Adventures compound; Corrie hurls herself into the thick of things. As for Jason, he swims like a fish, loves horses, wants to start a stud farm, still sows more oats than a man should be allowed, but finally meets a girl who stops him in his tracks. And then what happens?
You will have to read the book to find out. I hope you enjoy yourself. The characters are rich, colorful, and a hoot to boot. The mystery will confound you.
Do let me know what you think. Write me at P.O. Box 17, Mill Valley, CA, 94942 or e-mail me at [email protected]. Keep an eye on my website at www.CatherineCoulter.com.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Who can refute a sneer?
WILLIAM PALEY
NORTHCLIFFE HALL
AUGUST 1830
James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith, twenty-eight minutes older than his brother, wondered if Jason was swimming in the North Sea off the coast of Stonehaven. His brother swam like a fish, no matter if the water froze his parts or cradled him in a warm bath. He’d say while he shook himself like their hound Tulip, “Now, James, that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s rather like making love. You can be on a grainy beach with cold waves nipping your toes, or wallowing in a feather tick—in the end the pleasure’s the same.”
James had never made love on a grainy beach, but he supposed his twin was right. Jason had a way of putting things that amused you even as you nodded in agreement. Jason had inherited this gift, if that’s what it really was, from their mother, who’d once said as she’d looked lovingly at James, that she’d delivered one gift from God and now it was time to grit her teeth and deliver the other gift. This had gained her looks of sheer amazement from her sons, and, of course, nods, at which point, their father gave them both a look of acute dislike, snorted, and said, “Gifts from the Devil, more like.”
“My precious boys,” she’d say, “it’s such a pity you’re so beautiful, isn’t it? It really annoys your father.”
They’d stare at her, but again, they’d nod.
James sighed and stepped away from the cliff that overlooked the Poe Valley, a lovely stretch of undulating green, dotted with maple and lime trees and divided by ancient fences. The Poe Valley was protected on all sides by the low-lying Trelow hills; James always believed that some of those long, rounded hills were ancient barrows. He and Jason had built countless adventures about the possible inhabitants of those barrows—Jason had always liked to be the warrior who wore bearskins, painted his face blue, and ate raw meat. As for James, he was the shaman who flicked his fingers and made smoke spiral into the sky and rained flame down on the warriors.
James stepped back from the edge. He’d fallen off that cliff once because he and Jason had been fighting with swords, and Jason had flattened his sword button against James’s gullet, and James had grabbed his neck and flailed about—all drama and no style, Jason told him later. He’d lost his footing and tumbled down the hill, his brother’s yells blasting. “You stupid bloody bleater, don’t you dare kill yourself! It was only a neck wound!”
He’d been laughing even as he’d landed. Hard. But thankfully he’d survived with just a mass of bruises on his face and ribs, which made his Aunt Melissande, who’d been visiting Northcliffe Hall, shriek as she’d run her hands over his face. “Oh my dear boy, you must take care of your exquisite and perfect face, and I should know since it’s mine.” And his father, the earl, had said to the heavens, “How could such a thing have happened?”
It was true. James and Jason were the image of their glorious Aunt Melissande, not a single red hair from their mother’s head or a single dark eye from their father. All their features were from their Aunt Melissande, which made no sense to anyone. Except their size, thank God. They were both near the size of their father, and that pleased him inordinately. Their mother had actually said something to the effect that, “A boy should be almost as big as his father and almost as smart; it’s what all fathers want. Possibly mothers too.” And her boys had blinked at her and nodded.
James had heard a rumor many years before that his father had wanted to marry his Aunt Melissande, and would have, if it hadn’t been for his Uncle Tony, who’d up and stolen her. James couldn’t imagine such a thing. Not that his Uncle Tony had stolen her, but that his Aunt Melissande hadn’t preferred his father. His mother had stepped into the breach, luckily for James and Jason, who, although they found their aunt very interesting, loved their mother to their toes. Fortunately, they had the Sherbrooke brains. Their father had told them many times, “Brains are more important than your damned beautiful faces. If either of you ever forget that, I’ll pound you into the ground.”
“Ah, but their beautiful faces are extraordinarily manly,” their mother had hastened to add, and patted them both.
James was grinning at that memory when he heard a shout and turned to see Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, an annoyance who’d been in his life nearly as long as she’d been in hers, riding like a boy with more guts than brains up the slope, bringing her mare Darlene to an ab
rupt stop not two feet from the cliff edge and only one foot from him. To his credit, James didn’t even twitch. He looked up at her, so angry he wanted to hurl her to the ground. But he managed to say in a fairly calm voice, “That was stupid. It rained yesterday and the ground isn’t all that firm. You’re not ten years old anymore, Corrie. You must stop acting like a boy with mud between his ears. Now back up Darlene, slow and easy. If you’re not worried about killing yourself, you might want to think about your mare.”
Corrie stared down at him and said, “I admire how you can speak so calmly when smoke is coming out of your ears. You don’t fool me for one minute, James Sherbrooke.” She sneered down at him, and click-clicked her mare right into him, nearly knocking him over. He side-stepped, patted Darlene’s nose, and said, “You’re right. Smoke is coming out of my ears. Do you remember that day you wanted to prove how skilled you were and rode that half-wild stallion my father had just bought? That damned horse nearly killed me when I was trying to save you, which, fool that I was, I did.”
“I didn’t need you to save me, James. I was skilled, even at twelve.”
“I suppose you planned to have your legs wrapped around that horse’s neck, hanging on, screaming. Ah, that was a measure of your skill, wasn’t it? And don’t forget the time you told my father that I had seduced a Don’s wife at Oxford, knowing he’d be furious at me.”
“That’s not true, James. He wasn’t furious, at least not at first. He first wanted proof because he said he couldn’t imagine you being that stupid.”
“I wasn’t stupid, damn you. It took me a good two months to convince Father that it was all your doing, and you whimpered and whined that it was just a wee bit of a little joke.”
She smiled. “I even found out the name of one of the Dons’ wives to make it more believable.”
He shuddered, remembering clearly the look on his father’s face. “You want to know something, Corrie? I think it’s long past due that someone explained manners to you.” Without warning, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down off Darlene’s back and dragged her over to a rock. He sat down and pulled her between his legs. “This thrashing is long overdue.” Before she could begin to imagine what he was going to do, James flipped her over on her belly across his legs and brought the flat of his hand down hard on her breeched bottom. She gasped and yowled and struggled, but he was strong, more than determined, and held her easily. “If you had on a riding skirt,” smack, smack, smack, “this wouldn’t hurt because you’d have a half dozen petticoats to pad you.” Smack, smack, smack.
Corrie fought him, twisting, and yelling, “Stop this now, James! You can’t do this, you idiot! I’m a girl, and I’m not even your bloody sister.”
“Thank God for that. Do you remember the time you slipped that medicine in my tea and my bowels were water for a day and a half?”
“I didn’t think it would last so long. Stop, James, this isn’t proper!”
“Oh, now that’s rich. It isn’t proper, you say? I’ve been saddled with you all your blessed life. I remember seeing your skinny little backside when you were swimming in Trenton’s pond. All the rest of you as well.”
“I was eight years old!”
“You don’t act much older now. This, Corrie, is long overdue discipline. Just consider me acting in your Uncle Simon’s place.”
James stopped. He just couldn’t wallop her again, despite the overflowing memories of atrocious things she’d done to him over the years. He started to roll her off his lap, then saw the rocks on the ground. “Oh damnation, brat,” he said, and lifted her off his legs to set her on her feet. She stood there, rubbing her bottom, staring at him. If looks could kill, he’d be dead at her feet. He rose and shook a finger at her, much in the same manner as a long-ago tutor, Mr. Boniface. “Don’t be such a pitiful little sissy. Your bottom smarts a little, nothing more.” He looked fixedly at his boots a moment, then said, “How old are you, Corrie? I forget.”
She sniveled, wiped her hand across her running nose, stuck her chin up, and said, “I’m eighteen.”
He whipped his head up, appalled. “No, no, that’s impossible. Just look at you, a hairless young man who just happens to have a round butt beneath those ridiculous britches that no self-respecting young man would ever want. Well, I didn’t mean to say it exactly like that.”
“I am eighteen years old. Do you hear me, James Sherbrooke? What’s so impossible about that? And do you know what else?”
He stared down at her, slowly shaking his head.
“I’ve had a round backside for at least three years now! And do you know what else?”
“How was I ever to notice, what with the breeches you wear, bagging off your bottom. What else?”
“This is important, James. I am having a sort of practice season this fall. Aunt Maybella says it’s called the Little Season. And that means I’ll wear fancy gowns and silk stockings with garters to hold them up, and shoes that will raise me off the ground a good two inches. It means I’m now a grown-up. I will put my hair up, smear cream all over me so I’ll be soft, and show off my bosom.”
“It will take buckets of cream.”
“Just maybe. But I’ll soften up sooner or later and then it will take less. So what?”
“Show off what bosom?”
To his absolute horror, James believed for one second that she was going to rip her shirt open and show him her breasts, but thankfully reason prevailed and she said, eyes slits now, “I have a bosom, a very nice one that just happens to be hidden right now.”
“Hidden where?” He looked around.
She actually flushed. James would have apologized if he hadn’t known her all her life—seen her as a five-year-old with no front teeth trying to figure out how to bite into an apple, assured her she wasn’t dying when she’d begun her woman’s monthly flow at thirteen, and been the recipient of that sneer of hers too many times in recent years.
She poked her fingers against her chest. “They’re all in here, smashed down. But when I unsmash them and frame them with satin and lace, a dozen gentlemen will very likely swoon.”
He tried on one of her sneers and found that it fit him well enough. “Only in your twit’s dreams will you be able to unsmash that much. Good Lord, I’m picturing a board with knots on it.”
“A board with knots? That’s very mean of you, James.”
“Very well, you’re right. I apologize. What I should have said was that the thought of your unsmashed chest boggles my mind.”
“There’s nothing but swamp water in your mind.” She drew herself up, threw back her shoulders, stuck out her chest, and said, “My Aunt Maybella assured me this will happen.”
Since James had known Maybella Ambrose, Lady Montague, practically since his birth, he didn’t believe this for an instant. “What did she really say?”
“Very well, Aunt Maybella said something about when I was cleaned up properly I shouldn’t disgrace them. As long as I wear blue, just like her.”
“That sounds more like it.”
“Don’t you slap me in the face with your insults, James Sherbrooke. You know my aunt, she’s a veritable mistress of understatement. What she really means is that I will knock them down in the street when I ride by in my very own curricle, holding, perhaps, a poodle on my lap.”
“The only way you would knock down gentlemen is if you were driving.”
It was a meaty insult. Shaking her fist in his face, she bellowed at him, “You listen to me, you codsbreath! I drive as well as you do, maybe better. I have heard it remarked many times—I have the better eye.”
That was so patently absurd that James just rolled his own eyes. “All right, name one person who remarked that.”
“Your father, for one.”
“Impossible. My father taught me to drive. My eye is as good as his, probably better now since he’s getting old.”
She gave him a beatific smile. “Your father taught me to drive as well. And he’s not old at all. What he is is very
handsome and wicked—I heard Aunt Maybella saying that to her friend, Mrs. Hubbard.”
That nearly made him puke. As for her driving, James remembered seeing the girl sitting proudly beside his father, hanging on his every word. He remembered feeling a stab of jealousy. It was mean-spirited, particularly since both Corrie’s father and mother had been killed in a riot right after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. It was an unfortunate accident that happened during an official visit by Corrie’s father, diplomatic envoy Benjamin Tybourne-Barrett, Viscount Plessante, to Paris to discuss the second restoration of the Bourbons with Talleyrand and Fouché.
Talleyrand had seen to it that Corrie, not yet three years old, was returned to England to her mother’s sister in the company of her dead mother’s heartbroken maid, and six French soldiers, who were not warmly treated.
When James finally brought his brain back, it was to hear her say, “And my uncle will have fits trying to decide which gentleman is good enough for me. I shall have my pick, you know, and that immensely lucky man will be strong and handsome and very rich, and nothing like you, James.” Another sneer, this one very refined, meant to make him shake with rage. “Just look at your eyelashes, all thick and poking out a good inch, like a Spanish lady’s fan. Even a little curl on the ends. Yes, you’ve got a girl’s eyelashes.”
He’d only been ten years old when his mother had come up with the right answer for him, and so he smiled now and said easily, “You’re wrong about that. I’ve never met a girl who had eyelashes as long and as thick as mine.”
She was silent, her mouth open. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. He laughed. “Leave my face out of this, brat. It has nothing to do with your bosom. Bosom, for God’s sake. Men don’t say bosom.”
“What do men say?”
“Never you mind. You’re too young. And you’re a lady. Well, not really, but you should be since you’re eighteen. No, I can’t believe you’re eighteen. That means nearly twenty, which would place you in the same decade as I am. It’s just not possible.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 64
