Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123)

by Coulter, Catherine

  Douglas was scared to death for his son, and here was Hollis, wanting to shoulder all the blame. He wanted to tell Hollis to go to bed and sleep for all of them, but one look at the old man’s face, and he stilled. “You are not responsible for any of it, Hollis.” He didn’t say Annabelle Trelawny’s name. He never wanted to say that name again for as long as he lived.

  Hollis drew himself up even straighter. “I brought that woman here. I was so besotted, my brain ceased to function properly. She used me, my lord, to make all of you trust her.

  “I must retire, my lord. I have hurt all of you. I must somehow make retribution.”

  Alexandra, red-eyed from lack of sleep, worry, and tears, said, “I will think about this, Hollis. There will be fitting retribution for your crimes. Now, we want you to go to your bed. Drink some of his lordship’s brandy. Sleep, Hollis, else you won’t be able to carry out your punishment. Believe me, retirement is far too easy.”

  Hollis bowed, said “Yes, my lady,” and left Jason’s bedchamber.

  Douglas looked at his wife. “Well done,” he said. “I believe his shoulders were even straighter when he left than when he came in.”

  DOUGLAS WAS FINALLY dozing, dreaming of a day long ago when he’d first taken his boys fishing, and Jason had caught a trout and gotten so excited that he’d lost his balance and fallen into the water, losing that fish. Douglas was grinning at the memory when he came awake suddenly. He looked over at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. Three branches of candles kept the shadows away from the bed, but the rest of the chamber was in gloom. Dr. Milton was asleep on the truckle bed three feet away. Both Corrie and James were asleep, as was Alexandra. The bedchamber was dead silent. What had awakened him?

  He rose immediately and walked to Jason’s bedside. He sat beside him, picked up his hand, a well-shaped hand, tanned, strong.

  Jason opened his eyes and said, his voice a rusty whisper, “I suppose I am alive?”

  “Yes, and you will stay that way,” Douglas said. He wanted to hold his son against him and never let him go, but that would hurt him. He lifted his hand, stroked it, felt the warmth of his flesh, the blood that flowed through his son’s body. Thank God he was alive. Then Douglas wanted to yell at him. But he didn’t yell, not quite. “I love you, Jason. I also fully intend to beat you to within an inch of your life for throwing yourself in front of me to save my life.”

  Jason smiled, then a spasm of pain made his eyes pale. “Judith?”

  It was Corrie, now awake, standing behind his father, who said, “I shot her, Jason, the very instant after she shot you. She’s dead.”

  Jason said nothing for many moments. Then he sighed. “It appears I’m not a very good judge of character.”

  “It appears none of us are,” his mother said. “All of us were fooled—all of us. We liked her and accepted her as we did Hollis’s Annabelle Trelawny.”

  Jason felt his mother’s hand lightly stroking his forearm, saw his twin smiling at him from the foot of the bed since he couldn’t get any closer. James didn’t look good, Jason thought, didn’t look good at all. Then he wanted to laugh because of the way he himself must look right now. Then he thought of Judith, her wicked eyes, her wit, her charm. He thought of those wild, urgent feelings she’d brought him, feelings he’d never experienced before in his life. He thought of her gone, forever. He didn’t understand all of it, but it didn’t seem all that important right now. When his mother whispered next to his face, “We love you. Rest now, Jason. Everything will be all right,” he did.

  EPILOGUE

  Life is the greatest bargain, we get it for nothing.

  YIDDISH PROVERB

  TWO AND A HALF MONTHS LATER

  NORTHCLIFFE HALL

  James and Jason stood side by side on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Poe Valley. It was early afternoon, a windless, bone-cold day in early February. A thick gray fog was creeping up from the valley floor.

  They could see their breaths.

  “Dr. Milton said you’re fit again,” James said.

  Jason said as he put his hand on his brother’s arm, “I’m leaving for Baltimore next week. James Wyndham has invited me to live with them and work on their horse farm. He will teach me.” He smiled then, the first smile James could remember seeing for a very long time. “He wrote that his wife, Jessie, can outride just about any jockey in the races. I could see him grinning as he wrote about how he was simply too big to beat her, and I knew he was laughing at himself for making excuses.”

  “Do you really want to go, Jason?” James looked at his twin’s profile. He didn’t think anyone would confuse them now. Jason’s face was thinner, austere as a hellfire preacher’s, his brilliant eyes shadowed, all the joy sucked out of him. His body had healed, but his mind, his spirit, were distant, even from James, who was closer to him than any other human being.

  Jason didn’t reply for several minutes, then he drew in a deep breath as he turned to his brother. “I must go,” he said simply. “There is nothing for me here. Nothing at all.”

  “You know that isn’t true. Father and Mother are here. I’m here. You can remain in England, buy your own stud farm, do whatever you wish.”

  “I cannot, James. I cannot. It’s—” His gloved hand raised a moment, then fell back to his side. “Everything is too close to me here, just too close. I must get away.”

  “You’re running away.”

  Jason arched a dark brow, smiled. “Of course. Ah, look, I do belive the fog will clear soon.”

  James knew in that moment that his twin’s mind was made up. He would leave. James prayed he would eventually come to grips with the horror of what had happened here, forgive himself for loving Judith McCrae, a monster. “Yes,” he said. “The sun will come out soon.”

  “I must tell Mother and Father. This evening. Will you stand with me?”

  “I have always stood with you, and I will again, even in this. I really don’t want you to leave, Jason. Dear God, how I wish everything could be different.”

  “Nothing can change now, James. Let it go.”

  James knew when he was beaten. “Do you know that since Father moved Grandmother to the dower house, Corrie and I have decided to remain here, at least for a while?” He paused a moment, flicked his riding crop against his thigh. He wanted to tell Jason that their mother and father were worried sick about him, about the profound depression that had changed him from a laughing, carefree man into this silent one none of them really knew or understood.

  Jason laughed, not the sort of laugh that made you smile back. It was a strained sound that held a good deal of loathing. For himself? James didn’t know.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” James said, unable to keep himself quiet, though he knew well enough that it was something that Jason didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to talk about, probably didn’t want to remember for the rest of his life. But it had changed him, and James was scared for his brother, scared to his very soul.

  “Ah, and whose fault would it have been then, James?”

  That mocking voice was mocking himself, of course, and James hated it. “It was Judith’s fault. It was Louis’ fault. It was that dreadful woman’s fault who used poor Hollis.” He wanted to say that at least Hollis was smiling a bit more now, unlike Jason. “They were bad, Jason, bad to their black souls. There was nothing but greed in them. None of it was your fault.”

  “At least Hollis didn’t retire.”

  James grinned at that. “Mother’s punishment—forcing him to spend a week with our grandmother while overseeing her move to the dower house. He told me it was surely more punishment than a man deserved, even the man who’d believed himself passionately in love with a younger woman who was still older than our mother. Here he was, a loyal family member whose first mistake had occurred in the twilight years of his career. Mother laughed and laughed.”

  But Jason didn’t smile at that, just nodded. “Yes, she handled him well, u
sed exactly the right touch. She gave him his worth again.

  “I will miss you, James. We haven’t been separated before, not like this.” He swallowed, shut up, and drew his brother into his arms, holding him tightly.

  Jason said finally, pulling away, “I must go, James, surely you know me as well as I know myself and thus you understand why I must leave. There is nothing for me here. I will be back, you know. But I must—” He simply stopped, looked out over the fog-shrouded valley, then turned and left him. James knew he didn’t want him coming after him.

  James stood on the cliff edge, the fog swirling about his legs now, the sun still hidden, and watched his brother stride to Dodger, who would be traveling to Baltimore as well. James had always said that Dodger was born to race the wind.

  He looked after his brother until he was lost from view. He stood there for a very long time.

  He was surprised to see that the sun had burst out, now shining brilliantly from high in the sky, the fog burned off. He was thinking of his brother, wondering if there wasn’t something he could have said to change his mind, some new argument he could use to make him slough off the terrible guilt, when he chanced to walk into the hidden Sherbrooke gardens and see his wife staring up at her favorite statue.

  The sun seemed to shine even more brightly. He felt a leap in his heart. He came up behind her, kissed her neck, then kissed the squeak of surprise right out of her mouth. “Did I tell you this morning that I love you all the way to my boots?”

  She pulled him close, then went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “No, you didn’t. I like to hear those words, especially from you. Ah, James, I do love you so.”

  He smiled, kissed the tip of her nose, felt her burrow in even closer. “I see where your thoughts are, Corrie. I believe I am ready. I don’t need any lunch even though I have been working very hard all morning and my ribs are bumping against my chest. No, if you must have me right this minute, I will sacrifice myself. I am yours.”

  Corrie Sherbrooke grinned like that masked smuggler whose identity hadn’t yet been discovered, and hooked a leg behind his knee, sending him to the ground.

  “It’s not at all too cold for this,” she said once she was lying on top of him. “I would have thought it was, not above a minute ago, but not now, James.”

  “That’s because you’re on top. Come along, Corrie, I won’t be able to do my very best with my back frozen to the ground.”

  Douglas and Alexandra Sherbrooke watched their son and his wife racing across the lawn toward the gazebo.

  Douglas said, “It’s too cold.”

  “They’re young. The last thing they need is more heat,” said his wife as she hugged him. “I’m very glad that your grandfather built that gazebo. I wonder, do you think he was young once?”

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  THE PRINCE OF RAVENSCAR

  by Catherine Coulter

  Available in November 2011 from

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  * * *

  • 1 •

  Near Saint Osyth

  On the Southern Coast of England

  March 1831

  The night was as black as the Devil’s dreams, not even a ghost of a moon, not a single star to pierce through the thick rain clouds.

  It was a perfect night.

  Julian tethered his sixteen-hand bay gelding, Cannon, to a skinny branch of a lone bent oak tree and made his way carefully down the steep narrow winding path to the hidden cove, a trek he’d made countless times in the years before he’d left England. It was good to be back. He slapped his arms against the cold, the wind off the channel slamming against his thick coat, wheedling in to cozy up to his bones. Down, down he went. When he finally reached the shadowed overhang in the cliff, he lit the lamp and held it up, flashed it three times, a signal he himself had established many years before.

  Three answering flashes of light came five minutes later, some fifty yards offshore. Two boats were moving closer now with every passing second. Soon they’d be close enough for him to hear the oars dipping rhythmically through the water. Julian felt his blood pump faster, as it always did with the ever-present threat of excisemen suddenly appearing over the edge of the high cliff, waving guns and yelling. He could only hope the bribes his man Harlan had put into place held, though to his knowledge no one even knew about this small hidden cove.

  No matter how you dressed it up, smuggling—free trading always sounded high-flying and righteous—was still against the law. And smuggling would continue until those idiots in the government finally did away with the high import duties. Would they ever see reason? Julian hoped it would take the old curmudgeons a while, since he’d enjoyed the midnight hide-and-seek since he was sixteen, when Sergeant Lambert had introduced him to the adventures of smuggling. Teas, brandy, tobacco, China rice, gin—it didn’t matter, he did it all. Every time Julian walked down to this beach, he thought of Lambert, who’d died the way he’d lived, all flash and excitement, charging forward, his bayonet fixed, a yell coming from his mouth when a howitzer shot had exploded at his feet. Julian remembered falling to his knees, tears flooding down his face as the mayhem continued around him, searching, tearing at the bloody ground, but there’d been nothing left of Lambert. Julian knew someone had dragged him away from where Lambert had died, because he remembered Wellington buffeting his shoulder, telling him to carry a message to his left flank. It was demmed important, move! And Julian had run faster than he ever had before.

  He still wondered how he’d managed to survive Waterloo with only one sword gash, in his left shoulder. Blessedly, his memory of those long hours that became days blurred with the battle blood and screams and death, and with Wellington’s voice, yelling orders, always encouraging, even at the end of the day, when exhaustion sapped everyone’s will.

  His mother had asked him once about Waterloo, but evidently the look on his face had stopped her in her tracks. She simply pulled him against her and said nothing more about it. But she’d been very proud when the Duke of Wellington himself had sent a commendation to the sixteen-year-old Julian.

  Until Julian had left England three years ago, every June seventeenth he’d visited Sergeant Lambert’s empty grave at his farmhouse near Saint Osyth. Julian was certain Lambert’s spirit knew he was using his favorite smuggling cave, and perhaps he occasionally slipped through from the other side to watch Julian bring in his boats. Is there smuggling in Heaven, Lambert? Why, he’d asked Lambert on the eve of Waterloo, couldn’t men ever be content? Because greed and envy and jealousy were sewn into the very fabric of a man’s body, Lambert had said, and spat.

  So quickly the future became the present, and the present became a collection of memories, some bringing a smile, others still with the power to smash you with despair. Would he die in the next war, blown apart, as Lambert had died at Waterloo? Witness what was happening in Europe, revolution everywhere, and death and destruction, and always there was hope that something good would come of the violence. He wondered if this was ever true.

  “All’s well, Captain!”

  He smiled and walked down to greet Cockeral, a madman, some whispered—but only out of his hearing.

  He stilled. He’d heard something, he knew it. Excisemen? He held up his hand for quiet, and Cockeral and his men fell flat beside the boats.

  Someone was there, watching, waiting, Julian knew it. But what? Who?

  Time passed. They unloaded the cargo, mostly brandy and tea this time, and stored it in the hidden cave. Julian listened but heard only the wind.

  When he fell exhausted into bed an hour before dawn, he knew in his gut his prized hidden caves were no longer a secret.

  • 2 •

  The Prince Returns

  Ravenscar

  Near Saint Austell, Southern Cornwall

  April 1831

  Corinne threw her arms around him, hugged him close, an
d breathed him in. He smelled of a wild wind and a storm-tossed sea. His face was darkly tanned from months spent striding the deck of his ship, and his eyes were alight with pleasure. He looked fit and healthy and splendidly male. Her son. She’d thought of him every single day he’d been gone, savored his letters, most arriving each and every week, and she’d worried, but he hadn’t wanted her to come to Genoa, where he’d lived. Too dangerous, he’d written.

  She stepped back, her hands still clutching his arms. “At last you’re home, dearest. Ah, three years, Julian, three whole years—but now you’re here safe and sound. Come and sit down, and I will serve you tea, just as you like it, a tiny squirt of lemon, nothing more. Oh, dear, you haven’t changed, have you?”

  “Not about how I like my tea, no, I haven’t.” Julian lightly laid his palm on his mother’s soft cheek. She looked not a day older than she had when he’d left her on that miserable stormy Tuesday, only two days after Lily’s funeral. Her eyes and hair were nearly as dark as his, but unlike him, her complexion was fair. “You’re still as beautiful as when I left you three years ago.”

  “That is very kind of you to remark upon, dearest.” She studied his beloved face for a moment, so very beautiful he was, and she could see some of herself in him, the way his eyes shined when he was pleased, how he threw back his head when he laughed. Did he look at all like his father? She didn’t know, she’d never seen a portrait of her husband as a young man. She supposed there was a portrait hanging at his ancestral home, Mount Burney. She’d sometimes wondered if the father had resembled the son when he’d been young, if he’d had Julian’s habit of tilting his head when he listened, if he’d usually thought before he spoke, if he’d been as beautiful as his son. Such a pity Julian’s father had been old, white-haired, but never stooped, no, the old duke had stood straight as a sapling until his death, and he’d had most of his own teeth when he’d breathed his last breath.