“Three years, Julian,” she said again. “I hope you have—” Recovered from your grief hung in the air, unspoken. “That is, how are you feeling, dearest?”
He grinned down at her. “I am fine, Mother. Three years is a long time, too long, truth be told. I am very glad to be home. No, I do not still mourn Lily, but I miss her. I suppose I always will.”
Corinne looked up when the drawing-room door opened. “Pouffer! There you are, tea and some black cake for my returned prodigal.”
“Yes, your grace,” Pouffer said, his old eyes on Julian, but he bowed grandly in both their general directions. He gave another wide grin to Julian, so happy he was to see him at last.
“Ah, Prince, I was remarking to Mrs. Trebah that you look as grand a gentleman as even the sternest critic could demand. She agrees, though she only saw the veriest glimpse of you.”
“Thank you, Pouffer.” Julian’s earliest memory of the Ravenscar butler was from his third year of life—he’d rolled a ball against Baron Purley’s feet, and Pouffer had bowed to the baron as grandly then as now, scooped Julian up, rubbed his head, stuck him under his arm, and carried him out, Julian yelling for his ball. Pouffer had little hair now, only a white tonsure circling his head. As for Mrs. Trebah, the Ravenscar housekeeper, she’d been here even longer than Pouffer, come when the old duke had been a mere seventy, five years before he’d married Julian’s mother.
“Come and sit down, Julian.”
Julian hugged his mother once more and gladly accepted her fussing over him. She gently slipped a thick blue satin pillow behind his back, positioned the hassock directly in front of his wing chair, and even lifted his booted feet. He was laughing. “Enough, ma’am, I am not used to being so spoilt.”
“I am your mother, I will spoil you as much as I like. Now, while we wait for Pouffer to bring in sustenance, I will tell you we must leave for London very soon.”
He looked at her blankly. “London? But I just came from London.”
“You went to London? Already?”
“Well, yes, I had business with Harlan.”
“Ah, well, Mr. Whittaker and business, that is very different. No, dearest, I mean London, as in the Season. You did turn thirty-two last month—although you were not here to celebrate your birthday—and in my disappointment, I downed an entire bottle of champagne. I drank so many toasts to your beautiful self I was flat in my bed all the next day. It is past time you were wed again.”
The words burst out of her in a torrent. Julian raised a black brow at her as he pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “I have been home exactly ten minutes, Mother. Perhaps we can wait to leave for London? Perhaps in a day or two?” Past time for him to wed again? What was this?
He found himself looking around the vast drawing room, giving his mother time to marshal her arguments, always entertaining, always worth waiting for. “I like what you have done with this room, Mother, the blues and cream shades suit it nicely, and the Aubusson carpet is magnificent.”
“I am glad you admire the carpet, since you paid a substantial number of groats for it.”
“As for London, you’re right, Mother, I was there only a few days. As you said, I spent most of my time with Harlan, reviewing all Ravenscar expenditures, tenant profits, repairs to be done, crops to be adjusted. You’ve done an excellent job, Mother.”
“Well, none of the stones are crumbling away, all our tenants are content—well, several of them would complain even if God himself were to take tea with them. Actually, since you wrote detailed instructions to me every single week, it required little thought on my part.” She paused for a moment, gave him a fat smile. “Did you not notice the score of palm trees—so very tropical they look, and so very distinctive—and the silver maple and oak trees I had planted along the drive? And now all the bare ground is covered with heath and daffodils. They have softened the landscape, which is what I wanted. I always thought Ravenscar looked so brutally stark.”
Actually, Julian had always liked the barren promontory that sloped down until the land fell away gently into the channel. “I must admit the new trees add interest. I suppose since there are no more enemies to invade our shores, Ravenscar has no more need to intimidate anyone, so the clumps of daffodils waving in the breeze add a nice romantic touch.” He paused, thought of Elena, and smiled.
“Ah, Pouffer, here you are at last. Bring on the black cakes for my beautiful son. He is fair to dwindling away before my eyes.”
When Pouffer grandly lifted the silver dome to uncover Mrs. Coltrak’s black cakes, Julian’s stomach growled.
He was drinking his second cup of tea when his mother said, “Lily died three years ago, and you left England, not, of course, to avoid scandal, since there wasn’t any, but to leave the Langworths and their terrible grief, and their blame. It is behind you now, Julian.”
The gentleness dropped from her voice. She became brisk. “You are not getting any younger, dearest. I will remind you yet again that you are turned thirty-two years old. You really must have an heir.”
This was an interesting approach. “An heir? Why? Mother, I’m a duke’s son, true, but I am only a second son, not a duke’s heir. Why is it so important that I produce a male child?”
His very smart mother realized her logic wasn’t sound and retrenched in an instant. “Well, what I really meant is that I have the fondest wish to be a grandmother.”
Now, that was a lie that didn’t bear scrutiny. He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Shall you be called Grandmama, or perhaps Nana Corinne?”
She shuddered.
“Mama, I have no desire to return to London. Indeed, I have an overdue ship from Constantinople, the Blue Star. I must travel to Portsmouth.”
“Why? How can your being in Portsmouth hurry the ship up?”
She had a point.
She hurried on before he could muster another objection. “I miss all my particular friends, dearest. I miss attending balls and routs.” She closed her eyes. “And there are many new plays to be enjoyed on Drury Lane.”
And shopping, he thought.
“And shopping, naturally. I do adore shopping on Bond Street, you know.”
She also adored shopping in Saint Austell, Julian thought, recalling the quantity of clothing bills that arrived punctually on Harlan’s desk.
“And you need to visit your tailor. Your coat is very well indeed, for Italian society, but not exactly what you would want here in London, and your boots, well—”
Yes, he did need new boots, but—
She rose from the blue brocade settee opposite him, patted his shoulder, leaned down to kiss his cheek. “I truly wish to go. There has been so much rain here, and to be blunt about it, I am growing mold, not an elevating sight. It is time for a change of scene—specifically, it is time to visit London, for the Season this time, not for your wretched man of business.”
Julian felt the earth shifting beneath his boots, his old boots. At last he was home. He wanted to settle in, manage his property, play with his spaniels on the dog run that ended at the low cliff above the beach. He knew it was time to see if Richard Langworth and his father, Baron Purley, still blamed him for Lily’s death. “You really don’t need me, Mama. You could as easily travel to London, open the town house, and do whatever pleases you. Why do you want me along?”
She said, with a good deal of hauteur, “Do you forget you are my son, my only son, and I have not seen you for three—three—years? I wish all of society to gaze upon your exquisite self, admit there is no finer-looking a young man in all of England, and be jealous of me.”
What was going on here? He said slowly, “Don’t forget the other Monroe lady, namely, Lorelei, your stepdaughter-in-law. She will doubtless be there. You know you would rather have your eyebrows plucked than have to deal with her.”
His mother had
thick black brows like his, and he’d heard her shriek when her maid, known as Poor Barbie, had to pluck them every week and a half.
“I shall firmly plant myself above Lorelei this time; I shan’t allow her to give me the headache with her obnoxious little observations on my looks and health and how you should never have been born and how your dear father turned into a pilchard-headed old moron when he turned seventy-five, and just look what came of it—namely, me—and would you look what I did—brought you into the world. And then, naturally, she will go on and on about you, her chins quivering all the while—a duke’s son, even though you should never have been born in the first place, and you’re obviously deficient, since you sprang from an old man’s tired seed, and not the healthy, intelligent seed of a vigorous man, as your dear father was many decades ago. Worst, you indulge in trade, and what a horror that is.”
She paused to take a well-earned breath. She tapped her long fingers against her teacup and brightened. “If I recall, Lorelei had gained flesh when I last saw her, and I haven’t, and I’ll wager she still persists in wearing all that purple.” She gave a small shudder.
Julian said nothing.
She eyed him. “Devlin is always in London for the Season. I know his father is beginning to agitate for a daughter-in-law, since Devlin is now twenty-seven—can you believe that?—and he needs to get himself wed and set up his nursery.”
“Both Devlin and I are to be consigned to leg shackles?”
She ignored that. “Really, Julian, do not concern yourself about my dealing well with Lorelei. I shall give her my most regal nod and continue on my way.”
Julian gave it one more try. “As I said, you really don’t need me with you, Mother.”
To his surprise, her small rounded chin began to tremble, and those beautiful dark eyes of hers sheened with tears.
“All right, I see you will have the truth out of me, Julian.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Lyon's Gate
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2005 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-1483-1
A JOVE BOOK®
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JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: June, 2005
To Yngrid Flores Becker: you are a very special woman, and a delight. I am so pleased you are part of our family. So are Corky and Cleo.
CATHERINE
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
Baltimore, Maryland
April, 1835
Jason Sherbrooke knew it was time to go home when he rolled away from Lucinda Frothingale, stared into the fat ugly face of her pug, Horace, who growled at him, and suddenly, with no warning at all, saw his twin, eyes sheened with tears as he’d waved good-bye to Jason from the dock at the Eastbourne Harbor. Waved until the ship was too far away for Jason to see him. Jason felt tears choking his throat and an ache so deep he knew his heart was cracking clean in two.
Jason eyed the dog curled up against his mistress’s side, then turned onto his belly, listening to both Lucinda’s and Horace’s breathing. It was true, only moments before he’d felt sated all the way to his heels, and then suddenly he’d been flooded with that particular memory, and the pain of it. Now, just moments later, he was impatient, so restless he could barely keep still. He wanted, quite simply, to jump out of Lucinda’s warm bed and start swimming across the Atlantic.
After nearly five years, Jason Sherbrooke wanted to go home.
At eight o’clock that morning, Jason was seated at the big breakfast table in the Wyndham dining room. He looked at the two people who’d welcomed him into their home so many years before, and at their two boys and two girls who had all become very dear to him. He cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention. He prayed that lovely, fluent thoughts would flow flawlessly out of his mouth, which, naturally, didn’t happen. He said only, a lump in his throat the size of the Crack County racetrack, “It’s time.”
Jason didn’t realize he looked like a blind man who’d suddenly regained his sight. He was wondering why there were no more words, just those two that popped out of his mouth, hanging there in the Wyndham dining room.
James Wyndham, seeing the expression on Jason’s face, but not understanding it, raised a dark blond brow. “Time for what? You want to race Jessie again? Haven’t you had enough punishment at her hands, Jase? Even riding Dodger doesn’t give you all that much of an edge.”
Jason jumped at the familiar bait. “Like you’ve always said, James, she’s skinny, doesn’t weigh more than Constance here, and that’s why she usually beats us. It has nothing to do with skill.”
“Har har,” Jessie Wyndham said. “Both of you are pathetic, always trotting out the same tired old excuses. Now, the two of you have seen me ride Dodger—Jason’s own horse—we’re like the wind, so fast we blow your hair into your faces. All Jason can do when he rides Dodger is raise a slight breeze.”
That was an excellent slap to the head, Jason thought, and grinned at Jessie.
“Papa’s right,” seven-year-old Constance said. “Although,” she added, looking at her mother thoughtfully, “perhaps Mama does weigh a little bit more than I do. But Uncle Jason, you’re just like Papa, you’re too big to race, you nearly drag the horse down into the dirt. Jockeys have to be small. Even though Grandmother says it’s a disgrace, what with Mama out there aping men and not staying here in the parlor mending, she still remarks on how skinny Mama is even though she’s birthed four children, and that isn’t a bit fair.”
Jonathan Wyndham, the eldest of the Wyndham children at nearly eleven, nodded. “It was a bit rude of you to say it so starkly, Connie, and Grandmother shouldn’t speak so badly about Mother, but the fact remains that Mother is a female and females aren’t supposed to be racing against men.”
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Jessie threw her slice of toast at her eldest son.
Jonathan laughed and ducked. “Mama, you know gentlemen can’t stand it when you beat them. Once I saw Papa nearly weep when you raced ahead of him at the last moment.”
“On the other hand,” Jason said, “everyone I know seems to think you were born on a horse’s back, you’re so good, and who cares if the best jockey in Baltimore has brea—er, never mind that.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, Mama.”
“Dear Lord, I hope not,” Jason said.
“I hope not too,” Jessie said. “No, don’t ask, enough said.”
Jonathan began picking toast crumbs off his jacket sleeve, and only his little sister Alice saw the wicked gleam in his lowered eyes. “Like I was saying, Mother, you’re a bruising rider, mean as a snake when you have to be, but still, isn’t a smartly mended sheet much more fulfilling for you, so—”
“I don’t have anything else to throw at you, Jon. Ah, look, this nice heavy fork just hopped into my hand.” Jessie aimed the fork at her son. “I suggest you retire from the fray or face very bad consequences.”
“I’m done,” Jonathan said, splaying his palms in open surrender, a huge grin on his face. “Retired, that’s me.”
“Time for what, Uncle Jathon?” four-year-old Alice asked, lisping charmingly. She was leaning toward him, and Jason knew that if they weren’t at the breakfast table, she’d have already crawled onto his lap and curled into him the way she’d done since she’d been six weeks old. When he didn’t immediately speak, his brain empty of words, huge tears shimmered in her beautiful eyes. “Thomething wrong, ithn’t it? You don’t like uth anymore. You want to shoot Mama because she beat you?”
Jason looked at that precious little face and sought for the right words, but what came out of his mouth was, “I love you all dearly. It’s not that at all. It’s—” And then the truth burst right out. “I want to go home. It’s time. I’m leaving Friday, on The Bold Venture, one of Genny and Alec Carrick’s ships.”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 96
