He watched his brother lead Corrie onto the floor, the twins in their grandfather’s arms, waving wildly toward their parents. His cousin Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, gave his hand to a young woman Jason hadn’t seen before. He looked down to see Harvey tugging on his trouser leg. “I wants to dance wit’ the angel.”
“You can’t. The angel is dancing with my cousin Grayson, who’s probably telling her a ghost story. Why don’t you and I show this group how to waltz properly?” Jason lifted Harvey in his arms and began to waltz him around the perimeter of the room in great dipping steps. One of the twins shouted, “Uncle Jason, I want to waltz with you!”
Jason laughed, called back, “Dance with your grandfather.” From the corner of his eye, he saw his father, holding a twin in each arm, swing into the waltz, sweeping around the room, not six feet behind Jason and Harvey. Laughter flowed as freely as champagne. Adults and children waltzed. All in all, it was a fine afternoon, Melissa’s family mixing well with all the Sherbrookes.
An hour later, Jason was seated on a swing in the vicarage gardens, his right foot lazily pushing off every now and again to keep the swing moving in a nice smooth glide. Harvey, stuffed to the gills, exhausted from dancing, was sprawled on his lap, his head against Jason’s chest. A female voice said quietly from behind him, “I don’t expect you to congratulate me, but I suppose since I did have the lead in our competition, I should tell you that you probably ran a fine race. However, truth be told, I don’t know what you did. You could have simply sat in a ditch and given up, for all I know. Also, you didn’t ask me to waltz. I believe every single male at the wedding asked me to waltz. All save you. Surely that doesn’t bespeak a gracious loser, and I had high hopes for you after that smile and little wave at the ceremony.”
Jason, who didn’t want to disturb Harvey, didn’t turn, and said toward the graveyard beyond the far garden wall, “I always run a fine race, Miss Carrick. I usually win except when it is against Jessie Wyndham. I kept encouraging her to eat so she would gain flesh, but it never happened. She laughed at me.”
Hallie laughed herself, walked around the swing and stood there, eyeing the beautiful man holding the boneless little boy who had chocolate smeared on his mouth. She said, “I watched Jessie race for as long as I can remember. She’s a killer, is Jessie.” She paused, frowned down at the sleeping Harvey. “He’s too thin.”
“Yes, a bit. That will change. My uncle Ryder bought him two months ago from a factory owner in Manchester. He was working fourteen hours a day, fixing machines that knotted thread.”
“I heard Melissa’s parents speaking about your uncle Ryder and all the children he’s taken in over the years. They couldn’t quite come to grips with it.”
“And you, Miss Carrick? What do you think of the Beloved Ones?”
“That’s a lovely name for them. Actually, I’ve never seen such magic as your uncle has for the children, except perhaps for you. They want to crawl all over him. It’s amazing. Did you see all of Melissa’s relatives waltzing with the children? I don’t think Mellie’s father has danced in thirty years, yet he was carrying about a little girl no more than seven. So much laughter today. Quite amazing, really. You wouldn’t see that in London, perhaps even in Baltimore. It would be all adults trying to act superior and eyeing each other’s jewelry. How many children has he taken in?”
“I don’t know. You will have to ask him or my aunt Sophie. There are usually fifteen or so children in residence at any given time.”
“I think he is a very good man. He sees and he acts. Not many people do.”
“No, not many do. So, we have another man of which you must approve. The list is growing, Miss Carrick.”
She struggled a moment, kept quiet, and reached out her hand to give the swing a shove. Harvey snorted in his sleep. “Yet again I’ve left you speechless.”
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Mr. Sherbrooke?”
“On supporting your friend to the altar? Harvey here was certainly impressed with you.”
“I nearly dropped the bouquet.” She leaned over, pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket in her gown he couldn’t have found even if he’d been looking for it, and, just like Jessie, spit on the handkerchief, and efficiently wiped Harvey’s face. She saw him staring at her and said only, “I raised four children, myself. Did you see Melissa grab Leo at the end of the service? I thought Reverend Sherbrooke would laugh out loud.”
The vicarage gardens smelled of honeysuckle and roses in the late afternoon, or maybe it was her unique scent, he wasn’t sure. He said, “I remember when I was a very young boy, Uncle Tysen rarely laughed, especially when he gave a sermon. His life was dedicated to God, a God who evidently was only interested in hearing about endless sins and avoiding transgressions, always impossible. This God of Uncle Tysen’s didn’t believe in laughter or in everyday sorts of pleasures. Then he met Mary Rose. She brought God’s love and forgiveness into his life and into his church. She brought laughter and peace and infinite joy.” He paused a moment, felt his voice thicken as he said, “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my family until today when they were all around me. And my aunt Melissande, who always patted my face and called me her mirror. She didn’t this time, she hugged me until my uncle Tony finally pulled her away. There were tears in her eyes.” Why had he said any of that to her? After all, he’d beaten her. Shortly she would want to drive a knife between his ribs. Harvey snorted again in his sleep. Jason automatically tightened his hold, rocked him.
“What you said about your uncle Tysen—it was quite eloquent.”
He ignored that, feeling something of a fool for speaking of it to her. “Why should I congratulate you, Miss Carrick?”
She’d forgotten her victory, her absolute triumph, but for only a moment. She grinned down at him. “Because, naturally, I am the new owner of Lyon’s Gate.”
Jason stopped swinging. He looked up into a face that could have given Helen of Troy a hell of a race. “No,” he said matter-of-factly, wondering what her game was, “I own Lyon’s Gate. If you would like to see it, to ensure I’m not lying, I can show you the deed. I have it in my pocket.”
That drew her up short. “Why are you saying that? That isn’t possible, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have the deed in my reticule, which is in my bedchamber upstairs. Your joke isn’t funny, sir.”
“No, I don’t make jokes about something as important to me as Lyon’s Gate is, Miss Carrick. I went to London, I met with Thomas Hoverton’s solicitor, and I bought the property.”
“Ah, that’s cleared up then.” She looked ready to dance and fling about more rose petals, the light of victory back in her eyes. “Not that it was ever in any doubt.”
Her grin grew bigger. Jason frowned at her. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“I knew where Thomas was—he’s staying with his aunt Mildred in Upper Dallenby, only twenty miles from here. I rode over, and he and I came to an agreement. Lyon’s Gate is mine.”
Now, wasn’t that a kick in the ass, was all Jason could think.
CHAPTER 8
It was after midnight. Leo and Melissa were long gone on their honeymoon, their first night of married bliss to be spent in Eastbourne, then they were off to Calais on the morning tide on Alec Carrick’s packet, HiHo Columbus, named by Dev when he’d been five years old.
The Sherbrookes and Miss Hallie Carrick were seated in the drawing room. Jason knew that every one of them would willingly bash Hallie Carrick on the head, maybe bury her in the garden, so that he, their beloved returned prodigal, would have Lyon’s Gate. It was close to Northcliffe Hall, which meant he would be near. They would be a family again, as soon as they got rid of this English-American upstart who’d had the nerve to stick her oar and her money in to steal what their beloved son wanted for himself. But they were all polite, solicitous, his mother going so far as to pour milk, not arsenic, into Miss Carrick’s tea, which she doubtless would have preferred.
Hallie said s
uddenly, breaking the butter-thick silence, “Listen, all of you. I bought the property from Thomas Hoverton himself, not his solicitor. It seems very clear to me that I am the new owner of Lyon’s Gate.”
Jason said, “Mr. Clark is Thomas Hoverton’s legal representative. Mr. Clark showed me the document giving him the power to transact any of Thomas Hoverton’s business, with both their signatures on it. It is his right to act on Thomas Hoverton’s behalf, and he did. I bought the property before you did, Miss Carrick. The deed is not only duly signed, it is dated, even down to the time of day our signatures were affixed to the bill of sale.”
Hallie looked at all those perfectly pleasant faces, knowing full well they’d like her to disappear, perhaps by violence, given the blazing red of Jason’s mother’s hair. “Thomas is the owner,” she said. “No one else. A solicitor, when all is said and done, is still only a solicitor.”
Douglas rose, smiled at the group. “This will get us nowhere. I suggest we travel to London tomorrow. Miss Carrick, you may stay with us on Putnam Square since it would not be appropriate for you to open up either your father’s or your aunt and uncle’s town houses.”
“I will stay with Melissa’s parents,” she said.
James said, “They’re journeying directly back to Yorkshire tomorrow.”
Douglas continued, “We will all gather together at the solicitor’s, and the legal minds will help us sort this out. Now, it’s time for bed. I, for one, am still swimming in too much champagne.”
Since it was the patriarch who had spoken, everyone dutifully rose.
As James had said, the vicarage was packed to the rafters of the third floor. Jason and six other young men, including the bedchamber’s owner, Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, were sleeping lined up like logs on thick piles of blankets, collected from Uncle Tysen’s parishioners.
Except Jason. He couldn’t sleep. All his plans, all the magnificent execution of his plans, what would happen now? He hated the uncertainty of it. He listened to the snoring, the grunts and groans of all his cousins, wondered how wives ever got any sleep, what with all the racket men made, pulled on a dressing gown his cousin Grayson had loaned him, and slipped out of the vicarage. He walked into the moonlight-drenched gardens, pausing by a thick twisting honeysuckle vine to breathe in its night scent.
“Do you know that women snore?”
He nearly jumped out of his bare feet. He whipped around, stepped on a sharp twig, and began dancing on one foot.
The witch laughed.
“Women’s snores aren’t as earsplitting as men’s,” he said, rubbing his foot. “Just little mewling sounds, delicate little snorts and whistles.”
“I suppose you would know, what with all the women you’ve put to sleep over the years.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Is this why you’re up, Miss Carrick? You couldn’t sleep with all the little grunts and groans?”
“It was almost like I was lying there listening to some sort of strange string quartet. A little wheeze here, a heady sigh from across the room, a deeper rumble from beside my left elbow.”
“And you couldn’t join in the orchestra?”
“I was lying there, wondering what we’re going to do about all this mess. Not that I have any doubt about the correct outcome, naturally, but getting there, the plowing through your very rich and powerful family, who would like to send me to China. In a barrel. Filled with herring.”
“Plowing? You think my family would be dishonest? I assure you, Miss Carrick, there is no reason to be since I have the right of it. Thomas Hoverton is a wastrel, a small-minded, womanizing, gambling wastrel, and that is why his solicitor has the power to make financial decisions for him. Thomas initiated it himself to keep him separated from his creditors who would probably like to jerk his guts out through his nose. Besides, you’re not some poor little waif. Talk about a powerful family; your uncle, Burke Drummond, the earl of Ravensworth, is a very powerful man indeed. As for your father, he is Baron Sherard. Contact them, Miss Carrick. Until your father arrives, your uncle can represent your interests, he and his solicitor. Stop your whining. Actually, my parents would seriously consider China or perhaps Russia. Somewhere remote.”
Hallie sighed. “Yes, that’s all true. But it will take days for Uncle Burke to get to London. Was I really whining?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that isn’t very attractive, is it? No, don’t you dare say it’s what all American girls do or I’ll knock you into those rosebushes.”
“All right, I won’t say it. The fact is, I’m charmed with the image of you climbing out of a herring barrel after six or so weeks at sea, on a rutted road that will take you to Moscow, in about six months.”
“English herring or American herring?”
He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. “British herring are saltier in my experience. Not that I don’t like a whiff of salt, naturally.”
“You’re making that up.” She paused a moment, then said, “The fact is I like being more American than British. I have a different perspective on many things. You know, the way I look at people, the way I respond to situations.”
“That must mean you’re not an insufferable snob yet.”
“Is that how you see English girls, Mr. Sherbrooke? As snobs?”
“No, not at all. You’re right about American girls—they’re more likely to kick a man in the shins if he offends her rather than whimpering behind a potted palm in a corner.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve seen both. For myself, I’d prefer the attempt to the shin.”
“No attempt. I’d do it, fast and hard.”
“I suppose you could try. A gentleman is at a disadvantage, of course, since he can’t kick you back. You’ve a sharp mouth on you, Miss Carrick. You’ve got a vicious streak too, if I’m not mistaken—about the female of the species, I rarely am mistaken.” Except one time, he thought, feeling the damnable familiar pain slice through him. One time he’d been so damnably blind—No, he wouldn’t think about it. It was long in the past. He was home again, and he knew, knew to his heels, that no one blamed him. It never ceased to amaze and humble him. He wondered if he would ever stop blaming himself and knew he wouldn’t.
He looked back at her, wondering what she’d look like with that marvelous hair of hers loose around her shoulders instead of in a single fat braid. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he didn’t think he was, he thought she looked hurt. Hurt at what? What he’d said? No, impossible, not this tiger of a girl, this baggage whose mouth would have to be taped over to keep her quiet. “Perhaps it would make you feel better toward me if you knew I’ve never had a girl try to kick me in the shins or sob behind a potted palm.”
“That’s because every female in the vicinity is hanging all over you,” she said quite matter-of-factly. “Enough pandering, else you will become even more conceited than you are now. Listen to me. I’m worried, I’ll admit it. I mean, I know that since Thomas Hoverton sold me his property, I am the real owner, but this solicitor business, well—”
“As I said, Miss Carrick, there are many properties for you to buy. This is the only one that is close to my home.” He hated going over problems when he could see that each side had some right going for it. He said instead, “Did you know that your name nearly rhymes with my sister-in-law’s?”
“Corrie. Hallie. Yes, it is close, looking at the names. She is very smart.”
“Why do you think Corrie is very smart?”
“It’s obvious. Oh, I see, as a man, you wouldn’t notice a female brain if it winked up at you in your soup. She deals well with her husband.”
“Yes, she would kill for James.”
“Like Melissa would kill for Leo.”
“Evidently.”
“Your feet are bare, Mr. Sherbrooke. And that dressing gown you’re wearing is very tatty and old.”
“It belongs to my cousin Grayson. I forgot to pack anything. I arrived home jus
t in time to change clothes and come galloping here. You look like a whipped-up dessert, Miss Carrick, all soft and fluffy and peachy.”
“Yes, well, it was a gift from my aunt Arielle when she thought I was going to marry—” She slammed her hands over her mouth, looked horrified that those words had popped right out of her mouth. She took a step back, clutched at the flowing peach silk dressing gown and pulled it so tight over her breasts that beneath that lovely moonlight, he could see through to her lovely white skin.
She knew he was going to blight her: she’d just blurted out some powerful ammunition, but “Hmm,” was all he said, nothing more. She still backed up three steps until her back hit against a climbing rosebush. A thorn must have stuck her because she jumped, stepped away.
Then, he saw, she simply couldn’t stand it. “Oh, go ahead and mock me about this, I know you want to.”
“Actually, I don’t. Now, my father will speak to Melissa’s parents since they’re in charge of you.”
“They aren’t in charge of me, damn you.”
“Very well, but you are their guest, are you not?”
“Yes, I suppose. I was going to leave for Ravensworth tomorrow in any case. But not now.”
“No, not now. You will have to come back to Northcliffe Hall with us tomorrow,” he said. “Then we will all go to London together. My father will send a messenger to your uncle.”
“Yes, all right. I want this to be resolved quickly. I want to move into my new property.”
“I don’t suppose you planned on living at Lyon’s Gate alone? You’re a young lady—well, you’re more young than not, I suppose.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said slowly. “This has all happened so quickly. There must be some spare relative hanging about who could come to Lyon’s Gate to live with me. My aunt Arielle is sure to know of someone.”
“How about my grandmother?”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 101
