“He is rather insistent,” said Mrs. Macklin over another yell that made James’s left eye twitch.
Corrie said, “You waltz very well, Eliza. Why don’t you take him for a spin around the nursery?”
“Master Everett says I’m not man enough to do it right,” said Mrs. Macklin.
“Oh dear,” Corrie said. “It’s begun already?”
“Master Everett says my feet don’t cover enough ground.”
Jason was laughing. “Well, who can play the piano whilst I dance with Everett?”
His mother appeared in the doorway, Willicombe behind her, a large silver tray on his arms. Alex said, “I’ll do it. Goodness, Everett’s gotten bigger in the last day and a half.”
“We’re off then to the music room. Mrs. Macklin, what about his brother?”
“Master Douglas is currently chewing on Wilson’s bone and the puppy is trying to drag it away from him.”
Corrie said, “He is only seven weeks old, a Dandie Dinmont terrier, so ugly and precious all you want is to hug him until he creaks. Wilson and Douglas are good friends.”
“More ugly than precious,” James said. “But he fits quite nicely against my neck at night.”
Mrs. Macklin said, “I’m sorry, my lord, but Wilson slept against my neck last night.”
“Well, Wilson is in a new house,” Corrie said. “We’ll see whose neck he seeks out tonight.”
“Unfortunately,” the earl said, “it would appear that Douglas also likes to eat from the puppy’s bowl.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Macklin said, “and here I hid Wilson’s bowl underneath Everett’s bed.”
Smacked in the face at the same time by both the absurd and the ridiculous, Jason thought as he hauled Everett off to the music room, the little boy kicking his legs and waving his arms and singing at the top of his lungs in Jason’s right ear. James and Corrie went with Mrs. Macklin to pull the bone out of Douglas’s mouth all while slipping the new puppy another one. Neither of them doubted Douglas would be waltzing with his uncle in under five minutes.
As for Hallie Carrick, she was upstairs in a lovely bedchamber, changing into her oldest clothes.
CHAPTER 10
When Hallie appeared thirty minutes later, a single valise clutched in her hand, a lovely dark blue cloak over her shoulders, Willicombe, the Sherbrooke butler, sent his lovesick nephew Remie to inform Jason, who gave Everett and Douglas over to their grandfather for the next waltz. Jason came into the entrance hall where Hallie was giving instructions to Remie, who stood frozen with horror.
“Just a moment, Miss Carrick,” Jason said. “I’ll need to change before we can leave.”
She whipped around. “You think you’re coming with me, Mr. Sherbrooke? You think you’ll stomp this blighter’s liver before I can? No, you stay here and beg and plead with this Mr. Chartley whilst I go fetch our money from Thomas Hoverton. When I return I’ll see to Mr. Chartley. In the meanwhile, don’t you dare let this man fleece you, do you hear me?”
“You’re thinking like an American,” he said, picking a spot of lint off his sleeve, suppressing a smile.
“What do you mean by that snide remark?” He saw her right hand tighten into a lovely fist.
“Oh, I don’t know. How about you’re exhibiting a marked lack of subtlety? Or you’re simply forging ahead without pausing even a moment to think things through? There’s no need to boil over with rage.”
A lovely arched eyebrow went high.
Remie took two quick steps back, hoping to escape.
Jason said, “There’s no reason to go haring off after Thomas Hoverton right now. If you still wish to go after him once I’ve told you some things, why, I’ll be forced to accompany you.”
“You won’t be forced to do anything of the kind. What sorts of things?”
“London is very different from Baltimore, Miss Carrick, surely you learned that. You’re a bright girl. As you must know, London society doesn’t allow just anyone through its august portals. Money doesn’t matter. For example, Lucinda Frothingale’s now-dead husband wouldn’t have ever been admitted into London society for the simple reason that he owned and operated flour mills. The fact that he would have been richer than many of England’s vaunted peers wouldn’t have mattered. Flour mills constitute trade, Miss Carrick, and folk in trade, who have no ancient lineage, no powerful family behind them, aren’t allowed into the club. Do you understand?”
“Yes, of course, but I still don’t see what—” Jason saw the instant she realized what he was talking about. He refused to acknowledge she’d caught on more quickly than he had. She said slowly, “I think I’ll go see my uncle’s solicitor. He can find out just exactly who this Mr. Chartley is.”
He realized, of course, that he should have encouraged her to go after Thomas Hoverton, despite the fact that she was a young lady, quite alone. Did she have any money left after paying Thomas Hoverton for Lyon’s Gate? And if she didn’t have very much money, would she arrive in Calais and realize she couldn’t afford a baguette much less respectable lodging? Jason said, “There’s no need for you to do anything, Miss Carrick. My father has already taken care of it. We will know all about Mr. Benjamin Chartley soon enough.”
“But I—”
“I’m beginning to believe you have more hair than brains. And I’m thinking your hair is probably lovelier than your brains as well.”
To his surprise, she didn’t hurl herself at him. She didn’t move at all. She stared down at her shoes, the oldest pair she had, which were very fine indeed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. My father was always telling me that I should make it a habit to sit in a corner for three minutes and think before I acted. He said whenever I acted too quickly, he had to clean up the most abominable messes.” She looked up at him, a glimmer of a smile lighting her eyes. “I thank you for stopping me before I could make a mess. I should hope that my hair looks better than my brains. That’s a horrifying thought, though I’ve never seen what brains look like. Now that I think about it, I don’t have much money either.”
“I wondered.”
“I don’t think my father’s bankers would stuff more money in my outstretched hands, particularly after they found out how easily I was swindled. They would believe I was naïve and incompetent, in short, a woman. But money isn’t what’s important here. I have my pistol, a small riding crop, and a knife, strapped to my ankle. Thomas Hoverton wouldn’t ever imagine that I’d come after him. I’d probably find him in Calais, toasting his good fortune. Then I could carve out his gullet.”
“Or villains would find you first. Maybe you’d shoot one villain, Miss Carrick, but the second and the third lurking in the alley? With those skirts it would be hard to get to the knife fast enough.”
She raised her hand and fisted it.
He laughed.
He realized she was staring up at him, her head cocked to one side.
“What is it?”
“I know you don’t like me, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t understand you. You could have simply let me leave. I would be gone and you could do as you please. Now there will be endless complications.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt and that’s very likely what would happen. I have never trusted the French, particularly after the dealings I had with Mademoiselle Benoit in Baltimore who—Well, never mind that.”
“I heard my father say the French believed God didn’t intend the Ten Commandments for them since he hadn’t written them in French, and that’s why the French pox was so prevalent.”
Fascinated, Jason said, “He spoke to you about the French pox?”
“No, I was eavesdropping. When I managed to slip French pox ever so skillfully into a conversation, I thought he would explode, he turned so red in the face. Who is this Mademoiselle Benoit?”
Jason wanted desperately to laugh, but managed to hold it in. He didn’t want her to pull her pistol, her whip, or her knife out of her boot and dispatch him. He cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Benoit i
sn’t any of your business. Now, stop fretting. We will work this out.”
“How?” She struck her palm to her forehead. “How stupid I am. There won’t be any complications at all. If your father threatens Mr. Chartley with social ostracism, then he will sell the property to you. I will have no chance at it.”
Jason shrugged, as it was the truth, after all.
“It will be done before I can get my uncle here to do the same thing to him.”
“Yes, that’s true enough.”
“So you’ve won, Mr. Sherbrooke.”
“That’s very nice of you to say so, Miss Carrick, but a bit premature. I suggest you hold off on your congratulations until after we find out what Mr. Chartley’s hopes and aspirations are in our fair city.”
“I’ll wager he has an eighteen-year-old daughter he wants to marry off to some bankrupt baron, whose pockets he’ll fill to brimming.”
“One can but hope.”
“I might as well go after Thomas Hoverton, or else my siblings will never let me hear the end of it. I can hear them now. ‘Hallie, you say you bought a property and the owner sold it to someone else first then flew off to another country?’ ‘You knew he was a rotter and you didn’t even take any precautions?’ ‘How big did you say your brain was, Hallie?’ And on and on it will go until I garrote myself.”
Yet again, Jason wanted to laugh, but didn’t. “Let’s just wait and see what happens with Mr. Chartley. Regardless of whether or not I end up with Lyon’s Gate, I will help you find Thomas.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He fell silent, watching her.
“You’re not as angry as you should be with Thomas Hoverton,” she said slowly, eyeing him. “Why is that?”
Jason smiled. “Fact is, he didn’t get my money. Not because I’m such an excellent man of business, mind you. It was the Sherbrooke solicitor, Wily Willy Bibber, who refused to pay the solicitor a single groat until I had taken actual possession of Lyon’s Gate.”
Hallie felt like a complete and utter fool. She turned on her heel and went back up the wide staircase. Midway up, she paused and turned to see Jason standing in the entrance hall, staring up after her.
She said, her voice emotionless, “I understand now why Lord Renfrew took Mrs. Matcham for a lover not two weeks before we were to be married. He believed I was too stupid and too infatuated with him to find him out. Do you know what? I didn’t find out about Mrs. Matcham until after I had broken our engagement. What I did find out was that his tailor, a Mr. Huff, hadn’t been paid for six months. He came to me, you see, hoping I would pay him. He told me not to be surprised if more tradesmen arrived on my doorstep since all his lordship’s creditors knew now that his lordship had found a lovely plump pigeon who was so green she’d probably start blooming before spring.”
“That’s a goodly dose of humiliation,” Jason said. “Are you talking about William Sloane?”
“No, William Sloane gambled away nearly all the money before he conveniently died, and his brother, Elgin Sloane, became Lord Renfrew.”
“But didn’t your uncle meet him? Make certain he wasn’t marrying you for your money or—”
“Yes, he did. It was William who had the bad reputation, not Elgin. After all, Elgin Sloane had only been on the London scene for seven months before he met me. No one knew the real state of his finances.”
“So only the tradesmen knew the truth about him.”
“Evidently so.”
“At least you found this out before you married.”
“If I’d found out after the wedding, I would have shot him.”
“That’s an American thing to say.” But he laughed. “You would have been hung here. It was then you decided you wanted to own a stud?”
“Yes. I will become independent, and never marry.”
“As I’ve said, Miss Carrick, there are probably many properties for sale as well as many men out there who aren’t rotters like Elgin Sloane.”
She waved away his words. “Or, I suppose, I could become a nun.”
“I can’t imagine any mother superior worth her salt taking you on. I strongly doubt you are docile enough to take orders.”
She shrugged. “Regardless, I will never marry, not unless I lose my wits entirely and pour my money into another bounder’s hands. I believe I’ll hire someone to watch me. If I am in danger of falling into that wretched trap again, that person will simply shove me into the herring barrel.”
“Like I said, not all men are bounders, Miss Carrick.”
She shrugged again, not looking at him.
He felt her pain and hated that he felt it. She turned to go back up the stairs when he called out, “Like you, Miss Carrick, I have also determined that I will never marry. I am fortunate that it isn’t my responsibility to provide an heir for the Sherbrooke line, so it won’t matter.”
She said nothing, but he knew her attention was focused on him. Still, he wasn’t about to say anything more, and was horrified at himself for saying this much. Never would he speak of it, never—“It happened to me nearly five years ago.” He shut his mouth. He was a fool, an idiot. None of this was her business, anyone’s business.
“You were going to marry a girl who wanted you only for your money?”
He laughed, this time a low, vicious laugh from deep inside him, and the words tumbled out. “Oh no, I far exceeded your paltry betrayal, Miss Carrick. I picked a girl who would have killed my father if Corrie hadn’t shot and killed her.” He couldn’t stand himself. He’d poured all that out just to make this outrageous girl feel better. Thank God there was nothing else to burst out of his damned mouth. A pity one couldn’t retrieve hasty words and stuff them back down one’s throat. He turned on his heel and left the town house.
Hallie Carrick stood on the stairs for a very long time. She’d heard all sorts of gossip about why Jason Sherbrooke had abruptly left England and gone to live with the Wyndhams, but nothing close to this. He was right. She was hurt and humiliated because one dishonorable man had tried to get his hands on her money. What had happened to her was common, but what had happened to him—the way he’d been used, it would rot the soul. He had run away to America; he’d tried to run away from himself. She didn’t think he’d succeeded. She turned to go up to her bedchamber. He would never trust another woman. She would wager her substantial dowry on that. She couldn’t blame him.
CHAPTER 11
At lunch the following day, Douglas said, “I’m very sorry, Miss Carrick, but Mr. Chartley is selling Lyon’s Gate to Jason for the sum he himself paid for it.”
“And a paltry amount it was. Yes, it is what I imagined would happen,” Hallie said. “Isn’t it interesting that after all of this, you, Mr. Sherbrooke, have gained what you wanted and paid only a pittance for it?” She rose slowly. “I would like to thank you for your hospitality, my lord, my lady. I’ll be leaving in the morning for Ravensworth. I must pack now.”
She nodded to each of the Sherbrookes in turn, and walked out of the drawing room to see Willicombe standing at the foot of the stairs, clearly blocking her.
“Yes, Willicombe?”
“I just wanted to tell you, Miss Carrick, if you’ll forgive my impertinence, that I have a cousin who worked for Lord Renfrew. My cousin said his lordship was a smarmy, mean-spirited man, the kind who would seduce a parlor maid and pat himself on the back for his virility. Never said a thank-you to any of his servants. It was my cousin Quincy who told Lord Renfrew’s tailor, Mr. Huff, that his chances for gaining money owed him were not good. Quincy had no idea, of course, that Mr. Huff would come to you with his hand out. Still, it turned out for the best, didn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed it did. What a very small world it is.” Willicombe gave her a small bow and she walked up the stairs, only to stop again halfway up. “Do you know what happened to Lord Renfrew, Willicombe?”
“His lordship married a Miss Ann Brainerd of York. Her father owns many canals criss-crossing the north country, and made his fortune carrying goods
up and down those canals. Now trains are making the canals obsolete because goods are transported much more cheaply and quickly that way. It’s rumored Lord Renfrew hasn’t gained as much from the marriage as he’d expected. Evidently, his wife’s father realized quickly enough that Lord Renfrew wasn’t a man of sterling character.”
“Well, that’s some justice, isn’t it?”
“Except for her poor ladyship.”
“There must always be someone who loses, Willicombe.”
“Yes, miss, isn’t that the truth?”
“Your cousin, what did he do for Lord Renfrew?”
“He was his lordship’s lead coachman both here in London and at his estate in the country.”
“What is your cousin doing now, Willicombe?”
“He is a junior coachman for Lady Pauley, Miss Carrick, over on Bigger Lane. She is quite fat, is Lady Pauley, fair to makes the horses groan when two foot-men shove her up into the coach, Quincy says. It’s a pity.”
“Is Quincy a strong fellow?”
“Nearly as strong as Remie, my nephew.”
“Thank you, Willicombe. I must think about this.” She left Willicombe looking up after her. The young lady had lost, right and proper, proving what she’d said—someone always had to lose. It was the way of the world. He wondered what would happen to her now. He wondered why she was interested in Quincy.
At dinner that evening, Douglas eyed a silent Hallie a moment, then said, “Let me tell you more about Mr. Chartley. As we suspected, there is a Miss Chartley. We met her when we visited Mr. Chartley at Twenty-five Park Lane, a lovely corner mansion that Lady Bellingham’s heirs rented to him for the season.
“Miss Chartley has just turned eighteen. She is, ah, not terribly toothsome, rather she’s on the plump side and her teeth are a bit long and forward, and her laugh, well, it made my nerves jump.”
Jason looked at Hallie, whose head had been bent over her plate until his father had begun to speak. He saw her jaw drop. He burst into laughter. To her surprise, Hallie joined him, the first sounds out of either of them since the family had sat down to an excellent dinner of braised beef and onion-dunked potatoes, two of Cook’s specialties.
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 103
