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

by Coulter, Catherine

  Nicholas smiled and turned to look at another young man standing at Richard’s elbow. “I recognize you. You are Lancelot, are you not?”

  They could not have looked less like brothers. Unlike either Richard or Nicholas, this young man was slight, fair, and pale, the image of a delicate poet. Nicholas looked at his artist’s hands, with their long fingers and beautiful shape. He wondered what his father had thought of this pretty son, who resembled his mother, Miranda, if Nicholas remembered aright.

  Out of his pretty mouth came a petulant voice. “Everyone knows I am called Lance.”

  Nicholas drawled, “No knight then?”

  “Make no jest with me, sir. It was paltry.”

  Nicholas raised a dark brow. “I? Certainly I wouldn’t consider a jest with you. You are my family, after all.”

  “Only by bitter and unjust circumstance,” Richard said. “We don’t want you here. No one wants you here.”

  “How very strange,” Nicholas said easily. “I am now the head of the Vail family, I am your eldest brother. You should welcome me, delight in my company, look to me for advice and counsel.”

  Lancelot made a rude noise.

  “You are nothing more than a ne’er-do-well adventurer, sir, who should probably be in Newgate.”

  “An adventurer, hmmm. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Nicholas smiled at both young men impartially, strangers, both of them, and they hated him, doubtless made to hate him by his father and their mother. They’d been innocent children once; he remembered them from their last visit to Wyverly Chase, just before his grandfather had died. He’d been an ancient twelve. He said slowly, “I remember there are three of you. Where is—what is his name?”

  “Aubrey,” Richard said, tight-lipped. “He studies at Oxford.”

  Oxford, Nicholas thought; it sounded alien, it felt alien. “Do give Aubrey my best,” he said, nodding to Richard and Lancelot.

  “I heard you were staying at Grillon’s,” Richard called after him. “A pity Father didn’t leave you the town house.”

  Lancelot snickered.

  Nicholas turned back. “To be honest with you, Wyverly Chase is more than enough. I am relieved that decrepit Georgian pile on Epson Square wasn’t entailed to me. The repairs alone must cost you at least three nights’ winnings at the gaming table, if you ever win, that is.”

  Lancelot said, “Father wouldn’t have left you Wyverly Chase either if it hadn’t been entailed. A pity now that it will molder into the ground.”

  “It moldered long before my arrival,” Nicholas said.

  Lancelot said, “And you will not be able to do anything about it. Everyone knows you’re poor as a rooster catcher on the heath.”

  “I don’t believe I am familiar with that term,” Nicholas said.

  “That’s right, you are not a proper Englishman, are you?” Richard said, sneering. “It’s a boy who handles the birds for cockfights, worthless little beggars with scarred hands from the birds biting them. We heard you sailed in from faraway China. We heard you even have several Chinaman servants.”

  Nicholas gave them both a schoolmaster’s approving nod. “It is good that you listen. Myself, I recommend listening, I have always found it useful.” As he turned to leave through the front door, held open by the same footman—all ears—he added, “Actually, I have always found listening more useful than talking. You might consider that.”

  Nicholas heard Lancelot huff out an angry breath. Richard’s eyes were black with rage, his face flushed. Interesting how completely their father had bent their minds into hatred of him, Nicholas thought as he strode down the broad wide steps to the walkway. He remembered Richard had been a happy boy, and Lance a cherub, all pink and white and smiling, content to sit at his mother’s feet whilst she played the harp. As for Aubrey, he’d been so small when Nicholas had last seen him—a little boy who loved nothing more than to hurl a ball and run up and down the long corridor, yelling at the top of his lungs. Nicholas remembered how he’d nearly gone tumbling down the front stairs. Nicholas had scooped him up just in time. He also remembered Miranda screaming at him, accusing him of trying to murder her son, and Aubrey between them, crying and afraid. His father, Nicholas recalled, had believed it, and taken a whip to him, cursed him, and called him a murdering little bastard. Nicholas’s grandfather had been too ill to intervene, and he would have if he’d even been aware that his son and family had come to witness his death. Sweet hell, who knew why such memories burrowed into a man’s brain?

  There were at least two dozen carriages lining both sides of the street, both the drivers and the horses appearing to be asleep. It was a good long walk back to Grillon’s Hotel. Not a single miscreant appeared in his path.

  4

  At the Sherbrooke breakfast table the following morning, a kipper poised on her fork, Rosalind asked Ryder, “Sir, who was that dark gentleman who wanted to dance with me last night? The young one with long hair black as All Hallows’ Eve?”

  Ryder was a fool to believe Nicholas Vail hadn’t made an impression on her though she hadn’t said a thing about him on their way home the previous evening. He said easily, “The young man is the Earl of Mountjoy, newly arrived on our shores, some say from faraway China.”

  “China,” Rosalind said, stretching it out, as if savoring the feel of it on her tongue. “How vastly romantic that sounds.”

  Grayson Sherbrooke grunted with disgust. “You girls—you’d say that riding in a tumbrel to the guillotine, shoulders squared, sounded romantic.”

  Rosalind gave Grayson a big grin and made a chopping motion with her hand. “You obviously have no soul, Grayson.”

  Grayson waved that away. “Everyone is speculating about him. I heard he’s in town to find himself an heiress. At least that means you’re safe, Rosalind.”

  “Of course I’m safe. I’m in the same hole with the church mouse.”

  “Regardless,” Ryder said, “he asked me if he could pay us a visit this morning.”

  Rosalind sat forward in her chair, the nutty bun in her hand forgotten, eyes sparkling. “What? He wants to visit me?”

  “Or Aunt Sophie,” Ryder said. “Who knows? Perhaps he was taken with Grayson, and wants to hear a good ghost story.” Ryder frowned. “Perhaps it was a mistake to tell him you were my ward.”

  “But why, sir? Oh, I see. As part of the Sherbrooke family, ward or not, he must assume I’m exceedingly plump in the pocket.” Rosalind wasn’t about to tell Uncle Ryder or Grayson that she was more disappointed than warranted at this nasty bit of news.

  “You’re only discreetly plump,” Ryder said.

  Grayson said, “On the other hand, from what I have heard of the mysterious earl, he never acts until he knows exactly what he wants.”

  Rosalind said, “You mean he wants me even though I’m not an heiress? That’s ridiculous, Grayson. Nobody would want me. Besides, he can’t have me.”

  Grayson tapped his knife on the tablecloth. “I will be with you when he pays his visit this morning. We must know what he wants from you. If he’s come to the mistaken conclusion you are an heiress, I will dispel that notion immediately.”

  Rosalind said, “He is very imposing.”

  “Yes,” Ryder said, “he is. I sent a note to Horace Bingley—the Sherbrooke solicitor here in London—to tell us what he knows of the earl. We will see what he has to say about the young man’s character.”

  Grayson said, “Excellent idea, Father, since no one really knows much about him. However, it does seem to be the consensus that he is a pauper and desperately needs to attach an heiress.”

  Ryder nodded. “I’ve also heard that the old earl left his heir nothing that wasn’t nailed down in the entailment. He beggared his own son out of spite—the reason for this strange behavior no one seems to know. I will ask Horace to find out, if, that is, Nicholas Vail appeals to Rosalind.”

  He had indeed appealed to her, Rosalind thought, but didn’t say that aloud. She didn’t want to alarm Un
cle Ryder before he’d ensured Nicholas Vail wasn’t a bad man.

  But she knew he wasn’t; she knew it to her bones.

  Grayson said, “We haven’t given out any information about your early years, Rosalind.”

  “What is there to say? I am of no account, I am nothing at all.”

  Anger rippled through Ryder’s voice. “You listen to me, Rosalind, you are not too old for me to wallop you.”

  “But it is only the truth, Uncle Ryder. I know you always prize the truth.”

  Ryder said to his wife as she came into the dining room, sniffing the air, “Rosalind has become impertinent, Sophie. What do you think we should do?”

  “Wallop her, Father,” Grayson said.

  Sophie laughed. “Don’t let her have one of Cook’s nutty buns. That way I will have more and she will learn a valuable lesson.”

  “There are three left, Aunt Sophie,” Rosalind said. “I swear I took only one; it’s your son who is the glutton.”

  Grayson toasted her with his teacup.

  Sophie said as she selected a nutty bun, “The Earl of Mountjoy presents the face of a man of mystery, a man with dark secrets. I have always found that a man of mystery piques a woman’s curiosity, she cannot help herself. It is the nature of things.”

  Rosalind nodded. “He is mysterious, yes, but he also looked apart from everyone at the ball, as if he knew he had to be there but did he want to be?”

  “That is called arrogance,” Sophie said and took a blissful bite of one of the three remaining nutty buns. She chewed slowly, eyes closed. “Ah, Nirvana is close.”

  “I don’t think women are allowed in Nirvana, Mother,” Grayson said.

  Sophie waved the last bit of nutty bun at him before she popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes again. “Ah, you are wrong, my dearest. I have ascended.”

  Grayson said, “Nicholas Vail sounds like Uncle Douglas. He has a way of looking at a roomful of people as though their only purpose is to amuse him.”

  “He even has the look of Douglas when he was young,” Ryder said thoughtfully.

  Rosalind said, “He’s coming to visit and I never even spoke to him. I could perhaps understand his wishing to visit me had he waltzed with me, since I am such a superb dancer, but he didn’t. And he never enjoyed my wit, since I didn’t have the opportunity to speak to him. Hmm, perhaps others spoke to him of my lovely way with words, my exquisite grace, do you think?” Even as she laughed at herself, she saw him very clearly in her mind. She could easily see him wearing a black cloak billowing in a night wind. He oozed mystery, dark boundless secrets, hidden and obscure.

  Sophie said, “Regardless of his motive for wishing to see you, Rosalind, I would say he’s a man who likes to be in control. One cannot be in control unless one knows about everything.”

  “Perhaps, my dear,” Ryder said slowly, “just perhaps you are right. The earl does look like he knows what he’s about, and if that is indeed true, then he must know that you are not an heiress. So it’s a mystery we have.”

  “It isn’t always about a girl’s dowry, is it, Uncle Ryder?”

  “Yes,” said Ryder.

  “Ha,” said Sophie. “You took me with naught but the chemise on my back.”

  Ryder Sherbrooke’s blue eyes dilated, something neither his son nor his ward wanted to explore, something that made both of them vastly uncomfortable. Rosalind took another drink of her tea. Grayson played with his fork.

  Sophie said, “He doesn’t look like an easy man. All those secrets. He looks like he’s seen many things, done many things, perhaps to survive.” She sighed. “He is so very young.”

  “Not so young at all, Mother,” Grayson said. “He is about my age. Perhaps I look mysterious as well?”

  His mother, no fool, said immediately, “Of course you do, dearest. And your novels—goodness, there are so many terrifying happenings, so much mystery, my poor heart nearly leaps out of my chest, and one wonders where these black mysteries shrouded in dread and cunning come from. One must accept that they emerge from a mind that cannot be understood, only admired and marveled at.”

  Rosalind listened, feeling her own heart sound slow, hard strokes. She saw Nicholas Vail standing in front of Uncle Ryder, dark as a Barbary Coast pirate prince who would perhaps return to his opulent tent and lie at his ease on silk pillows, and watch veiled dancing girls. As for his size, well, he was larger than Uncle Douglas, she was certain of that. And he looked powerful, a hard disciplined man, both in mind and body. Nicholas Vail—she realized his name sounded through her mind with a strange sort of familiarity, and wasn’t that odd? But she knew she’d never heard of the family. And he was an earl—Lord Mountjoy. She’d never heard the title before either. She wondered what he wanted with her. She was eighteen and not at all stupid. How she wished that Ryder Sherbrooke, the man whose blood she wished she carried, would let her meet with Nicholas Vail alone, completely alone. Unfortunately, she thought sadly, that wouldn’t happen. It was not one of the benefits of being eighteen and unmarried.

  5

  At exactly eleven o’clock, Willicombe, his bald head shining brilliantly from the new recipe he’d used just that morning—aniseed, imagine that!—spoke in his lovely musical voice from the doorway of the first-floor drawing room, “The Earl of Mountjoy, madam.”

  Sophie said, “Do show the earl in, Willicombe.”

  Nicholas Vail paused a moment in the doorway. His eyes went to her immediately, as if no one else were in the room.

  Ryder, who was standing by the fireplace, pushed off the mantel and walked to the young man, forcing his attention away from Rosalind. “My lord, do come in and meet my ward, and my son, Grayson.”

  Nicholas was a hunter, but he wasn’t stupid. He bowed over Mrs. Sherbrooke’s hand, then Rosalind’s hand, but he didn’t linger. He realized Grayson Sherbrooke was studying him intently, and said to him, “You write mysterious novels, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

  Grayson laughed. “Yes, I do, but there are primarily mysterious ghosts and otherworldly beings in my books, my lord, who enjoy meddling in the lives of men. And women.”

  Nicholas said, “I read The Phantom of Drury Lane. I enjoyed it immensely. It fair to curdled my innards.”

  Rosalind laughed, charmed to her toes, as, she knew, were Uncle Ryder and Aunt Sophie since they were Grayson’s proud parents. Grayson beamed. “Yes, it curdled a lot of readers’ innards, my lord, mine as well. I am pleased you liked it.”

  Sophie thought, what was a mother to do in the face of such a lovely compliment toward her beloved son? A mother would obviously unbend, and so Sophie unbent. “You are obviously a gentleman of excellent literary taste, my lord. You are possibly even worthy of one of Cook’s excellent nutty buns. I begged her to bake more and she decided to please me. Willicombe, do bring in tea and any nutty buns that haven’t already been filched off the plate.”

  Willicombe eyed the imposing young man who’d had the brain to compliment Master Grayson, and unbent himself. “Yes, madam,” he said, and bowed low so the earl could enjoy the shine.

  When Willicombe was gone, Nicholas said to Sophie, “His head—it near to blinded me.”

  Ryder said, “He was lucky to have that slash of sunlight hit it exactly right when he bowed. You see, my lord, Willicombe prides himself on a high shine. He is not bald, he shaves his head twice a week. He informed me this morning he applied a new recipe.”

  Nicholas laughed, still paying no particular attention to Rosalind. But he was aware of her, oh, yes, particularly of her rich deep red hair piled so artlessly atop her head this morning, lazy curls reaching down to brush her shoulders. Rosalind was an exotic name, he was pleased with it, but yet, somehow, her name didn’t seem right. He would be patient; he would learn everything about her soon enough.

  Because he was polite he took only one bite of a nutty bun. After he’d chewed that one bite he wished desperately he could stuff the entire bun into his mouth.

  Ryder Sherbrooke said, “Whe
re have you been for the past fourteen years, my lord?”

  He said, without hesitation, “Many places, sir. For the past five years, though, I have lived in Macau.”

  Grayson sat forward on his chair. “The Chinese own it but the Portuguese administer it, do they not?”

  Nicholas nodded. “The Portuguese landed in the early sixteenth century, claimed the peninsula even though it borders China. It was a major hub of Portuguese naval, commercial, and religious activities in East Asia for several hundred years.” He shrugged. “But a country’s fortunes change as alliances and trade markets shift. Macau is merely an outpost now, of little importance in the big scheme of things.”

  “What did you do there, my lord?”

  At last, Nicholas thought, and turned to face her. “I am in trade, Miss—” He stalled, on purpose, hoping she would give him her last name.

  She did. “I am Rosalind de La Fontaine.”

  A dark brow shot straight up. “By any chance are you a fabulist?”

  She beamed at him. “So you have read the fables by Jean de La Fontaine, sir?”

  “My grandfather read many of them to me when I was a very young boy.”

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “Yes, ‘The Hare and the Tortoise.’”

  “Ah, a patient man.”

  He smiled at her. “And your favorite is?”

  “‘The Cicada and the Ant.’”

  A black brow shot up. “Which one are you?”

  “I am the ant, sir. Winter always comes. It’s best to be prepared because one never knows when a storm might strike when least expected.”

  “That made no sense at all,” Grayson said.

  “I fear that it did,” Ryder said, and Sophie nodded, and there were shadows in her eyes. “I had no idea, dearest, that you—”