Catherine Coulter: Lyons Gate

“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 just 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?”

“I didn’t meet her, but isn’t she dreadfully old?”

“Not beyond her eightieth year. She would refuse in any case. She doesn’t like ladies, except my aunt Melissande. I was joking with you. However, finding a chaperone won’t be a problem since you’re not moving to Lyon ’s Gate.”

“I wish you would give it up, Mr. Sherbrooke. I bought the property from the actual owner. It’s done.”

“I have a feeling that Thomas will prefer the sale going through his solicitor.”

“Why?”

“Because the money that goes to Mr. Clark might be a bit more safely hidden from creditors than if it went directly to Thomas Hoverton. Hmm, I wonder what Thomas will have to say if that is true?”

“No, that can’t be right. You made that up. The money goes to Thomas in any case.”

“We will see, won’t we? Go to bed, Miss Carrick.” He towered over her. “Jessie Wyndham is taller than you are.”

“These things happen. Perhaps James Wyndham is taller than you. We grow big in America.”

He smiled down at her. “It’s better this way, Miss Carrick. Lyon ’s Gate is a grand property, its potential can be reached only by a strong man who has a vision. I am that man, Miss Carrick.”

“Your foot is bleeding, Mr. Sherbrooke. Brought low by a twig. Some strong man you are.”

Jason reached out his hand and lightly touched his fingertips to her chin. A firm, very stubborn chin. “Give it up, Miss Carrick. Go back to Ravensworth. Buy something there.”

“Good night, Mr. Sherbrooke. If I am found dead beneath one of Mary Rose’s honeysuckle vines, you can be certain you or one of your family members will be blamed for it.”

“Oh, were any of us to resort to that, you would simply disappear, Miss Carrick. Don’t forget that herring barrel.” He gave her a small salute and walked back into the vicarage, trying not to limp even when he stepped on another sharp twig.

Jason didn’t return to Northcliffe Hall. He rode directly back to London in clothes he borrowed from his twin.

When everyone arrived at the Sherbrooke town house late afternoon of the following day, he was waiting for them in the drawing room.

He wasn’t all that surprised when Hallie Carrick ran into the drawing room ahead of everyone, her right hand fisted, blood in her eyes.

He managed to catch her fist before it landed. “You miserable sot.” She managed to twist her hand free and hit him in the belly. He grunted as he grabbed both wrists.

She stood on her tiptoes, right in his face, squirming and tugging, but he wasn’t about to let her go again. “You paltry cretin, you puling weasel-let go of me so I can hove your ribs in!”

“I might be paltry and puling, but I’m not stupid. I’m not about to let you get loose again, Miss Carrick.”

“Let me at you, let me have more leverage, and I’ll send my fist into your liver.”

Corrie said, “She’s been muttering all the way to London about the most satisfying ways to kill you, Jason. Even my best conversational efforts didn’t deter her from quite innovative murder schemes, including stuffing you in a herring barrel and sailing you off some place on the other side of the planet.” Corrie paused a moment, tapped her fingertips against her chin, and sighed. “But you know, Hallie, in the end, you’ve let me down.”

Hallie jerked around at that. “What do you mean let you down?”

“You obviously are not acquainted with boxing science. When all’s said and done, you hit him like a girl-a straight shot, nothing subtle, nothing surprising at all.”

James said, “I hesitate to insert myself in the middle of this battlefield, but how the devil do you know anything about boxing science, Corrie?”

“I followed you and Jason to a boxing match near Chelmsley when I was twelve. You, Jason, and a half dozen wild young men from Oxford came down to get debauched and lose your groats on some sweating idiot trying to kill another sweating idiot.”

Douglas said, “You never saw her, James? You never knew about this until now?”

“She was always sneaky,” James said. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you, God, for not letting all the gentlemen present realize she was a girl. You were wearing your britches, weren’t you?”

“Yes, naturally. I even won a pound betting on the very sweaty man-now what was his name? Crutcher, I believe. I wagered on him because he had longer arms. I figured that gave him the advantage.”

“You’re right,” Jason said, “Crutcher was his name. No, Miss Carrick, don’t try to knock me into the fireplace again. That’s better, hold still. Your wrists are staying right where they are. I bet on him too, Corrie. Won a hundred pounds off Quin Parker. I’d never even seen a hundred pounds before that day. James tried to extort a share, but I hid my booty.”