Catherine Coulter: Lyons Gate

Douglas said, after another wet kiss on the right side of his uncle Jason’s neck, “Grandpapa can’t stand that I look like Papa and Aunt Melissande. She always brings Everett and me little almond cookies when she visits. Grandpapa says blessed hell, he’ll never be free of The Face . What’s The Face, Uncle Jason?”

Jason heard his father groan, his mother laugh. He turned to his father, brow raised. “Cursing, in front of this little scamp?”

“He’s got ears as sharp as you and James had when you were his age,” Douglas Sherbrooke, the earl of Northcliffe said, and poked his wife in her ribs. “Be quiet, Alex. I don’t believe a lad can be too young to learn of the Sherbrooke curse.”

“I agree,” Corrie said. “No, don’t you dare disagree with me, James Sherbrooke. Blessed hell is always your prelude when you’re ready to cut loose.” She grinned over at Jason. “He gets mad at me-only the good Lord could possibly understand why-and I know he wants to throw me out a window, but he has to make do with blessed hell and stomp out of the room.”

“A monstrous lie,” James said, then loudly cleared his throat when his two little boys turned wide eyes to him. “Jason, do you want me to liberate you from at least one of those imps?”

Both imps wrapped their arms more tightly around Jason’s neck, nearly choking him. Jason shook his head. “Not yet. All right, lads, can we settle ourselves down for a moment or do you want me to dance you around the drawing room? Your grandmama can play a waltz on the piano, if you like.”

“Let’s dance!” Douglas shouted, his feet kicking out.

“I want to waltz too,” Everett shouted in Jason’s other ear. “What’s waltz?”

There was laughter in the air now, the awful deadening stress and anxiety swept under the carpet, at least for the time being. To Jason, it felt wonderful. He began to waltz slowly about the drawing room, tightening his hold on the squirming little bodies, kissing their ears and their chins, and watched his mother pick up her skirts and walk quickly to the piano where she soon was playing a waltz he’d heard at a ball in Baltimore some two months before.

James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith, twenty-eight minutes older than his twin, sat back, aware of his smiling wife’s warm self now pressed close to his right side, and looked toward his brother. He wasn’t surprised Jason looked as natural as could be waltzing around with two small boys in his arms, since James Wyndham had often written about how well Jason handled his own four children. He wondered if James Wyndham had ever told Jason about all the letters he himself had written here to Northcliffe Hall, at first to reassure all of them, then later detailing Jason’s successes on the racetrack, the mares he’d selected for James’s breeding program, the wonderful stallion he’d found for his host that had made him a bloody fortune in stud fees.

But all the letters didn’t make up for the lost years. He felt his heart fill to bursting. At least his twin had finally begun acknowledging all of them after two years of perfunctory, emotionless letters.

Little Douglas was right; they were no longer identical. Well, they were, objectively, but anyone who knew the both of them wouldn’t confuse them anymore. Jason was more-what was the word? More spare, maybe that was it, though they were still of a size. The big changes were on the inside. James could see the suffering deep in his twin’s eyes, and it hurt him, even as he understood it.

They’d never been identical on the inside, but they’d been connected, had known what the other worried about, what the other was feeling at any given moment. Their experiences had made them into vastly different men, the advanced age of thirty not all that far distant. He looked toward his smiling father, nearly sixty, his black and silver hair still thick, as he was always pointing out to his wife.

James saw that Hollis was stationed near the drawing room door, his foot tapping to the beat of the waltz. He was smiling, and there was such love and relief in that smile that James felt warmed to his soul. He knew how Hollis felt.

Now James had to find out what was in his twin’s mind. But not tonight. His precious, loud, and demanding little boys had saved the evening from being a silent torture, everyone afraid to say anything that could be taken the wrong way, everyone walking on eggshells around Jason. He said to Corrie, “Have I told you recently that you are very smart indeed?”

“Not since last May, I believe it was.”

He rubbed his knuckles on her cheek. “You brought Douglas and Everett into nail-biting silence and look what happened. Jason is waltzing with them.”

“It seemed the thing to do,” she said.

James took Corrie’s hand in his. He leaned back, and allowed the warmth of the laughter to flow through him.

Jason was home. At last he was home and that was all that mattered.

The two brothers stood side-by-side on the cliff overlooking the Poe Valley.

The silence between them was awkward. James finally said, “We spent so many hours here as boys. Remember the time you hurled my book on Huygens off the cliff, you were so mad at me?”

“I remember throwing the book over the side, laughing when the wind caught it and sent it even farther away, but I don’t remember why I was mad.”

James laughed. “I don’t either.”

“I do remember you and Corrie lying on your backs on this hill on clear evenings, staring up at the stars.”

“We still do that. The boys have heard me talking about the Astrological Society, listened to me whine about how my telescope doesn’t magnify enough. Unfortunately, now they’re demanding to come with their mother and me. Can you imagine? Two three-year-olds holding still for longer than thirty seconds?”

Jason said, smiling, “No, it won’t happen. Alice Wyndham, James and Jessie’s four-year-old, would be looking up at the stars while sucking her thumb, loudly, and be demanding an apple tart in the next breath. But it won’t be long at all before the four of you are stretched out like logs on the hearth looking at the heavens.”

They fell silent. Then James couldn’t stand it any longer. He grabbed his brother, held on tight. “By God, I’ve missed you. It’s like part of myself simply disappeared. I couldn’t bear it, Jason.”

Jason held himself stiff, utterly rigid-for about three seconds. Then he saw James’s utter relief that he, Jason, who’d nearly cost him his life, was back again. His generosity astounded Jason. Jason couldn’t help himself; he pulled away. He felt self-conscious, clumsy, and so very sorry that he wished for the thousandth time that what had happened could be undone, but of course it couldn’t. Nothing could ever be changed once it happened. He said, voice thick, “Forgive me, James, it’s still difficult for me. I’m so very sorry for what happened. Your acceptance of me now is so very like you.”

“Don’t you understand? I never didn’t accept you. I never blamed you, nor did anyone else.”

Jason waved that away. “The truth is the truth. You knew I couldn’t stay here, not after what I did.”

James accepted the rebuff though it hurt him to his soul. “I knew how you felt and I did understand, but I still couldn’t bear it. Neither could Mother and Father. It’s been difficult without you, Jase.” He paused a moment, drew himself together, and stared out over the green Poe Valley. “You’re staying home now?”

“Yes. I’ll be looking for my own property. I want to own and operate my own stud farm.”

James felt a surge of pride. He wanted to tell Jason that James Wyndham had written that Jason was magic with horses, that he would soon be one of the premier breeders in England. He asked, trying his best to sound nonchalant, “Where are you interested in buying?”