Catherine Coulter: Lyons Gate

“Why, near here of course.”

James nearly whooped aloud. He let himself breathe again. He gave his brother a fat smile. “You’ll not believe this, Jase, but old Squire Hoverton-remember, we called him the Old Squid, because he always had a hand to catch you no matter how many thieving little varmints there were in his apple orchard? Well, he died. You remember his son, Thomas, don’t you? He and his father were constantly arguing about the money the squire spent?”

“Yes, I remember. I also remember wanting to throw Thomas in a ditch. What a fool he was.”

“He’s still a fool. He’s wanted to sell out since the minute after his father’s funeral. There have been no buyers because Thomas is asking too much, probably because he owes an immense amount to his creditors. I’ve heard that he gambles at every hell in London.”

Jason nodded. “Fortunately Squire Hoverton spent a great deal of money modernizing the stables, the paddocks, and the stalls.”

James said, “The house is probably moldering on its foundation, but who cares? Well, a wife would care, but since you’re not married, it doesn’t matter. What you’re interested in is the condition of the stables and stalls, the health of the land itself, and the beech and pine forests. I’m not sure of the acreage, but a thousand acres comes to mind. We’ll ask.”

Jason couldn’t contain his excitement. “What good fortune indeed. Bless the kind Lord for letting such blighters as Thomas appear occasionally. Let’s go now, James, let’s go see it.”

Thirty minutes later, the twins pulled Bad Boy and Dodger into the lane leading to Lyon ’s Gate, once one of the premier stud farms in southern England. Jason said, “I remember Thomas was a bully, and that’s always a disguise for weakness.”

“I agree. Thomas must be in desperate need of money by now. I’ll wager you’ll be able to buy the property at an excellent price. Father’s solicitor can deal with it for you if you decide you want it.”

“Wily William Bibber?”

“Yes, old Wily Willy is still working his magic. Father says he’s like Hollis-he’ll probably be dead six months before he stops working. Now, Thomas immediately sold off all the horses. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sold off all the furniture in the house, and all the tack as well. His creditors probably made him sell the silver. But look at the stables, Jason, they look solid even from here-some paint, some horses, new equipment, some excellent grooms, good care and management, and-” James shut up. He didn’t want to overdo. His blood was surging in his veins. He was praying hard now.

Jason said, looking about, “It doesn’t look all that bad, does it, given that it’s been sitting here abandoned for what? Over a year, you said?”

“Nearly two years now.”

“Thomas is indeed a wastrel and I’m grateful for it,” Jason said in a voice so filled with excitement, James wanted to sing.

Jason pulled Dodger up in front of the neat redbrick Georgian home, ivy hanging off in clumps, dead bushes surrounding it, glass from broken windows scattered on the barren ground. “I can see Mother rubbing her hands together, picturing how everything will look when she’s finished, ordering around a dozen gardeners, all of them staggering around with buckets of plants.”

“Think of the flowers,” James said. “She’ll have more color cascading out of the flower beds than you can imagine.”

Jason rubbed his own hands together. “I hope there’s a retainer here to show us about.”

“Probably not. I’ll wager the front door isn’t even locked. We’ll show ourselves around.”

The house was indeed moldering on its foundation. Jason doubted it had been touched after Squire Hoverton’s wife had died trying to birth her sixth child somewhere around the first part of the century. Such a pity that only Thomas had survived. The house was filled with shadows and smelled of damp. Tattered draperies hung askew over long dirty or broken windows.

“The floors look solid,” James said.

“Let’s see how bad it is upstairs,” Jason said. “Then we can visit the stables.”

It was bad, more dank gloom and dirt.

“Lots of white paint should take care of things, Jason, don’t you think?”

“Oh aye, at least a half a dozen cans of white paint. Let’s get out of here, James, it’s depressing.”

James buffeted him on the shoulder. “The price has just gone down a good bit.”

There were four different paddocks, each fenced with solid oak planks, some needing repair, all needing paint. But the size of the paddocks was perfect and the holding paddock gave directly into the huge main stable. There were a total of three stables, all desperately in need of paint as well, but until two years ago, they’d been prime, and Jason could see that all of them were quite modern. The empty tack room was nicely proportioned, with a goodly sized area set aside for a head groom to work close to the horses. There were half a dozen small rooms for the stable lads.

“It reminds me of James Wyndham’s main stable,” Jason said.

There were twenty stalls, ten to a side, in the big main light-filled stable, a wide aisle between them. Beautifully built. Moldy hay and equipment parts were strewn on the floor. Jason stood there, right in the middle, sucking in great gulps of air.

“If I close my eyes I can see the horses’ heads bobbing over the stall doors, hear them neighing when they know oats are coming. Plenty of breeding and birthing stalls. It’s perfect.” Jason jumped up and clicked his heels together.

At that moment both Bad Boy and Dodger let out loud whinnies.

“What’s this?” James said and strode to the stable’s double-door entrance.

A large raw-boned chestnut stallion was pawing the ground, looking at Bad Boy and Dodger, head thrown back, nostrils flared, ready to take on both of them.

A girl’s voice called out, “Who are you and what the devil are you doing here?”

James and Jason Sherbrooke stared from the huge bay stallion, who looked like he chewed nails for breakfast, to the girl astride him, dressed in trousers, a dusty leather vest, full-sleeved white shirt, and an old hat pulled down over her head.

“Blessed hell,” James said. “It’s Corrie five years ago, down to the fat braid hanging down her back.”

Jason said slowly, never looking away from her face, “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“Of course you know me, you dolt.”

Jason’s eyebrow arched a good inch.

She pulled off the cap. Tendrils of golden hair had pulled free of the braid and hung in lazy curls down the sides of her face.

“You do look familiar,” he said again. “Oh yes, whoever you are, forgive my ill manners, this is my brother, James Sherbrooke, Lord Hammersmith.”

“My lord.” Hallie stuffed her hat back down on her head, but didn’t give him her name. “I had heard you were twins, identical in every way. But that isn’t true. Let me say, my lord, that you most certainly appear the more acceptable twin. You don’t really look like this other one at all. Did you know that he would strut down the streets in Baltimore, knowing that every female between the ages of eight and ninety-two would stop and stare at him, dropping fans, parasols, umbrellas, even in the rain, to get his attention?”

James, enjoying this unusual girl who was making his twin feel like a fool said easily, “Ma’am, a pleasure. No, I didn’t know this about my twin. To the best of my memory I haven’t ever seen him strut. I shall ask him for a demonstration.”

Hallie said, “Ladies would lurk in doorways, waiting for him to pass by. They’d throw a handkerchief or a reticule or their little sister in his path to gain his attention. You haven’t seen him strut? No wonder, since he ran away from home five years ago, you haven’t had the opportunity to witness the strut in all its glory. Conceited oaf.”