Catherine Coulter: Sherbrooke Twins

His mother stepped back and looked up at him. “Oh dear, it’s lovely to have one’s own visit confirmed, but still, this isn’t good at all. Your father, you know how he scoffs.” She tapped her fingertips to her chin. “Well, she came to you as well. We’ll have to see what your father has to say now.”

His father had hardly a thing to say, other than, “You ate turnips for dinner, didn’t you, Jason?”

He assured his sire that he hadn’t. He knew his father wanted to ask him if he’d been carousing, but he couldn’t, not in front of his mother.

His father grunted, and waved him away. “Go take a bath. It will get rid of all your dirt and hopefully set your brain on the right track again.”

As for James, he listened to what Jason said, then replied, “I don’t understand this, I really don’t. It makes my brain ache, Jase. She said there was trouble at home, nothing more, and then you saw Father? That’s exactly what she felt to Mother too, but Mother didn’t see Father’s face, she said she just knew he was the one in danger. We shall have to be vigilant. Now, about this Elanora, did you buy her any clothes?”

“Clothes?” Jason’s dark brow shot up. “Well, no, I don’t believe I bought her anything at all.”

“Hmm. I wonder what father would say about that,” James said and walked away, whistling.

THERE WAS NO sign of trouble until two afternoons later.

Douglas Sherbrooke was breaking in his new gelding, Henry VIII, meaner than Douglas’s mother when the mood struck. Henry was bucking, rearing on his hind legs, corkscrewing, and Douglas was having a fine time when suddenly there was a loud popping sound. Henry bucked wildly, and Douglas, distracted, was hurled out of the saddle onto his back into a mess of low-lying yews that broke his fall. He didn’t move, just lay there, looking up into the blue summer sky, querying his parts. Someone had shot him in his upper arm. Just a graze, really. It was the fall that could have killed him. He admired yew bushes more than he ever had in the past.

He got to his feet, felt the sting in his arm, looked around for a sign of the man who’d fired the shot, then walked to where Henry was standing. The big horse was frightened and sweating. Douglas wrapped his handkerchief around his arm, hoping Henry wouldn’t smell the blood.

Douglas spoke to him, soothed him as best he could, took off his riding jacket, and rubbed him down. He didn’t know what his valet Peabody would have to say about that. “We’re both all right now, Henry. Don’t fret, boy, we pulled through this. I’m going to give you a nice bucket of oats when we get home. As for me, well I suppose I’ll have to get that miserable Dr. Milton here, Alex will demand it. Then she’ll hover over me, and she won’t say it, but she’ll give me that look that says very clearly, ‘I told you she said there’d be trouble. I said it was you and I was right.’

“Now, the question is, who shot me and why? Was it an accident? Some poacher whose finger slipped on the trigger? And if it was someone who for whatever reason hates my guts, then why did he fire only one shot? That seems ill thought-out, doesn’t it, Henry, if he was after me? Well, let’s see if he left something behind that could be useful.”

As he rode back to Northcliffe Hall, his arm burning, he thought again of the Virgin Bride and her warning.

When he walked through the front door, it was to hear raised voices, several of them, all arguing. He was carrying his riding jacket since it was covered with Henry’s sweat. He hoped no one would notice that he had a bloody handkerchief tied around his upper arm.

He saw Corrie Tybourne-Barrett standing in the middle of the vast central hall, looking as disreputable as a village boy in her ridiculous old breeches and boots, that old hat pulled down low on her forehead, her dusty braid hanging down her back. Shaking his fist at her was Mr. Josiah Marker, owner of a mill on the Alsop River.

“Ye went flying right into the mill, that horse o’ yers spraying grain all over the place! Fer shame, missy! Fer shame!”

Corrie yelled back, waving her own fist in Mr. Marker’s face, “Don’t you dare say that Darlene sprayed your grain any place, she didn’t! It was your son Willie, that good-for-nothing little blighter! I hit him when he tried to kiss me, and he’s paying me back! Darlene wasn’t near your mill!”

Douglas didn’t raise his voice, he’d never had to. He simply said, “Quiet, everyone. That is quite enough.”

He realized then that Corrie and Mr. Marker and four servants were standing in the great hall entrance. Where were his sons, his wife, for God’s sake, even his damned mother? Where was Hollis, who could have dealt with this in a matter of three very calm seconds?

There was instant silence, but anger vibrated in the air. Douglas dismissed the servants and was just turning to Mr. Marker when James came through the front doors, windblown, lightly slapping his riding crop against his thigh. He stopped cold. “What is going on, Father? Corrie, what are you doing here?”

Mr. Marker started to open his mouth, but Douglas merely raised his hand. “No, no more. James, would you please deal with this? It’s some sort of spurned suitor revenge, I gather.”

“My boy would never seek revenge,” said Mr. Marker furiously. “He’s a sweet-tempered saint, my lord.” Mr. Marker added, his voice lower now because no one ever yelled in the vicinity of the earl of Northcliffe, “He doesn’t even like girls, told me he didn’t, so he would never try to kiss Miss Corrie. And jest look at her, not even a girl, if ye take me meaning. My Willie’s niver done anything wrong in his whole little life, bless him and bless his mother fer birthing him.”

James was staring at the handkerchief tied around his father’s arm, and the blood soaking it. The Virgin Bride was right. What had happened? He watched his father walk up the stairs, Mr. Marker’s words flowing over him, but he had no choice but to remain and deal with this idiocy. He didn’t like this one bit, but he had no choice. He turned and smiled at Mr. Marker.

“I would like to hear what both of you have to say. Would you please come into the estate room?”

IT REQUIRED TEN minutes to pin down the basic facts. James finally said to Mr. Marker, “I regret to tell you, sir, that Willie, your sweet boy, has a very long road to travel if he is to attain sainthood in the next six lifetimes.”

“Impossible, my lord. He tells me everything, Willie does, and he’s a good boy, thoughtful and kind, even to this missy over here.”

“You force me to be blunt, sir. Willie is known throughout the area as a young man who kisses any girl who isn’t fast enough to get away from him. There is no doubt in my mind that Corrie smacked him, and that he wanted revenge. I suggest you make him work off what he has done. Now, good day to you, and I wish you luck with Willie.”

“But, my sweet boy-”

“Good day, Mr. Marker. Corrie, you stay.”

Hollis magically appeared in the doorway of the estate room. “Mr. Marker, it seems to me that you would like a nice glass of ale before you confront William. Isn’t it always so that a man, regardless of his own high moral standing, must face bad behavior in his children? I do have some suggestions for how you might deal with him.”

Mr. Marker folded his tent. He followed Hollis from the estate room, his old hat clutched in his fingers.

“Did Willie really try to kiss you?”

Corrie shuddered. “Yes, it was awful. I turned my head really fast and he kissed my ear. James, I had to do something-”