The Sherbrooke Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 1)

His cousin, Douglas thought, held a very good opinion of himself, and truth be told, so did most other people. No woman, so far as Douglas knew, had ever played Tony false. Indeed, it was always Tony who had stepped away, laughing, as carefree as Ryder when it came to the fair sex, until he met Teresa Carleton, a young widow who had, for some obscure and unfathomed reason, charmed Viscount Rathmore to his Hessian-covered toes and marriage had popped into his mind and out of his mouth within a week. Then she had proceeded to play the game by the same rules Tony employed. The blow to his esteem must be shattering. No wonder he was reeling from it.

“I can’t go back to London now for I would see her and my temper is uncertain, Douglas, you know that. I must rusticate until I regain my balance, until I am once more in control—cold and hard in my brain once again—and in no danger of cursing that scheming slut and slapping her silly. Do you mind if I stay here for a while?”

The solution to his problem came to Douglas in a blinding flash, fully fleshed and brilliant, and he grinned. “Tony

, you may stay here for the remainder of the century. You may drink all my fine French brandy; you may even sleep in my earl’s bed. You may do anything you wish.” Douglas strode to his cousin, grabbed his hand and pumped it, all the while grinning like a fool. “In addition, you, Tony, are about to save my life. Heaven will welcome you for what you will do for me.”

Tony Parrish looked at his cousin, then smiled, a real smile, one filled with curiosity and humor. “I expect you will tell your expectations of my future bravery,” he said slowly.

“Oh yes, indeed. Let’s go riding and I will tell you all about it.”

Tony’s smile remained intact, his interest level high for about five minutes into Douglas’s recital, then he looked astounded, aghast, then once again, he smiled, shrugged, and said, “Why not?”

Claybourn Hall

Why not indeed, Tony Parrish thought five days later, his eyes a bit glazed from the vision that stood not five feet from him. She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Every feature complemented the other, and each was arguably well nigh perfect. None of his former or present mistresses, nor his former fiancée, Teresa Carleton, came near to her in the flawlessness of her features. He’d always believed fair-haired women were the most beautiful, the most delicate and alluring. By all the saints, not so. Her hair was black and thick with no hint of red, her eyes an incredible dark blue, slightly slanted upward and sinfully long-lashed. Her skin was white and soft and smooth, her nose thin, her mouth full and tempting. Her body was so precisely perfect in its wondrous curves that it made him break into an immediate sweat.

He felt his belly cramp. He felt himself pale. He just looked at her, unable not to, and watched a slow smile touch her mouth. She spoke, saying softly, “Viscount Rathmore? You are the earl’s cousin, I believe?”

He nodded like a dimwitted fool and took her hand, turning it slowly, and kissing the soft palm. She knew her effect on him, he thought, her warm hand still held in his. She knew that he was stunned; and she would attempt to manipulate him, but he didn’t mind. Odd, but it was so. Suddenly he felt her fingers tighten slightly in his grasp as he returned her smile. Was she also a bit stunned as well? He would soon see. He knew he had to regain his confidence, sorely diminished by Teresa Carleton. He had to regain his mastery. He could, if he wished, make this glorious creature bend to him. He could and he would . . .

His thinking stopped cold in its tracks. Her name was Melissande and he was here to marry her by proxy to his cousin, Douglas Sherbrooke.

Etaples, France

Douglas was in the middle of Napoleon’s naval invasion stronghold, although anywhere from Boulogne to Dunkirk to Ostend and all points in between could be considered part of his “immense project.” It was, actually, one of the safest places to be in France, particularly if one were an English spy, for there was no security at all and people came and went and looked and talked and listened and even drew sketches of all the ongoing work. Douglas marveled at the thousands upon thousands of men who labored around the clock in the basins and harbors and on the beaches, building hundreds of transports of all kinds. Alongside the score upon score of workers were soldiers, and they did little as far as Douglas could tell. There was constant activity everywhere.

Douglas wore a private’s uniform, new and shining but three days before, and now appropriately soiled and wrinkled. He’d been scouting about as he’d waited for Cadoudal to contact him, gleaning information from the loose-mouthed officers and enlisted soldiers in the neighboring taprooms. All he could do was wait. His French was flawless, his manners just as they should be—commiserating with the enlisted men, joining in their complaints and grievances—and listening to the officers from a discreet distance, exhibiting due deference. All the talk was of an impending invasion simply because Napoleon had visited the many encampments along the coast two weeks before, assuring the men that soon, very soon now, they would cross that dismal little ditch and teach those English bankers and merchants that it was the French who ruled the land and the sea. Fine words, Douglas thought. Did Napoleon really believe that the English peasantry would rise up and welcome him as their liberator when and if he managed to cross the Channel, smash through the English navy, and land at Dover?

Two days passed. Douglas was bored and restless. As it turned out, he got Georges Cadoudal’s instructions from a one-legged beggar who sidled up to him, stinking like rotted cabbage, and poked a thick packet into his coat pocket. The blighted specimen managed to get away before Douglas could question him. He read the letter twice, memorizing the precise instructions, then carefully studied each of the enclosed papers and documents. He sat back, thinking now of what Cadoudal expected him to do. He shook his head at the complexity of it all, the sheer heedless arrogance of it. Georges Cadoudal was imprudent at all times, outrageous upon occasion; he was at once brilliant and feckless; failure chaffed him and as of late, he’d known few successes, as far as Douglas knew.

It was obvious he’d spent hours formulating a plan to rescue this damned girl, this Janine Daudet. However, since Cadoudal was the brain behind the plot to kidnap Napoleon and create insurrection in Paris, setting the Comte d’Artois, the younger brother of Louis XVI, promptly on the throne, and since he held more than a million francs from the English government, Lord Avery was inclined to meet his demands. Obviously Georges couldn’t take the risk of attempting a rescue himself. Obviously he knew that Douglas was an expert on General Honoré Belesain and that was why he’d asked for him specifically. Obviously, he believed Douglas would succeed. Douglas wondered if Georges knew of Belesain’s scaly reputation with women. Damnation.

The following morning Douglas was fastening the buttons of his unfamiliar britches and straightening his stark black coat. Once he reached Boulogne, he would become an official functionary from Paris, sent by Bonaparte himself, to oversee the preparations for the English invasion. He devoutly prayed that Cadoudal’s papers were in good order. With all the English money he’d gotten, Georges could afford the best forgers. Douglas didn’t want to be discovered and shot as a spy.

At precisely twelve o’clock, looking every inch the officious functionary, whose authority in all likelihood exceeded his brains and his manners and his breeding, he made his way to Boulogne to the residence of General Honoré Belesain, not a difficult house to locate since it belonged to the mayor and was the largest mansion in the entire city. The general was the good mayor’s guest. The good mayor, upon further inquiry, hadn’t been seen in over three months.

Douglas did know just about everything about General Belesain. Nothing the general did could surprise Douglas. He was a brilliant tactician, a competent administrator, though most details were attended to by aides. He was vicious to both his prisoners and his own men, and he was more than passing fond of young girls. He fancied himself both the epitome of a military man and of a lover. Douglas knew that his wife, evidently long-suffering, was well ensconced in faraway Lyon with their four children. The general was on the portly side but believed himself a god amongst men. He lacked control and lost his temper quickly and with deadly results, as his men and the young girls he fancied discovered to their own detriment. In sexual matters, he wasn’t known for his gallantry, even when in the best of moods. He many times drank himself into insensibility after he’d had sex.

The mayor’s house was three stories, a soft yellow brick that had mellowed with age, large and rectangular, and covered with thick ivy. It was set back from the road, its long drive lined with full-branched oak trees, green and abundant in early summer. The mayor was obviously a man of substance. Or had been. There were at least a dozen soldiers patrolling the perimeter or simply standing guard outside the several doors to the house.

He looked up, wondering which of those third-floor rooms held Janine Daudet. He wondered if the general had raped her yet and then he knew that of course he had. Who would have stopped him? He prayed the general hadn’t played his perverted games with her. He wondered if the general had any idea who he was holding. There was no way of knowing because the general was more arrogant, more perverse, than any leader Douglas knew about.

An aide, Grillon by name, Douglas knew, came to greet him in the large entrance hall. He swaggered in his importance and in his fine scarlet uniform with all its braid, yet there was also an air of wariness about him. He was uncertain face to face with this unknown man; he was also a bully when he knew the rules and the players. Douglas gave nothing away; he was enjoying the fellow’s unease. He counted four more soldiers in the entrance hall.

“I am Monsieur Lapalisse. You, of course, know who I am. I will see the general now.” Douglas then looked about the house, quite aware that the lieutenant was studying him closely. He tried for a supercilious expression, but it was difficult, for Douglas had never been good at sneers. He saw a cobweb in the corner and that helped his lip curl.

“Monsieur Lapalisse,” Grillon said at last, “if you will wait but a moment, I will inform the general of your presence and see if he wishes—”

“I am not in the habit of waiting,” Douglas said, looking the young man up and down and finding him lacking. “I suggest that you announce me immediately. Indeed, let us go now, together.”

Grillon fidgeted, then quickly turned on his heel. The general was suffering from a headache. He’d overindulged the previous night and was paying the price today, the fool. He’d not known exactly when this damned bureaucrat was to arrive, but he should have realized it would be exactly when he didn’t wish to see him. The general was also nervous about this man’s visit because no one higher in the government had notified him of it. Well, to hell with him.

General Belesain was standing behind his cluttered desk, eyes cold, body stiff, his forehead furrowed. When Douglas entered beside Grillon, he straighte

ned to his full height, but Douglas wasn’t fooled. His attitude was both wary and defensive. Excellent, Douglas thought as he strolled into the large salon as if he owned it. He gave the general a slight nod, saying in his perfect French, “It is a pleasant day.”

“Yes, it is,” General Belesain said, taken off balance. “Er, I am informed you are from Napoleon’s war committee, although I do not understand. He was here not long ago and expressed his pleasure at how his invasion plans are progressing.”