Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“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.

CHAPTER 9

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.”