Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“You won’t be forced to do anything of the kind. What sorts of things?”

“London is very different from Baltimore, Miss Carrick, surely you learned that. You’re a bright girl. As you must know, London society doesn’t allow just anyone through its august portals. Money doesn’t matter. For example, Lucinda Frothingale’s now-dead husband wouldn’t have ever been admitted into London society for the simple reason that he owned and operated flour mills. The fact that he would have been richer than many of England’s vaunted peers wouldn’t have mattered. Flour mills constitute trade, Miss Carrick, and folk in trade, who have no ancient lineage, no powerful family behind them, aren’t allowed into the club. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, but I still don’t see what—” Jason saw the instant she realized what he was talking about. He refused to acknowledge she’d caught on more quickly than he had. She said slowly, “I think I’ll go see my uncle’s solicitor. He can find out just exactly who this Mr. Chartley is.”

He realized, of course, that he should have encouraged her to go after Thomas Hoverton, despite the fact that she was a young lady, quite alone. Did she have any money left after paying Thomas Hoverton for Lyon’s Gate? And if she didn’t have very much money, would she arrive in Calais and realize she couldn’t afford a baguette much less respectable lodging? Jason said, “There’s no need for you to do anything, Miss Carrick. My father has already taken care of it. We will know all about Mr. Benjamin Chartley soon enough.”

“But I—”

“I’m beginning to believe you have more hair than brains. And I’m thinking your hair is probably lovelier than your brains as well.”

To his surprise, she didn’t hurl herself at him. She didn’t move at all. She stared down at her shoes, the oldest pair she had, which were very fine indeed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. My father was always telling me that I should make it a habit to sit in a corner for three minutes and think before I acted. He said whenever I acted too quickly, he had to clean up the most abominable messes.” She looked up at him, a glimmer of a smile lighting her eyes. “I thank you for stopping me before I could make a mess. I should hope that my hair looks better than my brains. That’s a horrifying thought, though I’ve never seen what brains look like. Now that I think about it, I don’t have much money either.”

“I wondered.”

“I don’t think my father’s bankers would stuff more money in my outstretched hands, particularly after they found out how easily I was swindled. They would believe I was naïve and incompetent, in short, a woman. But money isn’t what’s important here. I have my pistol, a small riding crop, and a knife, strapped to my ankle. Thomas Hoverton wouldn’t ever imagine that I’d come after him. I’d probably find him in Calais, toasting his good fortune. Then I could carve out his gullet.”

“Or villains would find you first. Maybe you’d shoot one villain, Miss Carrick, but the second and the third lurking in the alley? With those skirts it would be hard to get to the knife fast enough.”

She raised her hand and fisted it.

He laughed.

He realized she was staring up at him, her head cocked to one side.

“What is it?”

“I know you don’t like me, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t understand you. You could have simply let me leave. I would be gone and you could do as you please. Now there will be endless complications.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt and that’s very likely what would happen. I have never trusted the French, part

icularly after the dealings I had with Mademoiselle Benoit in Baltimore who—Well, never mind that.”

“I heard my father say the French believed God didn’t intend the Ten Commandments for them since he hadn’t written them in French, and that’s why the French pox was so prevalent.”

Fascinated, Jason said, “He spoke to you about the French pox?”

“No, I was eavesdropping. When I managed to slip French pox ever so skillfully into a conversation, I thought he would explode, he turned so red in the face. Who is this Mademoiselle Benoit?”

Jason wanted desperately to laugh, but managed to hold it in. He didn’t want her to pull her pistol, her whip, or her knife out of her boot and dispatch him. He cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle Benoit isn’t any of your business. Now, stop fretting. We will work this out.”

“How?” She struck her palm to her forehead. “How stupid I am. There won’t be any complications at all. If your father threatens Mr. Chartley with social ostracism, then he will sell the property to you. I will have no chance at it.”

Jason shrugged, as it was the truth, after all.

“It will be done before I can get my uncle here to do the same thing to him.”

“Yes, that’s true enough.”

“So you’ve won, Mr. Sherbrooke.”

“That’s very nice of you to say so, Miss Carrick, but a bit premature. I suggest you hold off on your congratulations until after we find out what Mr. Chartley’s hopes and aspirations are in our fair city.”

“I’ll wager he has an eighteen-year-old daughter he wants to marry off to some bankrupt baron, whose pockets he’ll fill to brimming.”

“One can but hope.”

“I might as well go after Thomas Hoverton, or else my siblings will never let me hear the end of it. I can hear them now. ‘Hallie, you say you bought a property and the owner sold it to someone else first then flew off to another country?’ ‘You knew he was a rotter and you didn’t even take any precautions?’ ‘How big did you say your brain was, Hallie?’ And on and on it will go until I garrote myself.”