Lyon's Gate (Sherbrooke Brides 9)

“My dearest girl,” Lady Lydia said, “tell this woman you don’t want her at Lyon’s Gate now that you’re married and sharing so many lovely activities about which I have little or no memory at all. Tell her that she’s to come and live with me. I’ll give her a bed in the attic.”

“You don’t have an attic in the Dower House, Lydia. Your memory is like this lamb chop, nearly all chewed up. Were I to consider moving in with you, I would want that lovely yellow room that faces the back of the house, overlooking the garden Hollis oversees. Then I should want to take over the gardens, plant dill and thyme.”

“I don’t like dill,” Lady Lydia said, then leaned close to Angela. No one could make out what she whispered.

Corrie said to her mother-in-law, “Such wonderful insults and they’re all for show. Were she to say them to me or you, she’d mean each and every one. Whereas this one”—Corrie turned to Hallie, an eyebrow arched—“walks in the house, says something absolutely ridiculous to her, and she’s charmed. You can do no wrong, Hallie, and it galls me. Mama-in-law and I are forced to listen to her sing endless praises about you, how Jason is so very lucky to have you for his wife. It’s quite provoking.”

“I’m lucky to have you, Hallie?” Jason said. “Hmm, do you really think so, Grandmama?”

Lady Lydia looked up and blinked. “Oh, my dearest little Hallie. She is doubtless an angel, unlike Corrie here who behaves like a hoyden—imagine, I watched her slide down the banister to fall into poor James’s arms. They both went to the floor, playing and laughing, certainly not something to happen in the entrance hall of a nobleman’s estate. But the truth is, Hallie and Corrie are the lucky ones.”

Hallie said, “Thank you, Grandmama-in-law. I have wit. I like that. And since I’m new and fresh, don’t you think I’m worthy of Jason, ma’am?”

Lady Lydia eyed Hallie from her lovely braided hair atop her head to her lovely thin nose to her low-cut evening gown that framed breasts Lady Lydia couldn’t remember ever having that high up on her chest. “Yes,” she said, “you are worthy. For the moment. My birthday is next month.”

Corrie said, “I gave you a lovely marquetry table for your last birthday, but you never said a single word about my being worthy of James.”

“I am still thinking about it,” Lady Lydia said.

Corrie wanted to tell her not to think about it too long or she just might finally croak. She said, “By the way, Hallie, did you and Jason see anything at all of interest on the Isle of Wight during that long two weeks you were there?”

There was silence the length of the dinner table, then perhaps a giggle from one of the women. Was that Lady Lydia?

James said, “You are one to talk, Corrie. We spent nearly a month in Edinburgh and yet you don’t even remember much about the castle. You hemmed and hawed when the twins asked you about it.”

“That,” Corrie said, “was different. It rained all the time. We couldn’t go out very much. Don’t you remember? I sprained my ankle—”

Jason asked, “However did you sprain your ankle, Corrie?”

James said quickly, “Neither of us remember. It’s not important. I told her not to hurl herself—well, never mind.”

“Listen, James, I do remember the castle. I remember very clearly how you carried me into that tunnel that led to the dungeons—”

James’s eyes dilated.

“Oh goodness, James, let me fan myself.”

James waved his napkin in her face. “Well, the tunnel was nice and private, not a soul around.”

“Oh yes,” Corrie said and gave him a smile to curl his toes. She turned to her sister-in-law. “You haven’t yet answered my question. Did you see anything at all of interest during your very long fourteen days on the Isle of Wight?”

Hallie never looked up from the lovely asparagus spears in the middle of her plate. “Well, now that I truly think about it, Corrie, I must say no. Jason, can you remember anything we saw that was of any interest, for longer than say, eight minutes?”

“Longer than eight minutes? No, I don’t believe so. For the most part, we admired the architecture at Dunsmore House.”

CHAPTER 35

The Beckshire Race

One Week Later

Dodger will win; Dodger will win; yes, Dodger will win. It was his litany, Jason thought, as he looked out over the Beckshire race course.

The prestigious Beckshire race, one half of a mile, four laps around the roughly shaped oval track, open to the first dozen owners who ponied up the fifty-pound entry fee and discreetly handed over a hefty bribe, was run on August the seventeenth beneath a cloudy sky on a cool day that required the ladies to wear light wraps.

The maximum of twelve horses were entered in the race today, not surprising since the Jockey Club members not only offered a healthy prize purse of five hundred pounds, but also the opportunity for owners to compete again against many of the great racing studs that had run their prize horses at the Ascot races in June and the Hallum Heath winners at the end of July. Unfortunately, Dodger hadn’t run at Hallum Heath since his owner had been on his honeymoon.

They had not bothered to widen the width of the stretch, so it could be a dangerous race. But that didn’t matter. Everyone who was anyone fought to get entry into this race. Dodger was running in the race not because of bribery but because Jason was very good friends with one of the Jockey Club member’s sons.