Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

“There is that, my lord. However, I believe being locked up by Annabelle might be vastly amusing. So many stories Annabelle remembers about Miss Plimpton, even though she was younger than Drucilla. Drucilla, I believe, was very kind to her, teaching her stitching, correcting her manners. Of course, Annabelle also remembers me clearly as well, particularly my very fine head of hair.”

“It has remained very fine. Are you certain that my mother hasn’t kept you away from matrimony, Hollis?”

“Not at all, my lord.” Hollis took another quick look at the dowager, leaned closer, and added, “Although the notion about too much lock-well, never you mind. Robbie has informed me that Master Jason is waiting for you at the stables.”

“All right, curse him. At least James is in the estate room with Danvers.”

“Poor young man. Danvers will work Master James until his head is an empty gourd, an exceptional empty gourd I might add.”

Douglas sipped his tea. If Hollis only knew. James was not only enamored with celestial bodies and Kepler’s laws, he was also fascinated in every facet of the estate’s workings, had been from his earliest years, even before he’d fully grasped that Northcliffe would someday be his responsibility. No, it was James who would work Danvers to near exhaustion, not the other way around.

When Douglas rose, tossed his napkin on his plate, and strode from the room, his mother’s voice hit him squarely in the back. “I need more wallpaper samples, Douglas. Alexandra is incapable of making selections pleasing to anyone blessed with extraordinary taste, such as I.”

“I’ll see to it, Mother,” Douglas said, and wondered if there were any samples left in the warehouses in Eastbourne. Well, he supposed there could be samples found in New Romney, though he doubted it.

He met Jason in the paddock where Henry VIII was having a fine time trying to kill Bad Boy, James’s horse. Lovejoy was trying his best to save his favorite of the two, but Henry wasn’t having it. Douglas walked to the fence and whistled. Henry eyed Bad Boy for another moment, then wheeled about and came trotting over to his master, head high, tail swishing. Douglas patted his shiny black neck while he butted his head against Douglas’s shoulder.

Douglas held out his hand. Weir, the head stable lad, slapped two carrots sharply onto his palm, and stepped back because he wasn’t stupid. “All right, my big brute,” Douglas said, and watched with a smile as Henry ate the carrots.

“I’ll saddle him up, Weir,” he said. Two minutes later, he and Jason were riding toward Branderleigh Farm to look at the new hunters that had just arrived from Spain. Douglas was very aware that Jason was trying to look in all directions at once for a villain bent on murder.

Jason said, riding close to his father, giving him as much protection as he could, “Mother told me that the Virgin Bride had visited you, Father, when Mother had been kidnapped by that fanatic Royalist, Georges Cadoudal. She said you hated it, but if you were pushed, you would admit it because you don’t lie, at least not usually, at least not to her, usually.”

Douglas rolled his eyes.

Jason sighed. “Did you really see her, Father? What did she say?”

Douglas turned in his saddle to look at his boy-tall, straight, an excellent rider, a big man now, not a boy. At least the twins’ respective characters didn’t appear to be ruined by their incredible good looks, and surely that was a victory over nature. Where had the years gone? “Forget that ridiculous phantom, Jason. Whatever happened in the distant past will remain there. It is forgotten. Do you understand me?”

Jason said, “No, sir, I can’t forget, but I do recognize a granite wall when I see it. I believe I will go swimming later.”

“You’ll freeze your parts off.”

Jason grinned like a bandit. “That, sir, is an image that truly appalls.”

“It should. Forget that damned ghost.”

“Yes, sir.” But of course Douglas knew he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t for the life of him decide if the first shot had been intentional or not. Just because that damned phantom had predicted it-well, that made him want to dismiss it without another thought. However, he wasn’t stupid, curse it.

LATE IN THE afternoon, three days later, a messenger arrived at Northcliffe Hall with a message for Douglas from Lord Avery at the War Ministry.

The earl left for London the following morning, alone, his wife refusing to speak to him, and his two sons, whom he suspected would follow him, staring after him.

MICHAELMAS WAS THREE weeks away, Douglas thought, as he rode Garth into the stable entrance off Putnam Square, and he would be a year older, and wasn’t that the strangest thing. George IV had died in June, bringing his brother, the duke of Clarence, to the throne as William IV. William was good-natured, but, truth be told, he wasn’t smart enough to give wise counsel or recognize it when it smacked him in the nose. He had more enthusiasm than sense, was indiscreet to the point of lunacy, causing one wag to say, “It is a good sovereign, but it is a little cracked.” It remained to be seen what would happen, particularly since the duke of Wellington was at the helm and had offended Tories and Whigs alike. It was an extraordinary year, Douglas thought, as he walked into the Sherbrooke townhouse. Revolution everywhere-in France, Poland, Belgium, Germany, Italy, but thankfully not here at home, even though there were hardships, no denying that, grave hardships. After the duke had achieved Catholic Emancipation, he’d turned against all reform. His inconsistencies boggled Douglas’s mind, but since he owed Wellington his allegiance, he would support him in the House of Lords, although he hated politics, would swear until he was out of breath that the vast majority of the Tories and the Whigs alike were power-mongering, flatulent liars. He recalled that his father had felt the same way. Douglas smiled at that. He would have to ask James and Jason their opinions.

He went to his club that evening, chatted with old friends, realized that there was more divisiveness in the government than he’d thought, won a hundred pounds at whist, and fell asleep with a warm belly, the result of a snifter of French brandy that, he would swear, had tasted much better when it had been illegal and smuggled into England in the dead of night.

He was surprised when he entered Lord Avery’s large ornate office at the War Ministry the following morning to see Arthur Wellesley, the duke of Wellington, standing by one of the long windows, staring at Westminster in the distance, now visible because the morning fog had lifted. He looked weary to his bones, but when he saw Douglas, his eyes lit up and he smiled.

“Northcliffe,” he said, turning. He strode forward to shake Douglas’s hand. “You are looking fit.”

“As are you. It is a pleasure to see you, your grace. I will not speak of either Tories or Whigs for fear there may be one hidden in the closet, ready to jump out and clou

t the both of us. I congratulate you on achieving Catholic Emancipation. You can count on me in the House of Lords, though to be honest about it, to listen to those weasels whine about any- and everything makes my belly cramp.”

The duke smiled. “I have many times thought the same thing. I am a soldier, Northcliffe, and now I am called upon to perform a vastly different job. It is a pity I cannot have the opposition whipped with a cat o’ nine tails.”