Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

Jason shrugged. “Evidently so. James is a good talker, he could convince a vicar to share the coins in his collection plate. Corrie wasn’t a big challenge. She also says you’re as pretty as Juliette Lorimer. I think you might be prettier. Thing is, unlike Juliette, you’ve got kindness in you, not to mention more wickedness than one would dream possible in a gently nurtured girl.”

“Ah, and I have guile, Jason. Lots of guile.”

“Not that I’ve ever seen. Indeed, sometimes I think you too candid, too open, what you feel is there for all to see on your face. Take care, Judith. The next time you accept a dance from a young gentleman who looks innocuous, look at his eyes. If they don’t remain on your face, turn him down.”

She laughed, actually laughed at what he’d said. She clutched her fingers into his coat, and laughed more.

He became alarmingly stiff. “I saw nothing funny in that advice.”

“No, no, it’s not that, Jason. While you said it, you were looking at my bosom.”

“That’s quite different,” he said, and stopped because the music had ended, at least five seconds before. He lightly touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Lovely necklace,” he said, and left her not two feet from her Aunt Arbuckle.

He heard her laughter float after him. He didn’t dance with any other lady, merely thanked his hostess and took his leave. He wanted to tell James what had happened at Covent Garden.

They had to find Georges Cadoudal’s son before he managed to get his hands on one of them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LORD KENNISON’S TOWN HOUSE

LONDON

“There is nothing more to be said, Northcliffe. I know nothing at all about any of this.”

Douglas Sherbrooke nodded. “I know that, but the fact is, you knew Georges Cadoudal. You were in Paris when he died after Waterloo. Back in 1815?”

“Yes, of course. It isn’t a secret.”

Douglas looked down at the relic who was old enough to be his own father. A powerful man, was Lord Kennison, still, even though he was more fragile in his appearance than he’d been six months before. Because he loved his brandy too much, he had gout, and his right foot was resting, swathed in bandages, on a brocade hassock.

He had to make certain that Georges was dead, and Lord Kennison was his best bet. “How long had Georges been ill?”

Lord Kennison closed his eyes a moment. Even his eyes hurt. “Good God, Northcliffe, I thought you knew. Georges didn’t die of an illness. Someone shot him down in the street. An assassination, no other word for it. He died perhaps two hours later, in his own bed. I arrived after he’d expired, his family around him. Of course, Georges was quite mad.”

“Yes, I know.” Mad and a genius, was Georges. “He had family, did he not, my lord?”

“Yes, certainly. A son and a daughter. The son is about the age of your boys. I understand you knew his wife, before they were married.”

Janine, he thought, who’d pretended I had impregnated her because she’d been too ashamed to admit to her lover, Georges, that many men had raped her. He nodded. “Yes, I knew her. I never saw her again though, not after 1803. It was a very long time ago, my lord.”

“Poor Janine, she died of the influenza before Georges was killed. Georges’s sister-in-law came to live with them, kept the house. You ask me, Douglas, I’d say that she was a little bit more fond of Georges than a sister-in-law should be. But no matter. They were both past their first youth. And now Georges is long dead. You didn’t shoot him, did you, Northcliffe?”

Douglas was staring thoughtfully into the fireplace, watching the flame lick around a new log, burrowing in to catch fire. He shook his head, still looking into the flames. “I quite liked Georges, but maybe he never believed that. I can imagine someone shooting him because, from everything I heard over the years before Waterloo, he never ceased in his attempts to assassinate Napoleon. So many men would have liked to cut his life short, and evidently someone did.” He did look up now. “It wasn’t me. I was at home, with my two ten-year-old sons and my wife. I had nothing more to do with politics by then.”

“Ah, but a couple of years before, you were in France.”

“Yes, but that was a rescue mission, nothing more than that. Nothing nefarious. I didn’t see Georges.”

“Whom did you rescue?”

Douglas shrugged. “The Conte de Lac. He died five years ago, at his home in Sussex.”

“Could anyone have believed you were there to kill Georges?”

“No, that’s quite impossible. It also makes no sense. If someone believed that I was responsible for Georges’s death, why would they wait fifteen years for revenge?”

Lord Kennison shrugged. It even hurt to shrug, and wasn’t that too much to kick a man while he was down? “I’m tired, Douglas. I can tell you nothing more than you already know. The children, as you’ve already decided, must be behind these attempts on your life. As for Georges, he never said anything about you, at least not in my hearing. I don’t believe there was any enmity there. You remember Georges-if he hated someone, he hated all th