Sherbrooke Twins (Sherbrooke Brides 8)

When James walked in a few minutes later, it was to hear Corrie and Judith laughing. That pleased him, and he smiled even as he said from the open doorway, “I have come to fetch both of you. Father wants to tell you where all the guards are stationed here at Northcliffe. He doesn’t want any of you getting accidentally shot.” He paused a moment. “Ah, he also wants to hear if either of you have any more ideas, even though he swears that you’re weak-headed, Corrie, what with your tale of the Virgin Bride visiting you. However, he is loathe to let me out of his sight, so what is one to believe?”

Cor

rie jumped to her feet. “Yes, I want to hear what your father has to say. How many more guards are there?”

“Two more.”

“He hasn’t told me to my face that I’m weak-headed. Do you think he will?”

“My father is an excellent diplomat. You are still too new to the family to be blasted. However, now that I think of it, your sneer and my father’s aren’t all that different.” He gave each girl an arm.

Lady Arbuckle wasn’t present, Judith telling them that her aunt was resting quite happily in her lovely bedchamber, drinking tea and eating toast.

Annabelle Trelawny was there, as she was nearly every day now. Today, though, her sweet smile was tinged with worry. She said, “I hope you are not displeased at my presence, my lord, but William believes that I have a fine brain. He wanted to see if I could be of any assistance at all. Now, this dream of Corrie’s.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” Alexandra said.

“Ha,” Douglas said.

“The point of the whole thing,” Corrie said, sitting forward, her hands clasped in her lap, “is that the Virgin Bride made it clear to me it is James who is in danger. Then she sort of faded away.”

“Then why was I shot at?” Douglas said.

“I don’t have an answer to that, sir.”

“It’s perfectly obvious that she would come to you since you’re now James’s wife,” said Alexandra. “It doesn’t mean she isn’t worried about Douglas as well, but since you are now James’s wife, he must be your first concern.”

Corrie said, “I wonder why she didn’t tell me who was behind this?”

No one had an answer for that. Alexandra said, “I have sometimes thought there are things she doesn’t know. In other words, a ghost isn’t omniscient.”

“But she knew you were taken by Georges Cadoudal,” Douglas said, then looked like he wanted to shoot himself. He closed down tighter than a clam, didn’t say another word.

Annabelle’s lovely white brow furrowed in concentration. “Why wouldn’t any young man want to kill the people he believed responsible for his father’s death?”

Douglas said, “That’s a good point, Mrs. Trelawny, but Georges and I weren’t enemies; I had nothing to do with his assassination. Surely his son must know that. But it hasn’t seemed to matter.”

“And now James has been added to the list. Why on earth would Georges’s son want to kill James? They must be about the same age. They’ve never met.”

The discussion continued until Hollis cleared his throat. “Cook wishes to feed all of you now. My lord, my lady, you will please rise and come into the dining room.”

“Ah, William,” Annabelle said as Hollis assisted her, “you are such a masterful speaker. Wellington should beg you to deal with those ridiculous French. Can you imagine, they’re rebelling again?”

“Oh yes,” said Hollis. “The French must needs fight against themselves; they must needs fight against others. Disagreement and perversity sing through their blood, poor blighters.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Devil gets up to the belfry by the vicar’s skirts.

THOMAS FULLER

IT WAS THE end of November. In England, in Corrie’s experience, that meant unrelenting cold, so much wind you couldn’t keep a bonnet on your head, and endless invading dampness that made your bones ache and your teeth chatter.

But not today. Today in southern England, at least, the sun was high overhead and clouds were fat and white against a brilliant blue sky. There wasn’t a hint of fog, not a breath of wind, only abundant sweet fresh air that wafted about your head, making you smile and breathe deeply.

“Just incredible,” Corrie said to one of the hunting dogs that trotted at her side, his tail a waving flag, as she walked toward the stable where James, Jason, and a half dozen stable lads were breeding the new mare to Bad Boy.

In her pocket she carried the small derringer James had bought her two days before. She’d practiced firing it, and James admitted yesterday afternoon, after watching her shoot for some ten minutes, that she was a natural. He sounded peeved about her skill, and that made her grin at him, wickedness overflowing in that grin, and he picked her up and whirled her around and around until she was dizzy and laughing so hard she could barely hang on. Then he’d carried her into a small maple copse and laid her down on his coat beneath a fir tree. Ah, so very nice that was. So it had been on the cold side. Who cared? It wasn’t cold at all today. Hmmm.