The Sherbrooke Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 1)

he Duke of Beresford’s letter to the other short, urgent scrawl dispatched by Lord Avery himself just that morning, brought to him by a messenger who awaited his reply in the kitchen, doubtless downing ale.

He picked up the duke’s letter again. It was jovial to the eyebrows, filled with jubilation and relief and congratulations. Douglas was to marry Melissande next week at Claybourn Hall in the ancient Norman church in the village of Wetherby. The duke would become his proud papa-in-law in seven days. His new papa-in-law would also shove quite a few guineas into the needy ducal pocket once the marriage had taken place.

He picked up Lord Avery’s letter. He was also to go to Etaples, France, as soon as possible, disguised as a bloody French soldier. He was to await Georges Cadoudal’s instructions, then follow them. He was to rescue a French girl who was being held against her will by one of Napoleon’s generals. There was nothing more, absolutely no detail, no names, no specifics. If Douglas didn’t do this, England would lose its best chance at eliminating Napoleon, for Georges Cadoudal was the brain behind the entire operation. Lord Avery was counting on Douglas. England was counting on Douglas. To hammer the final nail in the coffin, Lord Avery wrote in closing, “If you do not rescue this wretched girl, Cadoudal says he won’t continue with the plan. He insists upon you, Douglas, but he refuses to say why. Perhaps you know the answer. I know you have met him in the past. You must do this and succeed, Northcliffe, you must. England’s fate lies in your hands.”

Douglas sat back in his chair and laughed. “I must wed and I must go to France.” He laughed louder.

Would he sail to France to rescue Cadoudal’s lover, as doubtless this female was, or travel to Claybourn Hall as a bridegroom?

Douglas stopped laughing. The frown returned to his forehead. Why couldn’t life be simple, just once? He was responsible for England’s fate? Well, hell.

He thought about Georges Cadoudal, the radical leader of the Royalist Chouans. His last attempt to eliminate Napoleon had been in December 1800, his followers using explosives in Paris that had killed twenty-two people and wounded well over fifty, but not harming any of Napoleon’s entourage. Georges Cadoudal was a dangerous man, a passionate man who despised Napoleon to the depths of his soul, a man who sought the return of the Bourbons to the French throne; he counted no cost, be it lives or money. But evidently this girl’s life he counted high, so high that he would renege on his plans with England if she weren’t rescued.

Cadoudal knew Douglas, that was true, had seen him play the Frenchman several years before and succeed in a mission, but why he would insist upon Douglas and no other to rescue his lover would remain a mystery until and unless Douglas went to Etaples, France. And now the English government was backing Cadoudal in another plot. And the plot was in jeopardy because Georges’s lover was being held prisoner.

When Hollis, the Sherbrooke butler for thirty years, who looked remarkably like a quite respectable peer of the realm himself, walked soundlessly into the library, Douglas at first paid him no heed. Once, many years before, when Douglas was young and prideful as a cock and equally jealous of his own worth, a friend had joked that Douglas resembled the Sherbrooke butler more than he did his own father. Douglas had flattened him.

Hollis cleared his throat gently.

Douglas looked up, and a black eyebrow went up as well in silent question.

“Your cousin, Lord Rathmore, has just arrived, my lord. He said I wasn’t to disturb you but one simply doesn’t disregard His Lordship’s presence, you know.”

“That is certainly true. To ask Tony to remain in a quiet corner to await someone’s pleasure would never do. I’ll come directly. I wonder what His Lordship wants? Surely not to press me about marriage.”

“Probably not, my lord. If I may speak plainly, His Lordship looks a bit downpin, a bit tight about the mouth. Perhaps ill, although not of the body, you understand, but of the spirit. Were I to hazard a guess, knowing His Lordship’s penchants, I dare say it would involve the fair sex.” He looked off into the distance, adding, “It usually does, regardless of penchants.”

“Damnation,” said Douglas, rising from his desk. “I’ll see him.” He stared down again at the two letters. The messenger could wait a bit longer. He had to think, had to weigh all the alternatives open to him, he had to have more time. Besides, Anthony Colin St. John Parrish, Viscount Rathmore, was the son of his mother’s first cousin, and a favorite of his. It had been six months since they’d been in each other’s company.

His first view of his cousin did not gladden his heart. He looked depressed as the devil, just as Hollis had said. Douglas strode into the small estate room, closed the door firmly behind him, and locked it. “All right, Tony,” he said without preamble, “out with it. What is wrong?”

Tony Parrish, Viscount Rathmore, turned about from his perusal of nothing in particular outside the window to look at his cousin. He straightened his shoulders automatically and tried for a smile. It wasn’t much of a smile, but Douglas appreciated the effort, and repeated mildly, “Tell me, Tony. What’s happened?”

“Hollis, I gather?”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“That man should have been a bloody priest.”

“Oh no, it’s just that he isn’t blind. Also he’s rather fond of you. Now, talk to me, Tony.”

“All right, curse you, if you must know, I am no longer engaged. I am now without a fiancée. I have been betrayed. I am alone and adrift. I am here.”

Was Hollis never wrong? Still, Douglas was incredulous. “You mean to say that Teresa Carleton broke it off?”

“Of course she didn’t. Don’t be a simpleton. No, I did. I found out she was sleeping with one of my friends. Friend, ha! The bloody sod! Can you believe it, Douglas? The woman was to marry me—me!—she was to be my bloody wife. I had selected her with great care, I had nurtured her as I would the most precious of blossoms, treated her with consideration and respect, never doing much of anything except kissing her and not even with my mouth open, mind you, and all along she was actually one of my friend’s mistresses. It is impossible to believe, Douglas, it is intolerable.”

“It isn’t as if she were a virgin to begin with, Tony,” Douglas said mildly. “She’s a widow, after all. I dare say you’ve continued sleeping with your lovers and I doubt not that some of them are friends of Teresa’s.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it, damn you!”

“Perhaps not to you, but—” Douglas broke off. “It is over then? You’re a free man now? Have you really broken the engagement or are you here to lick your wounds and consider your unanchored state?”

“Yes, I’ve broken it off, and I would like to kill the woman for her perfidy! Cuckolding me! Me, Douglas!”

“You weren’t yet wed to the lady, Tony.”

“The principle remains the same. I cannot take it in, Douglas, I can scarce convince my mind that it has really happened. How could a woman do such a thing to me?”