Lyon's Gate Page 5

  “I’m leaving for London within the hour. I will have this property. I will see Thomas Hoverton myself. It will be done before that girl can begin to sort out a plan of action.”

  James doubled over in laughter. “This is simply too rich. Corrie isn’t going to believe this.”

  He was still laughing when the two of them walked into Northcliffe Hall, Jason’s boots pounding up the front staircase to get himself packed and off to London.

  Twenty minutes later when Jason was riding down the wide Northcliffe drive, James shouted, “Don’t forget to be at the vicarage on Saturday.”

  CHAPTER 7

  At first Jason didn’t recognize her. He heard a light, lovely laugh, and his head turned automatically in its direction. Was this the bride? No. It was Hallie Carrick. Gone were the old breeches, the ratty hat, the thick dirty braid, the boots as dusty as her face. In their place was a gown of pale lavender, with big billowy sleeves, a neckline that could be more modest, and a waist the size of a doorknob. Very tightly pulled stays, he imagined, but what he was looking at now was her hair. It was golden, no other way to describe the color, the exact same color as her father’s—shiny as the satin gown his aunt Mary Rose was wearing—woven into a thick, intricate braid on top of her head with little wisps and curls dangling artistically around her ears. Small diamond earrings sparkled through those myriad wisps, sparkled just like her laugh.

  Jason smiled an easy, very masculine smile. She was a girl, despite her boasts and braggadocio. Why not admire her since Lyon’s Gate was now his? He could afford to be gracious. He’d won. His ownership hadn’t ever been in doubt, even though Thomas Hoverton hadn’t been in London when Jason had gotten there. It had taken him only an hour to track down the Hoverton solicitor, Arlo Clark of 29 Burksted Street, who’d nearly broken into tears and fallen on his neck when he’d realized Jason was there to actually make an offer for the Hoverton property. Mr. Clark had the papers right there in a drawer, where they’d moldered for nearly two years. The offer was more than generous, though Jason realized the solicitor would never admit that. One had to play the game. The game was finished soon enough, and Jason had signed his name with a flourish and a sense of deep pleasure. Mr. Clark then signed in Thomas Hoverton’s place since he was his legal representative.

  Yes, Mr. Clark knew Wily Willy Bibber, the Sherbrooke solicitor, and they would see to the transfer of funds. Everything was right and tight. Jason could take possession of Lyon’s Gate as soon as he wished to.

  Yes, Jason could be gracious to this American baggage with her British accent and British blood. Now he could even appreciate her virgin blue eyes, her golden hair that surely belonged to a fairy tale princess—an image that didn’t suit her personality at all—and a figure to make any man whimper. And that laugh of hers—too free, too easy, far too American—sounded like she didn’t have a care in the world. Well, she shortly would when she realized she’d lost to him.

  He’d arrived no more than ten minutes before the ceremony and had instantly been surrounded by his huge family. For today at least, there would be no swirling tension in the air because he wasn’t the focus of everyone’s attention, thank God. No one would ask how he was feeling or if he’d yet gotten over the betrayal that had nearly destroyed his family. His uncle Ryder, a child sitting on each leg and a child on either side of him, had everyone press together so Jason could fit on the same pew. His aunt Sophie was seated between two older children, Grayson next, holding two small children on his legs. Grayson, a born storyteller, was his uncle Ryder and aunt Sophie’s only natural child, tall with the Sherbrooke looks, and eyes as blue as a clear summer sky.

  Jason’s parents, Hollis, James, Corrie, and the twins, twitching and yawning and jabbering in twin talk, were in the pew in front of him. Jason saw that every adult was responsible for one child, including his grandmother, who wasn’t frowning at the small human being seated quietly beside her, surely a special gift from God. He saw his aunt Melissande, all of fifty now, seated two rows up. She was still so beautiful she stopped young men in their tracks. She looked more like his and James’s sister than their mother’s elder sister. Uncle Tony, her husband, was seated next to her, one arm resting on the pew behind her, his fingers playing with a strand of her beautiful black hair.

  The church was filled to bursting since all of the groom’s relatives had come to Glenclose-on-Rowan for the wedding. The only missing relatives were Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin from Scotland and Meggie and Thomas from Ireland. Jason settled in on the pew next to a four-year-old boy who, Uncle Ryder whispered over the top of the child’s head, was named Harvey. He looked too old for his years, and he looked afraid, but that would change now that he was with Ryder. He was a very lucky little boy. He would eventually forget all the bad things that had happened to him. Harvey had large, very dark eyes, nearly as dark as Douglas Sherbrooke’s eyes, and straight, shiny, dark brown hair. His cheekbones were still too sharp, his body too thin, but that would change as well.

  When Miss Hallie Carrick glided down the aisle to support Miss Breckenridge, strewing rose petals from Mary Rose’s garden, he caught her eye and gave her a cheerful little wave. Was there a sneer of triumph on his mouth? No, surely he was too well-bred to allow any sort of gloating to appear.

  Evidently she didn’t consider his little wave and smile gloating because, funny thing was, she looked momentarily surprised, and nearly dropped the lovely bouquet of flowers she carried. Jason would swear she giggled as she had to do a fast step to grab the small ribbon-tied roses. Then she smiled back and returned his little wave.

  Harvey poked him in the ribs. “Who is that angel wot’s sashshaying down the aisle flingin’ rose petals about and eyin’ ye?”

  “That’s Miss Carrick, the bridesmaid to Miss Breckenridge, the bride,” Jason said. “She is rather flinging the rose petals about, rather than gracefully strewing them, isn’t she?”

  “Lawks,” said Harvey, his voice loud and crystal clear over the organ music, “she could dump ’em out o’ a bucket right on me ’ead. Ain’t she jest purtier than the sun shinin’ down on a puddle of clean water in Watt’s alley? I wants to marry the angel when I grows up.”

  “No you don’t, Harvey. Trust me. She’s no angel. She’d chew your ears for breakfast.” He took the little boy’s hand and drew him closer. There were smiles and some laughter following Harvey’s announcement. Harvey opened his mouth, but Jason, well practiced with the Wyndham children, said quickly, “I want you to count the hairs you can see on my arm until you’ve got them all.”

  “There ain’t many showin’,” Harvey said, “an’ that’s good ’cause I can only counts to four.” That was too bad, Jason thought. Four-year-old Alice Wyndham could count to fifty-one. At least Harvey counted with great precision. It kept him quiet for about twenty seconds. Jason looked down the bench at his uncle Ryder, who’d just kissed a child’s head. He was nodding at Jason, smiling. Since his uncle Ryder had been a very young man of twenty, he’d been taking in abandoned children or rescuing them from drunken parents or sadistic masters. It was his aunt Sinjun who’d started calling his children the Beloved Ones.

  Jason lifted the fidgeting Harvey onto his left leg, and thankfully soon felt the small body collapse back against his chest. Jason managed for the most part to keep his eyes on his cousin Leo Sherbrooke as he stood tall and proud opposite a heavily veiled girl who was, evidently, Melissa Breckenridge. She didn’t leap on Leo, at least until her new father-in-law, Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke told her, a wonderful smile on his face, that the bride could kiss the groom.

  At the reception following the ceremony, guests overflowed the vicarage into the lovely vicarage gardens. Reverend Sherbrooke was heard to bless God for delivering up this magnificent sunny day a good dozen times. After three toasts of the excellent champagne provided by the earl of Northcliffe, Tysen cleared his throat to draw everyone’s attention. Unfortunately at that particular moment, one of the children shouted, “I have to go behind
that bush!” which had everyone dissolving into laughter. Tysen tried again. “My wife has informed me that to keep us all from becoming drunk as loons, eating and dancing is required. The countess of Northcliffe has consented to play if all the young men will assist in clearing space in the drawing room.”

  Within four minutes, Alexandra had struck up a lilting waltz with Leo leading his bride to the center of the floor. Jason turned when he heard the catch of a breath. He saw his uncle Tysen staring at Leo, shaking his head in bewilderment, probably because his son was actually now married. He had one arm around Rory’s shoulders, all of nineteen, a student at Oxford, nearly a man grown. So many changes, Jason thought, all the cousins getting married, producing the next generation.

  He watched his brother lead Corrie onto the floor, the twins in their grandfather’s arms, waving wildly toward their parents. His cousin Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, gave his hand to a young woman Jason hadn’t seen before. He looked down to see Harvey tugging on his trouser leg. “I wants to dance wit’ the angel.”

  “You can’t. The angel is dancing with my cousin Grayson, who’s probably telling her a ghost story. Why don’t you and I show this group how to waltz properly?” Jason lifted Harvey in his arms and began to waltz him around the perimeter of the room in great dipping steps. One of the twins shouted, “Uncle Jason, I want to waltz with you!”

  Jason laughed, called back, “Dance with your grandfather.” From the corner of his eye, he saw his father, holding a twin in each arm, swing into the waltz, sweeping around the room, not six feet behind Jason and Harvey. Laughter flowed as freely as champagne. Adults and children waltzed. All in all, it was a fine afternoon, Melissa’s family mixing well with all the Sherbrookes.

  An hour later, Jason was seated on a swing in the vicarage gardens, his right foot lazily pushing off every now and again to keep the swing moving in a nice smooth glide. Harvey, stuffed to the gills, exhausted from dancing, was sprawled on his lap, his head against Jason’s chest. A female voice said quietly from behind him, “I don’t expect you to congratulate me, but I suppose since I did have the lead in our competition, I should tell you that you probably ran a fine race. However, truth be told, I don’t know what you did. You could have simply sat in a ditch and given up, for all I know. Also, you didn’t ask me to waltz. I believe every single male at the wedding asked me to waltz. All save you. Surely that doesn’t bespeak a gracious loser, and I had high hopes for you after that smile and little wave at the ceremony.”

  Jason, who didn’t want to disturb Harvey, didn’t turn, and said toward the graveyard beyond the far garden wall, “I always run a fine race, Miss Carrick. I usually win except when it is against Jessie Wyndham. I kept encouraging her to eat so she would gain flesh, but it never happened. She laughed at me.”

  Hallie laughed herself, walked around the swing and stood there, eyeing the beautiful man holding the boneless little boy who had chocolate smeared on his mouth. She said, “I watched Jessie race for as long as I can remember. She’s a killer, is Jessie.” She paused, frowned down at the sleeping Harvey. “He’s too thin.”

  “Yes, a bit. That will change. My uncle Ryder bought him two months ago from a factory owner in Manchester. He was working fourteen hours a day, fixing machines that knotted thread.”

  “I heard Melissa’s parents speaking about your uncle Ryder and all the children he’s taken in over the years. They couldn’t quite come to grips with it.”

  “And you, Miss Carrick? What do you think of the Beloved Ones?”

  “That’s a lovely name for them. Actually, I’ve never seen such magic as your uncle has for the children, except perhaps for you. They want to crawl all over him. It’s amazing. Did you see all of Melissa’s relatives waltzing with the children? I don’t think Mellie’s father has danced in thirty years, yet he was carrying about a little girl no more than seven. So much laughter today. Quite amazing, really. You wouldn’t see that in London, perhaps even in Baltimore. It would be all adults trying to act superior and eyeing each other’s jewelry. How many children has he taken in?”

  “I don’t know. You will have to ask him or my aunt Sophie. There are usually fifteen or so children in residence at any given time.”

  “I think he is a very good man. He sees and he acts. Not many people do.”

  “No, not many do. So, we have another man of which you must approve. The list is growing, Miss Carrick.”

  She struggled a moment, kept quiet, and reached out her hand to give the swing a shove. Harvey snorted in his sleep. “Yet again I’ve left you speechless.”

  “Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Mr. Sherbrooke?”

  “On supporting your friend to the altar? Harvey here was certainly impressed with you.”

  “I nearly dropped the bouquet.” She leaned over, pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket in her gown he couldn’t have found even if he’d been looking for it, and, just like Jessie, spit on the handkerchief, and efficiently wiped Harvey’s face. She saw him staring at her and said only, “I raised four children, myself. Did you see Melissa grab Leo at the end of the service? I thought Reverend Sherbrooke would laugh out loud.”

  The vicarage gardens smelled of honeysuckle and roses in the late afternoon, or maybe it was her unique scent, he wasn’t sure. He said, “I remember when I was a very young boy, Uncle Tysen rarely laughed, especially when he gave a sermon. His life was dedicated to God, a God who evidently was only interested in hearing about endless sins and avoiding transgressions, always impossible. This God of Uncle Tysen’s didn’t believe in laughter or in everyday sorts of pleasures. Then he met Mary Rose. She brought God’s love and forgiveness into his life and into his church. She brought laughter and peace and infinite joy.” He paused a moment, felt his voice thicken as he said, “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed my family until today when they were all around me. And my aunt Melissande, who always patted my face and called me her mirror. She didn’t this time, she hugged me until my uncle Tony finally pulled her away. There were tears in her eyes.” Why had he said any of that to her? After all, he’d beaten her. Shortly she would want to drive a knife between his ribs. Harvey snorted again in his sleep. Jason automatically tightened his hold, rocked him.

  “What you said about your uncle Tysen—it was quite eloquent.”

  He ignored that, feeling something of a fool for speaking of it to her. “Why should I congratulate you, Miss Carrick?”

  She’d forgotten her victory, her absolute triumph, but for only a moment. She grinned down at him. “Because, naturally, I am the new owner of Lyon’s Gate.”

  Jason stopped swinging. He looked up into a face that could have given Helen of Troy a hell of a race. “No,” he said matter-of-factly, wondering what her game was, “I own Lyon’s Gate. If you would like to see it, to ensure I’m not lying, I can show you the deed. I have it in my pocket.”

  That drew her up short. “Why are you saying that? That isn’t possible, Mr. Sherbrooke. I have the deed in my reticule, which is in my bedchamber upstairs. Your joke isn’t funny, sir.”

  “No, I don’t make jokes about something as important to me as Lyon’s Gate is, Miss Carrick. I went to London, I met with Thomas Hoverton’s solicitor, and I bought the property.”

  “Ah, that’s cleared up then.” She looked ready to dance and fling about more rose petals, the light of victory back in her eyes. “Not that it was ever in any doubt.”

  Her grin grew bigger. Jason frowned at her. “What are you talking about? What have you done?”

  “I knew where Thomas was—he’s staying with his aunt Mildred in Upper Dallenby, only twenty miles from here. I rode over, and he and I came to an agreement. Lyon’s Gate is mine.”

  Now, wasn’t that a kick in the ass, was all Jason could think.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was after midnight. Leo and Melissa were long gone on their honeymoon, their first night of married bliss to be spent in Eastbourne, then they were off to Calais on the morning tide
on Alec Carrick’s packet, HiHo Columbus, named by Dev when he’d been five years old.

  The Sherbrookes and Miss Hallie Carrick were seated in the drawing room. Jason knew that every one of them would willingly bash Hallie Carrick on the head, maybe bury her in the garden, so that he, their beloved returned prodigal, would have Lyon’s Gate. It was close to Northcliffe Hall, which meant he would be near. They would be a family again, as soon as they got rid of this English-American upstart who’d had the nerve to stick her oar and her money in to steal what their beloved son wanted for himself. But they were all polite, solicitous, his mother going so far as to pour milk, not arsenic, into Miss Carrick’s tea, which she doubtless would have preferred.

  Hallie said suddenly, breaking the butter-thick silence, “Listen, all of you. I bought the property from Thomas Hoverton himself, not his solicitor. It seems very clear to me that I am the new owner of Lyon’s Gate.”

  Jason said, “Mr. Clark is Thomas Hoverton’s legal representative. Mr. Clark showed me the document giving him the power to transact any of Thomas Hoverton’s business, with both their signatures on it. It is his right to act on Thomas Hoverton’s behalf, and he did. I bought the property before you did, Miss Carrick. The deed is not only duly signed, it is dated, even down to the time of day our signatures were affixed to the bill of sale.”

  Hallie looked at all those perfectly pleasant faces, knowing full well they’d like her to disappear, perhaps by violence, given the blazing red of Jason’s mother’s hair. “Thomas is the owner,” she said. “No one else. A solicitor, when all is said and done, is still only a solicitor.”

  Douglas rose, smiled at the group. “This will get us nowhere. I suggest we travel to London tomorrow. Miss Carrick, you may stay with us on Putnam Square since it would not be appropriate for you to open up either your father’s or your aunt and uncle’s town houses.”