Sherbrooke Twins

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 clout 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.”

Douglas laughed.

“But you know, I have decided that what will happen, will happen,” he said, his voice more bitter than angry. “It is one of those newfangled trains that is now in motion. There is no stopping it. Further, I am no longer in control of it.” When Douglas would have questioned him, he waved his hand and said, “Enough of that. I wish to speak to you because Lord Avery has discussed with me a threat to your life that comes from a trustworthy source. You have served your country well, Northcliffe. I wished to tell you that and to inform you of the nature of this threat.”

Well, blessed hell. That damned phantom was right. The bullet that hit his arm wasn’t from a poacher’s gun. He and the duke spent the next hour together.

When Douglas arrived back at the Sherbrooke town house some two hours later, it was to see his wife and two sons standing in the entrance hall, their luggage piled around them, surely denoting a protracted stay. All three of them stared him down, daring him to say a word.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The English never smash in a face. They merely refrain from asking it to dinner.

MARGARET HALSEY

DOUGLAS DIDN’T SAY a single word. He just sighed and said, “Wellington met me at the ministry. There is indeed a threat, dammit.”

Alexandra was in his arms in a moment. “I knew it, I just knew it,” she whispered against his neck. “What sort of threat? Who is behind this?”

Douglas kissed the tip of her nose, hugging her tightly. The twins were practically en pointe, and that made him smile.

James said, “I don’t understand, sir, you haven’t been involved in any missions for a very long time.”

Douglas nodded. “It is, I believe, a matter of revenge, and the exacting of revenge is something that one can savor for years before acting. Enough now. Alexandra, call Willicombe and get us something to eat and drink. Come along, and I will tell you all about it. Oh, there you are, Willicombe. Please see to the valises and-”

“Aye, my lord, all is done. If you would repair to the drawing room, everything will be as you wish in but a matter of moments.”

Willicombe, at fifty, quite young enough to be Hollis’s son, wanted more than anything in his life to be just like Hollis. He wanted to talk like him, he wanted to fetch up the perfect word at exactly the right time, he wanted to inspire the household staff to regard him as God. He wanted all of this, but he wanted to do all of it better and faster than Hollis. Perhaps Willicombe would be faster since Hollis was beginning to creak. Douglas wondered what Willicombe would do were he to tell him that Hollis was in love, mayhap even set upon seduction, just to see the look on his face. Would he then try to seduce one of the maids? Or perhaps Mrs. Bootie, the housekeeper, who had more hair on her upper lip than Douglas did before he shaved in the morning?

No one settled into comfortable chairs, no one relaxed. Tension flowed throughout the large room. Douglas looked around at his family and said, “Lord Avery received a letter from an informant in Paris that I was to finally get my just desserts. The informant believes it has something to do with Georges Cadoudal.”

Alexandra was shaking her head. “No, that couldn’t be possible, could it? You parted friends with Georges. Goodness, Douglas, it was years and years ago, before the twins were even born.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Who is this Cadoudal, Father?”

Douglas looked at James, who was standing, shoulders against the mantelpiece, arms crossed over his chest, exactly in the same way that Douglas stood, and said, “Georges Cadoudal was a madman and a genius. Our government paid him vast amounts of money to kill Napoleon. He killed a lot of Frenchmen, but not the emperor. I heard he’d died some time ago.”

Willicombe entered, carrying a beautiful Georgian tea tray on his arm. Douglas remained silent until finally, seeing that Willicombe could think of nothing that would allow him to remain and eavesdrop, and thus know more than Hollis knew about this situation, whatever it was, raised an eyebrow.

But Willicombe didn’t move, couldn’t move. Something bad had happened, that was all he knew. The family was in trouble. He was needed. It was time to prove his worth. He tried manfully to dredge up a wise word. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, Willicombe?” Alexandra asked.

He could tell she was so upset she was white as the lovely lace at the neck of her gown. He drew himself up to his full five foot, six inches and squared his shoulders. “I am your man, my lord. I am resourceful. I learn quickly what is what. I could pick out an enemy from fifty feet. I am a man of action when the need but offers itself. I am the soul of discretion. Pull out my fingernails and nothing will pass my lips but an occasional scream.”

James looked at Willicombe with great respect. After all, when James was born, Willicombe was a footman who’d occasionally played with him in the back gardens, tossing him a red ball, James remembered. “Nothing but a scream, Willicombe?”

“That’s correct, my lord. I can be trusted to go to the grave carrying any secrets you would wish to confide in me.”

Douglas said, “I thank you, Willicombe. Fact is, it appears that someone with revenge on his mind is out to cut my days short, something I really don’t want.”

Willicombe stood en pointe.

“I will assign the footmen to guard duty, my lord. I, myself, will take the first watch, eight o’clock until midnight, each and every night until the enemy is dispatched. No one will come into this house, this I swear.”

“How many footmen are there, Willicombe?” James asked.

“There are three now, Master James. I will myself tell them what is what. You don’t have to worry, my