Sherbrooke Twins

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 the way down to his soul. He wouldn’t shut up about how he was going to pull out their tongues. So if it is a child’s revenge, then where did they get this hatred for you?”

“I don’t know. As you said, it makes no sense.” Douglas rose. “Thank you for seeing me, sir. As you know, it was the duke of Wellington who sent me to you.”

“Yes, he told me. Poor Arthur. So many problems clutching him around his throat. I told him to quit, to leave all the mess, and let others deal with it. He wouldn’t ever do that, of course.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Douglas said, and took his leave. He rather liked Lord Kennison, who was probably a lot more honorable than his heir, who was so debauched he’d given his wife the pox.

When he walked out to his carriage, it was to see both Willicombe and his nephew Remie standing there, guns at the ready.

THREE DAYS LATER

SHERBROOKE TOWN HOUSE

James and Jason stepped into the drawing room to see Corrie and Judith seated close on the large sofa, their heads together.

“Good morning, ladies,” James said as they walked into the room. “Willicombe said you were working on wedding plans.” Whose wedding plans? he wondered, sneaking a look at his brother, who, in turn was staring at Judith McCrae, a look on his face James had never seen before.

Corrie looked up at him, had decided during the long previous night to give it up, jumped to her feet, and flew to James, grabbed him to her, and hugged him tight. He grunted with the enthusiasm of her greeting. She looked up at him, lightly touched her fingertips to his chin. “No more whispering. I’ll say it out loud for the world to hear. James, I’ve decided to marry you, decided that maybe it won’t be so bad at all. I know most of your bad habits already. If you’ve more, you’d best not tell me because it might tip the scales the other way.”

“I don’t have any more,” James said, and heard Jason snicker behind him.

“At least none that would make you break things off.”

“I will speak to Jason about this later.”

“Corrie, I do appreciate you coming right out with your consent, but the fact is I’ve already spoken to your uncle. Everything is in motion.”

“Yes, I know, but I didn’t want you to think I was a pathetic, gutless female who didn’t know her own mind.”

“I haven’t ever thought you were gutless. Pathetic-not for at least a couple of months now.” He saw she would question him and shook his head.

“All right, I’ll wait. I just wish that Jason had managed to catch Augie, Ben, and Billy. Just imagine Augie thinking it was you again-and using the same blanket trick again. Did he think you stupid?”

“Probably so,” Jason said, and found himself staring at his brother, and his soon-to-be sister-in-law. Imagine, Corrie Tybourne-Barrett, a sister-in-law.

James found that his arms went around his betrothed very naturally. Well, he’d hugged her since she was three years old, that wasn’t so unusual. She felt good against him. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed her in. He was used to her scent, would have known it was her in a dark room, but now there was a light overlay of jasmine. “Your perfume?” he said against her hair. “I like it.”

“Your mother gave it to me, said your Aunt Sophie swore by it, claimed it worked on your Uncle Ryder from fifty feet. She claimed he always came running, like a hound after the fox.”

“Ah. I think I could chase you down. When I caught you, I wonder what I would do to you? Sniff you, I suppose, to make sure you’re the right fox, but then? Hmmm. There’s always the back of your knees.

“Now, you should probably release me, Corrie. There are two other people in the room and all this affection might give them a headache.”

She leaned back in his arms to look up at him. “A headache? Why on earth would seeing me clutching you like the last slice of cinnamon bread give anyone a headache?”

“Jealousy,” he said, and without thought, he kissed the tip of her nose. He set her away from him. “Willicombe,” he said to the three occupants in the room, two of them paying not a whit of attention, “is bringing tea. Jason? Judith? Listen to me now. Tea is coming.”

Corrie heard a giggle and peered around James to see Judith McCrae throwing pencils at Jason.

“Whatever did he say to invite the attack, Judith? Good shot, right in the chest. Pencils could be dangerous, I suppose, so you’d best be careful.”

Judith, holding a final pencil between her fingers, ready to dart it at Jason, turned, grinning. “This fellow, standing here all straight and tall, looking more dangerous than a kilted Highlander, tells me that it is hazardous for me not to wear a necklace. Without it, a man doesn’t have any justification.”

Corrie was on the point of asking what that meant when Willicombe entered, looking in each corner of the drawing room, as was his habit, before clearing his throat and saying, “Cook has prepared some nutty buns. She apologizes that they aren’t the Twyley Grange cinnamon bread, but the men she hired to steal the recipe ended up being bribed and gorging themselves on the real item and falling into a swoon.” He beamed at them. “A room of young people who are looking at each other with such affection. Such a tepid word, affection. Perhaps it is more along the line of fondness and warmth, at least I hope it is more, since two of you are now being fitted for leg irons,” and Willicombe raised a questioning brow at Jason, who picked a pencil up off the floor and hurled it at him.

“Leg irons,” James muttered. “I begin to believe Willicombe as much a misogynist as Petrie.” Corrie poured