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,
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.”
“I will stay with Melissa’s parents,” she said.
James said, “They’re journeying directly back to Yorkshire tomorrow.”
Douglas continued, “We will all gather together at the solicitor’s, and the legal minds will help us sort this out. Now, it’s time for bed. I, for one, am still swimming in too much champagne.”
Since it was the patriarch who had spoken, everyone dutifully rose.
As James had said, the vicarage was packed to the rafters of the third floor. Jason and six other young men, including the bedchamber’s owner, Max, Uncle Tysen’s eldest son, were sleeping lined up like logs on thick piles of blankets, collected from Uncle Tysen’s parishioners.
Except Jason. He couldn’t sleep. All his plans, all the magnificent execution of his plans, what would happen now? He hated the uncertainty of it. He listened to the snoring, the grunts and groans of all his cousins, wondered how wives ever got any sleep, what with all the racket men made, pulled on a dressing gown his cousin Grayson had loaned him, and slipped out of the vicarage. He walked into the moonlight-drenched gardens, pausing by a thick twisting honeysuckle vine to breathe in its night scent.
“Do you know that women snore?”
He nearly jumped out of his bare feet. He whipped around, stepped on a sharp twig, and began dancing on one foot.
The witch laughed.
“Women’s snores aren’t as earsplitting as men’s,” he said, rubbing his foot. “Just little mewling sounds, delicate little snorts and whistles.”
“I suppose you would know, what with all the women you’ve put to sleep over the years.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Is this why you’re up, Miss Carrick? You couldn’t sleep with all the little grunts and groans?”
“It was almost like I was lying there listening to some sort of strange string quartet. A little wheeze here, a heady sigh from across the room, a deeper rumble from beside my left elbow.”
“And you couldn’t join in the orchestra?”
“I was lying there, wondering what we’re going to do about all this mess. Not that I have any doubt about the correct outcome, naturally, but getting there, the plowing through your very rich and powerful family, who would like to send me to China. In a barrel. Filled with herring.”
“Plowing? You think my family would be dishonest? I assure you, Miss Carrick, there is no reason to be since I have the right of it. Thomas Hoverton is a wastrel, a small-minded, womanizing, gambling wastrel, and that is why his solicitor has the power to make financial decisions for him. Thomas initiated it himself to keep him separated from his creditors who would probably like to jerk his guts out through his nose. Besides, you’re not some poor little waif. Talk about a powerful family; your uncle, Burke Drummond, the earl of Ravensworth, is a very powerful man indeed. As for your father, he is Baron Sherard. Contact them, Miss Carrick. Until your father arrives, your uncle can represent your interests, he and his solicitor. Stop your whining. Actually, my parents would seriously consider China or perhaps Russia. Somewhere remote.”
Hallie sighed. “Yes, that’s all true. But it will take days for Uncle Burke to get to London. Was I really whining?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that isn’t very attractive, is it? No, don’t you dare say it’s what all American girls do or I’ll knock you into those rosebushes.”
“All right, I won’t say it. The fact is, I’m charmed with the image of you climbing out of a herring barrel after six or so weeks at sea, on a rutted road that will take you to Moscow, in about six months.”
“English herring or American herring?”
He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. “British herring are saltier in my experience. Not that I don’t like a whiff of salt, naturally.”
“You’re making that up.” She paused a moment, then said, “The fact is I like being more American than British. I have a different perspective on many things. You know, the way I look at people, the way I respond to situations.”
“That must mean you’re not an insufferable snob yet.”
“Is that how you see English girls, Mr. Sherbrooke? As snobs?”
“No, not at all. You’re right about American girls-they’re more likely to kick a man in the shins if he offends her rather than whimpering behind a potted palm in a corner.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve seen both. For myself, I’d prefer the attempt to the shin.”
“No attempt. I’d do it, fast and hard.”
“I suppose you could try. A gentleman is at a disadvantage, of course, since he can’t kick you back. You’ve a
