He reached out his hand and laid it over hers. “Will you marry me, Corrie? No more excuses about me making this dreadful sacrifice, no more whining about missing out on sowed oats.”
“You don’t think I should do well as a barmaid in Boston? It’s in America.”
“No, you would be a miserable serving girl. You would clout any man who was stupid enough to pinch your bottom.”
Her chin went up. “That’s not true. I could do anything I had to do in order to survive. If you were ill and it were up to me, I could drive a dray. I could make meat pies and sell them. James, I would keep you safe and well. You could always count on me.”
He cocked his head to one side, staring at her. He studied the face he’d known for more than half his life, first the child and now the young woman. “You know, Corrie, I believe you would,” he said slowly, and then he reached out and clasped her hand. “We will do well together. Trust me.”
She sighed, shook off his hand, and click-clicked Darlene into a canter along Rotten Row.
The fact of the matter was, he thought, watching her gracefully sway in the side saddle, firmly in control, she would do anything she needed to do, anything she had to do. To save him. She’d already proved that. He sent Bad Boy into a gallop and was riding beside her within a few moments.
“Say yes,” he said, his eyes between Bad Boy’s twitching ears. Then he gave her a sideways glance. “I could teach you things, Corrie, things that would make you feel quite good.”
Oh dear, she quite liked the sound of this. “What sorts of things?”
“Perhaps it isn’t proper of me to get all into details just this moment, but on our wedding night-ah, yes, I’ll just spit it out-think of me kissing the backs of your knees.”
The knees in question froze on her legs. “Oh goodness, my knees?”
“The backs of your knees. That could be one very small thing I will teach you about. No, no more. You must wait. Now, the truth is, I sent our marriage announcement to the Gazette. No one will cut you now, no one will look at me like I’m a debauched rake. It’s done, Corrie. My mother is likely meeting with your Aunt Maybella even as we ride. The wedding must be soon.”
“If I were to agree, I wouldn’t want it soon. I would want the biggest wedding ever seen in London. I would want to be married at Saint Paul’s.”
He smiled. “All right. Let’s go back and speak to our elders.”
“I haven’t said yes, James. This is all supposition.”
He grinned at her. “You are tottering close to the edge.”
“Why are you being so damned agreeable? Are you still too ill to argue with me? You must be, because you like to argue and yell and curse. You like to pretend you’re going to clout me. This agreeable side of you isn’t what I’m used to. Are you tired, is that the problem? Oh dear, let me see if your fever has come back.” And she rode Darlene right into Bad Boy, her hand outstretched, but she didn’t touch his face because Darlene, who’d just come into heat, decided she wanted Bad Boy and what followed was a fracas, a good word that meant everything and nothing, the word that Corrie later used to describe to her uncle and aunt what had happened. Actually, fracas didn’t come close to the chaos of two rearing horses: Darlene shrieking, Bad Boy snorting, amenable to what she wanted to do and trying to bite her neck and mount her, and James, laughing so hard he was nearly falling off his horse’s back.
And in the midst of it all, Corrie, barely managing to stay on Darlene’s back, shouted through her laughter, “All right, James. I’ll seriously consider marrying you! I suppose it could be more fun than being a barmaid in Boston.”
“Is that a yes or another supposition?”
She whispered, looking down at her black boots with their lovely heels, “All right.”
“Good. That’s done.”
James wasn’t about to admit to relief. No, he was facing the raw fact that his doom was now formally sealed, his not inconsiderable wild oats now headed for a deep well.
He met for two hours with Lord Montague, managed to keep his attention focused long enough to get the marriage contract finalized, all the while thinking that at least there’d be laughter in his life. Corrie might drive him mad, make him want to hurl her through a window, but at the end of the day, she’d have him holding his belly with laughter. And kissing the backs of her knees. He grinned. Imagine, kissing the backs of the brat’s knees. Life, he thought, was amazing.
JASON AND PETER Marmot hadn’t found the man in Covent Garden that morning. One old woman, who was selling very well-made brooms, had said through healthy gums, “Old ’orace was lying on his arse today, the lazy sod, likely he was drinkin’ ’is guts out, and all because he’d heard that a man wanted to poke his sticker in ’orace’s belly.”
This didn’t sound good. They made plans to return that night. As it happened, however, Peter hadn’t appeared, and so Jason had gone alone to Covent Garden. He simply walked about, turning down a half dozen prostitutes, guarding his groats, looking at every shadow that crept out of the many alleyways, keeping his hand close to his stiletto and his derringer. It was raucous, as it always was this time of night, yells, laughter, curses. He tried to blend in, all the while looking everywhere for the man Peter had described to him.
He didn’t know what made him turn at the last moment, but thank the good Lord that he did. A man, masked, wearing a black greatcoat, came at him, not with a knife in his hand, but a blanket, and right behind him were two other fellows, both of them with blankets at the ready. Good God, was it Augie and his cohorts again, believing they would succeed at trying the same thing again?
With no hesitation at all, Jason drew his derringer and shot the man in the arm. He yelled, fell back. “Ye foul young sot! Ye shot me! Why’d ye do that? I niver hurt ye, not really, even that first time.”
Ah, so it was Augie and his crew, and he believed he was James. “Where is Georges Cadoudal?” Jason asked.
He kept his pistol pointed at the man in the greatcoat, who’d dropped the blanket to the ground and was holding his arm.
“I doesn’t know no Cadoudal fellow.”
“You’re Augie, aren’t you? And you two must be Billy and Ben. I trust you’re all feeling better than the last time I saw you.”
“No thanks to that little gal,” said Augie.
“Not much of a repertoire you fellows have. All you know is blankets?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a blanket or two. We doesn’t want to kill ye now, anymore than we did the first time. We jest wants to take ye fer a nice ride again, only ye goes and brings a gun wit’ ye. That jest ain’t fair.”
“Just like you did to my brother.”
“What brother? Ye is ye, ain’t that obvious? What’s this brother stuff?”
“You kidnapped my brother, Lord Hammersmith. I’m Jason Sherbrooke, we’re identical twins, you fool. So the man who hired you didn’t bother telling you that, did he? Not very competent of him. No, you two hold still.” To make sure they believed he was serious, Jason drew the stiletto from its sheath along his forearm. “Nice and sharp, a birthday present from my father; he eased it out of a thief’s sleeve in Spain. The first one of you who moves gets my stiletto right through the neck. Now, Augie, tell me. Did this so-called Douglas Sherbrooke hire you again?”
“I doesn’t know what yer talking about, young ’un! Aw, ye hurt me bad, ye hurt me real bad. I jest think I’ll send me two boys ’ere to pin back those ears of yers.”
“If you do, I will shoot you again, this time, in what you call a brain. So send them over here, come on, you puking cowards.”
But none of the three men moved an inch toward him. “Come on, Augie, tell me about Douglas Sherbrooke. He hired you again, didn’t he? He had you set up the pie man, hired him to start talking about Georges Cadoudal. So we’d hear about it and come. This Douglas Sherbrooke-is he young? Old? What does he look like?”