The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [105]
“Maybe, but—”
“Now,” he said quietly against her mouth, “you said you don’t deserve me. That is a repellent thought. I also cannot accept what made you say it. It is nonsense and it makes me angry. Take it back—now. We’ll keep mum for the time being about the bloody lamp and the scroll.”
“All right.” She sniffed. “Would you just kiss me one time? If you do, then I swear I’ll run.”
He kissed her and she ran. He stood there in the middle of his bedchamber, panting like the messenger who had run from Marathon to Athens, only to drop dead at the end. He wondered what it was this particular woman did to him. And he was very grateful for it.
Sir John Yorke was a desiccated old relic who was perfectly bald, had very frightening eyes because they had practically no color at all, and had a tic by the side of his left eye.
He was still very powerful. He was known to be ruthless and vicious when he perceived the need.
He was tapping together his steepled fingertips. The skin was loose on the back of his age-spotted hands.
He merely nodded to the three gentlemen. He knew all of them, not as friends but as powerful men, and that gave him no choice at all but to see them, to listen to them. He had no idea what they wanted. He looked at them, all young, healthy, well made. Their ranks were higher than his. They were all richer than he was. But the only one he truly feared was the earl of Northcliffe, who was still involved in the ministry for an occasional mission that a lesser man would not be able to perform. He was well connected to everyone of power in the government. As for his brother, Ryder Sherbrooke was newly elected to the House of Commons. He detested all of them. He had no choice but to deal with them, but then, thank God, they would leave. Good riddance to all the worthless bastards. He smiled a stingy, false smile.
He did not rise. “What may I do for you gentlemen?”
Lord Beecham said pleasantly, “We are here to verify that your son, Gerard Yorke, indeed drowned off the coast of France in 1803.”
Ryder Sherbrooke watched those pale lashes flicker just once over the nearly colorless eyes. Got you, he thought, sat back, and folded his hands over his belly.
“Of course he drowned,” Sir John said, his voice rising. “He was a hero. He would have followed me into the Admiralty had he survived. Your question is nonsense.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Lord Beecham asked, handing Sir John the letter.
“Ah, I understand this now. My former daughter-in-law, has dragged you into this. I wondered what three society gentlemen wanted with me. You are acting on her behalf. Well, well, let us get it over with. This is not my son’s handwriting. She knows that. My son is dead.”
“Miss Mayberry believes that it is Gerard Yorke’s handwriting,” Douglas said, sitting forward, his eyes steady on Sir John’s face. “She told us that you didn’t know your son’s handwriting all that well.”
They heard the movement of Sir John’s secretary behind them, by they didn’t turn.
“She is wrong. Naturally I know his handwriting. More to the point, she is probably a liar. She needs money and thus she creates this wretched fiction. She did not produce a child for me—for my son—and thus she doesn’t deserve any consideration whatsoever. Please inform her that I will not be pleased if she continues with this harassment.”
Lord Beecham said very pleasantly, “I believe there is a misunderstanding here, Sir John. I wish to wed Miss Mayberry. With this letter from your son, it appears that she is not free, as she had believed for eight long years. We will require proof that he is indeed dead, else we will have to advertise in all the newspapers, speak to everyone we know, search out any friends of his, to find out the truth.”
Sir John rose slowly, very slowly, because his hip pained him badly, nearly all the time now, and there was no reason for it, was there? None that his physician could find. It was just age, just bloody age. At least his blood was pumping strongly through his body, he could feel it pounding in his neck. “My son is dead, long