The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [117]
Ezra Cave grabbed his partner’s gun and fired. He missed—not that it mattered, since Gerard was already dead. The bullet hit the wall beside Sir John’s head, shredding the wood, sending splinters flying. Sir John let his son’s body crumple to the floor at his feet and waved the gun wildly about in front of him. “No, none of you come at me. Just stay right there.” Then he threw his head back and yelled to the heavens, his voice thick with failure and rage, “I have done my duty to my country. I have executed a traitor. It makes no difference that he carried my blood. I have devoted my life to England. History will judge me an honorable man, a man who never shirked his duty, a man who gave his life for his country.”
Then Sir John turned the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. Blood gushed out of his mouth and the back of his head exploded. Both his face and his head were crimson with blood. He didn’t make another sound, collapsing where he stood, over his son’s body.
No one moved for a very long time, just looked at the old man sprawled over his son, as if covering him to protect him.
Helen said then, “This is too much, Spenser. It is just too much.” He saw the blankness of shock on her face and a dreadful sorrow in her eyes. He drew her against him and held her close.
But what Spenser was thinking was that Gerard Yorke was dead, finally and truly and irrevocably dead. He wondered in that moment, if he ever managed to get himself admitted into heaven, what Saint Peter would have to say to him about the thoughts in his mind as he held his future wife tightly against him and looked at her husband’s dead body at his feet.
30
SPENSER HEATHERINGTON, Seventh Baron Valesdale and fifth Viscount Beecham, and Miss Helen Mayberry were married in St. Paul’s Cathedral. There were five hundred guests present, many of them there to trade gossip about the fantastic lamp that of course didn’t really exist, that was only a titillating jest played on society by Lord Beecham. Ah, but what a fascinating tale it was—a magic lamp that had been in the possession of King Edward I, who had hidden it from the world, for whatever reason. Everyone had spoken of it, guessed at its whereabouts, granted it various powers. Ah, it had passed the time so pleasurably.
There were at least fifty guests there because they liked Lord Beecham and believed the lovely Helen Mayberry would make him an excellent wife.
As for the bride’s father, Lord Prith was in his element. Sophie Sherbrooke had told Helen that Lord Prith was giving samples of a new champagne concoction to guests on the sly as they came into St. Paul’s. Sophie said it had a blue tint. Helen just laughed and shook her head. She wondered if perhaps this time he had mixed blueberries with the champagne. What was he calling it? Bluepagne? Or perhaps Chamblue?
Bishop Bascombe performed the ceremony, his deep, melodious voice booming out into that huge cavernous space, touching everyone there, making even the most cynical of those attending forget about what their friends were wearing, and warming them to their toes.
It was a lovely service, all said. The huge reception held at Lord Beecham’s town house was magnificent, no expense spared. And some asked behind their hands, not in seriousness, of course, if the magic lamp had provided all this bounty. After all, both the lovely ceremony, all those guests, then the food served at the reception, were surely more than could be planned in a year, much less a mere month by a mere mortal.
Yes, surely one would have to have the services of a magic lamp to have such a splendid wedding on such short notice.
Ryder Sherbrooke was saying to Gray St. Cyre and his new bride, Jack, “Did your husband tell you my only marital advice?”
“Yes,” Jack said, stood on her tiptoes and kissed Ryder’s cheek. “He did. You are a brilliant man, Ryder. I can see why Sophie adores you even when she is planning to discipline you.”
“What’s this about discipline?” asked Gray St. Cyre, an eyebrow raised.
Lord