Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

It was a wretched morning, gray and drizzling, the air damp and cold. It was the second of April and there wasn’t a hint of sun—not that the sun was ever really expected in London.

When he walked through the drawing room double doors, hearing Quincy say in his gravelly voice, “Lord Cliffe,” he nearly stopped dead in his tracks.

Two old ladies were standing there in the middle of the large room, all muffled up in scarves, bonnets, cloaks, and gloves, staring at him like he was the devil himself.

“You are my great-aunts?” Gray asked as he walked toward them, smiling easily because he was a gentleman. Today, which had promised to be rather boring until he took himself off to Jenny’s apartments to make love to her until he was scarcely breathing, had now changed course.

One old lady stepped forward, taller than most females he knew, thin as a post, her face long and narrow, her skin dry and slightly yellowed, like aged parchment. She looked at least old enough to be long dead, but her walk was spry, the look on her face determined.

“We need your assistance,” she said, her voice low and quite beautiful. She had a very long neck and a lovely mouth that still held nearly a full complement of teeth, from what he could see. He bowed, waiting, but the old lady just looked at him, then stepped back, like a soldier returning to formation.

The other old lady, this one short and very slight, looked briefly at her sister, then took three steps toward him, dainty little fairy steps. “I’m Maude Coddington, my lord. What Mathilda would have said if she’d felt like it, which she rarely does, is that we’re your great-aunts. We were your grandmother’s younger sisters. Unfortunately your dear grandmother, Mary, died birthing your mama, our little niece. Our other sister, Martha, died of an inflammation of the lung three years ago, and that leaves only Mathilda and me.”

Maude looked fluffy, what with all the ribbons and bows that adorned what he could see of her gown. There were even several swags of fruit on her bonnet, grapes and apples. She probably came only to the top button on his waistcoat; Mathilda came to his forehead. These two were sisters? He wondered what his great-aunt Martha had looked like. He’d once seen a portrait of his grandmother, painted when she was eighteen.

“It was the vicar’s fault,” Aunt Mathilda said.

“I beg your pardon?” Gray said. “What was the vicar’s fault?”

“Martha,” Aunt Mathilda said.

“What Mathilda would mean, were she to feel like telling you of the incident, is that our sister, Martha, was walking with the vicar and it began to rain and he did bring her home but it was too late. She became ill and died.”

“Oh. I’m very sorry.” He smiled at them because he was exquisitely polite and because he was frankly curious. They’d also made him smile. He said, “Thank you for explaining things more fully. Now, please, won’t you be seated? Yes, that’s right. Ah, you’re here, Quincy. Do bring us some tea and some of Mrs. Post’s lemon rind cakes.” He waited until the two old dears had arranged themselves on the settee opposite him. Then he sat down. “Aunt Mathilda said you need my assistance. What may I do for you?”

“Not money,” said Mathilda.

“Exactly,” said Maude. “How very distasteful that would be, two old ladies coming to you with their mittens out. No, we have no need to beg financial assistance from you, my lord. We live near Folkstone. We are comfortably situated. Our father left us very well off indeed.”

“Rich husbands,” Aunt Mathilda said.

“Yes, well, our husbands left us well situated as well. They were good men, as men go, and thank the good Lord that they always go, eventually.” Aunt Maude drew a deep breath and added in a very dramatic voice, “No, my lord, we beg your assistance as head of the St. Cyre family.”

“Very young,” said Mathilda.

Gray said slowly, “I suppose I am rather young to be the head of the family, not that there’s all that much family to head. I just turned twenty-six. I have some cousins that I never see, who probably don’t care if I’m above the ground or under it, but no one else until now. I’m very pleased to have you as my aunts. I will naturally offer you any assistance I can. Ah, here’s Quincy with Mrs. Post’s cakes and the tea.”

Gray watched as Quincy, who’d been very thin as a young man and now, in his middle years, had become as plump as one of Mrs. Post’s buttocks of beef, laid out all the food, poured the tea, and then assisted the two old ladies out of their myriad layers of clothing. Mathilda was dressed entirely in black, from the old-fashioned bonnet on her head to the slippers on her long, narrow feet. All black. Even the cameo at her throat was black. He’d never in his life seen a black cameo.

Maude was dressed in purple. No, that wasn’t exactly right. There was some brown and

pink mixed in there, diluting the purple, which was a visual relief. There was a word for that color. Oh, yes, it was puce, a very ugly word, he’d always thought—sounded like the color of day-old remains. Her bonnet was puce, the slippers on her very small feet were also puce. Puce, he thought, looked rather nice on Maude.

When the two ladies were seated again, cups of tea held gracefully in their veined hands, Gray said, “Pray tell me what you would like me to do.”

Mathilda took a sip of her very hot tea and said, a wealth of information in her eyes, “Flood.”

Maude bit into one of the lemon rind cakes, sighed, showing teeth as nice-looking as her sister’s, then swallowed and said, “We recently had a fire at our lovely home just north of Folkstone. It’s called Feathergate Close, has been for three hundred years. We’re not certain why, but it is a charming, rather romantic name, don’t you think? Not, of course, that it matters much, after all this time. Actually, after Mathilda and I die, Feathergate will come to you.” Maude paused, beamed at him, then continued quickly after a quick nudge from Mathilda—more of a sharp poke, actually.

“Yes, dear, I’m getting to the point. One doesn’t want to rush things. The boy must be softened up properly.”

She gave him a beautiful smile. He supposed that meant he was properly soft. “Now, in any case, after this dreadful fire, there were many repairs to be done. We would like to remain here with you for a while, until our house is habitable again.”

“What about the flood?”

“Oh,” said Maude, delicately wiping her fingers on the soft white napkin after she put another lemon rind cake into her mouth. “The flood came after the fire. Our dear mother’s Chippendale dining room chairs nearly floated out of the manor. Unfortunately the flood didn’t come in time to put out the fire, but rather a full three days later. Then it rained and rained. It was more depressing than having the vicar propose yet again to Mathilda, which he did just last Sunday morning, after services, right there, in the nave of our church.”

“What did Mathilda do?” He was sitting forward, fascinated.