Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

“Well, actually, that’s a bit much, I’ve always thought. My friends as well as my enemies call me St. Cyre or Cliffe, but usually just Gray.”

“That will be just fine, my boy,” said Maude as she rose and shook out her puce silk skirts.

Mathilda rose as well, turned toward the drawing room doors, and shouted, “Jack!”

3

THE BARON didn’t get a good look at Jack the valet, mad or otherwise, as he was wearing a wool cap pulled to his ears and had his head turned away, seemingly staring hard down at the aunts’ two valises. He did see, however, a boy about fifteen years old, skinny as a toothpick, clad in baggy breeches, scuffed boots, and a bilious jacket the color of pea soup left too long in the pot. He didn’t look in the least like a boy who would deserve such a dashing handle. Skinny, ill-garbed little nit. He supposed that to two old ladies, any youthful behavior at all could easily be deemed mad. What had he done? Hurled a teacup to the floor and stomped on it?

He saw the valet pick up the aunts’ valises, grunt, and promptly drop them. He stared down at them, then seemed to gird his loins and began to drag them. What did he plan to do with the valises once he reached the stairs? Gray wondered. And was he totally untrained? A valet wouldn’t haul valises up the main staircase, even a mad one.

Gray nearly burst out laughing when Jack the valet began to nudge t

he valises forward with the toe of his boot, first one valise, then the other, each gaining perhaps three inches per boot poke. Quincy observed this for a very brief couple of seconds, then called for Remie the footman to assist, which he did. Remie, big and blond and Irish, clapped Jack on the back, nearly knocking him over, grabbed both valises in one huge hand, and walked toward the back of the town house to the servants’ stairs. He called out for Jack to follow him.

Mrs. Piller, the St. Cyre housekeeper—very pink in the cheeks, for what reason Gray couldn’t imagine—came forward to curtsy to the two aunts. Within moments, the aunts were on their way upstairs to bedchambers that were connected by a large dressing room where Jack the valet would reside.

“I’m leaving,” Gray said. “See to their comfort, Quincy. The aunts will be with us for a while. A fire and a flood—both—hit their home near Folkstone. They will remain here until their house is repaired. A fire and a flood,” he repeated, frowning toward the picture of the third Baroness Cliffe, a proclaimed witch, who had died in her bed of natural causes at the age of eighty-two. “It sounds rather odd, don’t you think?”

Quincy, who privately thought the two great-aunts and that unripe and untrained valet to be impecunious interlopers, looked severe and said, “Their carriage was hired, my lord. Their luggage is easily from the last century.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense since they’re going to be remaining here for a while. We have no room for an additional carriage in the stables. As for their luggage, why shouldn’t it be old? They’re ancient themselves. Now, I’m off.”

“Your lordship will enjoy yourself.”

Gray grinned as Quincy, who was nearly as short as Aunt Maude, helped him into his cloak. “Was that a bit of impertinent wit, Quincy?”

Quincy, an artist at his craft, affected the stolid, unaffected butler look and said nothing at all, but Gray always saw the impudent wickedness in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“Gray, do please taste the apple tarts. I made them once before, but the butcher, a big hairy ape who claimed I was much too pretty to cook, thought the crust was too dry. I put a bit more butter in the pastry this time, just in case he was telling the truth. The apples were very fresh. The boy who sold them to me was a crude little fellow who wanted to give me a kiss, so I clouted his ear. Now, do try a tart. I made them especially for you.”

Gray was lying flat on his back, naked, happy, sated, and just beginning to breathe normally again. And here was Jenny, wrapped up in a peach confection that, to his mind, looked more edible than the apple tarts she was sticking in his face. Her glorious black hair was tangled about her head, tumbling all the way down to her very nice bottom, her lips still red from all their kisses. He wanted her again—well, perhaps in another five minutes. Now he just wanted to rest a bit, so he could once again replenish his manly vigor. But he saw the excitement in her eyes, knew his duty, and took an apple tart. At least she was always ready to feed him after she’d exhausted him.

“You’ve never before made apple tarts for me,” he said as he examined the small square of pastry with hot apple sauce dripping off the sides.

“You said that the roast duckling with sweet Madeira and apricot sauce was a bit heavy after lovemaking, so I thought to give you just a bit of dessert today.”

He took a bite and lay back against the pillow. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands over his chest, careful not to smash the tart. He chewed slowly, knowing she was already hopping from her right foot to her left, waiting for him to pronounce her apple tart the best in the land. He kept his eyes closed, took another bite, chewed it slower than he had the first bite, then—finally—popped the last bite into his mouth. He looked at Jenny from beneath his eyelids. She was very nearly ready to shriek at him. He opened his eyes and said, “It isn’t enough. I’m not certain that the taste is exactly what one would applaud. Give me another one.”

She nearly crammed it into his mouth herself.

He ate the second tart, still silent and thoughtful, still chewing each bite until he knew if he didn’t say something very quickly, she would throw the plate at his head.

He smiled up at her, scratched his belly, and said, “Jenny, just a dollop of Devonshire cream for the apple tart, and it’s perfect. The pastry with the addition of more butter makes it nearly as smooth and creamy as the flesh on your belly.”

“I have some Devonshire cream,” she shouted and ran out of the very feminine bedchamber, hung with soft peaches, light yellows, and pale blues. The naked man lying atop her unmade bed sighed, stretched, and fell asleep.

Before he left two hours later, once more sated and more content than a vicar who’d found three gold coins in the collection plate, he ate another apple tart, this one dripping with Devonshire cream. It was beyond delicious, and she licked the cream off his mouth, laughing. “Give me the recipe for Mrs. Piller,” he said. “My guests will not want to leave the table.” He then saw himself telling the ancient and ever-so-proper Mrs. Grainger-Jones, wife of an equally ancient old general from the colonial wars, that the recipe was from his mistress.

Jenny kissed his mouth, then helped him to dress. When he left, she was humming, doubtless dreaming up a new recipe. She would probably be cooking in her kitchen in the next five minutes, never heeding that she was wearing a peach silk confection that would make a randy man want to eat his elbow. He’d spent more money having her kitchen remodeled just as she wished it than he ever had for clothes or jewels or trips to Vauxhall Gardens or the opera.

St. Cyre Town House

April 7th

Gray wondered how the aunts were doing. He’d seen them only on two occasions since their arrival, both at the table for dinner. And on both evenings, Mathilda had worn a black gown, circa 1785, few flounces and severely corseted; her very beautiful, thick hair was piled high on her head and was so white it could have been powdered.

As for Maude, her gown was the latest style, high-waisted, with fluttery puce silk swathing her meager bosom.