Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

He heard more details about the infamous fire and flood that had ravaged Feathergate Close and kept the two old ladies in an elevated state of misery. He heard more stories of how Mortimer the Vicar had tried to steal a kiss from Mathilda behind the vestry and had even patted her posterior when the sexton was ringing the church bells. On both evenings when dinner was finished, he found he didn’t want to sit in isolated splendor in his dining room sipping a glass of port.

That first night he’d followed the aunts into the drawing room. Before they could be seated, Mathilda said, “Piano.”

And so it was that Gray was treated to some flawless Haydn by the very talented Maude.

That had been two nights ago. He wished, as he stroked Eleanor now, sprawled out along the length of his right leg, that he’d had his great-aunts in his life throughout the years. He quite liked them.

He smoothed Eleanor out over both his legs, picked up his quill, dipped it into the exquisite onyx ink pot that the lovely widow, Constance Duran, had presented him after he’d removed a noxious problem from her life, namely her husband, and wrote a letter to Ryder Sherbrooke, a man with not too many more years on his plate than Gray, a man Gray admired more than he’d ever admired any other man in his life.

He had just finished the letter when Quincy entered the library, his rheumy dark eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong, Quincy?”

“It’s a gentleman, my lord—actually, a gentleman I’ve never seen before. He gave me his card.” Quincy handed Gray a small, very white visiting card with the name Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford written on it. He didn’t know this man. He looked up at Quincy again. “I heard it in your voice. What’s wrong with him?”

Quincy said slowly, “It’s something about his eyes. It’s what he’s after. I believe that greed, pure and simple greed, is what he’s all about. Actually, perhaps that is overflowing in melodrama. We will see. However, I don’t think Sir Henry is a very good man.” Quincy shook him

self. “Nevertheless, he asked very politely to see you. He claims it’s important.”

“This should prove interesting,” Gray said and rose. “Bring in our Sir Henry.”

“Lord Cliffe?” Gray nodded at the extraordinarily handsome man who walked confidently into the library, his hand out. He was tall, straight, and of middle years, with thick dark brown hair flecked with gray. He shook the man’s hand automatically, then bowed slightly. “Yes, I’m Cliffe. I’m afraid I don’t know you, sir.”

“I’m Wallace-Stanford. I’m a friend of the Feathergate Close sisters, Mathilda and Maude. I happened to be in London and decided to see if they were enjoying their stay with you. I’m very fond of the old ladies.”

Now this was a revelation. The man had jumped right in, not a single nicety, no prelude at all. He was also anxious. Gray could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. “I see,” Gray said, not really seeing a thing. He invited Sir Henry to be seated, which he did.

“Would you care for a brandy?” Once the brandy was pressed into Sir Henry’s elegant hand, Gray said, “So, you are acquainted with my great-aunts. Are you calling to see them or just to inquire about them?”

“No, actually, I’m here to inquire if the dear old ladies have a young guest with them.”

“A young guest?”

“Yes.”

He looked at Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford’s eyes, so very dark, thought of Quincy’s words, and said, “No, the aunts brought no guest with them.”

“Ah, I see,” said Sir Henry. He slowly rose. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, my lord. You are certain they brought no person with them?”

Now this was mightily interesting. Gray just shook his head. “No guest in sight,” he said. “Are you certain you don’t wish to speak to them? At the moment I believe they are at Hookham’s bookstore or perhaps at Gunther’s, enjoying an ice. Perhaps you’d care to wait for them?”

“Oh, no, it’s not all that important, really.” He gave Gray a long look, then slowly nodded.

Once Sir Henry was out of his house, Gray stood in the entrance hall beside Quincy, staring at the recently closed front door. “This is very strange,” Gray said.

“Shifty man,” Quincy said. “Very shifty. If you would like to tell me what he wanted, my lord, I would be pleased to cogitate on its implications.”

“If I’m not mistaken, I think he was after Jack.”

“Jack the valet?” Quincy said, tapping his fingertips lightly on the silver card tray he was holding. “I can’t imagine why. A most unprepossessing lad. Not much of a valet, I heard Horace say. Needs training. Your Horace said he’d be happy to see to it, but the lad avoids all the servants, stays to himself in the great-aunts’ bedchambers. The boy also needs proper clothes. I wonder why your two great-aunts haven’t provided for him? And why would Sir Henry want Jack the valet?”

“Good question.”

Mad Jack, who wasn’t Jack or mad at all, was scared. It had been four days since she’d escaped from her bedchamber down the knotted sheets and flown to the aunts’ house. And now they were here in London and she was supposed to be a boy because the aunts said that her stepfather would surely track them here and there simply couldn’t be a young lady with them, else it would give all away immediately, and that would lead to trouble, and their great-nephew didn’t deserve any extra trouble. He’d been nothing but amiable, they told her every evening, always solicitous, not a rotter at all. Still early days, though, Mathilda had said.

She had to remain a valet so they could protect their great-nephew from any possible violence offered by her stepfather. They’d paused, cycled looks back and forth, then said that the baron was also the son of a very dishonorable man and they didn’t want to take the chance of the baron being like his father, in other words, taking one look at her, slavering, and trying to seduce her. Jack couldn’t imagine any gentleman slavering over her, but no matter. It was what the aunts were concerned about, and they should certainly know more about slavering than she did, being that they were triple her age, at least, so she’d kept quiet.

Mad Jack. She grinned now, just for a moment, thinking of it, laughing a bit as she remembered when Jack had been created. Aunt Mathilda had looked at her, up and down, finally nodding her long, narrow face. Jack remembered Mathilda’s deep, musical voice saying only, “Breeches.”