Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

He very carefully eased down again and pulled her against him. She fitted perfectly against his side, her face on his shoulder. He lay there, grinning like a happy fool, watching the morning brighten the bedchamber.

Finally he rose, careful not to awaken her, knowing she must be exhausted. He’d been the one to lead her to that marvelous exhaustion. He went to his dressing room and rang for Horace, his valet, a man recommended to him years before by Ryder Sherbrooke.

Ryder Sherbrooke had saved him from deportation to Botany Bay when he was ten and had been found guilty of stealing a gentleman’s gold watch from his pocket. He’d been beaten thoroughly, and Ryder knew he would never make it to faraway Australia. He bribed Horace’s way out of Newgate the night before he was to be sent away.

Gray had been visiting Ryder and Sophie at Chadwyck House on Horace’s eighteenth birthday. Speaking excellent English and being a gentleman’s gentleman were Horace’s dreams in life. He spoke English like an Etonian, thanks to Ryder. As for the rest of it, Why not? Gray had thought, and they’d struck a deal. They’d been together now four years.

They were also only four years apart in age. Horace told him everything, from Remie the footman’s latest female conquest to the mood of Durban on any given morning.

When Horace, trim and fit and taller than Gray, his nose crooked from being broken years before, came into the dressing room, he was holding two wrinkled envelopes in his hand as well as a bucket of steaming water.

“What are those?”

“I found them in your waistcoat pocket,” Horace said, handing them to Gray. “I, uh, understand from Mr. Quincy that you were rather in a hurry yesterday after Mr. Ryder left and didn’t take the time to read them. Mr. Quincy was all aflutter—you know how he gets—because the boy who had delivered one of the letters said it was very urgent. Mr. Quincy wanted to know if you’d read it. Well, I told him I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”

Gray stood there in his dressing room, naked, the early morning light spilling in the tops of the two wide windows, and unfolded one of the letters. He smoothed it out with his hand, then grunted. It was another threatening letter from that sniveling sod, Clyde Barrister. It was time, Gray thought, to follow through on his original promise to beat Clyde senseless. He remembered the other letter—it had arrived just before the great-aunts, and now, just a few weeks later, he was married.

“My lord?”

Horace cocked his head to one side, watching Gray.

“What? Oh, nothing, Horace, just another idiot letter from Clyde Barrister, the fool. I’ll have to see to him once and for all. Give me the other one.”

Gray read the second letter, then sighed. “Well, this is a relief. The note is from Lord Burleigh. He wants to see me, says it’s urgent.” Gray raised his head. “I wonder what it could be. At least he’s got his wits back again.”

He handed the note to Horace. “Look at the handwriting. He wrote it himself, but he’s weak. You can barely make out some of the letters.”

Horace read it once, then twice.

He looked up and said, “Lord Burleigh is your godfather.”

“Yes,” Gray said. “He is. He’s also her ladyship’s guardian.”

“If Lord Burleigh is as weak as his handwriting appears, I believe, my lord, that you’d best bathe quickly and then we’ll get you dressed.”

“Yes,” Gray said, climbing into the bathing tub. He began to lather himself, wondering what was so damnably urgent.

25

“MY LORD,” Gray said as he grasped Lord Burleigh’s hand between his own. It was difficult to keep his voice calm, his face relaxed. The powerful man he’d known all his life had been replaced by this slack-fleshed, frail old man who scarce had the look of Lord Burleigh at all. Gray wanted to weep at the inevitability of death and all its indignities.

“Grayson,” Lord Burleigh said and smiled at the young man he’d loved since he held him in his hands when he had been but three days on this earth. “My boy, to see your face rather than that wretched physician’s—the damned torturer. No, no, I didn’t summon you to an old man’s deathbed. I’m too fond of you to stick my spoon in the wall in front of you. Sit down, and Angela will give you a nice cup of tea.”

Lady Burleigh, Lord Burleigh’s wife of thirty-eight years, handed Gray a cup of tea, simply nodded at him, then sat on the other side of the bed, gently taking her husband’s hand in hers.

Lord Burleigh’s eyes were closed.

“He will rest a moment, then speak again,” she said. “He is beginning to regain strength, but it will take time. He must go slowly. No, don’t look so frightened. He will get well. Now, drink your tea, Grayson.”

“I received an urgent note from him, my lady. I didn’t read it until this morning.”

“Yes,” said Lord Burleigh, his eyes still closed. “You came. Now, my dear, would you please take Snell, who’s always hovering over there by the door, tell him not to worry so much, and leave Grayson alone with me?”

“But, Charles—”

“No, Angela. Don’t treat me like I’ve got one foot already over the edge. This is important. Please.”

He fell silent again. Gray watched Lady Burleigh and Snell the butler finally remove themselves from the sick chamber. He noticed that all the draperies were open, sunlight pouring into the room, making bright splashes of light across the counterpane. Didn’t anyone care that Lord Burleigh hated the sunlight? He went to each of the three large panels of windows and pulled the draperies tightly cl