Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

“Then you’ve no need to bathe again. Do you?”

“No, I’m clean enough.”

“Strange how I forgot something so ridiculous as that. Stay there, my lord. Just stay there. I’ll be right back.”

When Horace returned six minutes later, Gray was standing naked beside the bathing tub, holding a towel in his hand. Late-afternoon sunlight spilled over the tops of the draperies of the two wide windows.

“My lord? You wish to bathe?”

“What, Horace? Why, yes, I do.”

“First drink this. Yes, sit down again and drink this. It will help.”

Gray sat again on the stool. Horace put the snifter of brandy in his hand.

“Drink this.”

Gray drank. Usually, brandy warmed a path directly to his belly. This time it didn’t. It tasted cold, dreadfully cold. He sat there, balancing the glass on his leg.

Horace picked up the towel he’d dropped and put it over his shoulders. He said nothing, he merely stood there, his hand on Gray’s shoulder, waiting.

“No,” Gray said, looking up at him. “It can’t be true, Horace, it just can’t. Lord Burleigh must be wrong. He must.”

He looked like a man who’d been dealt a killing blow. In the past years, Horace himself had dealt his master a few hard blows in the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, but not a blow like this. This was a blow to the soul.

His lordship was married to his half sister? He couldn’t comprehend such a thing.

“No, Horace, he’s wrong.”

“You’ll have a nice hot bath, then we’ll see.” Horace pulled the bell cord. It took a good long time for the footmen to bring the tubs of hot water to the dressing room. However, for the two men waiting inside, there was only endless time, and silence.

Gray knew he was being a coward. He simply couldn’t deal with it now, he just couldn’t. He slipped out of his home when he knew Jack was dressing for the evening. He remembered vaguely that he was supposed to escort her to some musicale, but the name of the host escaped him. He hid, in fact, until Horace assured him that even the great-aunts were employed in the drawing room, playing with Georgie, while Dolly, still flushed with excitement from their outing, looked on. Mr. Quincy was in the kitchen, fetching tea for the great-aunts.

Gray went to White’s, sat alone, and ordered dinner. But he couldn’t bring himself to eat. He knew he’d puke if he tried. He drank another glass of White’s best smuggled French brandy. Odd, the brandy still tasted cold. Nearly frigid. He left White’s and walked and walked, just as he had all afternoon. It was past midnight when he reached the river. He sat on the bank and stared out over the black water to the moored boats. He looked up at the quarter-moon, hovering clean and bright just above the far shoreline.

His half sister. No, no, it just couldn’t be true.

He saw Lord Burleigh so clearly, his head a deep indentation on the soft pillow, heard his frail voice saying sadly, “I’m so very sorry, Grayson. You call her Jack. Do you know what her father wanted to name her?”

Gray shook his head. “No, I don’t—” Then he remembered and he said slowly, “Graciella.”

“Yes, it was as close to your name as he could imagine. Grace . . . Gray. But his wife refused the name. Did she suspect? I don’t know. He never said. Th

e girl baby was named Winifrede, according to his wife’s wish.”

Gray suddenly began to laugh. He slapped his hands on his thighs, he laughed so hard. He gasped for breath as he said, “Oh, God, do you know what this means as well, my lord? One hears there is always something good to be found, no matter how hideous a situation. And there is in this one as well. It means that that miserable bastard wasn’t my real father. I don’t carry any of that monster’s blood. Well, that must be something.”

“No, the man who raised you had no claim on you.”

“He was an animal, you know,” Gray said slowly. “He beat my mother.”

“Yes, I know. There was nothing I could do about it. Actually, my boy, I know all of it. I just never saw the point in speaking to you of it or to anyone else, for that matter, not even your real father, Thomas Levering Bascombe, Baron Yorke. I remember right after your mother’s husband died, Thomas came to me. He wanted to go to your mother, tell her that at last he would care for her, that if she wished it, he would look after you, his son. He wanted to assure her that he would be discreet, that no one would ever guess anything at all, that he would never allow a hint of scandal to touch you, now Baron Cliffe.

“Then the illness felled your poor mother and it was too late. Thomas was greatly affected. He also felt tremendous guilt, and tremendous sadness because you were his son and you would never know him as your father. I’ve never before or since seen a man so broken.

“It was some months later that Thomas came to me with the request that I become Winifrede’s guardian in the case of his death. I asked him why, point-blank. He said he realized that life was a fragile thing. He said he didn’t trust his wife because she was incapable of judging men. He said that if he died, the good Lord knew what sort of man she’d marry in his place.

“He laughed, I remember, and looked as if he would rather cry. He said, ‘Just look at her judgment for her first husband. Yes, Charles, just look at me!’