Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

“Maybe so, but Douglas, I’m thinking that Alex is right. I’ve noticed that you’ve been acting differently lately. You’re distracted, you seem disturbed, perhaps even worried about something. And you came to London, dragging all of us with you, ostensibly for your birthday. What’s going on with you, Douglas?”

“That’s nonsense,” Douglas said. “There’s nothing at all going on with me. I happen to like London. If I must become a year older, London is the place to do it. Alex is dreaming up difficulties where none exist. I beg you not to do the same thing. Now, as I said, Alex’s sonnet nearly curled my toes.”

Ryder had his mouth open when Gray said from behind him, “Alex wrote you a sonnet? Can I look forward to Jack penning me verses as well?”

Both men turned to see Gray St. Cyre standing in the dining room doorway. Douglas said, “Well, we’ve been married nearly eight years. I thought I’d know everything there was to know about Alex by this time, but not a chance of it. That sonnet—she titled it ‘Ode to a Flagging Spouse.’ I will read it to the two of you sometime. The looks on your respective faces will be worth all your verbal jabs.

“Now, Gray, you’re looking a bit flaccid about the mouth. Come in and have some breakfast.” Douglas waved away Thurlow, his butler, and rose, motioning Gray to the chair beside Ryder.

Ryder said, “You’re right about wives—they’re a mystery. Also they’re aggravating and adorable, and I count myself the happiest of men to have Sophie’s warm self beside me every night and to wake up with that same warm self beside me every morning.” Ryder struck a pose, then added, “And perhaps three cats, tucked in behind my knees, stretched out on my chest, or wrapped around my head. The cats love Sophie. Sometimes she wakes up wheezing because one of the cats has his tail wrapped around her nose.”

“Eleanor likes to sleep on me,” Gray said. “I wake up to feel her kneading the hair on my chest. She only uses her claws if I happen to be sleeping later than she would like.”

Ryder said, “I like your Eleanor—she’s got long legs and a strong will. Are there any kittens in the future? We could give one to the Harker brothers and let them train it to become a racing cat.”

As the two brothers spoke of the cat-racing season in the south of England, at the McCaultry Racetrack from April to October every year, Gray just listened, occasionally shaking his head. A racing cat. He knew about the cat races but he’d never seen an actual racing cat. He’d have to see what Jack thought of that.

There couldn’t be two more different men, Gray thought, looking at the two brothers. Douglas, the earl, was a very big man, all hard muscle, stern-faced as a vicar presiding over a roomful of sinners, a changeling by Sherbrooke standards, what with his sin-black hair and eyes even blacker than sin. Some believed him hard, unyielding, and indeed he could be when the need arose, but his family knew that he would give his life for any of them. His smile, his wife, Alex, was heard to have said, would smite even the newly titled prince regent, which wasn’t a bad thing, all in all.

As for Ryder, the second Sherbrooke son, he brought the sunlight into a room with him. His smile could charm the coins out of a miser’s pockets. He was carefree, at his ease with a chimney sweep or a duke, and one would assume he was an indulged younger son unless and until they found out about his children, his Beloved Ones.

And then they wouldn’t know what to think.

Ryder was a young man granted all he could possibly want, and yet he became an avenging angel when he found a child abused and hurt. After his own marriage some seven years before, Ryder Sherbrooke had built Brandon House not a hundred yards from his own house, Chadwyck House, and there he brought those children that no one cared about, those children hurt, starving, abandoned, and beyond hope. And that, Gray thought, was what he and Ryder had in common. It was a bond that would hold them together for a lifetime.

Gray looked at Ryder, who was chewing on a piece of bacon, his Sherbrooke blue eyes bright and filled with mischief, and just plain joy at no more pressing a matter than chewing on that bacon.

Douglas said, “When you walked in, Gray, you said something about it not boding well for you. What did you mean?”

“I’m getting married on Friday,” Gray said. “To Jack the valet. I went to see Lord Burleigh this morning. It turns out he’s Jack’s guardian and he’s my godfather. Odd, isn’t it? One just never knows what’s around the next bend in the road. In any case, Jack’s an heiress, so it’s not just a matter of marrying her and damn the consequences.”

“Obviously Lord Burleigh wouldn’t turn you away from her,” Ryder said.

“Lord Burleigh couldn’t do anything. He’s unconscious in his bed.” He told them of Lord Burleigh’s illness, of Mr. Genner and Lord Bricker, and what would probably happen.

“No reason not to let you marry the girl,” Ryder said, “but you’re awfully young, Gray. What? Twenty-six? Weren’t you just twenty-five last week?”

“The same age, I believe as you were, Ryder, when you married Sophie.”

Ryder sighed. “Has it only been seven years? Nearly eight? Not thirty years? The woman exhausts me. She teases me, she flays me with that fluent tongue of hers.”

“Don’t whine, Ryder,” Douglas said, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate. “You’re a lucky sod and you know it. Now, Gray, you will let us know if you need any assistance?”

“Of a certainty I shall. I’m here to ask Ryder to stand up with me. To support me. To coach me in the ways of artful premarital conduct.”

Douglas shouted with laughter. “Now that is something I don’t want to miss. What will you teach him first, Ryder?”

Ryder said slowly, thoughtfully, “You know, I doubt there is much of value that Gray still needs for this particular endeavor. I do, however, have several close-held observations that might serve you well. I will tell you later, when your day of reckoning is at your front door. Congratulations, Gray.”

13

GRAY WAS hunched over his desk, writing the betrothal announcement for the London Gazette. When he was writing in the bride’s name, he wrote “Jack.” He grinned and marked it out. Winifrede. Perfectly dreadful, but it didn’t matter. Winifrede Levering. Ah, well, he didn’t like Graciella any better.

It was nearly midnight. Mr. Harpole Genner and Lord Bricker had visited him earlier in the evening and told him to proceed with his marriage to the young lady whose virtue he hadn’t abused at all, but since that didn’t matter in society’s eyes, she would doubtless make him an excellent wife.

They’d all shared a brandy.

He finished the announcement and looked up at the light tap on the library door.