Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

The thief kicked Gray in the leg. Pain laced through him and he saw red. He picked up the boy by his neck and hurled him against William the Conqueror’s stall. The Chief, as he was called by the stable lads, neighed loudly. Brewster whinnied back.

“Go back to sleep, Chief, Brewster. I’m just beating the sin out of a boy who was stealing Durban, and because Durban hasn’t an ounce of sense, he would have let the thief take him without a sound.” Durban was standing placidly, munching straw now. Gray saw that the thief was lying there in the straw, shaking his head, and he laughed.

“I rattled your brains a bit, did I, you little blockhead? Come here and let me have a go at those skinny ribs of yours again.” But the thief didn’t move, just lay there. Gray walked to him, leaned down, and dragged him upright. “You kick me again, and I’ll beat you from here to the Thames.”

He shook the boy.

“Don’t you dare groan on me.” Then he sent his fist into his jaw. The thief crumpled to the floor.

“That was just a light tap. Damn you, get up.” The thief didn’t move. Well, hell.

The cowardly little bugger had the gall to faint. From a stupid kick in the ribs? From a little tap on his jaw? He hadn’t even gotten started yet, and the little sod had collapsed on him? He picked the thief up, shook him, and slapped his face several times, but the thief didn’t stir. Gray was holding him up. He was a dead weight, nearly pulling Gray to the floor. Gray let him go. The thief fell onto his side.

“Well, damnation,” Gray said and knelt down beside the fellow. He lit the stable lantern and brought it close.

Before he got it in the thief’s face, the fellow lurched up, slammed his fist into Gray’s jaw, then frantically crawled away, finally coming up on his knees some six feet away.

“You’re a damned boy,” Gray said, lightly rubbing his jaw. “I thought so. You’re little and you’re skinny. You don’t even have a whisker on that chin of yours, do you? You’re not even old enough to shave. I think I’ll still beat you from here to the street. Perhaps then you’ll think again before you sneak into a man’s stable and try to steal one of his horses.”

He kept rubbing his jaw even as he lunged toward the boy. The boy tried to twist out of the way, but he wasn’t fast enough. Gray slammed down on him hard. He drew up, straddling him, his right hand fisted just above the boy’s jaw. “You have the gall to strike me?” he said, then brought his fist down. The boy jerked away, but Gray’s fist got the side of his face and his left ear. He growled deep in his throat even as Gray closed his hands around his neck and began to squeeze. The boy grabbed his hands and tried to pull them free. It was at the exact moment when the boy’s hands dropped away that the haze of anger fell away. Gray shook himself. Dear God, he’d nearly killed a boy for trying to take his bloody horse. He lurched off him and came up on his knees. The boy just lay there, saying nothing, his eyes closed.

“Say something, damn you. I didn’t kill you, I can see you breathing. You’d best get yourself together before I deliver you myself to Newgate.”

The boy still didn’t say anything. He raised his hands and began to rub his throat. Then he opened his eyes and said, “I think you broke something.”

“You deserve it, but I didn’t break any of your bloody ribs. I just gave one a little tap. Don’t whine. Get yourself together. You try to steal a man’s horse, the very least you deserve is to have a rib cracked, which I didn’t even do. Consider it just a beginning punishment for this evening’s work.”

Then Gray fell silent. Dead silent. Oh, no, he thought. Oh, no. He reached for the lantern and knew he didn’t want to bring it close. But he did. He stared down at the boy.

The boy tried to jerk away, but Gray simply clamped his hand around his upper arm and said slowly, “Well, hell. You’re Jack, aren’t you? Mad Jack? You’re the valet to the great-aunts? Why were you stealing my horse? Come on, you little sod, answer me.” He raised his hand, now a fist. He saw that his knuckles were bruised. He’d hurt his knuckles on the little bastard. It wasn’t fair.

“Yes, I’m Jack.” Then the boy turned over and vomited into the straw. “I’m not at all mad. I wish the aunts hadn’t told you that.”

“Well, they did and now I begin to understand why. They said you were energetic. They didn’t indicate at all that you were also a thief.” Gray sat back on his heels. He pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and poked it into the boy’s hand. “There, clean yourself up. I don’t want you stinking when I haul you to Newgate. If this is an example of what the aunts meant, you’re mad enough. And stupid to believe you could get away with stealing one of my horses.”

The boy wiped his mouth with the handkerchief. Slowly Jack rose, forcing himself to straighten. Then, with no warning at all, he kicked the lamp away from Gray, plunging the stable into darkness. Gray was up in an instant. In the very next instant, he heard movement, but he didn’t scramble away in time. The lantern hit him hard on the back of his head and he went down and out.

He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, hopefully just a minute or two. Yes, that had to be all. He lurched to his feet, groaned when he realized his head felt like it would fly off his neck, and ran out of the stable. He saw the thief riding Durban hell-bent for leather down the street.

He cursed, got a bridle on Brewster, and swung up onto his back. By the time they reached the street, he couldn’t see Durban. He nudged his heels into Brewster’s broad stomach and sent him galloping in the direction he’d seen Durban running.

Gray was dizzy, his head was beginning to throb, and he wanted to kill that little bugger Jack. And he would kill him the minute he got his hands around his skinny neck. Thoughts of murder made him begin to feel better.

Who the hell was Jack? Why did he steal Durban? Who was Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford? Why was the boy with the aunts? Well, they could all have their Mad Jack back after Gray finished with him.

The night was cold, the clouds hanging low and dark. Only a few scattered stars shone down. The moon, currently just a quarter of itself beaming down, was veiled by the sluggish black clouds.

There, finally, he saw Durban, the boy lying nearly flat against his long neck. Where the hell was the boy heading?

This was certainly an unexpected ending to an already distressing evening. He thought of Charles Lumley, lying there dead drunk on the floor of his bedchamber, saw him as he’d left him, bending over a chamber pot puking up his guts, his vow hanging in the air that he would never again strike his wife. He thought of Jack and what he would do to the little puke when he caught up with him. All his anger at Lumley was easily transferring itself to Durban’s thief.

Traffic was light. No one stopped to stare at the one horseman chasing after the other. No one cared, and why should they?

The boy didn’t turn in the right direction. Gray had assumed he’d go to the Folkstone road heading south, but he didn’t. He was riding due west out of London. But that made no sense at all. Hyde Park disappeared into the distance, fog-laden, all the tree

s huddled together in the heavy darkness.

For a few minutes, Gray lost sight of Durban in the thick fog. Ah, there he was. Gray saw him as they rounded a turn. Durban was flying, his hooves eating up the ground. He was as fast as Brewster and he had a good lead.