There was a sharp knock on the bedchamber door. “My lord?”
“Go away, Quincy.” Was that his voice, sounding all blank and raw?
“It’s nearly eight o’clock at night, my lord. Surely there must be some mention from one of you of sustenance by this time?”
He stared down at his wife, gritted his teeth, and sighed. “Quincy’s right, blast him. I’m starving. I can wait for those new heights. What do you think?”
She leaned up and licked his neck. “Feed me,” she said.
Georgie joined them for their late dinner, eating porridge sweetened with Mrs. Post’s honey from her brother’s farm in Sussex.
“How do you like the nursery?”
Georgie looked over her spoon at the man who was, like her sister, wearing a dressing gown and was feeding her sister bites of his bread pudding. “I-I-It’s good, sir.”
“I’m not a sir, Georgie,” he said, looking at that one blue eye and one gold eye of hers. Unique, utterly unique. “I’m now your brother. Can you call me Gray?”
“You’re old, like Freddie. But y-y-you’re not as old as my p-p-papa.”
“A name problem,” Jack said. “What to do?”
“What do you think, Georgie? Do you think you could bring yourself to call her Jack instead of Freddie?”
Georgie gently laid her spoon beside her bowl of porridge and climbed up beside her sister on the arm of the wing chair. A thumb went into her mouth and she leaned against her sister. The thumb stilled for a moment. “Jack’s not b-b-bad.”
“I like Jack, too, sweetie. Why don’t you think about it. You can call me whatever you wish. Ah, I’m so glad you’re with me, pumpkin.” She hugged Georgie against her, kissing her small ear. Gray saw tears swimming in her eyes. Jack pulled her onto her lap and began rocking her. “You and I are going to have such fun. I hear there’s this place called Astley’s. They have a horse ring with riders who do all sorts of tricks. Gray, have you ever been to Astley’s?”
“Once when I was about ten years old Lord Burleigh took me. I’ll take you and Georgie there next week.”
Georgie took her fingers out of her mouth and said, “I like h-h-horses.”
The next morning, Gray awoke early, feeling rested and remarkably energetic, feeling better, in fact, than he’d felt in a very long time. He stretched, hit a warm body with his hand and froze. For those few moment, he’d forgotten. His wife was sleeping next to him.
His wife. Jack.
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
osed. Gloom and shadows filled the room.
“Ah, bless you, my boy. I hate the blasted light. It hurts my brain. But my dear wife insists that it is from the sun that we gain life and well-being.” Lord Burleigh laughed deep in his throat. “If she only knew,” he whispered, and coughed.
“Mr. Harpole Genner reminded me that you preferred the darkness. Now, my lord, they’re gone. This message you sent me. You said it was of the utmost urgency that I come here. What is wrong, sir? What can I do to assist you? You know I will do anything in my power.”
“Your marriage,” Lord Burleigh said, grasping Gray’s hand between his. “My boy, I had no idea you were acquainted with Winifrede Levering Bascombe, no idea at all.” He fell silent. His breathing was light as a moth’s wing. His hands were now limp at his sides.
Gray saw the loose flesh on the backs of his hands. He looked at his own hands, strong, firm, the fingers sure and dexterous. He closed his eyes a moment, waiting. What was wrong? What was this about Jack?
When Lord Burleigh opened his eyes again, Gray said, “Yes, my lord. You were very ill when we needed to wed. Mr. Genner and Lord Bricker approved the match in your place. They believed, as did I, that since you are her guardian and I am your godson, you would be delighted at our marriage.”
A muscle contracted in Lord Burleigh’s cheek. Gray said, “I didn’t know her until about three and a half weeks ago. Shall I tell you how it came about?”
“No, it doesn’t matter now. As you will guess, Harpole Genner and Lord Bricker told me of your marriage when I was finally reunited with my wits again some three days ago. It was a shock, a dreadful shock.”
“It was for me as well, my lord, but I’m very fond of her. Of course you know that I didn’t marry her for her money. I married her to save her reputation. She’s a marvelous girl, my lord, full of caring and spirit and loyal to her bones. She makes me laugh. I have her little sister, Georgie, with us as well. I don’t despair that this marriage will succeed. I swear to you that I will do my best to make her happy.”
“No, Gray.”
His eyes were closed again. He was sweating. Gray picked up a soft, dry cloth from the bedside table and gently patted Lord Burleigh’s forehead. “It’s all right, sir. Just be easy.”
“I can’t be easy, Grayson. It’s too late.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“You can’t be married to Winifrede Levering Bascombe. I can’t begin to tell you how appalling it is.”
Appalling? What the hell was this? “Good God, sir, why?”
Lord Burleigh grasped Gray’s hand. His eyes were nearly black with intensity. “Listen to me, Grayson. I’m so very sorry, my boy, so very sorry indeed, but there’s simply no choice for you. You must end it. An annulment. It’s the only way.”
“Sir, please. You must remain calm. I don’t understand you. What is this about an annulment?”
Lord Burleigh’s fingers strengthened around Gray’s wrist. “You can’t have her as your wife, Grayson. Such a thing is cursed by God. She’s your sister.”
“No,” Gray said very clearly in that still room. “No, that’s utterly impossible. You’re mistaken, my lord.”
Gray didn’t return to his home until late that afternoon. He didn’t see Jack, thank God. He went directly to his dressing room.
Horace was there, waiting for him. He looked at his master’s white face and said immediately, “Sit here, now. That’s right. What did Lord Burleigh want?”
Gray sat on the dressing stool, leaned forward, and clasped his hands between his knees. He looked briefly toward the closed door that led into his bedchamber.
“No, her ladyship is out with the great-aunts. Aunt Mathilda expressed a wish to see Queen Elizabeth’s tomb in Westminster Abbey. They took Georgie with them. The child was shrieking with pleasure. I believe Dolly wanted to shriek as well, but she couldn’t, she’s too old for it to be acceptable.” Horace stopped. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Gray finally looked up. “Lord Burleigh is my godfather.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“You also know that he is her ladyship’s guardian.”
“Yes.”
“He told me that her ladyship is my half sister.”
Horace just stood there, his hands limp at his sides, staring at the thick warm towels he’d heated in front of the fireplace for his lordship’s next bath. Then he realized. “I forgot,” Horace said, staring at those towels, anything but take those words into himself and give them meaning. “You bathed this morning. I heated the towels. You won’t need them. You weren’t at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, were you?”
Gray shook his head.
“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!’
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