Gray nearly burst out laughing when Jack the valet began to nudge the valises forward with the toe of his boot, first one valise, then the other, each gaining perhaps three inches per boot poke. Quincy observed this for a very brief couple of seconds, then called for Remie the footman to assist, which he did. Remie, big and blond and Irish, clapped Jack on the back, nearly knocking him over, grabbed both valises in one huge hand, and walked toward the back of the town house to the servants’ stairs. He called out for Jack to follow him.
Mrs. Piller, the St. Cyre housekeeper—very pink in the cheeks, for what reason Gray couldn’t imagine—came forward to curtsy to the two aunts. Within moments, the aunts were on their way upstairs to bedchambers that were connected by a large dressing room where Jack the valet would reside.
“I’m leaving,” Gray said. “See to their comfort, Quincy. The aunts will be with us for a while. A fire and a flood—both—hit their home near Folkstone. They will remain here until their house is repaired. A fire and a flood,” he repeated, frowning toward the picture of the third Baroness Cliffe, a proclaimed witch, who had died in her bed of natural causes at the age of eighty-two. “It sounds rather odd, don’t you think?”
Quincy, who privately thought the two great-aunts and that unripe and untrained valet to be impecunious interlopers, looked severe and said, “Their carriage was hired, my lord. Their luggage is easily from the last century.”
“Well, I suppose that makes sense since they’re going to be remaining here for a while. We have no room for an additional carriage in the stables. As for their luggage, why shouldn’t it be old? They’re ancient themselves. Now, I’m off.”
“Your lordship will enjoy yourself.”
Gray grinned as Quincy, who was nearly as short as Aunt Maude, helped him into his cloak. “Was that a bit of impertinent wit, Quincy?”
Quincy, an artist at his craft, affected the stolid, unaffected butler look and said nothing at all, but Gray always saw the impudent wickedness in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
“Gray, do please taste the apple tarts. I made them once before, but the butcher, a big hairy ape who claimed I was much too pretty to cook, thought the crust was too dry. I put a bit more butter in the pastry this time, just in case he was telling the truth. The apples were very fresh. The boy who sold them to me was a crude little fellow who wanted to give me a kiss, so I clouted his ear. Now, do try a tart. I made them especially for you.”
Gray was lying flat on his back, naked, happy, sated, and just beginning to breathe normally again. And here was Jenny, wrapped up in a peach confection that, to his mind, looked more edible than the apple tarts she was sticking in his face. Her glorious black hair was tangled about her head, tumbling all the way down to her very nice bottom, her lips still red from all their kisses. He wanted her again—well, perhaps in another five minutes. Now he just wanted to rest a bit, so he could once again replenish his manly vigor. But he saw the excitement in her eyes, knew his duty, and took an apple tart. At least she was always ready to feed him after she’d exhausted him.
“You’ve never before made apple tarts for me,” he said as he examined the small square of pastry with hot apple sauce dripping off the sides.
“You said that the roast duckling with sweet Madeira and apricot sauce was a bit heavy after lovemaking, so I thought to give you just a bit of dessert today.”
He took a bite and lay back against the pillow. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands over his chest, careful not to smash the tart. He chewed slowly, knowing she was already hopping from her right foot to her left, waiting for him to pronounce her apple tart the best in the land. He kept his eyes closed, took another bite, chewed it slower than he had the first bite, then—finally—popped the last bite into his mouth. He looked at Jenny from beneath his eyelids. She was very nearly ready to shriek at him. He opened his eyes and said, “It isn’t enough. I’m not certain that the taste is exactly what one would applaud. Give me another one.”
She nearly crammed it into his mouth herself.
He ate the second tart, still silent and thoughtful, still chewing each bite until he knew if he didn’t say something very quickly, she would throw the plate at his head.
He smiled up at her, scratched his belly, and said, “Jenny, just a dollop of Devonshire cream for the apple tart, and it’s perfect. The pastry with the addition of more butter makes it nearly as smooth and creamy as the flesh on your belly.”
“I have some Devonshire cream,” she shouted and ran out of the very feminine bedchamber, hung with soft peaches, light yellows, and pale blues. The naked man lying atop her unmade bed sighed, stretched, and fell asleep.
Before he left two hours later, once more sated and more content than a vicar who’d found three gold coins in the collection plate, he ate another apple tart, this one dripping with Devonshire cream. It was beyond delicious, and she licked the cream off his mouth, laughing. “Give me the recipe for Mrs. Piller,” he said. “My guests will not want to leave the table.” He then saw himself telling the ancient and ever-so-proper Mrs. Grainger-Jones, wife of an equally ancient old general from the colonial wars, that the recipe was from his mistress.
Jenny kissed his mouth, then helped him to dress. When he left, she was humming, doubtless dreaming up a new recipe. She would probably be cooking in her kitchen in the next five minutes, never heeding that she was wearing a peach silk confection that would make a randy man want to eat his elbow. He’d spent more money having her kitchen remodeled just as she wished it than he ever had for clothes or jewels or trips to Vauxhall Gardens or the opera.
St. Cyre Town House
April 7th
Gray wondered how the aunts were doing. He’d seen them only on two occasions since their arrival, both at the table for dinner. And on both evenings, Mathilda had worn a black gown, circa 1785, few flounces and severely corseted; her very beautiful, thick hair was piled high on her head and was so white it could have been powdered.
As for Maude, her gown was the latest style, high-waisted, with fluttery puce silk swathing her meager bosom.
He heard more details about the infamous fire and flood that had ravaged Feathergate Close and kept the two old ladies in an elevated state of misery. He heard more stories of how Mortimer the Vicar had tried to steal a kiss from Mathilda behind the vestry and had even patted her posterior when the sexton was ringing the church bells. On both evenings when dinner was finished, he found he didn’t want to sit in isolated splendor in his dining room sipping a glass of port.
That first night he’d followed the aunts into the drawing room. Before they could be seated, Mathilda said, “Piano.”
And so it was that Gray was treated to some flawless Haydn by the very talented Maude.
That had been two nights ago. He wished, as he stroked Eleanor now, sprawled out along the length of his right leg, that he’d had his great-aunts in his life throughout the years. He quite liked them.
He smoothed Eleanor out over both his legs, picked up his quill, dipped it into the exquisite onyx ink pot that the lovely widow, Constance Duran, had presented him after he’d removed a noxious problem from her life, namely her husband, and wrote a letter to Ryder Sherbrooke, a man with not too many more years on his plate than Gray, a man Gray admired more than he’d ever admired any other man in his life.
He had just finished the letter when Quincy entered the library, his rheumy dark eyes narrowed.
“What’s wrong, Quincy?”
“It’s a gentleman, my lord—actually, a gentleman I’ve never seen before. He gave me his card.” Quincy handed Gray a small, very white visiting card with the name Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford written on it. He didn’t know this man. He looked up at Quincy again. “I heard it in your voice. What’s wrong with him?”
Quincy said slowly, “It’s something about his eyes. It’s what he’s after. I believe that greed, pur
e and simple greed, is what he’s all about. Actually, perhaps that is overflowing in melodrama. We will see. However, I don’t think Sir Henry is a very good man.” Quincy shook himself. “Nevertheless, he asked very politely to see you. He claims it’s important.”
“This should prove interesting,” Gray said and rose. “Bring in our Sir Henry.”
“Lord Cliffe?” Gray nodded at the extraordinarily handsome man who walked confidently into the library, his hand out. He was tall, straight, and of middle years, with thick dark brown hair flecked with gray. He shook the man’s hand automatically, then bowed slightly. “Yes, I’m Cliffe. I’m afraid I don’t know you, sir.”
“I’m Wallace-Stanford. I’m a friend of the Feathergate Close sisters, Mathilda and Maude. I happened to be in London and decided to see if they were enjoying their stay with you. I’m very fond of the old ladies.”
Now this was a revelation. The man had jumped right in, not a single nicety, no prelude at all. He was also anxious. Gray could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. “I see,” Gray said, not really seeing a thing. He invited Sir Henry to be seated, which he did.
“Would you care for a brandy?” Once the brandy was pressed into Sir Henry’s elegant hand, Gray said, “So, you are acquainted with my great-aunts. Are you calling to see them or just to inquire about them?”
“No, actually, I’m here to inquire if the dear old ladies have a young guest with them.”
“A young guest?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford’s eyes, so very dark, thought of Quincy’s words, and said, “No, the aunts brought no guest with them.”
“Ah, I see,” said Sir Henry. He slowly rose. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, my lord. You are certain they brought no person with them?”
Now this was mightily interesting. Gray just shook his head. “No guest in sight,” he said. “Are you certain you don’t wish to speak to them? At the moment I believe they are at Hookham’s bookstore or perhaps at Gunther’s, enjoying an ice. Perhaps you’d care to wait for them?”
“Oh, no, it’s not all that important, really.” He gave Gray a long look, then slowly nodded.
Once Sir Henry was out of his house, Gray stood in the entrance hall beside Quincy, staring at the recently closed front door. “This is very strange,” Gray said.
“Shifty man,” Quincy said. “Very shifty. If you would like to tell me what he wanted, my lord, I would be pleased to cogitate on its implications.”
“If I’m not mistaken, I think he was after Jack.”
“Jack the valet?” Quincy said, tapping his fingertips lightly on the silver card tray he was holding. “I can’t imagine why. A most unprepossessing lad. Not much of a valet, I heard Horace say. Needs training. Your Horace said he’d be happy to see to it, but the lad avoids all the servants, stays to himself in the great-aunts’ bedchambers. The boy also needs proper clothes. I wonder why your two great-aunts haven’t provided for him? And why would Sir Henry want Jack the valet?”
“Good question.”
Mad Jack, who wasn’t Jack or mad at all, was scared. It had been four days since she’d escaped from her bedchamber down the knotted sheets and flown to the aunts’ house. And now they were here in London and she was supposed to be a boy because the aunts said that her stepfather would surely track them here and there simply couldn’t be a young lady with them, else it would give all away immediately, and that would lead to trouble, and their great-nephew didn’t deserve any extra trouble. He’d been nothing but amiable, they told her every evening, always solicitous, not a rotter at all. Still early days, though, Mathilda had said.
She had to remain a valet so they could protect their great-nephew from any possible violence offered by her stepfather. They’d paused, cycled looks back and forth, then said that the baron was also the son of a very dishonorable man and they didn’t want to take the chance of the baron being like his father, in other words, taking one look at her, slavering, and trying to seduce her. Jack couldn’t imagine any gentleman slavering over her, but no matter. It was what the aunts were concerned about, and they should certainly know more about slavering than she did, being that they were triple her age, at least, so she’d kept quiet.
Mad Jack. She grinned now, just for a moment, thinking of it, laughing a bit as she remembered when Jack had been created. Aunt Mathilda had looked at her, up and down, finally nodding her long, narrow face. Jack remembered Mathilda’s deep, musical voice saying only, “Breeches.”
Aunt Maude, her small hands fluttering, had said, “Yes, that’s a good idea. She will be a boy, with a cap pulled down over her eyebrows, a boy with breeches bagging down to her knees. Ah, the church rummage barrel. It will have all that we need. Our great-nephew, poor dear boy, won’t be tempted by her exquisite self if it turns out he carries his father’s bad blood.”
She’d rolled her eyes. “I’m as exquisite as a turnip, Aunt Maude.”
“Jack,” Aunt Mathilda had said, ignoring her.
Aunt Maude had nodded. “Yes, Jack’s a very good name. Solid, unromantic, a name to trust, not question. But wasn’t there a highwayman some years ago with that name? Wasn’t he Mad Jack or something equally silly?”
“Black Jack,” said Aunt Mathilda. “But ‘Mad’ is better. That’s our boy.”
“Yes, a very romantic bad man, that one,” Aunt Maude had said. “Now, the baron, if he thinks anything at all out of the ordinary when he sees her, will think ‘Jack’ and then go about his business.”
She’d been Jack for four days, and Mad Jack only in the company of the aunts. How long would it take her stepfather to find her?
She’d seen the baron only on that first morning when they’d arrived, and just for a moment before she’d quickly turned her head away. In all honesty, she realized that just about every woman she knew would say the poor dear boy was too handsome for his own good in a blond, blue-eyed Viking sort of way; every woman would probably dance right up to him, sigh in his face, bat her eyelashes, and fall metaphorically at his feet. She felt her flesh ripple with distaste and fear.
She’d had just a brief glimpse of him. Was the young man like his father? Bad to the bone? Was he like her stepfather? Rotten to his heels?
Yes, his great-aunts had said that the baron’s own father had bad blood, something common in the St. Cyre males, they’d said, their voices matter-of-fact. She believed the great-aunts implicitly. If he was a womanizer—like her stepfather, like his own father—then she would remain Jack, and she would loathe him to the toes of the great-aunts’ stableboy Jem’s old boots and avoid him at all cost.
Just for that brief moment when he’d looked over at her, her hands overflowing with the aunts’ valises, she’d seen his eyes, seen that weary sort of arrogance that bespoke the kind of knowledge that a man as young as the baron shouldn’t have. It was a pity, but it was likely that he was a rotter, a debaucher to his boots.
She drew her knees more tightly to her chest.
She saw her stepfather’s face in her mind, his devil’s handsome face that her mother had seen once and loved until she’d died. She heard his deep, brilliant voice raging.
Now they’d found out yesterday in a message sent by the great-aunts’ housekeeper, that Georgie was back at Carlisle Manor.
Dear God, what should she do?
4
GRAY WAS tired. He was also still furious, calmly and coldly furious now, back in control, but he knew that if Lily’s husband hadn’t been lying sprawled in a drunken stupor in the corner of the bedchamber those first minutes after he’d arrived, he would have pounded him into the floor, with deadly enthusiasm. At least Lily was now safe, because Charles Lumley had regained his wits enough to understand that Gray would kill him without warning, without hesitation, if he ever touched his wife again. Lumley, still on the drunk side but no fool, had agreed. Gray didn’t trust him,
but he’d wait and see.
He drew another deep breath. Only an hour had passed. And he was still so angry he could spit.
Charles Lumley was a weak sod who was a bully and vicious only when his victim was half his size, as was his wife, Lily. Well, no more would he strike her. No more, or Gray would bring him down.
He had the hackney stop at the corner of Portman Square, paid the driver, and walked to his town house. He didn’t want to awaken anyone, particularly his great-aunts, and their bedchambers faced the front of the house. He had his latchkey in his hand, raised to fit into the lock of the front door, when from the corner of his eye he saw a light flash. No, he thought, it was nothing, but still, even as he dismissed the flash of light as nothing important, he turned. There it was again—a flash of light coming from the stables. So his head stable lad Byron was up with one of the horses. What if it was serious? What if Brewster, his bay stallion, was colicky? What if Durban had hurt his hock? He turned quickly and walked toward the stables, set just back from the house and extending nearly to the street.
The light went out. The stables were completely dark now. This was very odd indeed. His heartbeat picked up. The door to the stable was cracked open. It wasn’t Byron, then.
It was a thief.
Jesus, that a thief would break into a gentleman’s stables at Portman Square. It made no sense. He knew the stables well. Once he had eased inside, he immediately flattened himself against the wall directly to his right. His three riding horses were in separate stalls some dozen feet away. He stood quietly, listening. He heard a voice then, speaking to one of his horses. He could make out an open stall door, heard that low, soothing voice again, and knew he was covered with shadows and the thief wouldn’t see him. Then he saw his gray gelding, Durban, his head jerking up and down, snorting low. The thief was leading him out. The thief bridled the gray, then, with the ease of long practice, swung up on his back. Slowly Durban was coming right toward him.
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