The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  He felt himself smile. He’d not been able to pound that drunken animal, Lumley, but now he had his very own thief, and there was no doubt at all about his guilt. He’d caught the bugger in the act. He felt viciousness flood him. He felt good. He said very softly, “You bloody little sod. You’ll not escape me.” And then he grabbed the thief’s leg and jerked him off the gray’s back. The thief went flying to the ground.

  Gray raised his leg and brought his foot down into the man’s ribs. He heard a satisfying thud. At least he’d bruised a rib. Damn, but ribs were sturdy.

  “You rotten scum, I’m going to kick your ribs through your back.”

  “You already did.”

  The thief didn’t sound like a very old thief. Pain laced that faint voice. It was a boy—he saw that now—a slight boy who had tried to steal his horse and would have gotten away with it if Gray hadn’t come home at just the right time.

  “I should beat you to hell and gone, you puking little bandit. You don’t steal one of my horses, you bloody beggar.” He reached down, grabbed the boy by his arm, and jerked him up. He shook him. He drew back his arm. He wanted to smash the thief’s jaw. He was smiling.

  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 chasi
ng 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 trees 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.

  Well, damn. Sooner or later the boy would slow, he’d have to. Brewster couldn’t maintain such a pace for very long—no horse could, not even his. He was aware of the boy looking back every few minutes. Gray didn’t think Jack had seen him yet. Good. He would probably pull Durban up soon, slow him to save his strength. They were out of town, on the Reading road, stretching long and flat into the distance. Gray knew that if the boy left the road he would probably lose him. The night was simply too black to see much of anything, despite that bit of moon. He had to catch him and he had to catch him soon, or else he just might lose him, and then what would he do? Inform the aunts, saying, “Well, Aunt Mathilda, Aunt Maude, your valet stole one of my horses, but I lost him on the Reading road. Do either of you know why he did this? What’s on the Reading road? Perhaps he left because of something to do with that hard-eyed Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford who was looking for him?”

  Why the hell was the boy riding to Reading? Then possibly onward to Bath? Wasn’t Jack the valet from Folkstone, just as his two aunts were?

  He said now to his horse, “Brewster, my boy, our Durban is in the hands of the valet Jack, who’s up to no good, and I have no clue as to what the no good is. Is the little bastard indeed mad? Just what I need, a bloody real-life mad valet who’s completely untrained, according to my valet, Horace. Mad Jack. Now that has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Or was he there at my house to steal my silver? We’ve got to catch him so Durban can come home. Can you give me the speed, boy?”

  Brewster was a thoroughbred, with a racer’s heart. He stretched out his neck, bunched his muscles, and flew forward, surprising even Gray, who’d trained Brewster himself some four years before.

  He would lose sight of Durban, curse loudly into the dark night, then catch sight of him again. He didn’t believe Jack knew where he was going. But if he was lost, why didn’t he just stop and return to London?

  Because he thinks I’ll be there waiting to kill him and then take his body to the magistrate. Not a bad idea, all things considered. The boy isn’t stupid, at least about saving his hide.

  It started to rain about two o’clock in the morning. The temperature plummeted. It needed but this, Gray thought and hunched down against Brewster’s neck. Brewster, unhappy about the weather, snorted and stretched his neck out even longer.

  There was no traffic at all. Not a carriage or another rider. Nothing, just the heavy rain and fat, bloated clouds and air that was growing colder by the minute.

  Gray cursed, unable to think of anything else to do. And always he was thinking: Who the hell is Jack?

  Brewster came around a bend. Gray was expecting to see Durban in the distance, but he didn’t see anything at all. He rode farther. He didn’t see Durban, not a whiff of him. He’d just vanished. No, that was impossible. He rode another mile. When he was certain that Jack must have left the main road, maybe finally realized that he was going in the wrong direction, Gray pulled Brewster to a stop and sat there in the rain, freezing and thinking. Then he turned back toward London. He saw a small country road that forked off the main road. Jack had to have come this way. Gray nudged Brewster onto the rutted, muddy country road.

  Gray was exhausted, soaked to the marrow, and so worried about Jack that his anger at the boy had cooled below the boiling point. Brewster was tiring. He had to do something.

  Brewster slowed to a walk, both he and his master nearly cross-eyed with fatigue. Suddenly Gray heard a familiar whinny.

  Durban.

  He pulled Brewster to a halt and said, “That’s our Durban. What do you think, Brewster? Do you know where he is?”

  Brewster raised his great head and whinnied loudly. He was quickly answered. Durban was close, just off to the left. It was then that Gray saw a very old relic of a barn set back from the country road at the far end of a barley field. There was no farmhouse in sight, just the dilapidated old barn, probably deserted a good half century before.

  The rain was coming down even harder, though Gray would have thought that impossible. It was difficult to see three feet in front of him. Without any instruction from his rider, Brewster left the road and gingerly made his way through the muddy field which had sharp rocks sticking up here and there to catch the unwary. At a patchwork wooden fence Brewster had to jump, which he did, clearing it easily.

  At least Jack was inside that barn, out of the rain, nursing his bruised rib—the worthless little bastard. He obviously didn’t have any notion of direction.

  Durban whinnied again, and Gray’s eyes narrowed.

  He slid off Brewster’s back, nearly falling because his legs wouldn’t hold him up after the five-hour ride. He steadied himself and led Brewster into the barn. At least it provided some shelter, though rain came hard through a good half dozen holes in the roof. Then suddenly the rain stopped—simply stopped. Well, that was something.

  He called out, “Jack? Where are you, you damned idiot?”

  No answer.

  He removed Brewster’s bridle and led him to Durban, who was tied by a badly frayed rope in one corner of the barn where the rain probably hadn’t reached. Durban was chewing on old straw. Gray left the two horses together, Brewster nuzzling Durban’s neck, and walked to the only other protected corner of the barn.

  “Jack?”

  No answer. He cursed. When he saw the boy finally, he saw only his head, covered with what looked to be thick dark blond hair. He was covered with straw up to his nose, an attempt to keep warm. He seemed to be asleep. Sleeping sound as a babe in the straw while I was riding like a bat out of its cave trying to find him.

  Gray came down on his knees beside the boy. It was near to dawn and growing lighter. He pushed the straw off and shook the boy’s shoulder. Then a shaft of early-morning sunlight knifed through two board slats.

  Gray sat back on his heels and stared down at the boy. He was shaking his head even though he knew he wasn’t mistaken. “Oh, God,” he said, “I don’t believe this. Jesus, you’re no more a Jack than I am.” Gray leaned forward and swatted the straw from her face and stared down at the girl he’d badly wanted to smash into the stable floor. “You’re a damned female. I could have killed you. Not that it should make any difference, but of course it does. You were stealing my horse. Why? Who the devil are you?”

  She moaned.

  5

  “WHAT’S WRONG with you? Wake up.”

  He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Come on, open your eyes.” She moaned again, turning her face away from him. She was wet. This wasn’t good. He couldn’t be of much help since he was wet to the bone himself, and his only clothes covered those bones.

  He pressed his palm to her forehead, her cheeks. She didn’t have the fever. He said again, this time right in her ear, “Wake up. I don’t like this. I came after you because you stole Durban and here you have the absolute nerve to act ill. You have even more gall to be a female. Damn you, wake up.”

  She opened her eyes. It hurt, but she did it. The man’s voice sounded very irritated. At first she’d believed it to be her stepfather’s voice, but then she knew it wasn’t. It was his voice, the baron’s voice. Her vision cleared and she saw him not an inch from her nose. He looked worried. Why?

  Then her stomach clenched and she lurched up. She felt his hands on her arms, pulling her back down. “I’m going to be sick,” she said and felt him pull her up fast
and hold her steady. She drew deep breaths, shuddered, breathed through her mouth. No, she wouldn’t vomit; she refused to. She swallowed, took several more shallow breaths, and said, “The great-aunts don’t know about this. Please don’t tell them.”

  “Why the hell not? They’ve got a thief disguised as a valet, and you’re also a girl. Is this why they call you Mad Jack? You pull ridiculous stunts like this? Dress like a boy and parade about? Damnation, what is going on here? Who are you, damn you?”

  “Stop cursing.” She felt pain pounding in her jaw and head; her ribs ached, drew, and pulled, and she wanted simply to close her eyes and fall back into the straw. She was cold, yes, that was the worst of it—not her ribs, not her cramping belly. She was cold and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  She looked up at him and said, “I’m cold. Please, do you have a blanket or something?”

  “I’m as wet and cold as you are. Just where do you think I’d find a blanket? Do you even have any idea where you are?”

  “In an old barn. Durban brought me here. We can’t be too far from Folkstone.”

  “Here, let me cover you with straw again.” He paused a moment as the shaft of bright sun hit him in the face. “No more rain. All right. I have no idea where we are, but we’re nowhere close to Folkstone. We’re somewhere west of London.”

  “No, no, we’re south of London.”

  “If you were a man, you’d know in your bones what direction you were going. It’s an automatic thing, this knowing where you are, bred deep in a man’s bones. But you’re not a boy, you’re a damned girl and you were riding poor Durban as hard as you could, due west. On the Reading road, toward Bath.”

  She groaned and closed her eyes. “Oh, dear.” She opened her eyes and blinked. “Do you really know the direction automatically because you’re a man?”