The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  “Oh, God,” Douglas said. “You sodding randy bastard. I might have known. I did know, the minute I laid eyes on you kissing Sinjun in the entrance hall of my very own house four years ago—and you barely even knew her name—yet you had your damned hands on her bottom and you had your tongue halfway down her throat. By God, you miserable Scot sod, you’ve forced her?”

  Douglas leaped a good six feet to land on Colin, his big hands going around Colin’s neck. Soon the two men were rolling on the floor, tangling in the beautiful Aubusson carpet, threatening to overturn one of Gray’s prized Chinese vases that had just arrived from Macao six months before.

  The door burst open. Sinjun came running into the study, yelling, “Stop it, both of you. Stop it, now, do you hear me?”

  All she got for her effort was grunts and a few ripe curses.

  Sinjun grabbed Gray’s Chinese vase and brought it down on both Douglas’s back and her husband’s arm.

  Gray’s Chinese vase from Macao was shattered. He stared at the shards that were scattered over half the study floor. He watched Douglas and Colin roll away from each other and slowly rise, panting like men who had run all the way from Bath to London.

  “Damn you both,” Sinjun yelled at them. “Listen to me. I’m not going to die. Can your small brains understand that? I have no intention of dying. Listen to me, Colin: I will not die.”

  Gray called out to Quincy, who was plastered against the wall beside the door, “Quincy, bring more brandy. I see I’ve only got half a bottle here.” He turned back to Sinjun. “Now, while Quincy drags himself slowly out of hearing distance, tell me, Sinjun, where are Philip and Dahling?”

  “They’re at Douglas’s town house. Oh, I see.” Sinjun waited until Quincy had closed the door after himself. Quick as a snake, she turned on her brother and her husband, who were looking at each other with a combination of embarrassment and wariness. She said over her shoulder, “Gray, don’t listen to this since it isn’t your problem. That’s right. Drink your brandy—you need it, particularly with the gentlemen here enacting such a fine melodrama for you. Now, Douglas, Colin, I have no plans to die birthing our son or daughter. I’m healthier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  Colin opened his mouth, but Sinjun just raised her hand. “No, no more out of you. Very well, I’ll tell you the truth. I haven’t gotten pregnant simply because I wasn’t ready to, Colin. But three months ago I decided that both Philip and Dahling needed a little brother or sister. They both came to me and requested that I consider it. I did. Thus, when I was ready, I became pregnant. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

  “A woman doesn’t determine when she does or when she doesn’t get pregnant,” Douglas shouted at her. “Are you an idiot?”

  “Leave her alone, Douglas. She’s my wife. I’ll deal with her. What the hell was that fine bit of nonsense? You decided?”

  Sinjun walked to her husband, laid her palm lightly against his cheek, and smiled up at him. “I’m going to give you a beautiful son or daughter. I fully intend to be the mother. And then I’ll become a grandmother. You and I will become eccentric old curmudgeons together. We will lose our teeth together. We’ll help each other totter up the stairs every night. Nothing will happen to either of us, Colin. All right?”

  He couldn’t answer. He just stared down at her.

  “I’m not lying, Colin. I’m not.”

  Colin just nodded, then very slowly, very carefully, drew her against him. He buried his face in her hair.

  Douglas looked on, then said to no one in particular, “I can’t imagine any sister of mine not having her teeth.”

  “You know,” Gray said now, “I have an excellent physician friend who lives just two hours from London, near Bury St. Edmunds. His name is Paul Branyon and he recently married the late earl of Strafford’s widow, Lady Ann. He’s an excellent man and an excellent doctor. I will write him and he and Ann will come to London. He’ll examine Sinjun. He’ll tell both of you the truth. Sinjun is very likely going to be just fine. Paul will reassure all of you and then you, Douglas, and you, Colin, won’t have to try to break each other’s heads anymore in my study, and your wife won’t have to break any more of my belongings to split you two apart.”

  Sinjun twisted about in her husband’s arms. “Oh, Gray, the vase? I’m so sorry—I didn’t think.”

  “If you will let Paul Branyon examine you, then I will forgive you for breaking the vase.”

  “Oh, all right,” Sinjun said.

  “Good,” Douglas said. “I’ll feel better once I’ve got some of your excellent brandy down my gullet.”

  Calm restored, brandy served, Sinjun patted and forced to sit down on Gray’s big comfortable wing chair, Colin standing over her to press her back down if she chanced to move, Douglas said, “Now, why don’t you tell us, Gray, why this girl named Jack stole one of your horses and was riding toward Bath when you caught her? And stayed with her for four days? Alone?”

  “Actually, the great-aunts call her Mad Jack, a small jest, I suppose, amongst the three of them. Well, what she did—stealing Durban, riding not south like she intended but rather due west, then getting ill—well, it is rather mad, so I suppose she deserves the nickname. Now, the answers to many of the other questions still elude me, Douglas.”

  “Not for long they can’t,” Douglas said, grim around the mouth. “Jesus, Gray, you’ve done it this time. There’s no hope for you now.”

  “I know,” Gray said, and sighed as he poured more of his fine smuggled French brandy into the men’s glasses. He raised an eyebrow toward Sinjun, who shook her head. He gave them a grin and hoisted his glass, saying, “Douglas, you made it sound like a fatal illness. Very well. To my demise. Douglas is right,” he continued to Colin and Sinjun. “I’m not long for my shackleless life. Yes, it’s all over and I don’t even know who the chit is. She does, however, have excellent taste in horseflesh. She went right to Durban, who’s got the best blood of all of my horses.”

  “I didn’t know Sinjun, either,” Colin said. “Douglas certainly didn’t know Alexandra. But that’s not the point. There’s no reason for you to throw yourself into the well. No one else knows about her except us. We won’t tell anybody.”

  “Not a single soul,” Sinjun said.

  Gray sighed. “Thank you. But all my friends know that I was missing. For at least four days.”

  Douglas said, “But they don’t know why. None of them knows a thing about Jack. Jack could simply disappear. There’s no problem.” But he was frowning, obviously arguing with himself.

  “She did tell me her name is Winifrede,” Gray said. “That curls the toes, doesn’t it?”

  Douglas said, “Possibly, but that’s not to the point. All women’s names are the same in the dark.”

  Sinjun nearly went en pointe once she’d leapt out of the chair. “Douglas! Alex would make you sleep in the stable if she heard such twaddle from you. I should probably do something to punish you, but for the moment I just can’t think what.”

  Douglas gave his sister a harassed look. “It was a mild attempt at humor, Sinjun. Sit down before Colin flings you down.”

  Sinjun sat.

  Douglas said, “Now, I’m sorry, Gray. I have to take it all back. I was wrong. I know London. I know how the gossip mills grind. They’ll have you debauching young virgin damsels from here to Bath within twenty-four hours. They’ll demand that you produce the most debauched of the young damsels and make a big show of marrying her. Then you’ll be forgiven and readmitted to the fold.”

  Sinjun said, “I don’t know London at all, but I know human nature. Douglas is right. Gray is compromised to his boots. For example, it’s impossible to guarantee even the silence of all the servants here, and that’s only the beginning of the possibilities.”

  “My lord,” Quincy said from the doorway. “I have waited until all the more unrestrained displ
ays of emotion were more contained than not. The fellow who tried to run me down and was foiled by Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke is here again, asking to see you specifically, my lord. I don’t believe he wants to get attacked again.”

  “This man,” Gray said, “is the key to Jack the valet. Show him in, Quincy.”

  10

  GRAY RUBBED his hands together. “Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford isn’t her father, I got that much out of her. Nonetheless, she’s scared spitless of him. He holds power over her and her little sister, Georgie. That’s all I know.”

  “This should be interesting,” Colin said and tossed down the rest of his brandy. He took his wife’s white hand in his and kissed her fingers.

  Sir Henry wasn’t happy to see a roomful of people. He’d hoped to find Baron Cliffe, that cocky young bastard who’d lied to him through his teeth, alone. But there was a young lady present, along with the three men. He looked closely, but none of the men was the wretch who had bashed him to the ground. That one he would kill. All he needed was the man’s name.

  “Lord Cliffe,” Sir Henry said, not moving a foot from the doorway into the room.

  “Sir Henry. My butler informs me that you wish to see me.”

  “I would prefer to see Maude and Mathilda. Or, if you would fetch Jack the valet down here, I would very much like to speak to him.”

  “Jack the valet? How very odd that sounds,” said Gray. He gently set his brandy snifter on the edge of his desk, straightened a couple of papers, and said, “Who are you, Sir Henry?”

  “I am Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford of Carlisle Manor, near Folkstone, and I want my property back, my lord.”

  At midnight, Gray was seated beside Jack’s bed in a comfortable high-backed chair blessed with thick cushions for both the back and the behind. He’d lit a single candle against the gloom. He’d been watching her for the past half hour.

  Upon their return this afternoon, Mrs. Piller had had him tenderly carry Jack to the Ellen Chamber, and he had watched while she was tucked into the raised, canopied bed dating back to the third Baron Cliffe. Ellen St. Cyre, that baron’s only daughter, had been struck with a strange paralysis very young in life and had spent all her twenty-three years within these four walls. It was a lovely room, and any memories scored into the walls or the furniture were pleasant and warm. He sat back in his chair, his chin propped up on his tented fingertips. He breathed out long and slow. The candlelight flickered a bit.

  Jack was riding bareback, pressed against the mare’s neck. If she didn’t escape, she knew he’d catch her and he’d hurt her this time, hurt her until she screamed. He wouldn’t care if he marked her, not now. She yelled when she was jerked off the mare’s back and thrown through the air to land on her side at the edge of a cliff. She rolled over, trying desperately to grab at a lone bush to stop herself, but it broke off in her hand and she heard him laughing, and then she was falling, falling, screaming—

  “Wake up, Jack! Come on, wake up!”

  He was shaking her, but she was still falling. She didn’t want him to save her, she didn’t want to owe him anything. She didn’t hear him laughing anymore.

  “Jack, dammit, open your eyes! Here I’m going to have to marry you and I don’t even remember what color your eyes are. This is ridiculous. I’ve seen your breasts and your belly and your buttocks, yes, all of that, and I remember them quite well, and they are very nice memories. I know I saw your eyes any number of times, but I don’t remember the color. Does that make me a lecher? Probably. Wake up!”

  She bit his hand, hard.

  He yelped, grabbed his hand, and began rubbing it. “Why did you do that?”

  “Gray? Is that you?”

  “Naturally. I hope you don’t make it a habit to bite the hand that wakes you.”

  “No, I thought you were—” Her voice died in her throat. She couldn’t see beyond his face, the single candle barely piercing the immediate darkness. She turned her own face away. He’d flung her off the cliff. Oh, God.

  “I’m not your damned stepfather, Jack.”

  Moments of perfect clarity were rare, Maude had told her once, a brief flash when you simply comprehended something fully, knew what it meant all the way to its very core. For the first time she understood what Maude had meant. This man who had awakened her from the nightmare, who had chased her down and nursed her back to health—this man she didn’t begin to know, but still, she knew now that keeping anything from him was ridiculous.

  She smiled at him, saying clearly, “I told you about my little sister, Georgie. She’s really my half-sister, but that doesn’t matter. She’s mine. I have been her mother for four of her five years. My stepfather has always ignored her, didn’t even want to hear about her. She wasn’t the son he wanted, you see, and thus she had no value to him.

  “After my mother died four years ago, he gave up any pretense at all of affection for her.

  “Three months ago, I realized that if he found out how much I loved Georgie he would use her against me in an instant to force me to marry Lord Rye. I made it a point to speak of her in his presence with complete indifference, even occasional contempt. One night she had a nightmare and her screaming woke him. He was so angry that he sent her to his younger sister in York.

  “I couldn’t say anything, else he’d know how much I loved her. The last thing I wanted was for her to be punished because of what I refused to do. When I escaped from Carlisle Manor, I went immediately to Featherstone, to Maude and Mathilda. They made plans. That’s when I became Mad Jack.

  “Mathilda told me just after we came to you here in London that my stepfather’s younger sister had brought Georgie back to Carlisle Manor. Their housekeeper had sent a message by one of the stable lads. I couldn’t bear it. My stepfather isn’t stupid. It’s just a matter of time before he realizes he’s got a gold mine. I waited four days, then I had to go get her away from him.”

  His fingers steepled again. “I see. You were going to steal Durban, ride to Carlisle Manor, sneak away with a five-year-old little girl, and then do what? She would be a valet-in-training? I assure you, Jack, I would have remarked upon a child in my house. Come, tell me, what did you plan to do with her if you did manage to get her away from your stepfather?”

  All of it, she thought. He deserved to know everything, otherwise her actions could endanger him. “I have money. When my grandfather died—my mother’s father—he left all his money to me, not to my mother because he detested my stepfather. Nor is my stepfather my guardian. Lord Burleigh is. My grandfather’s been dead for nearly ten years now, and Lord Burleigh has managed to keep my stepfather from touching a single sou of that money. I would have brought Georgie to London, seen Lord Burleigh, and he would have given me my inheritance, or at least an income. I wasn’t planning on starving in a ditch, Gray. My plan still stands. As soon as I can get Georgie, I’m going to Lord Burleigh. He’ll protect Georgie and me from Sir Henry. Don’t doubt that.”

  “Normally females aren’t privy to financial affairs,” Gray said slowly. “This is particularly true, strangely enough, when the one most directly involved is the female in question. So, how do you know all of this?”

  “I eavesdropped on my stepfather speaking to Lord Rye. He told Lord Rye how my grandfather, the devious old bastard, had my money so tied up that he, Sir Henry, wasn’t able to use it. Sir Henry said the only way the inheritance would come to me is when I turned twenty-five or if I married.

  “Sir Henry roundly cursed Lord Burleigh, my legal guardian. He also told Lord Rye that if I died, the money wouldn’t go to Georgie, it would go to the Royal Naturalist Society.

  “Naturally, when I married, my husband would take control. Lord Rye knew my stepfather was leading up to this, and so they quickly struck a deal. If I married Lord Rye, then my stepfather would gain twenty thousand pounds and Lord Rye would keep the other forty thousand. I watched them shake hands through the k
eyhole.”

  Gray, who had heard quite enough about Lord Rye, said easily, “I gather then that this gentleman doesn’t appeal to you as husband material?”

  “He’s a dissolute lecher who very probably beat his first wife to death in a drunken rage—at least that’s the local gossip, whispered behind cupped hands. His other two wives both died in childbirth. He has six children from the three different wives. He’s rich—don’t get me wrong—but he has a son who’s following in his footsteps. He’s the type of man who pilfers two coins from the collection plate after he puts one in.

  “That is doubtless why my stepfather approached him. He can sniff out baseness in others quite easily.”

  Gray had heard quite a lot more about Cadmon Kelburn, Viscount Rye, none of it remotely pleasant. It was a pity that three of his children were sons. They didn’t stand a chance of becoming honorable men. The thought of Lord Rye having control over Jack, actually having her in his power, repelled Gray to the core.

  He sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. He studied her face, then said, “What’s your name, Jack? Your full name?”

  “Winifrede Levering Bascombe. My father was Thomas Levering Bascombe, Baron Yorke.”

  “My God, you’re Bascombe’s daughter?” Gray collapsed in his chair, utterly taken aback.

  “You knew my father?”

  Gray shook his head. Then he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed.

  “Come, my lord, what is this? What is it about my father?”

  “Ah, Jack—”

  “My father called me Levering.”

  “If you don’t mind, I will stay with Jack for the moment.”

  “Georgie calls me Freddie.”

  He leaned over and lightly placed his palm over her mouth. He said very close to her face, looking clearly into her very lovely blue eyes, “Your guardian, Lord Burleigh, is also my godfather.”