Mad Jack Page 3

  “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.

  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 viciou
sness 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 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.

  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.