The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (128 page)

“Don’t worry,” Helen said over her shoulder, calm as a sail in a windless sea. She planted herself squarely in the open doorway.

“My lord,” Dr. Ossie Brainard said, “breathe deeply. I need to listen to your breathing. No, don’t jump when I tap your chest. Miss Helen will see to this fellow.”

“Jack, for God’s sake, go behind that screen. I don’t
want Arthur to see you. He might start frothing at the mouth. He just might use that gun on Helen.”

Jack wasn’t about to leave his side. She compromised and moved one foot closer to the very old dressing screen.

“My lord, your breathing gallops. It is far too erratic. Please breathe deeply and don’t excite yourself—something men never seem to learn not to do.”

“If you were marrying her less than a day from now, I daresay you would be exciting yourself as well, particularly with her kidnapper not a dozen feet from her.”

“My lord, you shouldn’t speak of such marital sorts of things in Miss Helen’s hearing. And don’t forget, the fellow has to get past Miss Helen, which even her sire can never manage to do, and Lord Prith is a gentleman of great courage and charm.”

“Miss Helen isn’t listening to my outpourings or to yours, so close your mouth. Jack, dammit, get behind that bloody screen.”

“All right,” Jack said and moved another foot toward it.

They heard Arthur yelling just outside the bedchamber door, “Move aside, you big woman. I am here for Winifrede. Is she in here?

“No, don’t even think to lie to me, I know she’s in there. I saw my carriage. She tried to murder me. She actually kicked me out the open door of my moving carriage, then she stole my carriage and my horses and left me for dead. I’ve come to remove her. Give her to me now.”

Helen turned back into the bedchamber at Gray’s call. One very fair eyebrow was climbing upward. “What do you say, my lord?”

“I’ve never met Arthur, just heard of him. Do show him in, Miss Mayberry. This should prove a treat.”

Arthur Kelburn, eldest son and heir of Lord Rye, ran into
the room, then pulled up short at the sight of the young man in the bed and the small, older man hovering over him. It was Gray St. Cyre, Baron Cliffe, the bastard who planned to marry Winifrede and her groats. His chest was naked. What was going on here?

Yes, Arthur had seen the baron once outside of White’s on St. James. How was it possible that he was here, and obviously the center of everyone’s attention?

“Lord Cliffe,” Arthur said, trying his best to stride manfully toward the bed, for the large blond woman was watching him, eyebrows raised. Then the large blond woman was directly in front of him. He shouted around her, “What the devil are you doing here? How could you possibly be here when my carriage is also here? Why the devil are you in bed, with this pathetic little bald man leaning over you?”

“Jack,” Gray said, “you may come out now.”

Jack peered around the end of the screen to see Arthur, red-faced and wet, standing toe to toe with Helen. Jack was quite sure that Arthur wouldn’t go anywhere. Sure enough, he was carrying the burlap sack under his left arm, the bounder.

“There you are,” Arthur yelled, waving his fist toward Jack. “Come out this minute. I will punish you with the sack. You deserve it.”

“I’ve never before disciplined anyone with a sack,” Helen said, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “I will observe to see what you have in mind.”

Jack came out. Arthur nearly leapt at her. Helen said to Arthur with absolutely no inflection at all in her voice, “Move back right this instant or I will throw you out of that window.”

“You’re a female, you’re—” Then Arthur, his survival instincts finally engaging, shut his mouth and took three quick steps back. He cleared his throat. He shoved the sack
behind his back. He said, in a winsome voice, “Ah, there you are, Winifrede. Come, where’s your cloak? We must leave now.”

Jack could only stare at him. “Are you mad?”

“No, but if you don’t obey me quickly, I just might become very angry indeed.”

“I wouldn’t go with you if you promised me my favorite sweetmeats.”

He pulled out a gun and aimed it in her general direction. “You’re stubborn. So be it. Come, Winifrede. Now. Oh, I understand what you meant. I believed you were calling me insane when you said ‘mad,’ but you weren’t. I’m not as yet mad or angry with you. You are the mad one, what with kicking me out of my own carriage and then stealing the carriage and my horses.”

Jack sat down on the floor, the old too-long gray gown spread out about her. “If you will just look toward the bed, Arthur, you will see Lord Cliffe, my betrothed, lying there. Unfortunately, I ran him down. If I hadn’t escaped you, then he would have caught up with us quickly enough, and he would probably have wrung your miserable neck. All in all, you’ve been very lucky, more lucky than you deserve.

“Now, you will please leave. Go home. Tell my stepfather and your father that neither of them will get their hands on my dowry. All my groats will be in Gray’s hands. Go away, Arthur.”

“Yes,” said Helen, “do go away. I would also recommend that you change out of those drenched clothes. I wouldn’t want you to become ill.”

“Change out of your wet clothes elsewhere, Arthur,” Gray said. “Leave—now.”

16

“N
O
,”
ARTHUR HOWLED.
“It isn’t fair. I need a new waistcoat, this one is nearly a year old. I loved it last year, but it’s served its time and I need a new one.”

“Ah, so your papa promised you clothes if you carted me off to Scotland?”

“Yes, and a handsome allowance. Come along, Winifrede. Get up. Just look at you. Your hair is straggling down around your face, you’re wearing a wretched gown that makes you look bilious, and there’s this woman here who’s larger than I am and could probably snap my neck like a chicken’s. She probably
could
toss me out of that window. Still, she’s very pretty, and I fancy she would be very pleasant to have wrapped around a man on a cold night.”

Dr. Brainard drew himself up and puffed out his meager chest. He waved a bottle of his own homemade dandelion restorative tonic at the young interloper. “You mind your manners, you coarse little puppy. Actually Helen could lie on you and suffocate you. She wouldn’t need to exert herself at all.”

Helen said, “Now, Ossie, the boy is merely upset and not thinking straight. Look to your patient and I’ll look to the coarse little puppy.”

Ossie dutifully looked at Gray, then said quickly, “Oh, goodness, my lord. Miss Helen is quite right. You’re looking flushed. I beg you to lie still. Don’t jump out of this bed, entirely unclothed, and strike this young man who’s going to receive his just desserts any minute now from Miss Helen.”

Gray’s head felt as though it should be split open. The fact that it wasn’t, the fact that he could actually see and hear everything that was going on, was heartening. He managed to stand, pulling the covers around him like a toga.

“You stole Jack from me?”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur said. “She and I are going to marry. She sent me a note begging me to come take her away from your house on Portman Square. We were on our way to Scotland.”

“Jack? Do you wish to marry this paltry fellow?”

“Goodness, no, Gray. He’s a worthless sod, a wastrel, of no good to anyone I can think of. I think Helen should snap his neck or perhaps pound him into a pork kniver.”

“Actually,” Helen said, advancing on Arthur, “perhaps that might be a fine idea. You’re boring me, sir. You are unduly exciting Dr. Brainard’s patient. You insulted one of my maid’s gowns that she very nicely loaned to Jack here.”

“Stay back,” Arthur said, waving the gun about. Then he looked crafty. “If you were dead, my lord, then there would be no one but me to marry Winifrede. That’s her name, not Jack. That’s the valet’s name my father was yelling about.”

“You’d hang for murder, you bonehead,” Jack said. “Well, that’s not true. I’d kill you myself before you were hauled to the gibbet. Give it up, Arthur. Go home.”

Gray realized that if he didn’t sit down he would collapse on the floor. The room was moving, and he knew he wasn’t. Jack was on her feet then, running to him. How could she realize so quickly how he felt when he’d just realized it himself the instant before? “Please, Gray, you must lie down. You could be seriously hurt. Please.”

Arthur grabbed her arm and jerked her back. Gray felt rage pour through him. He stepped around Jack, girded his toga, grabbed Arthur’s other arm and yanked it up behind his back. Arthur screamed with the pain. The burlap sack fell to the floor. Jack kicked it away. Gray said in the most menacing voice Jack had ever heard from him, “Let her go, you idiot.”

“No, she needs to obey me, she needs discipline—”

“Discipline, you say?” Dr. Brainard said, taking a step toward Arthur. “Now, Miss Helen here, she knows all about discipline. She’s known to be exquisitely inventive.”

“Let her go,” Gray said again and tugged Arthur’s arm up just a bit higher.

Arthur yelled again and let Jack go. This time she kicked Arthur’s shin. He yelled again.

“Now, drop that nasty little gun,” Gray said, not an inch from Arthur’s nose, “before you shoot yourself in the foot or I stuff it down your throat.”

“The gun or his foot?” Jack said.

“Be quiet, Jack.”

“No, I—” Arthur screamed when Gray pulled his arm up higher behind him. “You’re breaking my arm.”

“It’s all right. There’s a doctor right here to bind you up. Drop the bloody gun.”

Arthur dropped the gun. Jack quickly picked it up. Gray leaned close to Arthur’s ear and whispered, “You’ve lost. Take your carriage and go home. If I see you again, I won’t be pleased. Go away—now.” Gray dropped his arm.

Arthur moaned and rubbed his arm. Helen said, “Why don’t you come to the taproom with me, Arthur? I’ll give you a nice mug of ale before you leave my inn, which shouldn’t be more than ten minutes from now.” She led Arthur Kelburn away, still moaning, still rubbing his arm, and said over her shoulder, “Ossie, see to it that his lordship is resting comfortably. Jack, you’ve got the gun. You can remain here and guard his lordship, just in case our Arthur here has cohorts.”

“You mean like Lancelot?” Jack said.

They heard Arthur moaning his way down the hall, saying at every other step, “It just isn’t fair. She would have begged me to marry her. All I needed was just a couple of days with her. I would have disciplined her and she would have loved it. My father taught me all about that, you know,” and then he groaned again.

Ossie said, “I’ll wager the puppy’s father doesn’t know any of the marvelous disciplines Miss Helen employs.”

Gray, tucked back into bed, moaned and closed his eyes again. “Jack, your Lancelot comment was on the witty side. I can already see questions in your eyes—don’t listen to any of this discipline talk, all right? Now, I really hadn’t intended to spend the day before my marriage in this manner.”

“Breathe deeply, my lord.”

“Here’s a scone for his lordship, from Miss Helen,” said the maid Gwendolyn, who’d lent Jack the gown.

“Thank you,” Gray said. “Give it to Jack and she will feed me.”

“Your breathing is irregular, my lord. Perhaps if you chew on a bit of scone it will ease your choler.”

Helen Mayberry sat in the chair that Ossie Brainard had pulled close to Gray’s bed. Ossie sat at her feet on an old
leather hassock. Jack was seated on the end of Gray’s bed, her legs tucked beneath her.

As for Gray, he was propped up against three pillows, like a king, eating another scone, this one crammed with raisins.

“I see nothing for it, my lord,” Helen said. “I believe if Ossie says you’re fit enough, we should return you to London tomorrow morning. It is your wedding day.”

Gray started to say that his head ached so badly a wedding day was the furthest thing from his mind, but he looked at Jack, who had the gun in her lap and looked pale and frightened. He said, “I don’t have a carriage.”

“I do,” Helen said. “That’s why I said that we should return you to London. I will accompany you. It’s only an hour and a half away.”

“Miss Helen’s father is Viscount Prith,” said Ossie. “We will borrow his carriage.”

“We could,” Helen said on a sigh, “but you know, Ossie, my father would demand to come with us.” She said to Gray, “He loves to travel, even short distances. A trip to London would send him into raptures. He would also demand to come to the wedding. He attends every wedding not only here in Court Hammering but in all the surrounding counties. He married my dear mother three different times, when he was in a particularly romantic frame of mind. Thankfully, our vicar is a man of flexible bent.”

Gray said to Jack, who was still looking blank-brained, “Jack and I should very much appreciate having you as our guests. It is to be a small wedding. It’s possible that it will be even smaller if Douglas and Ryder Sherbrooke are still out chasing after you, Jack. Perhaps we’d best postpone the wedding until everything settles down, my head included.”

“No,” Jack said, so distressed that she nearly bounced
herself off the bed. “Something else bad will happen if we don’t get married. It’s already started—my foot’s asleep. Something else would happen, too. I just know it. My stepfather could kidnap Aunt Mathilda, not realizing that if she wished to she could orate him into the ground, then slit his throat. No, as long as you can stand upright, Gray, I should like to get it over with. Then you can go to bed for as long as you like.”

“An offer a man can’t refuse,” Gray said to the bedchamber in general.

“Really, my lord,” Ossie said, giving Helen an interested look, “there are ladies present.”

“Not really,” said Jack. “Until last week I was a valet and proud of it.”

Douglas Sherbrooke stood beside Gray late the following Friday morning in the St. Cyre drawing room, having returned to London three hours before, just in time for an early breakfast. He’d had time to shave and change his clothes and rejoice that Jack was back where she belonged.

Bishop Langston, loose-limbed as a willow wand and endowed with a beautifully dark speaking voice, conducted the brief ceremony—so brief in fact, that Jack was married before she even realized her fate was sealed. “Jack, look up at me so I can give you a very modest kiss.”

She knew his head still ached, but he was smiling down at her, and she thought he looked wonderful in his stark black formal garb and his white linen.

She closed her eyes and raised her face. She felt his fingertips touch her cheek, then cup her chin. He gave her a light, fleeting kiss, over before it began. But she found it very interesting, nonetheless. His fingers didn’t immediately drop. She opened her eyes and looked up at the man
she hadn’t even known existed just three weeks before. Now he was her husband.

“How does your head feel?”

“Let’s just not speak of that, Jack.”

“Then I will tell you how very handsome you look.”

“That’s better.”

“There’s something different about you. About the way you’re looking at me.”

He could have told her that he was now seeing her through a husband’s eyes, and that was a very different experience for him indeed. He was seeing her as a woman who would, this very evening, climb into his bed with him and Eleanor.

“You’re very brave, Gray. Thank you.”

His knuckles grazed her cheek. He said nothing. Bishop Langston cleared his throat, which brought some chuckles from behind them.

“Perhaps I’ll become as romantic as Lord Prith, and we’ll get married several more times in the coming years.”

“Perhaps at our next wedding I will have time to order a wedding gown.”

If anyone believed that the pale yellow satin gown with its long, fitted sleeves and high-cut bodice wasn’t suitable for a bride, no one remarked upon it. “Yes,” Gray said, patted her cheek, then turned back to Bishop Langston. The bishop gave them a benign smile and nodded. “Now, my lord, my lady, I believe Quincy wishes to announce that an outstanding wedding breakfast awaits us in the dining room.”

“With champagne,” called out Lord Prith, Helen Mayberry’s father. “Best thing about weddings—the champagne. Even when I don’t know the bride and groom—as in this particular case—I always bring a bottle of excellent champagne to the festivities.”

“I say,” Aunt Mathilda, gowned in stark black, “that is an excellent course to adopt. Did you already give your bottle to Quincy?”

“You said an awful lot there, Aunt Mathilda,” Jack said, watching Lord Prith eye Aunt Mathilda as he would a succulent pigeon. “I haven’t ever drunk champagne.”

“You won’t drink too much,” Gray said. Before she could question this peremptory order, Mr. Harpole Genner was bowing deeply over her hand. “A lovely ring. Wasn’t it your mother’s, Gray?”

“No,” Gray said. “It was my grandmother’s.”

Mr. Genner said, “This is a very happy occasion, my lady. It is such a pity that Lord Burleigh is still too ill to attend. Ah, perhaps he will awaken soon. Yes, he will be delighted to hear of his ward and his godson becoming man and wife.”

“There is no word yet if his lordship will survive his illness?” Gray asked.

Mr. Genner shook his head. “I visited just yesterday and his butler, Snell, told me his lordship still lies on his back, eyes closed, occasionally snoring—which is odd, his physician says—with Lady Burleigh holding his hand and speaking to him as if he were there and listening, even interested. Snell also said that his lordship’s color was better and that his whiskers were growing at a fine clip, which, Snell told me, gave the physician reason for guarded optimism.