The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (138 page)

“I became Winifrede’s guardian. Nothing changed when her mother remarried. Thomas had been right—Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford is a paltry excuse for a man.

“I’m sorry, Gray. It saddens me greatly, always has. The man you believed was your father died. Your real father, a man you never knew, died not a year later.” Lord Burleigh closed his eyes again. He swallowed. Gray held his head
and gently dribbled water into his mouth. They both waited, silent.

“I’m so very sorry, Gray. It was a tragedy, the whole matter.”

“You refuse to say it aloud, my lord,” Gray said. “You really must face it, you know, for I have. I faced it years ago. I would do it again, with no hesitation. The man who called himself my father didn’t just simply die.”

“Thomas Bascombe never knew any of it. I refused to tell him. Your mother certainly didn’t.” Then, just as suddenly, Lord Burleigh was asleep, his hand limp in Gray’s.

Gray’s eyes were closed now. He listened to the soft splash of water against the stone water wall, not six feet away from him. The grass was becoming damp. He didn’t care. He stared at the rippling waves beneath the moonlight.

He had wed his half sister. He’d made love with her four times the previous night.

What if she were pregnant?

Something that just the day before would have had him bursting with pride, with immense male satisfaction, now brought him to his knees. No, Jack couldn’t be pregnant. She couldn’t carry his child.

He lowered his face into his hands. He listened to the night sounds—the rustling of the leaves by the night wind on an ancient oak tree just to his left, the faraway shout of a drayman, the dip of a lone oar into the still water.

Hours passed. He rose to see the sunrise. Odd how his world had come to an end and yet everyone else’s world had just risen on another day.

He walked home, weaving through the ubiquitous drays and wagons weighed down with the day’s goods, dodging the early-morning carriages, not even hearing the children hawking mince pies or seeing the dozens of black-coated clerks, hurrying toward Fleet Street, their heads down. He
had his foot on the first step when the door flew open and Quincy burst out.

“My lord! Oh, my god, my lord! What happened? Are you all right? Come in now, come in. Oh, my, just look at you, all soiled and wet, your beautiful boots all covered with mud and what—”

Quincy broke off. He stilled. He very gently took his master’s arm and led him into the entrance hall. “Come now into your study. You will rest and I will bring you a brandy.”

And Quincy led him, as he had when Gray was just a small boy, to his study. He sat him down and went to the sideboard to pour brandy.

“No, no brandy, Quincy,” he said, raising his hand. “Do you know that brandy tastes cold to me? It’s true. I had two glasses of the stuff yesterday, and it was cold and hard all the way to my belly.”

“It’s all right, my lord. I’m going to get you breakfast and a nice hot cup of tea.”

“No, Quincy, thank you.” He rose again. “I must go upstairs. I really must go.” Then he stopped cold. Jack was upstairs, probably still sleeping in his bed. Had she worried at his absence?

Of course she had.

“What time is it, Quincy?”

“It is just seven o’clock in the morning, my lord.”

He walked up the wide staircase, knowing that Quincy stood in the entrance hall, staring up at him, wondering, worried. But what could Gray have told him?

I’m going upstairs to make love with my wife who also just happens to be my sister?

He laughed. He was still grinning when he saw Horace striding toward him down the corridor.

26

“C
OME
,
MY
lord,” Horace said, took his arm and led him to the dressing room.

“Am I to take another bath, Horace?”

“You’re sorely in need of one.”

This time, Horace said nothing more until Gray was in his bath, steam rising up around his face.

“There was hell to pay last night, my lord. Her ladyship flew around the house, searching every room, questioning everyone in the household. I’d hidden myself in the cellar with a good book so she couldn’t find me and question me until I broke down. I heard she was like a dog with a bone in its mouth. She just wouldn’t stop. I remained out of sight until well after midnight. Quincy told me she’d taken three footmen and they were in the carriage driving around London, looking for you.

“She was afraid, naturally. There was no note from you, no message, nothing. Even the great-aunts were searching. The little girl started crying because her sister was obviously upset.

“Her ladyship returned in the middle of the night. Naturally they hadn’t found you. She waited more, pacing the drawing room. Finally she went upstairs near dawn this morning.”

Gray looked at his knee through the thick steam, then rubbed it with a bit of soap. “I suppose that was a grass stain.” He rubbed the other knee, then looked up at Horace. “They wouldn’t have found me. I was down by the river, looking at the water and thinking about how our lives have simply flown apart.” He wiped a washcloth over his face. It came away grimy. “I’m sorry about my boots, Horace. Muddy water lapped over my feet last night.”

“It doesn’t matter. What does matter is what you do now.”

Gray didn’t say anything more until he was dressed, shaved, his hair brushed. He looked like a gentleman again; only his face, pale, the flesh too tight over the bones, bore the signs of wreckage.

He walked quietly into his bedchamber. The clock on the mantelpiece sat at only eight-thirty in the morning. Dear God, he felt as though a decade had passed. He looked toward the bed. He was beyond exhaustion. He was nearly numb, but not his head. No, his head pounded with the knowledge that had destroyed them both. He wished for just a veil of grayness, a sheen of blessed darkness to lessen the sharpness. But everything remained stark and real. He was appallingly clearheaded, his brain wide awake.

The bed was empty.

Jack was wrapped in a blanket in a window seat that looked out over Portman Square. He watched her white fingers trace an outline in the fog on the window. Her hair was tangled down her back.

“Jack.”

Slowly she turned. If his face looked like wreckage, hers
was worse because there was fear burning dark and hot in her eyes.

“Gray! Oh, God.”

She was on her feet, stumbling over the blanket that had fallen. She went down to her knees. Before he could help her, she was on her feet again, the blanket left on the floor, and she was running to him. “Gray,” she whispered, her face against his neck, her arms wrapped so tightly around his back that he was momentarily surprised at her strength.

Slowly, his arms came up to hold her against him. God, the feel of her. He closed his eyes. The thought of never holding her again, of never kissing her again, never again making love with her. It nearly broke him. A sister. She was his damned half sister. He didn’t think he could bear it.

Then she drew back. “You’re home, finally. God, are you all right?” Her hands were all over him, his shoulders, his chest, feeling his arms. Then she was on her knees in front of him, her nightgown billowing out around her, and she was running her hands up and down his legs. “Nothing’s broken. Thank God. What happened?”

She stood again, pressing against him. He realized she was shivering violently. From the cold? He didn’t think so. It was from fear. Fear for him. He closed his eyes a moment against the magnitude of it all.

God, he was a bastard, a selfish bastard.

“It’s all right,” he said, marveling that that calm, utterly emotionless voice belonged to him. “I’m all right, Jack, truly.”

“But why didn’t you come home?”

“Come, let’s talk.” He grabbed her dressing gown and gave it to her. She just held it loosely in her hands, staring at him, not looking at it. It was as if it were something she didn’t recognize.

He took it from her and dressed her like a child. It was very pretty, all soft shades of peach, going wonderfully with her coloring. He tightened the sash around her waist. She didn’t move the entire time, just stood there, staring up at him, saying nothing.

“Sit down,” he said and pointed to a wing chair in front of the fireplace.

He knelt down and lit the fire. “It will be warm soon.”

“I’m not cold,” she said.

When the fire took, he rose again and came to her. He went down on his knees and closed his fingers over her bare toes. She was right, she wasn’t cold. Even her toes were warm.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She waved away his words. “It depends on what you’re sorry about.” She looked at him closely. He knew he wasn’t an inspiring sight. He knew what he felt like—a man who’d battled demons all night, and lost. She touched her fingers to his mouth, then shook her head slowly, putting off what he had to tell her, he knew. “Just a moment, Gray.”

She rose and gave the bell cord a good pull. She kept looking back at him over her shoulder, as if she were afraid he would disappear. She walked to the bedchamber door, opened it, and went into the corridor. Every few minutes, she looked back into the room at him. She said nothing at all.

Some minutes later he heard her speaking to her maid, ordering breakfast to be served here, just coffee and toast, he heard her say, brought here, to their bedchamber.

Their
bedchamber. He closed his eyes.

He leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees, staring into the crackling fire. She stood beside him, her hand light on his shoulder. He wanted to
fling off her hand, yell at her not to touch him. His sister wasn’t to touch him like that, like she had every right to touch him, like she had the right to be his wife and lover. He knew he stiffened, but he remained silent. He didn’t want to, but finally he looked up at her.

“Do I look as bad as you do?” she asked.

It brought a brief smile. “Yes,” he said. “I believe that you do. Won’t you sit down?” All night, he thought, while he’d battled his demons, she’d battled her fear for him. And he’d allowed her to do it. He’d left her alone. There was no excuse, none at all, but he knew, simply knew, that if it were to happen all over again, he would have done the same thing.

“No,” she said. “I feel more in control of myself, more in control of this situation that I don’t understand at all, if I’m standing.” Then she was quiet, waiting.

“It’s something bad, isn’t it, Gray?” Fear crawled in her voice. “No, it’s more than bad.” Her voice was sad now, and distant, as if somehow she knew their world had ended. Just like that, it had ended. He heard her swallow.

Not for the first time since he’d visited Lord Burleigh the day before did Gray wish that the man had simply died, taking the secret with him to the grave. But he hadn’t. And now Gray knew.

What if Lord Burleigh died now? Did anyone else know?

Gray didn’t think so. If Lord Burleigh did die now, then Gray wouldn’t have to do anything with the knowledge. He could continue his life as if nothing had ever intruded, nothing had ever broken him to his soul.

But he knew. God, he knew. And knowing made all the difference.

“Gray?”

She’d spoken. He looked up at her, an eyebrow raised. “Yes, Jack?”

He saw it in her eyes, those lovely blue eyes of hers. She didn’t want to know now. She knew, deep down, she knew there was something bad out there and it was just a matter of time before it flattened her.

“Nothing. Here is our breakfast.” She left his side quickly.

When they were seated across from each other, each holding a cup of Mrs. Post’s specially blended coffee, Gray said, “It looks to be clear today. At dawn this morning it was cloudy, the fog deep and thick, but now the sun is out. Yes, it will be a lovely day.”

“Yes,” she said. “Sunny.”

He wasn’t hungry. Neither was she. They both fidgeted with their coffee cups for a moment, then Jack jumped up and said, “I will see to Georgie.”

“Jack, no, please. Stay here, with me. I ran away and I suppose it would be only fair if I allowed you to do the same. But I can’t. We must speak.”

“I have nothing to say,” she said, still not seating herself again, standing behind her chair, her fingers gripping the top of it tighter than death. “Well, yes, I do. The aunts are returning home today. They were very worried about you yesterday. So was Georgie.”

“I will miss them,” he said. He gripped the edge of the table until his own knuckles showed white. “Remember that note Quincy gave me yesterday when I was hauling you upstairs and couldn’t be bothered?”

She nodded, leaned down, and picked up a piece of cold toast, tore off a piece, then dropped it back on her plate.

“I read the note this morning. It was from Lord Burleigh. He wrote that he had to see me on a matter of the gravest urgency. I went. I found out what he wanted to tell me.”

She saw the pain in him, and something else as well. It was the memory of the utter shock, perhaps of disbelief.
But of what? She realized that what she saw on his face now was acceptance of whatever he’d found out. No, no, surely she was imagining things. But the pain she felt coming from him, it was real, all too real. She didn’t want to know anything more, she didn’t. She was trembling. She sat down in her chair again.

“I’m very sorry that I didn’t return home yesterday. I couldn’t. I guess I’m a coward. Weak, pathetic really. It was just such a shock. I couldn’t deal with it; rather, I had to try to deal with it by myself first.”

The shock. Yes, she’d seen the shock, he saw that she had. She remained silent, stiff, as if awaiting a blow. But she couldn’t begin to know.

He couldn’t keep it back any longer. “He told me that you and I share the same father, Jack. Thomas Levering Bascombe was my father as well as yours.”

She stared at him, her mouth open to say something that wouldn’t be said now. No, she hadn’t heard him correctly. Her mind was shifting in and out of the shadows, wanting to hide, and that’s why she had heard something utterly ridiculous, utterly unbelievable. No, he was going to tell her that he didn’t want her anymore, or that he was bringing a mistress to the house, or—yes, she knew now—he didn’t want Georgie living with them. She could deal with any of those things.

“You’re my half sister.”

His what? A half sister? Surely that couldn’t be true.

“That makes no sense.”

“That’s what I would have sworn as well. But now I believe him. What he said, it was convincing. It’s what Thomas Levering Bascombe—your father—told him.”

She rose from her chair slowly. She leaned forward, pressing her palms against the tablecloth.

“It is ludicrous. I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it.”

“Your father wanted to name you Graciella. You told me that yourself. It was because my name was Grayson. He wanted our names to be close. Your mother preferred Winifrede. Did she know about me? Lord Burleigh didn’t know.”

“You want me to believe that my father made love with a lady of quality, impregnated her, and then didn’t marry her? My father was an honorable man. He never would have done that, never.”

“Evidently what happened was that your father and my mother fell in love. He was sent to the Colonies to negotiate the peace between the Colonies and England. He didn’t know my mother was pregnant until he returned and discovered she’d had a child—me. She’d married the man whose title I now carry. As much as I loathed my father, it still isn’t particularly fair that I, not of his blood, now control all that was his.” He frowned over that. “No, I take that back. Given who and what he was, he deserves to be in hell. Any man could have his title and it would be a vast improvement.”

Jack said, “Show me evidence that this is true.”

“There is nothing in writing. There is only Lord Burleigh’s word for it.”

“And you believe what he told you?”