Mad Jack, Page 2

  “What did Mathilda do?” He was sitting forward, fascinated.

  “What? Oh, she told him yet again that she’d had her taste of the marital flesh and she believed, given the evidence of him standing right there in front of her, that he would provide her nothing that would enhance either her experience or her current well-being.”

  “Aunt Mathilda, you said all that?”

  “It’s what she would have said if she’d wanted to,” said Aunt Maude. “Your great-aunt Mathilda is a moving speaker, an orator of great breadth, when she wishes to be. I believe with the vicar, however, Mathilda merely had to look down her nose at him and let it quiver just a bit. It told him quite enough. She does not believe him to be worthy of any of her excellent oration.”

  Aunt Mathilda nodded complacently. “That’s right. Mortimer killed Martha, after all.”

  Maude cleared her throat again. “He probably didn’t do it on purpose, but he did take Martha for a walk, as we already told you, it rained, and she died. He was very sorry. But now he wants Mathilda.” She stopped, gave a deep sigh, and continued. “It’s a pity that he couldn’t have prayed to prevent the fire and the flood. But he didn’t. There is quite a bit of damage from both the fire and the flood, and so there was no choice but for us to come to you and throw ourselves upon your mercy. Will you let us remain with you for a bit of time, dear boy?”

  This was quite the strangest thing that had happened to him in some time. Gray looked from Mathilda, the orator if only she felt like orating, to the slight, more informative Maude, pictured their mother’s Chippendale dining room chairs floating out of a house onto a front lawn, grinned at them, and nodded. “It would be my pleasure, ladies. May I also offer my assistance in the repairs being made to your home? I can send my man down to Feathergate Close to ensure that everything is going the way you wish it.”

  “No,” said Mathilda.

  “Actually, my lord . . .” said Maude, leaning forward. Then she just stopped. Gray blinked as he saw his mother’s lovely pale green eyes in Maude’s face, pale green eyes that were also his. Maude looked briefly at Mathilda, then cleared her throat. “We have men we trust entirely doing the work. We feel that everything is being done as swiftly as possible. We are content.”

  “I see,” said Gray. He took a drink of his own tea, now tepid. “Naturally you are welcome in my home.”

  “Alice,” said Mathilda.

  “My mother Alice?” Gray asked, an eyebrow up in question.

  “Ah, yes, your dear mother,” said Maude. “She was such a lovely little girl. We missed her sorely when she was wedded to your father, although that was so long ago we’re not really certain if that is precisely what we miss. But you know, your father took her away immediately. We saw her only twice between her marriage to your father and your birth. Why, I believe the last time we saw you, you were a very little boy. Ah, yes, whenever we thought of dear little Alice, we missed her.”

  “Bloody rotter,” Mathilda said and stared hard at Gray.

  “What Mathilda means, if she felt like explaining things more fully, is that we weren’t at all certain at the time if your father was truly an excellent enough gentleman for our little niece. Your mother was so very gentle, so loving, so—well, weak, to spit out the truth of it. I imagine that had your father been a saint, Mathilda would still feel he wasn’t good enough for your mother.”

  “He was a vicious rotter,” Mathilda said again, more forcefully this time. She was staring hard at him.

  Gray looked from one old lady to the other, then slowly nodded. “Yes, you’re quite right. My father was a rotter of the first order. Ah, I see. You wonder if I’m like my father. There’s no reason for you to believe me, but you should. I’m not at all like my father.” They obviously didn’t know what had happened those many years ago. He wondered why not. Surely anyone who’d wanted to know could have easily found out everything.

  “Now, ladies, allow Quincy to bring Mrs. Piller to you. She is my housekeeper, was my mother’s housekeeper before I was even born. She will know exactly which bedchambers would please you the most.”

  “There’s Jack,” said Mathilda. “Jack needs a room as well. Close.”

  More than one word, Gray thought. This must be incredibly important to her. Perhaps she was readying herself to orate.

  “Jack?”

  Maude patted Mathilda’s knee and nodded, making the fruit on her bonnet tilt to the side. “Yes. We brought our young, er, valet with us. His name is Mad Jack. Since he assists both Mathilda and me, we would appreciate it if he could be placed near us. Perhaps he could sleep in a dressing room off one of the bedchambers?”

  “Mad Jack is your valet? A boy whose name sounds like a highwayman’s sobriquet?”

  “Well,” Aunt Maude said, after a very brief eye flicker toward Mathilda, “it’s really just Jack, but our boy, Jack, is also a bit on the energetic side, not wild, mind you, but he does many things, some of them stimulating enough to turn an old lady’s hair quite white.”

  “Hmmm,” was all Gray could think of to say. He did blink, but if either of the great-aunts noticed it, they paid it no heed. They really had a valet named Jack whom they called Mad Jack? It wasn’t at all expected, but on the other hand, who cared? Gray said, “Perhaps you’d care to give me just a hint of some of the stimulating things that Mad Jack might do here at my house?”

  Mathilda said, “Not a blessed thing. Forget ‘mad.”’

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Maude. “Our little Jack is all that is calm and serene when he’s in a stranger’s house, particularly one as grand as this.”

  Fascinating, Gray thought, and said, “All you have to do is consult with Mrs. Piller. Where is this Jack?”

  “He’s probably sitting quietly in the entrance hall,” said Maude, “guarding our luggage. He’s a very good boy, very well mannered, very quiet, at least most of the time, at least in strange houses. You’ll never know he’s here. We’ve had him with us forever, very nearly. Yes, Jack’s a very sober lad, loyal as a tick, and he prefers to keep to himself when he’s not keeping us. He won’t cause any harm, no ruckus at all, he’s a studious, quite inoffensive boy. Do just as Mathilda said. Forget the ‘mad’ part of his name. It is simply a fancy, a silly name that an old lady simply plucked out of the air of her burned and flooded house.”

  “Jack is also welcome, with or without his highwayman’s sobriquet. Now, since we’re all related, and perhaps you ladies do care that I’m above the ground and not under it, I should like it very much if you would call me Gray.”

  “Grayson,” said Mathilda. “That’s your name.”

  “Well, actually, that’s a bit much, I’ve always thought. My friends as well as my enemies call me St. Cyre or Cliffe, but usually just Gray.”

  “That will be just fine, my boy,” said Maude as she rose and shook out her puce silk skirts.

  Mathilda rose as well, turned toward the drawing room doors, and shouted, “Jack!”

  3

  THE BARON didn’t get a good look at Jack the valet, mad or otherwise, as he was wearing a wool cap pulled to his ears and had his head turned away, seemingly staring hard down at the aunts’ two valises. He did see, however, a boy about fifteen years old, skinny as a toothpick, clad in baggy breeches, scuffed boots, and a bilious jacket the color of pea soup left too long in the pot. He didn’t look in the least like a boy who would deserve such a dashing handle. Skinny, ill-garbed little nit. He supposed that to two old ladies, any youthful behavior at all could easily be deemed mad. What had he done? Hurled a teacup to the floor and stomped on it?

  He saw the valet pick up the aunts’ valises, grunt, and promptly drop them. He stared down at them, then seemed to gird his loins and began to drag them. What did he plan to do with the valises once he reached the stairs? Gray wondered. And was he totally untrained? A valet wouldn’t haul valises up the main staircase, even a mad one.

  Gray nearly burst out laughing when Jack the valet began to nudge t
he valises forward with the toe of his boot, first one valise, then the other, each gaining perhaps three inches per boot poke. Quincy observed this for a very brief couple of seconds, then called for Remie the footman to assist, which he did. Remie, big and blond and Irish, clapped Jack on the back, nearly knocking him over, grabbed both valises in one huge hand, and walked toward the back of the town house to the servants’ stairs. He called out for Jack to follow him.

  Mrs. Piller, the St. Cyre housekeeper—very pink in the cheeks, for what reason Gray couldn’t imagine—came forward to curtsy to the two aunts. Within moments, the aunts were on their way upstairs to bedchambers that were connected by a large dressing room where Jack the valet would reside.

  “I’m leaving,” Gray said. “See to their comfort, Quincy. The aunts will be with us for a while. A fire and a flood—both—hit their home near Folkstone. They will remain here until their house is repaired. A fire and a flood,” he repeated, frowning toward the picture of the third Baroness Cliffe, a proclaimed witch, who had died in her bed of natural causes at the age of eighty-two. “It sounds rather odd, don’t you think?”

  Quincy, who privately thought the two great-aunts and that unripe and untrained valet to be impecunious interlopers, looked severe and said, “Their carriage was hired, my lord. Their luggage is easily from the last century.”

  “Well, I suppose that makes sense since they’re going to be remaining here for a while. We have no room for an additional carriage in the stables. As for their luggage, why shouldn’t it be old? They’re ancient themselves. Now, I’m off.”

  “Your lordship will enjoy yourself.”

  Gray grinned as Quincy, who was nearly as short as Aunt Maude, helped him into his cloak. “Was that a bit of impertinent wit, Quincy?”

  Quincy, an artist at his craft, affected the stolid, unaffected butler look and said nothing at all, but Gray always saw the impudent wickedness in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

  “Gray, do please taste the apple tarts. I made them once before, but the butcher, a big hairy ape who claimed I was much too pretty to cook, thought the crust was too dry. I put a bit more butter in the pastry this time, just in case he was telling the truth. The apples were very fresh. The boy who sold them to me was a crude little fellow who wanted to give me a kiss, so I clouted his ear. Now, do try a tart. I made them especially for you.”

  Gray was lying flat on his back, naked, happy, sated, and just beginning to breathe normally again. And here was Jenny, wrapped up in a peach confection that, to his mind, looked more edible than the apple tarts she was sticking in his face. Her glorious black hair was tangled about her head, tumbling all the way down to her very nice bottom, her lips still red from all their kisses. He wanted her again—well, perhaps in another five minutes. Now he just wanted to rest a bit, so he could once again replenish his manly vigor. But he saw the excitement in her eyes, knew his duty, and took an apple tart. At least she was always ready to feed him after she’d exhausted him.

  “You’ve never before made apple tarts for me,” he said as he examined the small square of pastry with hot apple sauce dripping off the sides.

  “You said that the roast duckling with sweet Madeira and apricot sauce was a bit heavy after lovemaking, so I thought to give you just a bit of dessert today.”

  He took a bite and lay back against the pillow. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands over his chest, careful not to smash the tart. He chewed slowly, knowing she was already hopping from her right foot to her left, waiting for him to pronounce her apple tart the best in the land. He kept his eyes closed, took another bite, chewed it slower than he had the first bite, then—finally—popped the last bite into his mouth. He looked at Jenny from beneath his eyelids. She was very nearly ready to shriek at him. He opened his eyes and said, “It isn’t enough. I’m not certain that the taste is exactly what one would applaud. Give me another one.”

  She nearly crammed it into his mouth herself.

  He ate the second tart, still silent and thoughtful, still chewing each bite until he knew if he didn’t say something very quickly, she would throw the plate at his head.

  He smiled up at her, scratched his belly, and said, “Jenny, just a dollop of Devonshire cream for the apple tart, and it’s perfect. The pastry with the addition of more butter makes it nearly as smooth and creamy as the flesh on your belly.”

  “I have some Devonshire cream,” she shouted and ran out of the very feminine bedchamber, hung with soft peaches, light yellows, and pale blues. The naked man lying atop her unmade bed sighed, stretched, and fell asleep.

  Before he left two hours later, once more sated and more content than a vicar who’d found three gold coins in the collection plate, he ate another apple tart, this one dripping with Devonshire cream. It was beyond delicious, and she licked the cream off his mouth, laughing. “Give me the recipe for Mrs. Piller,” he said. “My guests will not want to leave the table.” He then saw himself telling the ancient and ever-so-proper Mrs. Grainger-Jones, wife of an equally ancient old general from the colonial wars, that the recipe was from his mistress.

  Jenny kissed his mouth, then helped him to dress. When he left, she was humming, doubtless dreaming up a new recipe. She would probably be cooking in her kitchen in the next five minutes, never heeding that she was wearing a peach silk confection that would make a randy man want to eat his elbow. He’d spent more money having her kitchen remodeled just as she wished it than he ever had for clothes or jewels or trips to Vauxhall Gardens or the opera.

  St. Cyre Town House

  April 7th

  Gray wondered how the aunts were doing. He’d seen them only on two occasions since their arrival, both at the table for dinner. And on both evenings, Mathilda had worn a black gown, circa 1785, few flounces and severely corseted; her very beautiful, thick hair was piled high on her head and was so white it could have been powdered.

  As for Maude, her gown was the latest style, high-waisted, with fluttery puce silk swathing her meager bosom.

  He heard more details about the infamous fire and flood that had ravaged Feathergate Close and kept the two old ladies in an elevated state of misery. He heard more stories of how Mortimer the Vicar had tried to steal a kiss from Mathilda behind the vestry and had even patted her posterior when the sexton was ringing the church bells. On both evenings when dinner was finished, he found he didn’t want to sit in isolated splendor in his dining room sipping a glass of port.

  That first night he’d followed the aunts into the drawing room. Before they could be seated, Mathilda said, “Piano.”

  And so it was that Gray was treated to some flawless Haydn by the very talented Maude.

  That had been two nights ago. He wished, as he stroked Eleanor now, sprawled out along the length of his right leg, that he’d had his great-aunts in his life throughout the years. He quite liked them.

  He smoothed Eleanor out over both his legs, picked up his quill, dipped it into the exquisite onyx ink pot that the lovely widow, Constance Duran, had presented him after he’d removed a noxious problem from her life, namely her husband, and wrote a letter to Ryder Sherbrooke, a man with not too many more years on his plate than Gray, a man Gray admired more than he’d ever admired any other man in his life.

  He had just finished the letter when Quincy entered the library, his rheumy dark eyes narrowed.

  “What’s wrong, Quincy?”

  “It’s a gentleman, my lord—actually, a gentleman I’ve never seen before. He gave me his card.” Quincy handed Gray a small, very white visiting card with the name Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford written on it. He didn’t know this man. He looked up at Quincy again. “I heard it in your voice. What’s wrong with him?”

  Quincy said slowly, “It’s something about his eyes. It’s what he’s after. I believe that greed, pure and simple greed, is what he’s all about. Actually, perhaps that is overflowing in melodrama. We will see. However, I don’t think Sir Henry is a very good man.” Quincy shook him
self. “Nevertheless, he asked very politely to see you. He claims it’s important.”

  “This should prove interesting,” Gray said and rose. “Bring in our Sir Henry.”

  “Lord Cliffe?” Gray nodded at the extraordinarily handsome man who walked confidently into the library, his hand out. He was tall, straight, and of middle years, with thick dark brown hair flecked with gray. He shook the man’s hand automatically, then bowed slightly. “Yes, I’m Cliffe. I’m afraid I don’t know you, sir.”

  “I’m Wallace-Stanford. I’m a friend of the Feathergate Close sisters, Mathilda and Maude. I happened to be in London and decided to see if they were enjoying their stay with you. I’m very fond of the old ladies.”

  Now this was a revelation. The man had jumped right in, not a single nicety, no prelude at all. He was also anxious. Gray could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. “I see,” Gray said, not really seeing a thing. He invited Sir Henry to be seated, which he did.

  “Would you care for a brandy?” Once the brandy was pressed into Sir Henry’s elegant hand, Gray said, “So, you are acquainted with my great-aunts. Are you calling to see them or just to inquire about them?”

  “No, actually, I’m here to inquire if the dear old ladies have a young guest with them.”

  “A young guest?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford’s eyes, so very dark, thought of Quincy’s words, and said, “No, the aunts brought no guest with them.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Sir Henry. He slowly rose. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, my lord. You are certain they brought no person with them?”

  Now this was mightily interesting. Gray just shook his head. “No guest in sight,” he said. “Are you certain you don’t wish to speak to them? At the moment I believe they are at Hookham’s bookstore or perhaps at Gunther’s, enjoying an ice. Perhaps you’d care to wait for them?”