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 displays 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.