Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) Read online

  “Jack—The Jaded Gentlemen Book IV” Copyright © 2016 by Grace Burrowes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations or excerpts for the purpose of critical reviews or articles—without permission in writing from Grace Burrowes, author and publisher of the work.

  Published by Grace Burrowes Publishing, 21 Summit Avenue, Hagerstown, MD 21740.

  ISBN for Jack—The Jaded Gentlemen Book IV: 978-1-941419-28-1

  Cover by Wax Creative, Inc.

  To the Hon. W. Kennedy Boone, III, (ret.) who knew exactly why, when, and how to apply a dash of mountain law.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “My poor, wee Charles is all but dead,” Mortimer Cotton ranted. “’Tis is the next thing to murder, Sir Jack.”

  All poor, wee, wooly, twelve-stone of Charles—a ram of indiscriminate breed—lay flat out in the December sunshine as if expired from a surfeit of sexual exertions.

  “Thievery has been committed under our very noses,” Cotton went on, meaty fists propped on his hips. “That woman stole my tup, bold as brass. Now look at him.”

  In Sir John Dewey Fanning’s estimation, Charles II, as the ram was styled, would recover from his erotic excesses by sundown, if he ran true to his owner’s boasts. Based on the contentment radiating from Hattie Hennessey’s ewes, Charles had shared his legendary favors with the entire lot of them.

  “Mark my words, Sir Jack: Slander is what we have here,” Hattie Hennessey retorted. “Mr. Cotton accuses me of stealing yon lazy tup, when he ought to be fined for not keeping his livestock properly confined. Now here his ram is, helping himself to my fodder and to my poor yowes.”

  Cotton’s complexion went from florid to choleric. “Your runty damned yowes haven’t been covered by a proper stud since they were born, Hattie Hennessey. Do I hear gratitude for their good fortune? Do I hear a word about compensating me for poor Charles’s generosity? No, I hear you blathering on about fines and insults to my integrity as a proper yeoman.”

  Opinion in the shire was usually divided regarding which injured party—for Hattie and Mortimer were perpetually offending each other—had the true grievance. In this case, Hattie had notified Sir Jack that a stray ram was loose among her ewes.

  The very same ram Mortimer would have charged her a fortune to hire for stud services.

  “Mr. Cotton, might I have a word between us gentlemen—us human gentlemen?” Sir Jack interjected into the escalating insults.

  “I’ll give ye as many words as ye like. None of ’em fit for Charles’s delicate ears.”

  While Cotton cast a baleful glance at his exhausted ram, Sir Jack winked at Hattie. She turned her regard on her ewes, the major source of her cash income, and very likely her dearest companions besides her collie and her cat.

  Jack paced over to the far side of a hayrick, and Cotton followed a few fuming moments later.

  “Hattie Hennessey has not the strength to wrestle your ram over stone walls,” Jack said, “much less carry him the distance from your farm to hers.” This was not entirely true. Hattie Hennessey had the Hennessey family height and substance, even in old age. She could control a biddable ram over a short distance.

  She could not, however, ask for help from anybody under any circumstances, the Hennesseys being notoriously stubborn and independent—much like the Cottons.

  “Then she hired this thievery done,” Cotton shot back.

  “That hypothesis doesn’t fit the facts,” Sir Jack replied, brushing a wisp of hay from his sleeve. “In the first place, Hattie hasn’t a single coin to spare. In the second, I think a certain neighbor, who is too kind for his own good, set the ram down among Hattie’s ewes in the dark of night, thus saving a poor widow from begging for aid she desperately needs.”

  Cotton’s bushy white brows beetled into a single line of consternation. “Mr. Belmont, maybe? Or his boys? Boys at that age would consider this a lark. Charles is the friendly sort, when he’s not on the job.”

  Charles was an ovine hedonist. “I’m not accusing the Belmonts of wayward charity, Mr. Cotton.”

  Those brows shot up, and before Cotton could interrupt, Jack continued his theorizing. He’d learned serving in India that if senior officers were spared having to comment on a report prematurely, matters came to a more sensible conclusion.

  “You know Hattie’s circumstances would deteriorate if she couldn’t replace the ram who died over the summer,” Jack said. “You know she can’t afford to go a year without a crop of lambs. Rather than affront her dignity with outright charity, somebody with a kind heart concocted this scheme to spare her pride and put her situation to rights. Vicar will likely be impressed with that person’s ingenuity.”

  Vicar had become so weary of the feud between Mortimer Cotton and Hattie Hennessey that he’d taken to preaching successive sermons on the Good Samaritan.

  Cotton’s backside graced the church pews regularly. His coin was less frequently seen in the poor box.

  “You think I arranged this, Sir Jack?”

  Well, no, Jack thought no such thing, but needs must when the magistrate was at his wit’s end. “Such a scheme has your stamp, Cotton, your sense of practicality and dispatch. But if we remain here much longer, congratulating you on your Christian virtues, Hattie will get out her pitchfork and chase that ram from the premises.”

  “She’ll not abuse my Charles when he’s spent from his labors. I won’t have it. Charles can’t know which ewe belongs to which farm.”

  To Charles, every ewe belonged to him alone, for the span of a few minutes. Jack had known many an officer in His Majesty’s army who’d taken a similar view of amatory pursuits.

  “I can probably talk Hattie into allowing Charles to recover here for a day or two,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t want anybody to say that such a fine animal was overtaxed by a small herd.” In those two days, Charles would finish the job he’d started—likely finish it several times over.

  “My Charlie, overtaxed?”

  “We’re agreed then. If I can talk Hattie around, Charles will rest from his labors, say until Thursday, at which point, I’ll get him home to you. If you leave now in a fit of indignation, Hattie will be none the wiser regarding your generosity.”

  Cotton peered at Jack as if the word generosity was among the French phrases tossed about the Quality at fancy dress balls. To Mortimer Cotton, generosity was doubtless another word for foolishness, but he had as much pride as the next man. Jack could almost hear Cotton quoting Vicar’s pious admonitions at the next darts tournament.

  “You’ve found me out, Sir Jack,” Cotton said, kicking at the dirt. “You’ll not breathe a word to anybody? Hattie Hennessey is prouder than any Christian ought to be.”

  Oh, right. “You may rely on my discretion, Cotton. The plight of poor widows should concern more people in this shire, and I commend you for taking note of that.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I’ll be on my way now, and trust to your, erm, discretion.” Cotton bowed smartly and marched off across the barnyard, sparing Hattie the barest tip of his hat.

&nbs
p; Hattie watched him go, her faded blue gaze considering. “It’s well you sent that bag of wind from my property, Sir Jack, but he forgot to take his rutting tup with him.”

  “Rutting is what tups do, Hattie.” What Jack hadn’t done for far too long, come to that.

  One of the ewes wandered over to sniff at Charles’s recumbent form. Charles rallied enough to touch noses with his caller, then lay back in the straw with a great, masculine sigh. The ewe curled down next to him and began chewing her cud.

  “Eloise,” Hattie said, shaking a finger at the ewe, “you are a strumpet. Come spring, I’ll expect twins from you, my girl.”

  Charles was known for siring twins and even the occasional batch of triplets.

  “Hattie, I must impose on your good offices,” Jack said, “for my shepherd won’t be available to transport Charles home until Thursday. I went so far as to assure Cotton you’d not charge him board for the ram, nor bring a complaint for failure to properly fence his stock.”

  Hattie twitched another piece of straw from Jack’s sleeve. “Getting airs above your station, Sir Jack, speaking on my behalf to that buffoon.”

  Jack’s station was well above settling barnyard squabbles, but he’d rather have this discussion here than endure successive visits from Cotton and Hattie at Teak House.

  “Cotton cannot have it bruited about that his stock is getting loose, Hattie. Show a little pity for a man who likely knows no peace before his own hearth.”

  Hattie’s snort startled the resting ram. “That Perpetua Cotton has a lot of nerve, whining about this, sniffing about that, flouncing hither and yon with a new bonnet every week. Mortimer Cotton needs to take that woman in hand.”

  How exactly did a prudent man take in hand a grown woman with a wealth of thoroughly articulated opinions and ten children to keep clothed and fed?

  “Mortimer Cotton is clearly a man overwhelmed,” Jack said, holding a gloved hand out to a curious ewe. “Show him a bit of charity. Let the ram bide among your ewes until I can take the beast home later in the week.”

  The ewe sniffed delicately, then went about her business. Animals were, in so many ways, better behaved than people.

  “Go on wi’ ye,” Hattie snapped, waving her hand at the ewe. The ewe trotted off a few steps, then took the place on Charles’s other side. Sheep were naturally protective of one another, unlike most people.

  “I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d allow Charles to stay for a few days, Hattie.”

  Everything in Jack longed to grab a pitchfork and fill up the hay rack, then top up the water trough, and pound a nail through the loose board tied to the fence post abutting the gate. Hattie would never allow him to set foot on the property again if he presumed to that extent.

  “The ram can bide here,” Hattie said, marching off to the gate. “Until Thursday morning, no later.”

  “My thanks.” Jack opened the gate for her, and the creaking hinge woke his horse. That fine fellow had been dozing at the hitching post outside Hattie’s tiny cottage.

  “You’ll stay for a cup o’ tea,” Hattie announced. “Least I can do when you came straight away to deal with that plague against the commonweal.”

  Did Hattie refer to Mortimer or Charles?

  “Perhaps another time, Hattie. I’m expected at Candlewick and have tarried too long as it is. Shall I bring over some hay for Mortimer’s ram?”

  Hattie stopped short, fists on hips, the same pose Cotton had adopted. “I’ll not be taking charity, Sir Jack, if it’s all the same to you. Mortimer Cotton has been farming this shire, boy and man, and if he doesn’t realize his ram will eat my hay, then don’t you be telling him. I’ll have a crop of lambs, thanks to Mortimer’s incompetence, though they’ll likely be contrary and puny.”

  “I meant no insult,” Jack said, taking up his gelding’s girth. “I do apologize.” He mentally apologized for declining her proffered cup of tea too. Hattie had to be lonely, but Jack had already surpassed his limit of gratuitous socializing and his day wasn’t over.

  “Apology accepted, this time,” Hattie retorted, stroking a hand over the horse’s nose. “If you see my little Maddie at Candlewick, tell her to pay a call on her old auntie, you hear?”

  On Jack’s most daring day, he wouldn’t issue an order to Madeline Hennessey, who had not been little for many a year.

  “I’ll tell Miss Hennessey you miss her.”

  He swung up on his horse and trotted out of the stable yard, while Charles, apparently recovered, climbed aboard the wayward Eloise and did what rams did best. Jack envied the sheep both his calling and the endless enthusiasm with which he pursued it.

  * * *

  “Do come sit with us, Madeline,” Abigail Belmont said, patting the sofa cushion. “I vow you never rest unless I order you to.”

  Madeline Hennessey did not want to sit, much less directly across from Sir John Dewey Fanning—Sir Jack, to the locals.

  “Please join us,” Axel Belmont said, “or I will scandalize my dear wife by consuming more than my share of tea cakes.”

  The Belmonts were Madeline’s employers, and she never overtly disobeyed them. “While I long to preserve Mr. Belmont from disgrace—doomed though such an endeavor must be—I did promise Mr. Chandler that I’d assist him with an inventory of the—”

  Sir Jack had risen, as if Madeline were part of the Belmont family rather than a servant. Her post hovered between lady’s companion and general factotum these days, which for the most part suited her.

  “Please stay a moment, Miss Hennessey,” Sir Jack said. “I bring felicitations from your Great-Aunt Hattie, and a reminder that she misses you.”

  “Thank you, Sir Jack.” Aunt Hattie had likely nattered his handsome ear off, complaining about how infrequently her great-niece visited. Madeline called on each of her two widowed aunts every two weeks, weather permitting. It wasn’t enough, but with only one half day a week, she couldn’t do more.

  “Have a seat,” Sir Jack said, gesturing to the place beside him on the sofa. “Hattie was in a fine humor, and the tale resulting in that miracle wants telling.”

  What Madeline wanted was to assist Mr. Chandler with his inventory in the saddle room. Chandler was passionately in love with his horses, unlike the new footman, who fancied himself in love with Madeline—or her bosom.

  She took the place next to Sir Jack, though she really ought not. He was one of those men who looked good across the village green or in the churchyard, and he was handsomer still at close range. Also scrupulous about his personal hygiene.

  Madeline had to respect a man who was on good terms with soap, water, and a bathtub. If he had sandy hair, brilliant blue eyes, and Sir Jack’s fine manners, she could tolerate a few minutes beside him on the sofa—despite his chilly demeanor.

  “Did you run across Aunt Hattie in the village?” Madeline asked.Hattie rarely left her smallholding, mostly because the work was far more than one old woman could keep up with. She also had no coin to spend at market, and didn’t go visiting, lest friends return the favor and empty her larder.

  “Hattie summoned me in my capacity as magistrate,” Sir Jack said, holding the plate of tea cakes before Madeline.

  She chose the plainest of the lot, which would be delicious because Cook took the honor of the Belmont kitchen seriously. Sir Jack chose the only other cinnamon sweet and passed the plate back to Mrs. Belmont.

  “I hope Aunt hasn’t been the victim of a crime,” Madeline said.

  “I’m sure when she recounts the incident, wrongdoing will be involved,” Sir Jack replied. “Mortimer Cotton’s prize ram, Charles II, came calling on his own initiative. I don’t know whether Cotton was more embarrassed that his livestock got loose, or angry that Hattie’s ewes had enjoyed Charles’s company without Cotton being compensated.”

  The topic was not exactly genteel, but the Belmonts weren’t fussy people, and Candlewick was twelve country miles from Oxford.

  “How did you resolve this?” Mr. Belmont
asked. “Mortimer and Hattie have been threatening the king’s peace ever since her ram died. I was tempted to lend her one of mine, but then Cotton would have been up in arms because I’d deprived him—or Charles—of a potential customer.”

  Madeline took a bite of her cake rather than ask Mr. Belmont why Cotton’s good will was more important than an old woman’s livelihood.

  “Had you solicited my opinion,” Mrs. Belmont said, “I would have told you that Mortimer Cotton is an idiot. If his rams cover every ewe in the shire, every herd will soon be inbred, and Charles will be out of a job.”

  Mr. Belmont saluted with his tea cup. “Had I been clever enough to think of that argument, I still would have had to deal with Hattie Hennessey’s pride. Charles’s romantic inclinations have spared us all at least three more sermons on charity and loving kindness.”

  Madeline would remember the beast in her prayers, for Mr. Belmont was right: Aunt was as proud as she was stubborn as she was poor, much like her sister Theodosia.

  “I find I am in need of charity,” Sir Jack said. “I have come to solicit Mrs. Belmont’s aid, for I’ve family threatening to visit directly after the Yuletide holidays.”

  “How I can help?” Mrs. Belmont asked.

  Abigail Belmont had the inherent graciousness of a true lady, though she’d been born the daughter of an Oxford shopkeeper. Mr. Belmont was prosperous gentry, and Madeline would have cheerfully murdered any who sought to do the Belmonts or their children harm.

  Mrs. Belmont was perhaps thirty, and her husband several years older, but they’d not yet been married a year, and their firstborn was a recent arrival. They glowed with contentment and the sort of glee Madeline associated with happily ever afters and large families.

  Sir Jack, by contrast, lived alone but for his servants, and glowed with… well, he didn’t glow. At all.

  “What you can do,” Sir Jack said, “is rescue my household from certain doom. My butler and my cook barely speak, the footmen pretend not to hear or understand the butler’s orders, the maids run riot, and my housekeeper threatens to quit regularly. I cannot have my brother, much less my mother, subjected to such tumult.”