Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4)

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

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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.

“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.

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?”