Captain Jack Ryder

by Maggi Andersen

  “Caindale’s involvement in this affair bears looking into.” Bascombe rose and replenished their glasses from the decanter. “I viewed Bonaparte’s autopsy,” he continued when he resumed his seat. “The opinion of the five doctors was inconclusive. It was decided on balance that he died from a stomach tumor.”

  “No question of poisoning?”

  “There’s always a question. The symptoms of arsenic poisoning can be misinterpreted.”

  “Who could have carried it out?”

  “He’d need constant access to Bonaparte’s food and drink over a period. Difficult for an Englishman to visit St. Helena often enough to manage that.”

  “A servant in his pay?”

  “Improbable.” Bascombe ground out his cheroot into a saucer. “Not with Louis Marchand, Napoleon’s loyal valet for ten years, in attendance.” He paused to drink from his glass. “Only two people had close contact with Napoleon daily. One was his valet, and the other was Charles, the Marquis de Montholon. Charles interests me the most. Initially, it was self-interest that motivated him, for why would he volunteer to serve Bonaparte on the barren island of St. Helena, for possibly another twenty years? Especially after he’d ordered de Montholon’s discharge from his post as the French envoy to Wurzburg after he married the twice-divorced Albine Roger against Bonaparte’s wishes.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t intend to remain on the island for long?”

  Bascombe nodded. “He did become the major beneficiary of Bonaparte’s will and it is common knowledge that he needed the money. He’s a gambler and in debt. But there’s a more significant possibility. He’s known to be a strong royalist as is his stepfather, the Comte de Simonville—a tricky customer, and a close friend of Louis XVIII. Could it be that de Montholon was acting as an agent of the Bourbons who considered Bonaparte to be an enemy of peace in Europe?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Indeed. Charles de Montholon was the sommelier. He had exclusive access to Napoleon's wine. Arsenic powder was used to kill the rats on the island. It is neutral—it has no taste—and could be put into wine whenever de Montholon wanted to.”

  “So, who is this Frenchman Caindale spoke of?”

  “That is something we must find out. He is the key to Butterstone’s death, I feel certain.”

  Jack stood. “Let’s hope we find him before any more blood is shed.”

  “Indeed.” Bascombe saw him to the door.

  The pied-à-terre Jack’s father had left him turned out to be a substantial townhouse with a mews behind and a stable for six horses and two carriages.

  His father’s secretary, Stinson, opened the glossy black door beneath a decorative fanlight. Jack entered the lofty marble tiled entry hall where a graceful staircase swept to the upper floors. An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling.

  “The house is furnished. At present it is empty of staff. As you requested, most will arrive tomorrow. I can be here to introduce you to the butler and the housekeeper if you wish.”

  “I would be grateful, thank you, Stinson.” In the comfortable library, Jack signed the relevant documents, briefly discussed his other properties, then sent the secretary on his way. He was moodily staring down into the street from his grand new bedroom wallpapered in a pattern of gold and cream, with elaborate matching curtains and bedhangings, when a carriage drew up in front of the house. An unaccompanied lady dressed in a black cloak with the hood pulled forward over her face, emerged onto the pavement and hurried to the door.

  Jack ran down the stairs his pulse beating hard with a desire to greet the lady, plus a degree of concern for her reputation. He flung open the front door, grasped her arm and drew her inside. Before a word was spoken, he pushed back the hood and covered her mouth with his.

  Ashley clung to him with a little sob. “Foolish man, did you think you were free of me?”

  “Oh, my darling.” Jack swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.

  “I have no pride where you’re concerned, Jack,” she whispered, hiding her face against his shoulder.

  Jack drew in a breath. “I’m profoundly glad of it, Ashley.”

  In the bedroom, he gently removed her flowery hat. “Pretty thing.” He aimed the veiled concoction at the padded chair near the fireplace. It sailed to land neatly on the cushion. Ashley giggled.

  He turned his attention to the clasps on her cloak. “You look lovely.” He slowly removed each item of her clothing, until she stood naked before him, a rival of Botticelli’s Venus. “Mmm. Better.”

  He drew her slender body into his arms and laid her on the bed, then bent to kiss her breathing in her delicate fragrance.

  Ashley pushed him back, a hand against his chest. She rolled over onto her front, and cupped her chin, with one long, slim leg bent at the knee, toe daintily pointed. The halo of white gold hair loosened and curled about her neck as she offered him an enticing smile. “Now you must oblige me, sir. Begin with your coat if you please.”

  If ever he saw an angel, they must look very much like Ashley. Perhaps not an angel, he amended, but a sprite. Angels weren’t known to be so naughty. With a grin he shrugged off his coat.

  Sometime later, as their breathing slowed, Ashley leaned over to trace along the line of his jaw with her finger. “Would you consider marrying a twenty-six-year-old widow?”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “If she were not the daughter of a marquess? In a heartbeat.”

  She pulled her hand away and sat up, offering him a vision of cream, pink and gold curves that would make a painter weep with joy. Frowning, she drew her knees up blocking his view, and wrapped her arms around her legs. She rested her chin on her knees. “Why must you be so concerned with ridiculous conventions?”

  “Because, sweetheart, I was not born into the aristocracy like you.”

  She shrugged her slim shoulders. “If I don’t care why should you?”

  “I don’t intend to subject you to the vicious gossip that would result from our union.”

  “It would die down in time, especially when another scandal came to replace it.”

  He rolled out of bed. “No, it wouldn’t.” Jack reached for his trousers and pulled them on. “My father’s wife has some vocal relatives. They jump on everything I do with absolute glee. They have done all my life, and now my father has gone, and there’s no hope of a bequest, they’ll be even worse.”

  “They’d attack me?”

  “No. Me. But by inference you. You will never enjoy another Season.”

  “Then we will spend our time in the country. I would like that.”

  Jack threw his shirt over his head. He discovered his cravat on the floor which was in a sorry state. “You say that now, but when you have little option, it will not seem so attractive.” He came to sit on the bed. “And you may not be quite so pleased to have married me.”

  She cuffed him lightly over the ear. “You think I’m that shallow?”

  He grinned and grabbed her wrist feeling her rapid pulse beneath the soft skin. He’d upset her. “Not a bit of it, Ashley, you are a fascinating, intelligent woman. And I’m aware how brave and strong you are.” He stopped before declaring he loved her. There would be no coming back from that. “Shakespeare wrote of ‘star-cross lovers’ and while I don’t believe our lives could be blighted like Romeo and Juliet, I don’t think we can hope to find happiness in marriage. Not unless the king decides to bestow a title on me.”

  Ashley huffed. She climbed out of bed and reached for her clothes. “Then we shall continue to be lovers.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Shall we?”

  “If it’s what you want, Jack.”

  “I want just to be with you. As long as my presence doesn’t harm you.”

  “How can it?”

  “What if you have a child, Ashley,” he asked gently.

  Her eyes clouded. “I doubt I can. I had a miscarriage early in my marriage. The doctor said it was unlikely.”

  Jack gathered h
er to him and held her close. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He kissed her hair.

  She drew away. He suspected there were tears in her eyes, but she lowered her head over her petticoat. “I’d best go. I won’t come here again.”

  ~~~

  Relieved to find no sign of infection, Erina treated Harry’s wound in the manner the doctor had instructed. She had stopped using alcohol before it caused dryness and itchiness and now swabbed the wound with vinegar mixed with boiled water and a little honey.

  “Am I ready for the oven yet?”

  She smiled. “I’ll begin using the salve tomorrow.”

  Harry lay back as she bent her head over his chest, attaching a fresh bandage. Then she tied on the sling to support his right arm. While caring for him, she’d become familiar with his musky masculine smell and how smooth his skin was beneath her fingers, but even so, his closeness made her strangely short of breath. She remembered Cathleen’s words; how Mr. Leahy had made her feel. Dismissing the disturbing thought, she moved away from the bed. “You’re healing nicely.”

  “Down to wholesome living.” Harry watched her as she rolled the remaining bandage. “You have capable hands, Erina.”

  “Can you envision me sitting by the fire embroidering while my husband reads the broadsheets?” she asked sweetly.

  Harry grinned. “You could sit on my lap and we’ll read the newspaper together.”

  Her heart leaped, but one glance at his expression and she knew he was teasing her again. “You must be delirious.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on his forehead. Cool. “No. Bored then, most likely.”

  He sighed heavily. “I am bored rigid. Is it any wonder? I’ve been confined to bed for almost a sennight. Your company my only pleasure. And you pamper me as if I’d been shot in the head instead of the shoulder, and incapable of an intelligent decision concerning my own welfare. You select my food—and I refuse to look at another egg custard or milk pudding! The worst indignity is when you send a man servant to shave me and wash me like a baby.”

  “Difficult to shave yourself with your left hand.” She smiled, relieved that he was becoming more like his old self. “You’re getting better.”

  Harry fell back on the pillow and laughed weakly. “I dashed well hope so.”

  “Tomorrow, you can sit in that chair by the window in the sun.”

  “How exciting. I simply cannot wait.”

  She fought to dismiss the tender feeling he evoked in her as she tidied away the bandage and salve in a box. “You used to accuse me of being short tempered. I believe I’ve much to learn from you.”

  Harry raked his chestnut hair with his good hand. “I apologize for cursing, Erina. I have become a sorehead. I shall be meek and mild for the rest of the day and will allow you to win at cards this evening.”

  “Decent of you,” she said. “I believe the score is sixty-forty.”

  “In my favor,” he added silkily.

  “I shall even that up tonight without any assistance from you. I’m learning to be crafty from one of the best.”

  “Brave words!” He gestured to the letter on the table that she’d brought in with her. “A letter has come? Who is it from? Do you plan to read it to me?”

  “Not my father.” Her father’s reply to her letter stated crisply how the lack of a mother’s guidance had caused her to be less prudent and circumspect than a lady of her birth and breeding should be. There followed a fearful silence. “It’s another from Cathleen.”

  “Good. I enjoyed her last letter. How are the piglets?”

  “They are all thriving, and now that things have settled down at the farm, the hens are laying again.” She turned the page over. “Mr. Leahy has written. He’s coming to Naas to see her.” She grinned at Harry. “Isn’t that the best news?”

  “Indeed, it is.” His gaze grew thoughtful.

  She glanced at him. Her guilt at causing him to be shot lying heavy in her chest. “I do hope so. It would make this foolish trip of mine worthwhile.”

  “It already is worthwhile.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Why?”

  “I’ve enjoyed it. Well, some of it.”

  She stared at his face for confirmation that he wasn’t being his usual droll self. “I’m surprised to hear you say it.”

  “I’m somewhat surprised myself. Dash it.” The knot had unraveled on the sling supporting his right arm.

  “Here, let me.” Erina bent over him on the bed and tugged on the bandage.

  He gazed up at her, his face close to hers. “There I go cursing again. Forgive me?”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Enter,” Harry called.

  Two elderly men stepped into the room.

  “Well!” Erina’s father’s shocked eyes observed Erina’s hand where it rested on Harry’s chest.

  “What do we have here, eh, Crispin?” Sir Ambrose asked her father as he hurried forward.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Once Ashley had dressed, Jack escorted her downstairs. Much as he wanted her to come again, he didn’t try to persuade her. He was determined not to allow his love and need for her damage her in any way. Instead, he told her all that transpired since they’d last met and gently quizzed her about Caindale—what sort of man was he? While not suggesting he might be more involved than he led them to believe. “Mama is very fond of him,” Ashley said. “He seemed very distressed at the funeral. The violence of my father’s death appears to have affected him greatly.”

  “Your father and he were close?”

  “As close as a brother-in-law’s can be,” she said thoughtfully. “They had little in common. I was surprised when he came to Paris. We were all pleased to see him. We’d been without family for almost a year. Mama held a soiree in his honor. She very much depends on him now, of course, having no other male relatives.”

  Jack saw Ashley to her carriage and returned to the house. It seemed empty, his footsteps echoing as he made his way to the library.

  Tonight, he would join Miles and Tim at Whites’, to dine and play a game or two of hazard. Grant had to attend Almack’s. A duke was expected to dance with this Season’s debutantes. Harry, would be greatly missed. Jack wondered uneasily why he hadn’t received word from him.

  ~~~

  Erina straightened up from adjusting Harry’s sling. She stared in horror at her father and Sir Ambrose entering the door of Harry’s room.

  Sir Ambrose rushed over to the bed. “Son. Are you on the mend? From Erina’s letter I understood you were winged? The injury appears to be a good deal more serious.”

  “It’s a mere nick, Father. It’s good to see you,” Harry said with great aplomb. “I am healing well, thanks to Erina’s devoted ministrations.” He glanced at Erina who suspected her face to be blotchy. Her skin always spotted pink and white when she was tense. And her father who seemed to be wrestling with a strong emotion, had yet to utter a word.

  “It seemed the least I could do,” she said. “It was so kind of Mr. Feather to escort me to my cousin. Cathleen was in very real danger.”

  “Danger!” Her father had found his voice. “Obviously you placed yourself and poor Harold here in danger. Explain yourself! What plausible reason could you have for this insane business, my girl?”

  “Erina was concerned for her cousin, and rightly so, Lord Rountree,” Harry said. “Miss Cathleen was about to be forced into a marriage with a miscreant. Thanks to your brave and compassionate daughter, the young lady’s home has been returned to her.”

  Her father’s eyebrows shot up. “You came all the way to Ireland facing scandal, to rescue a woman you’ve never met?”

  “Yes, Papa. But because we have corresponded regularly I’ve come to know Cathleen well. And, after all, she is Mama’s niece.”

  He glared, her gentle rebuke having failed to soften his anger. “Has Sir Ambrose, and I labored under the misconception that you and Henry eloped?”

  “We are not married, Papa.” Erina glanced at Harry, wishin
g she’d had the matter out with him before this. Their parents had formed an even closer alliance, intent on seeing she and Harry tie the knot. To marry a man who didn’t love her went against everything she wished for herself. Harry was a decent man, but her pride would suffer. She would lose a sense of herself.

  “This mishap has caused a sticky situation I grant you, but can soon be put right,” Harry said ambiguously.

  “Oh?” Her father asked. “And how might that be achieved?”

  Erina tried to find a way to halt the conversation, but felt like she was sinking into deep water, far from the light.

  Harry glanced at her. “I should like to speak to Erina alone if I may.”

  “I should think you’ve had more than enough time to… to… talk,” her father said his face flushing the color of a pomegranate. “My daughter has been in your bedroom without a chaperon, often, it seems, and for some considerable time.”

  “But nothing you would censure has happened between us, Papa,” Erina rushed to explain. “Mr. Feather is a gentleman.”

  “Now, Crispin, calm down or you’ll give yourself the apoplexy,” Sir Ambrose said to her father. “The boy has been injured and is in no shape to… well enough said. Let’s sit down to a meal and talk this through sensibly.” He guided her father to the door. “We’ll just leave this to the young people to sort out.” He raised his eyebrows at Harry. “Then we’ll know how to proceed.”

  “Well… I’m not sure that’s wise, when these two get their heads together...” Her father’s look over his shoulder at her was an odd mixture of anger, despair, and hope. “Very well. You have half an hour.”

  The door closed. Erina looked at Harry wordlessly. “Come and sit down, Erina,” he said. “We don’t have long.”

  She sank onto the chair by the bed. “Harry, I know about the… I found the…”

  He nodded. “The marriage license.”