Captain Jack Ryder -The Duke's Bastard: Regency Sons

by Maggi Andersen

  Harry laughed, acknowledging Jack’s gentle jibe without revealing anything more about his intentions. Harry was playing a game with a closed hand, Jack thought as his friend climbed into the curricle and took up the whip.

  Erina looked anxious as she called goodbye.

  Harry touched his hat in a salute, called, “walk on”, and soon had the matched set of grays trotting away in perfect unison.

  Ashley raised her hand in farewell. “I like your friend, Mr. Feather, and his cousin, Lady Erina.” She raised her eyebrows. “Poor Mama was too distracted to give their relationship any consideration. If she had they would have been shown the door.”

  Jack smiled down at her. “It’s not what it might seem. It’s complicated, I don’t fully understand it myself. But thank you for your generosity.”

  “It was the least I could do.” Her gaze took in his riding boots, his leather breeches, cream shirt open at the neck and black cotton waistcoat. “Incognito again, Jack?”

  He nodded with an amused smile. “You have learned something of interest?”

  “Yes. Mama tells me that my father’s valet has sworn that Father’s luggage was searched at our townhouse in Mayfair before it left London.”

  Jack stared at her. “Was the valise in the coach with him?”

  Ashley shook her head. “It would have been searched too, but they failed to find the diary.”

  “Then it must be someone in your father’s employ.” He paused. “Not someone who knows his habit to keep the diary secreted in his valise. Not his secretary at any rate.”

  “It seems so.”

  “What staff remain in London?”

  “House staff? The butler, Yates, two footmen, the housekeeper, Mrs. Muffat, Cook and the kitchen staff, maids, and the majordomo, Thacker. Father employed him more than a year ago. It was before we went to France. Yates suffers from lumbago and would require assistance while the family was away. He has been with the family for many years and is soon to retire. Thacker runs the household with startling efficiency, but he often tries Yates and Mrs. Muffat’s patience.”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll visit Butterstone Court.”

  “I won’t delay you with questions. You can tell me all when we meet again.”

  A groom appeared leading Arion from the stables, the big chestnut swishing his tail eager to be off.

  Jack buckled his portmanteau to the back of the saddle, then turned to her wanting to kiss her goodbye. Instead, he kissed her hand.

  Ashley searched Jack’s eyes. “Take care, please.”

  As he mounted Arion, a rider appeared on the carriage drive.

  Ashley shaded her eyes, watching as the rider in footman’s garb, rode closer. “He wears my uncle’s livery!”

  The footman pulled the sweating horse to a stop and jumped down. He strode over to Ashley, pulling a letter from his pocket. He held it out. “Good morning, my lady. For Lady Butterstone.”

  “Thank you.” Her gaze flew to Jack’s, before she turned to the exhausted footman. “Cook will prepare you something to eat, after you’ve seen to your horse.”

  With a deep bow, he led his horse away, but before he’d reached the corner, Ashley had broken the seal of the letter. The paper wavered in her nervous fingers. She gasped. “My uncle has escaped his captor. He wishes to advise my mother that he is in good health and will explain as much as he can very soon.”

  “What is Lord Caindale’s London address?”

  “Rosemount House in Curzon Street.”

  He looked forward to speaking to Lord Caindale. “I’ll leave you. Your mother will be relieved to learn that her brother is safe.”

  Ashley’s brow creased, her eyes somber. “Yes, she will.”

  Jack swung into the saddle. He nodded to Ashley, turned the horse, and cantered along the carriageway. He intended to see Geoffrey, Colonel Lord Bascombe, a trusted friend of his father’s and a respected member of the government. In Jack’s experience, an officer’s relationship with the army never ended, even after one had left it. He would call at Bascombe’s domicile first, leave his card, and hope to see the gentleman during the day. No telling what he might have heard concerning Bonaparte’s death.

  ~~~

  The curricle rattled along the Holyhead road toward Wales. They’d been traveling for some hours, during which Harry remained annoyingly taciturn. Erin glanced at his profile, missing the usual camaraderie between them. Even when they argued it was strangely companionable.

  She wriggled on the seat. Eager to begin their journey, she’d dressed quickly, and struggled with her stays. At least her cream wool pelisse hadn’t ceased, nor her sage green carriage gown, but her Italian straw hat was a little forlorn from being crammed into her bag, and she feared her hair was in danger of coming down. A lady’s maid certainly had her uses.

  Another half hour passed with only a few monosyllabic replies from Harry to her questions. Erina began to suspect he was toying with her. She turned on the seat to view him better. He sat with one booted foot resting on the footboard, the reins held loosely in a gloved hand. “Harry?”

  His dark eyebrows raised. Something unreadable in his brown eyes. “Done with daydreaming?”

  She glared at him. “I wasn’t daydreaming. I thought you didn’t wish to talk. Perhaps you prefer not to when you’re driving.”

  “Remarkably, I’m able to do two things at once.”

  She wasn’t sure why that sounded rather scandalous. Perhaps because the kiss was on her mind. It had hardly left her thoughts since it happened. It hadn’t repulsed her. In fact, she’d rather enjoyed it. She sighed. Tugged at her French kid gloves, then smoothed her skirts. She was in the process of straightening her hat when he stared at her.

  “You appear to be fidgeting. I hope you’re not too uncomfortable, we’ve a long journey ahead.”

  She could hardly tell him her stays cut into her chest. Instead the first thing she thought of popped out of her mouth. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “Aah,” Harry said.

  He could enrage her with one word. Not even a proper word, either. She narrowed he eyes at him. “Yes. Why?”

  “Do you have a complaint?”

  “Yes… no.” She huffed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Was it too short a kiss? Not to your liking? Should I have…”

  “Stop!” She put a hand on her hot cheek, sure her face was as red as Cook’s pickled onion. “Just tell me why.”

  Harry laughed. “It doesn’t require a great deal of explanation. It’s not an army maneuver, or a complicated dance step. A pretty woman in her nightgown stood before me and I wanted to kiss her.”

  “You think I’m pretty?”

  He glanced at her then turned back to the road. “I do.”

  Erina was unaccountably pleased. She wondered if he would like to kiss her again, but she doubted he would. It seemed to put him in bad humor. She abandoned that thought before it became too complicated. “Are we to stop for the night?”

  “I’ll need to rest the horses. I remember a good coaching inn near Shewsbury. We’ll get a decent dinner there, and the bedding is always clean.”

  “I don’t have much money and I need to keep what I have to pay for the boat. Once I’m in Ireland, I can sell my jewelry. I’ll send you the money.”

  “No matter. We could economize.”

  “How?”

  “Share a room?”

  “Oh!” Her chest swelled with indignation. “You’re not serious!”

  A corner of Harry’s mouth curled up in a half smile. “No, regrettably, Erina, I am not.”

  She surreptitiously tried to ease her stays beneath her breasts. “I wish you wouldn’t tease.”

  His laugh seemed rather bitter. “I have to get something for my pains, don’t you think?”

  So, he considered this trip to be a pain. She firmed her lips determined not to utter another word. But it proved impossible to remain silent when a squall moved overhead, and they were hit wit
h a deluge filling the air with the scents of damp fields and wet grass. The hood over the curricle did little to protect them.

  “There’s an inn not far ahead. We’ll stop for luncheon,” Harry said. “Hopefully this rain shower will be brief.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Harry drew the curricle into the forecourt of a small ivy-covered inn, scattering chickens. Harry produced an umbrella from the back of the curricle. He helped her down and instructed the ostler concerning the care of his horses. As they were slapped with heavy rain, they hurried across to the entrance skirting puddles. In the foyer, she noticed Harry’s trousers were wet at the bottom and his boots muddy. He wouldn’t like that. He was always neatly dressed.

  She picked up her damp skirts as they entered the parlor where a forlorn group of travelers hovered close to the fire while others sat at the tables eating. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen.

  They were shown to a table by the innkeeper’s wife. “Such a nasty day for travel isn’t it,” she said sympathetically. “A nice hot drink to warm you?” She rattled off the dishes on offer.

  Erina discovered she was hungry and ordered the chicken pie while Harry chose the beef and kidney.

  While they waited, facing each other across the table, she was suddenly remorseful. She should not have forced Harry into this. It was obvious he didn’t want to be here. She’d been so intent on saving Cathleen that she hadn’t considered how this reckless flight might affect him. How it might hurt his feelings and possibly even damage his reputation as well as hers. She lowered her head and arranged the silverware on the white linen cloth.

  “You’re fidgeting again,” Harry observed.

  “Sorry.” She put down the cutlery and met his chocolate brown eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed how handsome his eyes were, fringed with thick black lashes? A good face, especially when he smiled. A cleft in his strong chin, a well-shaped mouth. A straight nose. He could marry anyone. And here he was wasting his time with her. She was sure he could have dissuaded his father from the engagement easily enough. Harry wasn’t cowardly. But he was caring. She wished he would smile at her.

  “I’ve been horrible to you,” she managed to say with a catch in her voice.

  Harry sat back and widened his eyes. “Have you? When?”

  She gave a half laugh. “You know what I mean. Dragging you all this way, placing you in this awful position.”

  “Perfectly dreadful,” he agreed.

  “Why have you indulged me?”

  He drew in a breath and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I admire your determination. You know your own mind, Erina, unfortunately, so many women I meet don’t seem able to express theirs.” He wiped the condensation off his tankard of ale with a finger. “You were offering me an adventure, so I took it.”

  “You said you were averse to adventures.”

  “Not if I can travel in relative comfort.”

  This wasn’t the whole of it she was sure. “You wanted to protect me.”

  He smiled. “That too.”

  “You are a gallant gentleman.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t put labels on me. I may disappoint you. I’m only human, and I’m a man after all.”

  She was about to ask him to explain, but the maid appeared at their table with two steaming plates, and their attention was given to the welcome hot food.

  Chapter Ten

  Thunderous clouds piled up on the horizon and seemed to chase Jack as he rode toward London. The rainstorm caught up with him before he arrived at the impoverished, overcrowded outer reaches of the metropolis. While he shrugged on his oilskin, two black and white cows watched him from their shelter beneath the boughs of a spreading oak.

  In Mayfair, at Colonel Lord Bascombe’s house, the butler informed him the colonel would return from the country on the following day. In need of a bath and a change of clothes, Jack left his card, and rode to the stables. After Arion was brushed and his feed attended to, he walked to his rooms in Albany and called for hot water.

  Devon, a valet who served several gentlemen on Jack’s floor, laid out his clothes, and with a resigned shake of his head, carried away Jack’s boots while Jack bathed. He washed the dust out of his hair and then stood toweling himself while planning how best to handle Caindale. Although he remained suspicious, he decided on a sympathetic and respectful approach. Gentlemen such as Caindale were born and bred to expect it.

  The valet had laid out the dark blue tail coat, freshly starched white shirt, gray and white patterned waistcoat, and gray trousers for him to wear. Once dressed, Jack stood before the mirror and tied the crisply starched stock into the mathematical; the precision of the style appealed to him. With a brush of his hair he was transformed from Jack of the highways to someone he considered respectable enough for house calls.

  “This coat is an excellent fit, Captain,” Devon said as he took the clothes brush to Jack’s shoulders.

  Jack thanked the valet with a generous tip. As he left his rooms, he smiled to himself. Ashley had said he looked his best naked. “Except for riding clothes, men with a build such as yours do not wear clothes as well as a slightly built man,” she’d observed, running a hand over his chest. “But I’m sure a slight man would much prefer to look like you naked.” He had kissed a pert pink nipple and remarked that while she looked beautiful in her gowns, she was breathtaking without them.

  Jack had enjoyed dalliances with widows in the past. It was an unspoken, but accepted fact that bachelors and widows or married ladies, enjoyed liaisons. He couldn’t equate Ashley with any of that. Her sad past, her limited experience of life, her passionate nature, her intelligence, would make it very difficult for him to forget her. She’d eclipsed any woman who had previously entered his life. While he considered himself a realist, he had to steel himself against falling in love. Knowing how impossible it was, he still looked forward, far too eagerly, to seeing her again. He pushed away those thoughts and focused on the matter in hand. To solve her father’s murder.

  His tall hat settled on his head, Jack tucked his cane under his arm and pulled on his gloves. His boots buffed to perfection by Devon, he walked along the Mayfair streets to Rosemount House in Curzon Street. Thankfully, the rainstorm had passed, the pavements already drying in the sun.

  The butler led him to a chair in the entry hall. “Please wait, sir, while I see if his lordship is receiving.”

  Jack declined to sit. He watched the dignified servant climb the sweeping stairway, disappearing into the upper echelons of the elegant townhouse. Several minutes later, a gentleman descended.

  Dressed in a black cravat and coat, Caindale came forward to greet him. Tall, with thinning fair hair brushed back from a high forehead, his eyes, more pewter than blue, looked strained and apprehensive. “Captain Ryder. I heard of your father’s passing. May I offer my sincere condolences? I was privileged to enjoy his company while in the House.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Jack bowed. “I’ve come from Ivywood Hall. Your footman bearing your message arrived before I left. Lady Ashley asked me to call to advise you of her relief that you are safe and well. She and Lady Butterstone were most concerned.”

  “Good of you. Then you have had a long ride. May I offer you a whiskey or a glass of wine?”

  “A whiskey would be appreciated, thank you.” A footman opened a gilt and white door and Jack followed Caindale into the luxuriously appointed drawing room. He took the gray-striped brocade chair offered to him while Caindale poured whiskey from a decanter on the sideboard.

  He handed Jack the crystal tumbler and took the chair opposite. “You will know something about what has occurred. I should very much like to learn what happened to my brother-in-law. I received only a brief, rather garbled account from a frantic servant.”

  While he studied his lordship’s pale countenance, Jack explained how he had been staying at the inn when they brought Lord Butterstone in; how his lordship had been shot in cold blood, and how he’d said little before he died, except t
o ask for Jack’s help.

  “No clue as to who these devils were?”

  When Jack shook his head, Caindale’s face crumpled. He rubbed his eyes. “I was not so far from Ivywood Hall when kidnapped at gunpoint.”

  “Dastardly business,” Jack agreed. “How did you manage to escape?”

  “I didn’t. The scoundrel forced me to return to London. Shoved me in a cellar. Questioned me at length about my last trip to Paris. And then in the depths of the night, I was released blindfolded in an alley somewhere in Westminster. Took me a while to get my bearings. I admit to being completely terrified.” He gulped the last of his whiskey. “I’ve no idea what lies behind this, but I hope they’ll leave me alone. I have every intention of attending Butterstone’s funeral. I must lend my sister and niece my support.” He stood and held up his glass. “Another?”

  Jack accepted, wondering how much Caindale was prepared to tell him. “What did those men look like?”

  “The rogue who brought me to London was no gentleman,” Caindale said from the sideboard. “But there was nothing unusual about him. He barely spoke. Might have emerged from a rookery in St. Giles for all I knew. I didn’t see the man who questioned me because they kept me blindfolded in some sort of cellar reeking of stale wine and rats. A dangerous man. His voice reminded me of hoarfrost.” The glass he offered Jack shook in his hands.

  “What did they ask you?”

  Caindale sat, stretched his legs out and sighed. He took a deep sip of whiskey. “Whether I visited Butterstone in Paris, which I had. It was no secret. What we’d talked about. Butterstone had been sent to Paris to deal with some matter for Castlereagh, because our foreign secretary is in Greece, working to maintain the Ottoman Empire and extend British trade in the Levant. Vital that we secure the land and sea routes to India.” He shrugged. “Our conversation centered on the usual parliamentary concerns. I sought Butterstone’s advice about a bill I wished support on. We talked about our families. My daughter, Lady Slowe, has recently given birth to a boy.” His face slackened with grief. “Dear God! I can’t believe he has gone.”