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

by Maggi Andersen

  Seated in the maroon leather wing chair, Holmes crossed his legs. “Of course, I’ll tell you all I know, which isn’t a great deal. While in Paris, Butterstone found out that his brother-in-law was involved in a plot to assassinate Bonaparte. He insisted Caindale come to Paris to explain himself. Which he did. Caindale admitted to some knowledge of it, but said he’d done nothing untoward. He begged Butterstone to leave it be. But as Butterstone was afraid it would cause an international incident, he refused. He grew even more nervous when Welby, the editor of the London Gazette, arrived in Paris hot on the trail of a story.”

  Holmes paused to drink his claret. “Shortly afterward, Bonaparte died. Was it natural causes or poisoning? Who can say? Butterstone, unsure of the extent of Caindale’s involvement, asked me to speak to my colleagues in the House to discover if I could, if there was any British involvement in Bonaparte’s death. He suspected his brother-in-law was merely aggrandizing his role as he was wont to do. Butterstone mentioned that he planned to advise the French ambassador of his concerns.”

  “Did he?”

  “No idea. Not long after I was called away to my estate.”

  “What about Caindale? Learn anything about his role?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Nary a whisper about Caindale. As to the English involvement, I doubt there was ever anything serious. There had been grumblings, which Wellington immediately put an end to. It was said that Bonaparte was a spent force and no danger to anyone. Although no one could be quite sure of that. Of course, the general had escaped before, much to our cost with so many lives lost at Waterloo.”

  “Who were those Englishmen contemplating killing Bonaparte?” Jack asked.

  Holmes shook his head. “You’ll never find out. It’s been buried. Too embarrassing.”

  “So that’s all?”

  “Not quite. I did pick up on a rumour that a French agent was in Britain. He had been observed by the intelligence service, but they lost track of him.”

  “Interesting.” Jack wondered if the French agent Holmes mentioned could have been the one dealing with Caindale. All the pieces were starting to come together. If Caindale was to be believed. “So, you have no idea why someone wanted Butterstone dead?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Someone who wanted to silence him? Or was it another matter entirely? He was generally well-liked.” He swallowed. “A good man.”

  Jack thanked the Viscount then left. He needed to speak to Ashley. He had to find out the truth. Why had she kept what she had learned about her uncle from him? He returned to the Butterstone’s townhome where he asked to see her.

  She came into the drawing room and greeted him, pale and composed in her black gown. “What news do you bring me, Jack?”

  Ignoring the painful wrench, the sight of her produced, he relayed what Holmes had told him and gave her Caindale’s letter. She sat quietly to read it.

  When she put it down, Jack leaned forward resting his hands on his knees and studied her expression. “It was Caindale’s reference which supplied this house with the maid who could search your father’s luggage. For this to come about a young woman was cruelly run down in the street. When did you learn of it? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her cheeks paled. “I swear I didn’t know on the night we searched my father’s correspondence, Jack… I would never have…” She looked down at her hands. “I first heard of it from Thacker two days ago.”

  “I’ve seen you since,” he said as he tried to deal with his disappointment.

  “I wanted desperately to tell you. But I couldn’t. Don’t you see? He is my mother’s brother. He is the only male relative Mama has left now. And there’s my aunt and my cousins to consider.” Her voice broke, and she hid her face in her hands.

  Jack clenched his hands fighting to resist rising to comfort her. “You’ve always suspected him though, haven’t you?”

  “Perhaps, because of his sudden arrival in Paris and the heated conversation that took place between him and my father. My uncle is a foolish man, but that alone isn’t a crime. He could well have been deceived. I can’t believe he was directly involved in the murder of that maid, and certainly not my father’s death. It crushed him. I know him, Jack, he’s not capable of such violence.”

  “You might be right,” Jack said in a quiet voice. “Nevertheless, he is involved in this conspiracy up to his neck.”

  “What will you do?”

  Jack stood and gazed down at her. “I’m not sure. I have to find him first.”

  She rose to her feet, her eyes sad. “Of course, you must act as you see fit.”

  He sighed. “I’ll treat the man fairly. But there will be others who may not.”

  Distress rumpled her brow. “I’m leaving for my home in Oxfordshire tomorrow.”

  Jack raised her hands to his lips. “God speed, sweetheart.”

  She shook her head. “I hope that one day…”

  “Yes, sweetheart, one day.” A promise he feared might be broken if he found her uncle to be culpable.

  Jack turned and left, his body strangely leaden.

  ~~~

  Erina had chattered all the way to their destination, her eyes returning again and again to her husband. She took in the jaunty angle of his hat, his bronze green coat obviously made by a Bond Street tailor, his relaxed fingers on the reins—a nicely shaped hand, his narrow, hard-looking thigh in his buff trousers as he rested his polished boot on the footboard. Nothing she heard herself say was particularly remarkable. Mostly, it was a flowing discourse on the wedding. That stuffed bird on Mrs. Jeffrey’s hat. Was it a real one? If so, how would it have died? Was there enough food for everyone? What a blessing her aunt had been. What a pity Cathleen could not have been there. Erina must write to inform her of every detail. How good it was to see Captain Ryder again.

  Apart from the occasional indulgent smile, Harry said little, his attention seeming to remain on his pair of grays, the horses’ heads bobbing in unison in front of them. Finally, after she’d resorted to a one-sided discussion on the changes in the scenery, the curricle pulled in through a large set of gates bearing the name Virginia Grove.

  “Here we are.” Harry smiled at her. “You must be tired; it’s been a long day.”

  Erina was too nervous to be tired. At the end of the driveway stood a long, three-story apricot brick mansion set in pretty gardens. “How charming,” she murmured. It certainly was, but her voice sounded thin, and she chewed her lip.

  “I’m pleased you like it.” Harry pulled up the horses. A servant rushed from the direction of the stables to take the reins while another came through the tall front doors. Harry helped her down. Erina smoothed her skirts and entered the airy hall lit from above by a towering arched window. She allowed Harry to lead her across the marble floor, to where a middle-aged woman in black with a crisp white collar waited, her hands clasped in front.

  The woman bobbed. “Congratulations on your nuptials, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lawson. I’d like you to meet your new mistress, Lady Erina Feather.”

  He turned to Erina. “Mrs. Lawson is our very efficient housekeeper. She has been with us for some years.”

  “Allow me to offer my felicitations, my lady.” The housekeeper sank into a curtsey. “I hope you had a pleasant journey. Your trunks have arrived. As you have not brought your maid, I trust Merry will be satisfactory for the time being. She’s a well-behaved girl. But should you wish to interview a replacement for the position, I shall be happy to arrange it.”

  Erina was more than happy with the arrangement as at home their upstairs maid, Lucy had helped her since her father began economizing. “I’m sure Merry will be perfectly adequate, thank you, Mrs. Lawson.”

  Harry took Erina’s hand and drew her through an arched doorway. They entered a long room, with a fireplace at one end and French windows opening onto a terrace at the other. It was furnished in varying patterns of green and rose pink. Beyond the windows the lawns rolled away through an impressi
ve park of established trees.

  Erina walked over to the windows. “The grounds are magnificent. I can’t wait to see more of them.”

  Harry stood at her shoulder. “I look forward to showing them to you.”

  She turned to him. “Have you ever lived here?”

  “This is where I grew up.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  He smiled. “I haven’t lived here for quite a while.” His gesture drew her back to the view. “Look, Erina.”

  A groom led a bay horse across the lawn below the terrace. Erina shrieked. “Jessie!” She opened the doors and rushed over the terrace and down the steps to stroke her mare’s velvety nose. The groom greeted her, and Jessie neighed in recognition. Erina swiveled to find Harry grinning at her. “You had her brought here and didn’t tell me?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Oh Harry! It’s a perfectly wonderful surprise.” She gazed into his warm brown eyes. “You’re wonderful.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Am I?”

  “Why don’t you like riding? You were with the 7th Hussars weren’t you?”

  “Lost the taste for it when I had to shoot my horse before we left the Continent.”

  “Oh Harry.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “I have a feeling I’ll be doing a considerable amount of riding in the future.” He grinned at her. “If I’m to keep track of my wife.”

  He took her arm, and they returned to the salon.

  After knocking, Mrs. Lawson entered the room. “Would you care to freshen up before refreshment is served, my lady?”

  “Yes, thank you.” With a smile at Harry Erina followed the housekeeper from the room as a small kernel of hope grew inside her. This was to be their country home, and she loved it already.

  In the bedroom, Erina pulled off her pelisse and spencer, as she looked around. The walls were papered in an intricate burgundy, gold and cream design, the curtains gold damask. The four-poster bed was hung with the same damask, with a ruby silk cover to match the carpet. It was far grander than the bedroom in her father’s house. She thought of her faded floral bedcover as she perched on the high bed. She smoothed her hands over the cover. Would she and Harry share it? Or did he have his own room? Her mind whirled and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. She climbed down, attempting to control her baffling emotions.

  Her trunk had been delivered, and she was sorting through it when a knock came at the door. Heavens? Was that Harry?

  A young maid with curly brown hair and a fresh complexion came in and bobbed. “I’m Merry, my lady. Shall I unpack the trunk?”

  “Yes, please, Merry. I’d like to wash and change my dress.”

  Half an hour later, Erina came downstairs dressed in a favorite muslin gown woven in a dull green and blue pattern. Merry had revealed a surprising skill with hair, securing Erina’s in a fetching topknot with a pink ribbon.

  Harry rose from the chair as she entered the drawing room. He had also changed his clothes and his hair looked damp. His gaze swept over her and he smiled his approval. “I like the pink ribbon.”

  “Merry is gifted.”

  A tray appeared, and they seated themselves to partake of tartlets, almond cakes and ham and cress sandwiches. She could eat little of it although Harry tucked in. It was on the tip of Erina’s tongue to ask what they might do with the last of the daylight hours. But she was afraid she’d flush crimson if she did, so she seized the teapot and poured them both an aromatic cup of tea.

  Harry’s eyes twinkled. “We might take a walk in the park before supper,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  “I’d like that,” Erina said. Heavens, she wasn’t usually this restrained. It was just that she wasn’t sure what Harry expected of her. Was this to be a marriage of convenience? A polite friendship with the occasional visit to her bed to beget a child? She would hate that more than anything. Her hand shook, and she spilled tea into the saucer where it dripped onto the table. “Bother.”

  Harry edged forward from his side of the table and placed a hand over hers where it fluttered uselessly like a bird. “We need a good long talk after our tea,” he said in his calm voice.

  She began mopping the tea up with her napkin. “We can have it while we walk.”

  He shook his head. “I think not.”

  She raised her eyes to his. “No?”

  “I don’t believe it can wait.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After nothing was heard from Caindale, Jack headed north to Manchester. On the road again with Arion, he gained that sense of freedom he’d missed. It was almost a relief to remove himself from the intense situation which had surrounded the Butterworth’s. Especially, when he hadn’t done as promised and found the murderer. And there was no sense in thinking of Ashley, although he did, constantly, with a sense of frustration and deep yearning. It was for her that he persisted with this task although he feared that what he might find could devastate her family.

  Two days later, he rode through smoky Manchester which was quickly developing into a large town. It took him another hour to reach the river Bolin where Caindale’s cotton mill was located. The estate was impressive. Farm houses had been converted for the mill workers, even a school and a chapel.

  As he drew close to the river, the noise greeted him. The huge metal water wheel on the northern end of the six-story brick building was clanking and churning with the rush of water. Jack dismounted and entered the mill floor which was crowded with the spinning mules that produced the cotton. This should be a hub of activity, but the workers were gone, the machinery driven by the belt attached to the wheel, chugging away pointlessly. Beyond the open back door, the river flowed past, the dank smell seeping in. Someone had been here then. Jack’s neck prickled.

  At the sound of running footsteps, he bolted toward the door at the far end. He skidded to a stop then darted inside the counting house. Caindale was gurgling, strung up from a beam, his legs kicking uselessly in the air.

  Jack pulled his knife from his boot and dragged a chair closer. He jumped up and cut the dying man loose from the rope which was wrapped tightly around his neck.

  Caindale fell into Jack’s arms, barely breathing, his face suffused with blood.

  “Can you speak?” Jack laid him on the floor and eased away the corded noose from his bruised throat. “Who did this?” he asked removing the man’s cravat.

  Caindale opened his bloodshot eyes and coughed. “… a Frenchman,” he rasped. “… Renard.”

  “Do you know where he’s gone?”

  With a gasp, Caindale closed his eyes.

  Jack searched for a pulse. He found a faint beat. With a curse, he rose and strode back through the mill in search of water, cocking his pistol. The man could still be lurking nearby. As he walked his gaze raked the huge room filled with the latest machinery that the Luddites objected to so violently. Nothing moved.

  He’d almost reached the outer door when a gunshot rang out. The ball tore through Jack’s sleeve burning into his flesh. He dived to the floor, rolled, and came up in a crouch. Creeping forward, he viewed the mill floor from behind a wooden bench.

  Silence, but for the scuffle of rats along the riverbank.

  As Jack rounded the edge of a table, another shot bit a piece off the wooden post, sending shafts of timber flying. A piece of wood struck Jack’s cheek. He cursed under his breath and backed away.

  “Let me walk out of here, monsieur. This is not your concern.”

  Jack remembered Caindale’s words. A voice like hoarfrost. He leaned his back against the wood, listening. A soft shuffle edging closer.

  An indrawn breath, a whisker away from him. His arm throbbing, on his hands and knees, Jack crawled in the opposite direction. A few yards on he peered around the table.

  There he was. A short, dark-haired man. He leaned against a metal pillar intent on reloading his pistol, his swarthy face in profile.

  Jack leaped to his feet and ran straight
at him. The man looked up startled, but before he could react, Jack knocked the gun out of his hands. He shoved his own pistol into the Frenchman’s ribs. “Who are you?”

  Hard brown eyes observed him. “One might ask you the same thing, monsieur.”

  “I am a friend of Butterstone’s.” Jack took his measure. The brutal face of a dangerous man, his body coiled. Like a cornered rat, he’d use everything at his disposal to escape.

  “The marquess has too many friends.” He bit out the words.

  “You killed him and almost killed Caindale. Why?”

  “Ah. Caindale still lives,” Renard said with a contemptuous stare. “Butterstone found out we planned to assassinate Bonaparte.”

  “You poisoned him?”

  “Now that you cannot accuse me of. I never met Bonaparte.”

  “Who do you work for, Renard?”

  “This is none of your concern. It would be wise not to get involved in this affair.”

  With a prod to the man’s torso, he gestured toward the office. “Walk.”

  “What do you intend to do with me?”

  “Keep quiet and move.” Jack puzzled over how to deal with him. It would be difficult to get him back to Bascombe in London. But if he handed him over to the Manchester magistrate, this business would become public knowledge. That would be unwise.

  In the office, Caindale still lay on the floor, but he breathed more normally, an arm resting over his eyes.

  “You’re like a cat with nine lives, Caindale. You’re hard to kill,” the Frenchmen said dispassionately. “I should have shot you.”

  Jack shoved him into the room. “Why?”

  “He’s weak. Threatened to confess everything in parliament.”

  “That’s not weak. It takes great courage.”

  Caindale removed his arm and sat up. He stared at them with red eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me, Ryder. I’m all right now,” he said his voice a guttural bark.

  As he climbed unsteadily to his feet he staggered. Lightning fast, the Frenchman leaped forward, grabbed Caindale, and swung him between himself and Jack, an arm around Caindale’s neck. A knife had slipped from his sleeve and he held it to Caindale’s throat. “Drop the gun. Then I shall leave here, and you can forget we ever met.”