Captain Jack Ryder_The Duke's Bastard

by Maggi Andersen

“Goodness, but you are lively, Lady Erina.” He straightened his coat. “Can’t a man get some sustenance into him before he has to face you?”

  “How are you progressing with Florence?”

  He shrugged. “Not as well as I’d hoped.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Is it your manner?”

  Affronted, he swung around to face her. “Are you casting doubt over my ability to charm a lady?”

  “I can’t imagine where you’re going wrong.” She walked across the richly patterned carpet to him. “You are a perfectly presentable gentleman of means.”

  Harold puffed out a breath and tucked his thumbs in his waistcoat. “Well, thank you for that at least!”

  “Are you aware that my father and yours put their heads together in this room last night, after everyone had gone to bed?”

  “No.” His brown eyes widened, and he rubbed a thoughtful hand over his jaw. “I wonder what they came up with.”

  “Take it from me it was nothing good,” Erina said with a frown. “I am to invite you on a walk after breakfast, up to Hangman’s Hill.”

  “A hike? How delightful. I hate to think where the hill got its name,” he observed. “But it seems apt.”

  Despite her apprehension Erina had to smile at his disconsolate expression. “You’ll feel more like exercise after a hearty breakfast. And you can tell me all about Florence whilst we walk. Perhaps I can help. A bit of jealousy might move things along.”

  “Good Lord, no.” Harold shuddered. “I’d rather hunt lions than come between two women.”

  Erina headed for the door. “There would only be one who was serious, sir.”

  “Right now, I fear there are none.” Harold walked beside her to the breakfast room. “Does terrible things to a man’s ego.”

  After breakfast Harold and Erina entered the path which lead to the gate opening onto the meadow. He strode beside her making little comment.

  She breathed in the scent of sun-warmed earth, the tall grasses tickling her legs above her half boots. “We don’t have to go all the way up there if you’d rather not, Mr. Feather.”

  “Call me Harry, seeing as we’re almost related. We’d best go right to the summit. I suspect your father or mine, or both of them are up in that tower with a telescope trained on us.”

  Erina laughed. “You may well be right.”

  “I don’t mind a good trek.” Harry strode along toward the hill in the distance. “But you walk very fast.”

  “It’s the way I’m made, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” Harry said. “A good friend of mine, Jack Ryder is exceptionally tall and far more athletic than me. Rides like the very demon. We still rub along well enough together.”

  “Captain Ryder? I have met him.” Erina pictured the large man who’d given her a crick in her neck on the dance floor. He had a wonderful low chuckle and the bluest eyes. “I remember that he had all the ladies in a flutter.”

  “Handsome chap. He’s a good fellow. A brave soldier. But restless.”

  “I heard his father, the duke died.”

  “Yes. Hit Jack hard. He’s gone off on his horse. I’ll miss him.”

  “Where is his direction?”

  “Northern England, but he’s heading for Ireland first.”

  She frowned. Men had such freedom. If only she was able to go to Ireland, she could help Cathleen.

  Erina led the way up the narrow winding track through the magnificent aged oaks of Epping Forest. Above them, Hangman’s Hill waited. A steep hour-long trek. She glanced at Harry, but he seemed to be keeping up well. He might be slim and declare himself lazy, but he was quite fit, not even puffing. “Now, about Florence Beckworth,” she began.

  “No point.” Harry stopped and turned to view the landscape they’d left behind. The complex roofline of the family mansion rose above the trees with its turrets and chimneys reaching for the sky.

  She frowned at him. “Surely you haven’t given up?”

  “I’m afraid I have,” Harry said. He didn’t appear too heart broken. “Miss Beckworth drew me aside after breakfast and confided in me.”

  “Confided what?”

  “She is in love with the village vicar. Her father opposes the match, but she’s determined to change his mind.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” Erina’s heart sank. She liked Harry, she really did. But not to marry. And it was clear he felt the same.

  “Yes, she has a yen to be a pastor’s wife. There’s something about sermons and bible studies which appeals far more than I ever could.” Harry shrugged. “Come on, Erina. Step up, or we won’t be back for luncheon. Is that a kestrel I see soaring above us?”

  Erina cast a glance at his set profile, and wondered how much Florence’s rejection had hurt him, before watching the magnificent bird swoop down to its prey.

  Chapter Four

  The inn’s parlor was in an uproar. Guests crowded into the room where a man lay on the settee. He bled heavily from a chest wound. An older lady leaned over him, trembling, and sobbing, and patting his cheek.

  “What happened to the fellow?” Jack asked the innkeeper, Joe Peck, who stood silent and concerned beside him.

  “Lord and Lady Butterstone and their daughter, Lady Ashley were returning home to Ivywood Hall from London when they were attacked by a highwayman,” Peck said. “His lordship resisted and was shot. I’ve sent for the doctor.”

  “I gained a little knowledge about treating gunshot wounds in the army,” Jack said. “I might be able to help.”

  Peck rubbed his balding pate. “Then please do, sir. Lady Butterstone is close to hysterics.”

  “Send the other guests back to their rooms. Fetch me clean cloths and warm water. Whiskey too.”

  Jack approached the sofa where a young, fair-haired woman stood watching the sad tableau, her eyes stricken. The daughter. Jack smiled gently at her. “Let’s see what can be done, Lady Ashley. If you could take your mother away for a moment. Give her a little brandy, or a strong, sweet cup of tea. Mr. Peck will see to it.”

  She nodded, murmured something in her mother’s ear. With an anguished glance at Jack, Lady Butterstone allowed her daughter to lead her away.

  On his knees, Jack moved aside Lord Butterstone’s fine wool coat and pulled up the linen shirt. The ball had entered one side of his chest where frothy blood gave clue to a lung wound.

  When Peck brought the whiskey, napkins and water, Jack wiped away as much of the blood as he could, knowing it was useless. He packed the linen against the wound. When he settled a pillow beneath the gentleman’s head he saw the victim was conscious.

  “I’m dying.” A grim smile appeared in his lordship’s gray eyes. “Too late to set things to rights.”

  “Jack Ryder, sir. The doctor is on his way. Is there something I can do?”

  Lord Butterstone coughed and a trickle of blood touched his lips. With a weak hand, he motioned Jack closer. “Stamford’s son? Knew the duke. A good man.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Lord Butterstone moaned. “Don’t have long. I must ask your help.”

  “Anything.” Jack waited as the man fought to gain his breath. Did he require a priest?

  “No highwayman… shot Bert, my groom, dead. A good servant. Can you see my wife and daughter safely home… stay with them until Lady Butterworth’s brother arrives?”

  “Don’t worry, my lord. I will ensure their safety as long as is necessary. Who attacked you?”

  “A long story…” He tried to raise his head. “… and no time to tell it.” He licked the blood on his lips.

  Jack realized that his lordship was losing his fight and gestured to where Lady Butterworth sat with a teacup in her hand.

  She hurried over, knelt beside her husband, and held his hand. “My love.”

  “Forgive me, Mary, I’ve been a fool…” His head rolled back.

  Lady Butterstone gasped and collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.

  “Mama!” Lady A
shley tried to assist her mother. When she couldn’t rouse her, she looked at Jack with an appeal in her eyes.

  Jack grasped Lady Ashley’s shoulders and gently moved her aside. He hefted the unconscious woman up and carried her to an upholstered chair. The lady leaned back against the padded cushion, her face a ghastly white.

  He’d seen a lot of death during the war, but watching these women was especially difficult. He hated feeling helpless. “I wish I could have done more.”

  Lady Ashley patted her mother’s hand. Her tear-filled blue eyes searched his. “There was never anything anyone could do.”

  She was shocked but did not seem surprised. He wondered if she referred to something other than the attack.

  “Your father asked me to escort you and your mother home. But might it be better to remain until daylight? I’m sure Peck can find you a room.”

  She straightened her shoulders as if trying to find some inner reserve. “I need to get Mama home. But you must be tired, Captain Ryder. We will have roused you from your bed.”

  “I spent a few years in the army. I’m used to going without sleep.”

  When she nodded, a pale gold ringlet stirred against her cheek. She looked exhausted. Violet shadows lay beneath her eyes, and faint worry lines creased her brow. “But we live twenty miles from here. Will it take you too far out of your way?”

  “I’m not in a hurry. Your father asked me to remain with you until your uncle arrives. I’m happy to oblige if your mother wishes it.”

  “I’m sure Mama will be most grateful.”

  “Did you recognize your attacker?”

  She shook her head while continuing to stroke her mother’s limp hand.

  “Did he steal from you?”

  “No. I suppose he panicked.”

  When she met his gaze something unspoken hovered in the air. As if she wanted to say more.

  Lady Butterstone stirred.

  “Mama, can you sit up? Take a little brandy? This gentleman is Captain Ryder. Papa asked him to take us home.”

  Jack addressed the prostrate lady. “I’m told you’ve lost your groom, my lady. I’ll see to your coach. And when you are stronger, I’ll escort you both safely to Ivywood Hall.”

  Lady Butterstone blinked at him bewildered. “Thank you.”

  Jack crossed the room to where Peck waited. “Have the parish constable, and the magistrate been sent for?”

  Peck nodded. “Sent my ostler. Sad business. Butterstone was much liked in these parts.”

  “Any idea who was behind the attack? I wasn’t aware of highwaymen roaming this part of the countryside.”

  “They haven’t been seen around here for years,” Peck said. “I don’t know who the murderer is, but the locals will be worried.”

  Outside in the cold damp air, the coachman walked the horses. The poor man appeared cold and defeated.

  “Jack Ryder. Nasty business.”

  “John Mullins, sir. Will Lord Butterstone recover?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

  Mullins lowered his head. “They were both good men. Didn’t deserve to be cut down like that.”

  “Tell me how it happened.”

  The coachman wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Blast and bugger your eyes, that rogue galloped straight up to us from out of the trees. Shot the groom, Bert, who sat beside me on the box without a how do you do. Bert was armed, but he might as well not have been. He was holding a lantern and had no time to raise the gun. Then his lordship stepped out of the coach, apparently to reason with the rogue, and was gunned down in cold blood. The murderous devil turned his horse and rode off. Made no attempt to rob her ladyship who was screaming fit to burst. And those diamonds of hers must be worth a king’s ransom.”

  Not a robber then. “What did this gunman look like?”

  The coachman shrugged. “Wore a handkerchief over his lower face and his hat pulled low. Tall in the saddle, decent roan.”

  “I’m to ride with you to Ivywood Hall.”

  The coachman nodded, looking pleased. “Lady Butterstone will be relieved to have a big strong fellow like you, guarding her, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

  Jack retrieved his portmanteau from the bedchamber, loaded his gun and shoved it into his coat pocket. After he paid Peck for the bed he never slept in, he went to the stable to saddle Arion. It had stopped raining. The clouds had shifted away; the landscape cast in a chiaroscuro of silvery moonlight and deep purple shadows. Even with the carriage lamps lit, visibility would be poor, and the roads pot-holed and muddy. Jack checked the sky to the north. An ominous wall of midnight dark clouds lurked on the horizon. It begged the question of why Lord Butterstone had chosen to travel so late at night, and in this inclement weather.

  It was going to be an unpleasant and possibly dangerous ride to Ivywood Hall.

  ~~~

  Erina and Harry’s conversation lapsed whilst they concentrated on scrambling down the steep path. Although he had managed to whistle a lively tune.

  “You don’t act like a man with a broken heart, sir,” she commented, once they’d reached level ground.

  “I suppose not.” Harry paused to stretch. “Sometimes what one thinks one wants isn’t always what one needs.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. That didn’t mean Florence hadn’t hurt him. He might well be hiding his disappointment from her and putting on a brave face. “Fortunate to discover it before any firm commitment is made,” she said. “It does leave us in a pickle, though, doesn’t it?”

  His brown eyes were solemn. “Short of browbeating our fathers into submission, I’ve run out of ideas, I’m afraid.”

  “Is there no other lady who might take your fancy?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What? Here today? Why don’t you find a nice gentleman to suit your father, instead? There is one enjoying your father’s hospitality as we speak.”

  “Who, pray, might that be?”

  “Lyndon Wainright.”

  Lyndon was younger than her by six months. And when he was older, he would still be dull company. “We wouldn’t suit.”

  A smile warmed Harry’s eyes. “His father is a viscount. Wouldn’t Wainright be a better choice than me?”

  She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d refused Lyndon’s offer of marriage. It was a sore point with her father. She paused and gazed at Harry askance. “Well, no. As a matter of fact, if I must, I would prefer to marry you. At least, you have a sense of humor.”

  Harry chuckled. “Well that’s extremely gracious of you.”

  Beyond the fence, fields of wheat swayed in the breeze. Erina picked up her muslin skirts and took his extended hand to climb a stile. She had taken him the long way around because she dreaded going home. “Let’s stick to the matter in hand. We must work together.”

  He jumped down and joined her. “We’ll have to agree to our parents’ wishes.”

  “What?” She puffed away a wisp of hair that had escaped from beneath her straw hat and narrowed her eyes at him. “You surely aren’t giving up?”

  Bemused, he studied her for a moment. “My, but you’re a spirited woman, Lady Erina.”

  “It’s just that I don’t wish to marry,” Erina confessed.

  “Never?”

  “Well, yes, of course, eventually. But not with such haste.” It seemed foolish to mention love after her father had ridiculed the notion. “I’d like time to meet the right man, enjoy our courtship. And I dislike being told what I must do.”

  “A little stubborn, would you say?”

  She frowned at him as they entered the shady rhododendron walk her outraged breath drawing in the pungent smell of damp, rotting leaves. “At least I’m not one to give up when things get too difficult.”

  Harry swiveled to face her. “I only meant that we should merely appear to agree with our parents. To give us more time.”

  She gazed thoughtfully into his brown eyes. They were kind eyes, patient, humorous. Some woman would be lucky to marry H
arry. “Yes, that seems the only option left to us.”

  They emerged into sunlight and walked under an arch of white clematis leading from the formal gardens onto the lawns.

  Harry offered her his arm. “Shall we go in and face them?”

  They walked into the house where the last of the guests, anxious to continue their journey before nightfall, were about to depart. Erina joined her father to bid them farewell as their carriages lined up on the drive. Soon the last vehicle rattled away, and the house settled into its familiar sounds, the clunk of the grandfather clock in the hall, the creak and rattle of timbers. Mice scuffling behind the wainscoting.

  Half an hour later, Erina and Harry joined Sir Ambrose and her father in the library. The men drank whiskey whilst she sipped Madeira. She selected one of the small cakes on the platter. They had missed luncheon, and she was hungry. She offered the plate to Harry, who winked at her and took several.

  “You two young people seem to be getting on well,” Sir Ambrose said with a satisfied smile.

  “We have become firm friends.” Harry smiled at her. “Have we not, Erina?”

  “Yes, very good friends,” Erina echoed, earning a suspicious glance from her father.

  “Excellent,” Sir Ambrose said. “Your father and I have decided to place an announcement of your engagement in the newspaper Friday next.”

  Her father looked pleased as Punch. “Your Aunt Abbie shall be called upon to assist you with your bridal clothes and the other necessities.”

  Erin glanced at Harry. They had less than a week to come up with an alternate scheme. “Are you planning to leave today, Sir Ambrose?”

  Sir Ambrose beamed. “Don’t wish to see Harold go, eh? Won’t be long before you two can be together as man and wife, m’dear.”

  “Sir Ambrose has decided to spend another night,” her father said. “So that you and Harold can enjoy one more evening together.”

  Harry grinned at her. “What shall we play after dinner? Draughts? Cards, chess?”

  She was suddenly suspicious. It occurred to her that Harry was becoming more reconciled to the idea of their marriage. Was he merely pretending to find a way out? Men could continue their lives as comfortably after marriage as they could before it. He would just tuck her away somewhere and join his friends in London.