Moving fast, Harry seized the man’s arm and spun him around. “Unhand her, I say!”
As Cathleen slipped from his grasp, Erina held her breath, horrified. A ham-fisted fellow, Gormley was twice as big as Harry.
“I’ll deal with you first.” Gormley bounced on his toes and took a wild swing which Harry blocked. A well-placed elbow to the side of Gormley’s head, and a punch to the solar plexus sent Gormley off his feet, gasping on his back in the mud. Harry poked his polished boot into the man’s chest. “We are leaving, and I advise you to let us go or you’ll find yourself in worse trouble.”
Gormley gaped, looking stunned. He sat up gingerly feeling his head.
“Come.” Harry shepherded them to the waiting hackney.
Erin looked back as their carriage trundled away down the street. The priest and the witnesses crowded around Gormley as he stood rubbing his head.
“Harry! You were marvelous,” Erina cried. “I didn’t think you could…. Well, it was quite satisfying to watch, I must say.”
“Taught by Gentleman Jackson, the best pugilist in England.” Harry frowned as he dusted dirt from his trousers. “I wonder if we might partake of that breakfast of yours, Miss Cathleen, before we leave for Dublin? The jarvie can put the feed bag on the horses and join us for a meal.”
“It’s not my house any longer, sir. Gormley won it from my father in a card game.”
Harry tilted his head. “Won it fair and square, did he? Let him produce the deed of sale then. Whether guilty or no, the man looked as sneaky as a rat in the palace kitchen. If he’s smart, he’ll wait for us to leave before he returns.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jack fell back against the squab as the carriage door slammed shut. The vehicle lurched forward. Opposite him, Lord Caindale looked brittle and pale as death. “I’m glad to have found you, Captain Ryder,” he gasped. “I find myself as frightened as Macbeth before the ghost of Banquo! I am being watched. A brute of a man has been lurking outside my house ever since you left.”
“You don’t know him?”
“No, he’s a stranger to me.”
Jack studied him thoughtfully. “The fellow might be there for some other reason, my lord.”
Caindale removed his hat and ran nervous fingers through his thinning locks. “No. They’re watching me. If I put a foot wrong...”
“But the kidnappers let you go. What worries you?”
Caindale sighed. “I wasn’t entirely honest with them. If I’d told them the truth, I might not be sitting here now.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Told them what exactly?”
“When we were in Paris, John Butterstone did inform me of an English plot to kill Bonaparte.”
Jack rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Did he give you the plotters’ names?”
“He mentioned someone. But I have no idea if it was carried out or Bonaparte beat them to it by dying.”
Jack frowned. “Forgive me, sir, but you have lied to me. How do I know you’re telling me the truth now?”
“I have no reason to lie.” Caindale’s hair received more rough handling. “I wasn’t sure before that I could trust you. I feared you might be one of them.”
“What has changed your mind?”
“A note from Lady Ashley, telling me to receive you, and advising me that she and her mother are returning to London for the funeral service.” He grimaced. “This is not something I can deal with alone. It was a Frenchman who questioned me in the cellar. If the French, — apart from the Bourbons who are happy to see the back of him—believe we killed their Emperor, they won’t leave any stone unturned until they’ve revenged him.”
“Am I to be told this Englishman’s name?”
Caindale looked stricken. “I want it all to stop. If I tell you, what are you likely to do with the information?”
“I’ll question him and attempt to uncover the truth.”
He threw up his hands. “There. I thought so. If you approach these men and make it public, it will be like setting the hounds among the rabbits.”
“I’ll be discreet with my inquiries,” Jack said. “What else do you ask of me?”
“Some protection for my family. Lady Butterstone and Lady Ashley may be in danger too. You’re an ex-army man; you will have useful friends.”
“Then you must tell me everything you know. Why was Butterstone killed?”
“I can only imagine it was because he made inquiries of the wrong people at Whitehall. Stirred the hornet’s nest.”
Jack frowned. “You’re suggesting that someone in our government was involved?”
“It’s possible,” Caindale said.
“The other possibility is that the French might have considered Butterstone to be a party to the plot to bring about Bonaparte’s death,” Jack said. “In that case why didn’t they shoot you when they held up your carriage, as they did Butterstone? Why take you back to London?”
“They believe I can lead them to Napoleon’s assassin.” He peered anxiously out of the window. The carriage was traveling through the park. “I must be careful…”
Jack eyed him. Caindale’s forehead dripped sweat, and his hand shook. His fear was real. But could there be more to this than he revealed? Jack recalled the pastor saying he’d seen two men riding side by side toward London. Commonsense urged him to refuse to have anything to do with Caindale. To leave the major part of the investigation to Bascombe. But Ashley in danger? That was not to be born. “I’ll have someone watch your house.”
Caindale’s shoulders drooped with relief and he held out his hand. “Thank you, Captain. I am in your debt.”
Jack shook it. “Now, my lord, the name?”
Caindale nodded furiously. “As soon as your guard arrives, you shall have it.”
Annoyed by the man’s obtuseness, Jack thumped on the roof. When the horses were pulled up, he opened the door and leaped from the carriage.
He strolled toward his rooms in Piccadilly. He didn’t feel as if he’d advanced much further. The more he learned of this affair the more muddied the waters became. He thought again of Ashley. Would he be able to do as he’d promised and solve her father’s murder? It was really all he could give her of himself. And this was the reason he wouldn’t drop the matter until he came up against a dead end with nowhere else to turn.
~~~
Gormley failed to make an appearance during the meal. After they’d eaten, Cathleen went to her bedroom to pack a bag. When she came down, she glanced around the parlor, regret in her eyes. “I hate having to leave my home, and my animals.” Her chest heaved with a sigh. “And Ireland.”
“In time, you might be able to return,” Erina said sadly.
“But when and to what?” Cathleen shook her head. “The farmhand has promised to look after the livestock. Gormley won’t care. I can assure you he won’t pay the man!”
Erina placed an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go to Dublin. You’ll feel better when you put a bit of distance between yourself and Gormley.”
Harry took her bag. “I’ll shake up the jarvie. He’s got a bit too comfortable in the hay loft.”
The rain held off on the way back to town. They traveled in silence with Cathleen staring glumly out the window. At the hotel, they alighted from the carriage and stood on the pavement while Harry paid the driver. Cathleen instructed the hotel footman to retrieve her luggage.
“You there!”
The three of them spun around. Gormley stood a few yards away. He aimed a rifle at Cathleen. Stunned, Erina and Cathleen stared at him. “Go inside,” Harry yelled. He ran over and began to shepherd them toward the hotel doorway.
A shot echoed around them. Erina watched as Gormley ran away. “What did he…”
Beside her, Harry collapsed to the ground.
“Harry!” Breathless, she dropped to her knees beside him.
His eyes were closed, and blood flooded from a wound high on his right shoulder.
The ho
tel footman had dropped the bag in shock. “Call a doctor,” Erina screamed at him. He stood rooted to the spot. “Don’t just stand there. Go for help. We must get him inside.”
At last the fellow moved, racing up the steps into the hotel.
Moments later, she and Cathleen followed two of the hotel staff as they carried the inert Harry to his room. “We’ve sent for the guard,” the manager said. “And Dr. O’Dowd is on his way.”
The servants laid Harry on the bed. Frightened by how still he was, Erina leaned over him and untied his cravat. He was bleeding heavily. She wanted to stop the flow of blood with her hands, but knew it was a foolish wish. She unbuttoned his ruined waistcoat and the top buttons of his shirt and tucked his folded handkerchief firmly inside against the wound on his shoulder. “Harry,” she whispered. “Please don’t die.”
Harry’s lashes fluttered. His usually alert chocolate brown eyes looked blank and confused. “What happened?”
She gasped and held his limp hand. “Oh, Harry! Gormley shot you. A doctor’s coming.”
“He was trying to shoot me, Mr. Feather,” Cathleen said. With a hiccup, she swiped at the tears dripping off her chin. “I am so sorry.”
“Gormley didn’t like me much,” Harry said his voice sounding far away. “Snake. Didn’t St. Patrick drive the snakes from Ireland? He clearly missed one.”
Erina forced a watery smile. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor then.”
The door opened, and Dr. O’Dowd strode into the room. “Well, what do we have here?”
“He’s been shot, doctor,” Erina said in a broken voice.
“You can help me take off his coat, young lady,” he said to Erina. “And you,” he nodded to Cathleen, “fetch hot water. Hot I say. Not tepid.” He placed his bag on the table and opened it.
“I don’t believe in bloodletting doctor.” Erina had seen the results of it when one of their neighbors died after such treatment. “Mr. Feather has lost enough blood already.”
“Well that’s something we can agree upon.” Dr. O’Dowd took up a pair of scissors. “Gentleman wear their coats too tight in my opinion.” As Erina watched he cut away Harry’s coat. “Don’t just stand there like a stunned goose.”
Erina tugged at a sleeve.
Harry groaned.
She dropped her hands. “I hurt you.”
“Never mind that,” Harry muttered. “Can’t help, sorry.”
She and the doctor swiftly removed the coat. Soon Harry’s shirt followed. Although lean, Harry was surprisingly well built and had smooth olive-toned skin. She averted her gaze from the sprinkle of brown hair on his sculptured chest and the wound near his shoulder, which seeped incessantly.
“Not too much damage done. That’s good news, at least.” The doctor nodded as Cathleen and a servant brought in the pitcher of hot water. He poured the water into a bowl, added vinegar from a bottle, then dipped in a cloth. He wrung it out and handed it to Erina. “Wipe away the blood.”
As she took it, the middle-aged doctor eyed her. “You won’t faint over the patient, will you?” He measured out a dose of laudanum and raising Harry’s head slipped the spoon between his lips.
Erina gritted her teeth and dabbed at the blood. It seemed a hopeless task.
Harry’s eyes closed, and his head drooped.
“Oh! He’s not…”
“No. That’s good enough, girl.” The doctor gently nudged her aside.
As he worked, Erina stood with Harry’s coat in her hands. When she folded it a slip of paper fell to the floor. She scooped it up. Not wishing to pry, she couldn’t help glancing at the document in her hands. She caught her breath. It was a Special License from the Archbishop of Canterbury in Doctor’s Commons in London, made out in their names and signed on the day before they left London.
“Good thing, he’s out of it.” The doctor held up a sharp instrument. “Have to dig this ball out of him.”
“But he will be all right, Doctor O’Dowd?”
“He’s a strong young man. Depends on good fortune and tender care.”
She drew in a large breath of air tinged with the tangy smell of blood. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Don’t move him too soon and keep the wound clean. Hopefully, it will remain free from infection. Then he’ll recover. Especially if he has a pretty young woman looking after him.”
Erina flushed. Did Harry intend to offer her marriage to save her reputation? He was certainly honorable enough to conceive of such a foolish notion. Filled with curiosity and forced to be patient, she sat observing the doctor’s skilled hands.
She pulled aimlessly at her cuff which was spotted with blood. “He has to recover, Doctor O’Dowd.”
“Ah.” The doctor nodded. “Then I’ll take particular care, lass.”
Moments later, the ball dropped into the dish with a metallic clink. Thankfully, Harry remained unconscious throughout the procedure.
“This wound is bleeding a bit too much for my liking,” Doctor O’Dowd said. “I’d best put in a few stitches. Then we pray that he’ll mend.”
Anxiously, she examined Harry’s pale face, one she’d come to like so much. She was so very grateful to him too… but….
Chapter Fourteen
It was a cool, blustery day which threatened rain for Butterstone’s funeral. Jack chose not to attend. In the street, hat in hand, his father’s passing still raw and fresh, he watched the marquess’ cortège reach St. Paul’s Cathedral, the horses decorated with black plumes and the hearse wreathed in white lilies. Ashley alighted from a carriage wearing a high necked black cloak over her gown. A circlet of black silk flowers graced her elegant hat. Escorted by Caindale, his hand on her mother’s arm, they disappeared inside.
Jack turned and walked home. Grant attended the service in his place. His cousin had taken up the mantle of duke with cool competence as Jack knew he would. He had refused residence to the duchess’ sister, a widow who had squandered her fortune at the gaming tables. After advising his man of business to arrange a stipend for her, she was told to never darken his door again.
Jack’s father’s other wishes were efficiently carried out. The rest of the duchess’ profligate relatives, not one of whom had revealed an ounce of affection for the duke or indeed Jack, were shown the door after the reading of the will.
As much as Jack wanted to see Ashley, he resisted. She should be left to mourn her father, and he had nothing of importance yet to tell her. He wasn’t about to burden her with his doubts concerning her uncle. The only comfort he could provide would be to take her in his arms, something he wished fervently to do. No matter how wealthy he might be now, London society’s strictures stood like a wall between a highborn lady in mourning and a duke’s bastard son. And he was loath to fuel the newssheets with spiteful gossip about her.
Jack sent a letter-of-condolence to her mother. In his note to Ashley he’d resisted putting into words how much he missed her. Instead, he told her about the house his father had bequeathed him. He had no wish to interview butlers and housekeepers or select a steward, not to mention the rest of the staff necessary to run a house in Mayfair plus the country house he planned to buy. He thought he might ask Stinson, his father’s man-of-business to attend to it. Come to think of it, his batman, Jenkins, from his army days might consent to become his steward. The perfect fellow to take care of his properties, should he agree.
In search of a hackney, Jack continued along Ludgate Street. When a town coach drew up beside him, he half-expected to see Caindale again, but of course, Caindale was at the funeral. Instead, a stranger invited him inside with a gesture from his pistol.
Every muscle on alert, Jack considered his options. From within the coach, the fellow’s range was limited. He braced, ready to make a quick dodge to one side after a glance revealed the usually busy road bare of traffic.
“It would be wise for you to join me, Captain Ryder.” The fellow’s pistol was aimed at Jack’s chest.
Jack g
ave up the idea of escape when his curiosity got the better of him. He climbed into the carriage to be greeted by a blast of expensive pomade and sat on the squab opposite the curly-haired gentleman. “You needn’t go to such lengths to get my attention,” he said glowering at the man. “I might have come if you’d asked politely. Who are you anyway, and what do you want?”
“Have patience, Captain. All will be revealed soon.”
Jack adopted a relaxed pose and waited for an opportunity to distract the fellow and take his gun. He straightened his cuffs. “I certainly hope so. I find dramatics such as this quite a bore.”
~~~
Harry slept for some hours while Erina sat in a padded chair and tried to read an article in a periodical about the Irish uprising in ‘98. The words kept skittering away while her eyes returned to the bed. She’d just finished the last cup of tea in the pot when he opened his eyes.
“I’m still alive?” he asked blearily. He tried to raise his head and fell back with a soft moan.
With an anxious intake of breath, she rose, and came to smooth his covers. “Lie still. The doctor says you’ve had a lucky escape. He removed the ball cleanly and didn’t think there was much damage done.”
“That’s all very well for him to say.” He grimaced with pain. “Have they arrested that fellow, Gormley, yet?”
She shook her head. “The guard are still searching for him.”
“Dash it, I should have reacted faster, got that gun away from him. Is Cathleen safe?”
“She’s here at the hotel, but she’s unhappy. I don’t believe she wishes to come to England.”
“I thought as much. It would be daunting to leave her home and the village she grew up in.”
Erina tried to tamp down her exasperation. Harry made perfect sense even when half comatose. “But how can Cathleen remain in Ireland with that mad man lurking about? He tried to kill her.”
“He’ll be arrested before long. She’s safe at the hotel. Tell her to stay indoors.”
“She’s gone to inquire of the guard if there’s news of Gormley.”
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