He groaned. “Didn’t you try to stop her?”
Erina chewed her lip. “I couldn’t dissuade her. I’ll go and look for her.”
Harry slid an arm out from beneath the covers and reached for her hand. “Don’t, please, Erina. I don’t want to lie here worrying about you.”
His strong fingers curled around hers. Erina hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. She wanted to confess she’d found the special license. To reassure him that such a noble act was entirely unnecessary, but now was not the time. “Very well.” She slipped her hand from his.
He smiled his eyes heavy-lidded with pain. “Write to your father, Erina. It is time to tell him the truth.”
“Yes, I know.” With Cathleen reluctant to come to England, Erina had been wondering how to couch the letter in terms that wouldn’t shock her father more than was necessary. So far, she’d come up with nothing. It would have to be the plain unadulterated truth. She and Harry must remain in Dublin until he was well, which could be weeks. Her chest tightened. She was a dreadful coward. How furious her father would be. Erina steeled herself to bear his condemnation.
“Ask him to notify my father. But don’t make a Cheltenham tragedy out of it, Erina. Write that I’ve been winged in an unfortunate accident but am on the mend and will be on my feet in a matter of days.”
“I doubt you will be, Harry.”
“No.” He sighed. “What a bumblebroth. I’ll be flat on my back for a couple of weeks at least. You’ll be terribly bored cooped up here.”
“We shall make do,” Erina said, although she wasn’t at all confident of it. “When you’re better, we’ll play cards.”
His lips quirked up. “Not sure how long that shall sustain us, when I consistently beat you. And you’re not gracious in defeat, Erina.”
She raised her chin. “Oh, that is untrue! And I seem to remember beating you resoundingly at Roundtree Park!”
His eyelids dropped. “You had me at a disadvantage.”
“I don’t see how,” she said, delighted to find him sparring with her the way they used to.
“You wore that low-necked gown. The green one. And I, understandably, had trouble keeping my eyes on my cards.”
“I beat you fair and square!” Pleasure mixed with annoyance, but any reply that danced on her tongue had to wait for another time. Harry was snoring.
“Coward!” she whispered and tucked his hand beneath the covers. When assured he was well, she sat back and watched him. The lines of strain around his eyes and on his brow, that might have appeared during his years at war, were smoothed away as he slept. He looked younger and very handsome.
An hour passed while Erin pleated her muslin skirt and chewed her bottom lip. She was never good at waiting. And she simply had to discuss the special license. She must dissuade him from this foolish idea that he had to marry her because he considered her his responsibility.
She left Harry’s room and went in search of Cathleen. Relieved, she saw her hurrying into the foyer.
Excitement and relief brightened Cathleen’s green eyes. “Erina! They arrested him! Gormley is in gaol!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Erina joyfully linked her arm with Cathleen’s and they walked to the stairs.
Cathleen cast her a gleeful glance. “He’ll remain there awaiting the trial.”
“Did they say when that would be held?”
“When the summer Assizes sit. You and Mr. Feather won’t need to attend.” She paused, a hand on the staircase bannister. “Erina, I’m ever so grateful to you and Mr. Feather.”
“You have no need to be.”
“I shan’t be coming to England, now.”
Disconcerted, Erina tried to hide her disappointment. “Of course. I understand completely.”
Cathleen smiled. “I will miss you.”
“And I you.” Erina kissed her cheek.
“Harry is asleep. I can’t wait to tell him when he wakes,” Erina said. “He’ll be so pleased. He was worried about you.”
They entered Erina’s room. “Your Mr. Feather is a good man.” Cathleen perched on her bed. “Why did he bring you to Ireland? Didn’t your father object?”
As a flush crept across her cheeks, Erina picked up some garments thrown onto a chair. She opened a drawer and tucked her folded chemise inside. “I haven’t been entirely truthful with my father.”
Cathleen’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Papa will understand when he hears how I wished to help you,” Erina said in a rush, wishing she was sure of it.
Doubt rumpled Cathleen’s pale forehead. “He probably expects you and Mr. Feather to wed. Are you about to become engaged?”
“No. He’s merely a friend.”
“A friend?” Cathleen laughed, more light-hearted than Erina had seen her. With her sparkling green eyes, she looked very pretty. “He’s in love with you.”
Erina was quite sure he wasn’t. “Harry made it perfectly clear when our fathers tried to arrange our marriage, that he has no wish to marry me. And why would he? I’m such a long meg, and Father says I have a temper.”
“You’re lovely, Erina. And Mr. Feather wants you. Why else would he be here?”
That license. She must broach the subject with Harry. “Because I talked him into coming.”
Cathleen grinned. “I don’t doubt your powers of persuasion, but he doesn’t seem the sort to be easily swayed, unless he wished to be. He’s quite imposing.” She giggled. “How skillful he was dealing with Douglas Gormley! I laugh whenever I think about it.”
“Yes, that was a surprise.” Erina had found Harry besting Gormley quite thrilling herself. “But I don’t want him to feel he has to marry me because I’ve got myself into a pickle. And that’s what I fear, Cathleen.”
“Then you’ll have to ask him. The question is, Erina. Do you have feelings for him?”
Erina sank down on the bed. “When I thought he would die, I couldn’t bear it.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “To have brought him all this way and see him cut down…”
“But does he make your heart pound? When I’m near Clan Leahy, I quite lose m’ breath.”
“Clan Leahy?”
Cathleen placed her hands on her cheeks. “Clan left Naas when he heard Gormley and I were to marry. I didn’t have a chance to explain. And what good would it have done if I had?”
“Then we must find this Clan Leahy. Where might he be now?”
“He has family in Limerick. Said he would never come back to Naas. He won’t either.” A wistful expression entered her eyes. “A man of his word is Clan Leahy.”
“How far is Limerick from here?”
“Aww, tis a long way.”
“Can you send him a letter?”
“I could. Should I be writing though? He was terribly angry.”
“I’m sure he won’t be if you explain the whole affair.”
“Aye. Then I will. But I’d like to go home tomorrow, Erina. I’m worried about m’ animals. Unless you’d prefer I stayed to keep you company?”
Erina hugged her. “No, you must go and see to your animals. I pray you hear good news from Mr. Leahy.”
Cathleen shrugged. “What will be will be.”
Her cousin seemed so calm, so practical. A little envious, Erina wished she could be more like her.
“As Gormley cannot produce a deed of sale, I’ve got m’ home back, thanks to you and Mr. Feather. Write and tell me how he fares. I hope the dear man is on his feet very soon.”
“I will write often,” Erina promised.
“As luck would have it, a neighbor, Dillon Adair, is in town and has offered me a lift. I’ll go and arrange it.” With an eager smile, Cathleen slipped out the door.
One good thing about all of this was meeting Cathleen. How fond she was of her already. Even though her plan to take her home to England had come to naught, she was glad to have helped her. She just wished she had a better explanation to offer her father. She took up paper and p
en and braced herself to write the letter, the result of which would be like prodding a beehive.
Chapter Fifteen
“How d'you do, Captain Ryder.” The long-faced dandy in the seat opposite tucked the pistol into the back of his buff pantaloons. His collar sat uncomfortably high under his chin, his waistcoat an alarming shade of puce. Several fobs and seals hung on a gold chain from his pocket watch. His uneasy glance took in Jack’s shoulders. “I apologize for the dramatics, but it’s urgent that we speak with you.”
“We?” Jack struggled not to take the man by his ridiculous lapels and shove him out into the street. “Then I advise you to get on with it.” He glanced out the window as the carriage took off again. “Where are we going?”
Atworth looked faintly alarmed. “Patience, I beg you. Just a short way along Fleet Street. We are visiting an associate of mine, Mr. Welby.”
Jack lifted his eyebrows. “The editor of The London Gazette?”
“The same.”
“And why would Mr. Welby wish to see me?” Jack asked curtly. “I’ve nothing of interest to tell him.”
“Maybe more than you are aware of at this precise moment, Captain Ryder.”
“I read his article in The London Gazette concerning Bonaparte’s death. A well written piece.”
“But not comprehensive enough,” Lord Atworth stated, folding his arms.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard the rumors same as you. No story in that. But if you’re looking to me to prove that Bonaparte didn’t die from natural causes, you are destined to be disappointed.”
“You are too humble, Captain Ryder. The undercover work you performed for General Colquhoun Grant has been highly regarded in many circles. Your interest in Bonaparte’s death has led us to suspect you are after the truth. As are we.”
Jack studied the man’s nervous hazel eyes. “I’m keen to know how you came to that conclusion.”
“You were seen entering Lord Caindale’s residence and also paid a call on Colonel Bascombe. Shortly afterward, you visited Butterstone’s home in Mayfair. We’ve since learned you were present at the marquess’ death. We are interested in what Butterstone may have told you before he gasped his last. You’ve come from his funeral at St. Paul’s, have you not?”
“You’re wrong there. Didn’t attend it. Why are you watching Caindale? Butterstone told me nothing. You waste your time following me.”
“Perhaps. We shall see.”
Jack considered the initials written in Butterstone’s diary. Lord A and Mr. W. Unlikely to be coincidental. Had these two men been part of a plot to kill Bonaparte? Then why seek him out? Were they afraid of imminent discovery and wished to learn how close he was to the truth? If Caindale was to be believed, the French were hot on the English plotters’ trail. But none of this fitted. Somehow the parts didn’t add up to the whole.
Jack leaned back, having decided not to tackle the gentleman seated opposite and exit the coach. He’d grown interested in what they might tell him. “I can understand Mr. Welby would be after the story of the century, but where do you fit in, my lord? A serious interest it would seem if it requires kidnapping me at gunpoint.”
Atworth looked slightly embarrassed. “These are troubling times, Captain Ryder. Let us discuss it once we are inside.” He glanced out the window as the carriage rocked to a stop. “Ah, here we are.”
The newspaper office was empty of staff. The printing press stood silent although the acrid aroma of printer’s ink and newspaper still permeated the air. Mr. Welby, a slight gentleman with gray wings at his temples, and sharp eyes, introduced himself. “Let’s go into my office where we can be more comfortable.”
Jack followed the men into the small room and took the seat nearest the door. “I’ll give you an hour, gentlemen, after which, I have an appointment.”
Jack accepted the offer of whiskey and waited for the two men to settle themselves. “Did you gentlemen meet with Lord Butterstone in Paris?”
Lord Atworth smiled without humor. “I thought we were to ask the questions, Captain.”
“Then you are in error. You know my involvement in this affair such as it is. Now I wish to know yours.”
“You’re right. We were called to Paris, Captain.” Welby swirled the golden liquid in his glass. “Butterworth told us quite a story. We were sworn to secrecy, however.”
Jack put down his glass. “I might as well leave then.”
“No need. We trust you to keep it close,” Lord Atworth hastened to say. “Some gentlemen had discussed the possible disposal of Bonaparte, but Wellington wouldn’t have a bar of it. Not the honorable thing in his view. When an officer at the battle of Waterloo told Wellington that Napoleon was in their gun sights, he replied that it was ‘not the business of commanders to be firing on one another.’”
“But some are not so squeamish. It was feared Bonaparte would make another attempt to escape, and possibly succeed as he had at Elba, then take the throne again as Emperor. We’d have another conflict on our hands at a time when England is in a poor state after years of war. Butterworth was worried that should any poisoning be successful, and the English were found to be the culprits, it would cause a serious diplomatic incident.
“He asked Welby to ferret out the truth. I was also to use my influence to dissuade them from such an action. But before we could act, Bonaparte was dead. We didn’t know whether the poisoning had been carried out or not, but Butterworth remained nervous. He intended to discover the truth when he returned to England. Then shortly after that he too was dead.”
“Am I to be told the name of this possible assassin?” Jack asked curtly. “I suspect Caindale has some knowledge, but he thus far refuses to enlighten me.”
“Butterstone had his suspicions, but he wasn’t prepared to say anything until he had further proof. We hoped you might be able to tell us. There’s a suggestion royalty was involved,” Welby said bluntly.
Jack leaned forward. “Are you suggesting that one of George’s set killed Butterworth to silence him?”
“No, no. We don’t know. But it’s possible that someone of influence didn’t like Butterfield bringing this to light,” Welby said moodily.
“Could he have had any tangible evidence?” Jack asked, remaining skeptical. “Have you considered how difficult it would be to murder Bonaparte? How would the poison have been administered?”
“Through his jailor, Sir Hudson Lowe?” Atworth posed.
“The gentleman fiercely denies any knowledge of it,” Jack said.
“Lowe is a vindictive man,” Atworth said. “Napoleon said of him that he had a villainous countenance.”
Jack found finding Atworth increasingly annoying. “Still, it would not have been easy, when he was seldom there.”
“But not impossible,” Welby said, firming his jaw.
These two were like dogs with a bone. And he’d learned nothing from them. Either they didn’t trust him, or they knew less than he did. Jack threw back the last of the whiskey and put down his glass. “I’m not sure what you ask of me, gentlemen.”
“To work with us,” Welby said. “Pass on any information you glean from Bascombe and Caindale.”
Jack had no intention of it. The Colonel would want to keep his dealings in this affair secret. But Caindale was another matter. “I expect you’ll keep me informed?”
“We will, rest assured.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “But nothing is to appear in print until it’s verified?”
“You have my word,” Welby said, looking a little annoyed.
Jack stood. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I have business to attend to.” He had a house in Mayfair to visit. The pied-à-terre his father had left him. But first he wished to advise Bascombe that these two were watching him.
At the colonel’s home, Jack relayed to Bascombe, Welby and Atwood’s request to be kept up to date with information and that they were watching him.
“I knew the fellow was lurking about. Could spot him a
mile off,” Bascombe said. “Found it amusing.”
“The editor suspects someone acting for the king had a hand in it.”
Bascombe shook his head. “George always had a grudging respect for Bonaparte, a superb tactician, and a brave soldier which the king wished he could have been. Look at those ridiculously elaborate uniforms he designed for himself. Possible that he was jealous of Bonaparte, but I doubt he’d go to those lengths.” He dragged on his cheroot. “Welby is a keen journalist who has sniffed out a story which would give him recognition, no question. Atwood is a profligate who sees money to be made from it. Don’t trust either of them.”
“Atwood is fond of waving a pistol around.”
“Shouldn’t let that bother you. Probably doesn’t know which end the ball comes out.”
That made him even more dangerous in Jack’s view. “I’ve begun to doubt Butterstone did take them into his confidence, because he told them nothing of importance. They were looking to me for information. Why are they watching Caindale?”
“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.”
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