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 to 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.”
Jack nodded sympathetically. Would Butterstone have told Caindale about the plot he’d uncovered to assassinate Napoleon? He’d want to discuss it with someone. Who better than a trusted relative? Perhaps Caindale did know and was keeping it close to his chest. It might prove wise for him to do so.
Jack could see there was little more he could learn from him. The man was clearly shaken. He reassured Caindale that the ladies, although greatly upset, were as well as could be expected. Without mentioning Lord Butterstone’s diary, Jack finished his whiskey, and took his leave.
The rain continued to hold off as he went on foot along South Audley Street to Butterstone’s house in Grosvenor Square. The air rang with the sounds of workmen who had taken up their hammers again after the deluge. There were many new houses in various stages of construction and those seeking work roamed the busy Mayfair streets. Painters, decorators, plasterers, some selling their wares, while delivery carts trundled along the macadam.
Jack considered how best to deal with Lord Butterstone’s staff. The majordomo would be the man with whom to speak. The rest of the servants would likely clam up with a stranger in their midst. Dash it, he should have asked Ashley for a letter of introduction.
~~~
By the time they’d finished luncheon the squall had passed, and they were on the road again, Harry seemed more at ease. They laughed when they saw a farmer who had been guiding his sow along the road with sharp prods of his stick, lose control and go chasing after the escaping animal. Erina said she was on the side of the pig. Then she and Harry got into a heated argument about whether the man’s livelihood was more important than an animal that was bred for the table.
“You have a romantic view of life,” Harry commented.
“I suppose so. Is that so very bad?”
“It can lead you into trouble.”
She had no reply to that. It was a distinct possibility.
Some hours later with dusk falling, they drew into the Blackbird coaching inn where they would spend the night.
“Are you traveling far, sir?” the innkeeper asked after Harry ordered a private parlor and two chambers.
“Holyhead,” Erina answered him. “I am visiting my family in Ireland.”
“That is a long way.”
“My cousin has kindly offered to escort me.”
He flicked a glance at Harry. “You are fortunate, indeed, to have such a good relative.”
“I am.” Erina smiled warmly at Harry.
“Do you think the proprietor believed our story?” Erina asked when she and Harry sat waiting for their dinner at the parlor table. She had washed and changed into a green and white sprigged muslin with rows of green satin ribbon at the hem and sleeves. She looked approvingly at Harry who wore a fresh shirt and crisp cravat, a handsome dark blue silk waistcoat with cornflowers in black satin beneath his Spanish blue tail coat.
He shrugged. “He will have heard many such stories from his guests.”
“It’s not such a stretch of the truth. It isn’t as though we are… we are….” She fell silent.
“Eloping?” Harry offered, his tone unhelpful.
“He wouldn’t think that!”
“Who cares what the fellow thinks? As long as we get a hearty meal and a comfortable bed.”
“Well, I care.”
Harry cocked an eyebrow. “Do you? If you did, you wouldn’t be here.”
Her spirits lowered. “Tomorrow you can be rid of me.”
He scrutinized her. “Who says I want to be rid of you?”
“You’ve made it quite plain.”
“I shall take you all the way to Ireland. Right to your cousin’s front door. Have no fear.”
“You will?”
“I just said I would, Erina.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“Do I want to go to Ireland? Not particularly. Do I want to see you safely to your destination? Yes, indeed I do.”
“Why?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You have a low opinion of me, don’t you?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that you’ve never said you would take me to Ireland, so I assumed…”
“Please stop assuming. And stop worrying.” He reached across and stilled her hand as she arranged the cruet set in the exact center of the table. “I rather fancy a sea voyage.”
She didn’t believe that for a moment, but she grinned. “At least you don’t have to do it on horseback. But what will you do with the curricle and the horses?”
“A groom will be awaiting us at Holyhead.”
“You knew all along….” She fixed him with an incensed stare. “You wanted me to suffer.”
“No, I hoped you’d change your mind and allow me to take you home.”
She didn’t know whether to hit him or hug him. But he was taking her all the way to Cathleen’s, so she smiled instead. “Thank you, Harry,” she said quietly.
“No need to thank me, Erina.” He turned to the door. “Where is our meal? The service here has been better.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Yes. Once or twice.”
“Then… the proprietor knows you?”
“I suppose he might have recognized me. A good innkeeper remembers faces if not names.”
She released a long breath. She’d been lucky so far not to have come across anyone who knew her father, or the whole of England would learn about this before long.