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.”
“Perhaps he didn’t intend to remain on the island for long?”
Bascombe nodded. “He did become the major beneficiary of Bonaparte’s will and it is common knowledge that he needed the money. He’s a gambler and in debt. But there’s a more significant possibility. He’s known to be a strong royalist as is his stepfather, the Comte de Simonville—a tricky customer, and a close friend of Louis XVIII. Could it be that de Montholon was acting as an agent of the Bourbons who considered Bonaparte to be an enemy of peace in Europe?”
“Interesting.”
“Indeed. Charles de Montholon was the sommelier. He had exclusive access to Napoleon's wine. Arsenic powder was used to kill the rats on the island. It is neutral—it has no taste—and could be put into wine whenever de Montholon wanted to.”
“So, who is this Frenchman Caindale spoke of?”
“That is something we must find out. He is the key to Butterstone’s death, I feel certain.”
Jack stood. “Let’s hope we find him before any more blood is shed.”
“Indeed.” Bascombe saw him to the door.
The pied-à-terre Jack’s father had left him turned out to be a substantial townhouse with a mews behind and a stable for six horses and two carriages.
His father’s secretary, Stinson, opened the glossy black door beneath a decorative fanlight. Jack entered the lofty marble tiled entry hall where a graceful staircase swept to the upper floors. An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling.
“The house is furnished. At present it is empty of staff. As you requested, most will arrive tomorrow. I can be here to introduce you to the butler and the housekeeper if you wish.”
“I would be grateful, thank you, Stinson.” In the comfortable library, Jack signed the relevant documents, briefly discussed his other properties, then sent the secretary on his way. He was moodily staring down into the street from his grand new bedroom wallpapered in a pattern of gold and cream, with elaborate matching curtains and bedhangings, when a carriage drew up in front of the house. An unaccompanied lady dressed in a black cloak with the hood pulled forward over her face, emerged onto the pavement and hurried to the door.
Jack ran down the stairs his pulse beating hard with a desire to greet the lady, plus a degree of concern for her reputation. He flung open the front door, grasped her arm and drew her inside. Before a word was spoken, he pushed back the hood and covered her mouth with his.
Ashley clung to him with a little sob. “Foolish man, did you think you were free of me?”
“Oh, my darling.” Jack swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.
“I have no pride where you’re concerned, Jack,” she whispered, hiding her face against his shoulder.
Jack drew in a breath. “I’m profoundly glad of it, Ashley.”
In the bedroom, he gently removed her flowery hat. “Pretty thing.” He aimed the veiled concoction at the padded chair near the fireplace. It sailed to land neatly on the cushion. Ashley giggled.
He turned his attention to the clasps on her cloak. “You look lovely.” He slowly removed each item of her clothing, until she stood naked before him, a rival of Botticelli’s Venus. “Mmm. Better.”
He drew her slender body into his arms and laid her on the bed, then bent to kiss her breathing in her delicate fragrance.
Ashley pushed him back, a hand against his chest. She rolled over onto her front, and cupped her chin, with one long, slim leg bent at the knee, toe daintily pointed. The halo of white gold hair loosened and curled about her neck as she offered him an enticing smile. “Now you must oblige me, sir. Begin with your coat if you please.”
If ever he saw an angel, they must look very much like Ashley. Perhaps not an angel, he amended, but a sprite. Angels weren’t known to be so naughty. With a grin he shrugged off his coat.
Sometime later, as their breathing slowed, Ashley leaned over to trace along the line of his jaw with her finger. “Would you consider marrying a twenty-six-year-old widow?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “If she were not the daughter of a marquess? In a heartbeat.”
She pulled her hand away and sat up, offering him a vision of cream, pink and gold curves that would make a painter weep with joy. Frowning, she drew her knees up blocking his view, and wrapped her arms around her legs. She rested her chin on her knees. “Why must you be so concerned with ridiculous conventions?”
“Because, sweetheart, I was not born into the aristocracy like you.”
She shrugged her slim shoulders. “If I don’t care why should you?”
“I don’t intend to subject you to the vicious gossip that would result from our union.”
“It would die down in time, especially when another scandal came to replace it.”
He rolled out of bed. “No, it wouldn’t.” Jack reached for his trousers and pulled them on. “My father’s wife has some vocal relatives. They jump on everything I do with absolute glee. They have done all my life, and now my father has gone, and there’s no hope of a bequest, they’ll be even worse.”
“They’d attack me?”
“No. Me. But by inference you. You will never enjoy another Season.”
“Then we will spend our time in the country. I would like that.”
Jack threw his shirt over his head. He discovered his cravat on the floor which was in a sorry state. “You say that now, but when you have little option, it will not seem so attractive.” He came to sit on the bed. “And you may not be quite so pleased to have married me.”
She cuffed him lightly over the ear. “You think I’m that shallow?”
He grinned and grabbed her wrist feeling her rapid pulse beneath the soft skin. He’d upset her. “Not a bit of it, Ashley, you are a fascinating, intelligent woman. And I’m aware how brave and strong you are.” He stopped before declaring he loved her. There would be no coming back from that. “Shakespeare wrote of ‘star-cross lovers’ and while I don’t believe our lives could be blighted like Romeo and Juliet, I don’t think we can hope to find happiness in marriage. Not unless the king decides to bestow a title on me.”
Ashley huffed. She climbed out of bed and reached for her clothes. “Then we shall continue to be lovers.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Shall we?”
“If it’s what you want, Jack.”
“I want just to be with you. As long as my presence doesn’t harm you.”
“How can it?”
“What if you have a child, Ashley,” he asked gently.
Her eyes clouded. “I doubt I can. I had a miscarriage early in my marriage. The doctor said it was unlikely.”
Jack gathered her to him and held her close. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He kissed her hair.
She drew away. He suspected there were tears in her eyes, but she lowered her head over her petticoat. “I’d best go. I won’t come here again.”
~~~
Relieved to find no sign of infection, Erina treated Harry’s wound in the manner the doctor had instructed. She had stopped using alcohol before it caused dryness and itchiness and now swabbed the wound with vinegar mixed with boiled water and a little honey.
“Am I ready for the oven yet?”
She smiled. “I’ll begin using the salve tomorrow.”
Harry lay back as she bent her head over his chest, attaching a fresh bandage. Then she tied on the sling to support his right arm. While caring for him, she’d become familiar with his musky masculine smell and how smooth his skin was beneath her fingers, but even so, his closeness made her strangely short of breath. She remembered Cathleen’s words; how Mr. Leahy had made her feel. Dismissing the disturbing thought, she moved away from the bed. “You’re healing nicely.”
“Down to wholesome living.” Harry watched her as she rolled the remaining bandage. “You have capable hands, Erina.”
“Can you envision me sitting by the fire embroidering while my husband reads the broadsheets?” she asked sweetly.
Harry grinned. “You could sit on my lap and we’ll read the newspaper together.”
Her heart leaped, but one glance at his expression and she knew he was teasing her again. “You must be delirious.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on his forehead. Cool. “No. Bored then, most likely.”
He sighed heavily. “I am bored rigid. Is it any wonder? I’ve been confined to bed for almost a sennight. Your company my only pleasure. And you pamper me as if I’d been shot in the head instead of the shoulder, and incapable of an intelligent decision concerning my own welfare. You select my food—and I refuse to look at another egg custard or milk pudding! The worst indignity is when you send a man servant to shave me and wash me like a baby.”
“Difficult to shave yourself with your left hand.” She smiled, relieved that he was becoming more like his old self. “You’re getting better.”
Harry fell back on the pillow and laughed weakly. “I dashed well hope so.”
“Tomorrow, you can sit in that chair by the window in the sun.”
“How exciting. I simply cannot wait.”
She fought to dismiss the tender feeling he evoked in her as she tidied away the bandage and salve in a box. “You used to accuse me of being short tempered. I believe I’ve much to learn from you.”
Harry raked his chestnut hair with his good hand. “I apologize for cursing, Erina. I have become a sorehead. I shall be meek and mild for the rest of the day and will allow you to win at cards this evening.”
“Decent of you,” she said. “I believe the score is sixty-forty.”
“In my favor,” he added silkily.
“I shall even that up tonight without any assistance from you. I’m learning to be crafty from one of the best.”
“Brave words!” He gestured to the letter on the table that she’d brought in with her. “A letter has come? Who is it from? Do you plan to read it to me?”
“Not my father.” Her father’s reply to her letter stated crisply how the lack of a mother’s guidance had caused her to be less prudent and circumspect than a lady of her birth and breeding should be. There followed a fearful silence. “It’s another from Cathleen.”
“Good. I enjoyed her last letter. How are the piglets?”
“They are all thriving, and now that things have settled down at the farm, the hens are laying again.” She turned the page over. “Mr. Leahy has written. He’s coming to Naas to see her.” She grinned at Harry. “Isn’t that the best news?”
“Indeed, it is.” His gaze grew thoughtful.
She glanced at him. Her guilt at causing him to be shot lying heavy in her chest. “I do hope so. It would make this foolish trip of mine worthwhile.”
“It already is worthwhile.”
Her heart fluttered. “Why?”
“I’ve enjoyed it. Well, some of it.”
She stared at his face for confirmation that he wasn’t being his usual droll self. “I’m surprised to hear you say it.”
“I’m somewhat surprised myself. Dash it.” The knot had unraveled on the sling supporting his right arm.
“Here, let me.” Erina bent over him on the bed and tugged on the bandage.
He gazed up at her, his face close to hers. “There I go cursing again. Forgive me?”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Harry called.
Two elderly men stepped into the room.
“Well!” Erina’s father’s shocked eyes observed Erina’s hand where it rested on Harry’s chest.
“What do we have here, eh, Crispin?” Sir Ambrose asked her father as he hurried forward.