Chapter Seventeen
Jack’s stay at Albany was at an end, his luggage delivered to the townhouse. The staff had arrived, and Jack had been introduced to the butler, Livermore, and his new housekeeper, Mrs. March. Now, the house quietly hummed as servants went about their business while the smells of beeswax and lavender perfumed the air.
Bascombe had sent word that he’d arranged for Caindale’s premises to be watched. Jack intended to call on Caindale that afternoon to learn the name of the man Butterstone met before he left London. Maybe, something would emerge from this murky business. Bonaparte seemed to have reached out to manipulate them from the grave. Made him think of Shelley’s poem, Queen Mab: Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whatever it touches.
The post brought a letter from Harry which put Jack’s mind at ease. Harry apologized for not penning the letter himself. He’d suffered a slight accident that put his writing hand out of action. Soon, he would explain everything. Their trip to Ireland had proved interesting, and they would return home the following day. As he and Erina were to be married in two weeks, he would be honored should Jack consent to be his best man—if he hadn’t taken off for parts unknown. Harry would advise Jack of the details when he reached home.
Jack propped his feet on the ornate satinwood desk with a bark of laughter. He tossed the letter onto the polished surface. Well what a surprise! Wasn’t it just like Harry to leave a man dangling? He missed his friend’s ironic straight-faced humor, a foil to his down-to-earth commonsense. The first of them to take the plunge into matrimony. To the lovely Erina, a spirited lady who would take him on a wild ride through life. “Best thing for him,” Jack murmured. Harry had lost some of his verve since the war which had affected them all in various ways.
He looked around the library lined with bookshelves waiting to be filled, the empty marble fireplace, which would be pleasant on a cold evening. Through the tall windows draped in burgundy silk the sun’s rays traced a pattern over the Turkey rug. Beyond the glass, a breeze toyed with the leaves of a chestnut tree. “What this room needs, is a dog.” Jack’s hound had died last year at the grand old age of seventeen.
Bemused, Jack shook his head. A dog? Can’t take an animal on the road. Might he be getting too comfortable? He lowered his legs, pushed himself away from the desk and went to his bedroom to change into riding clothes. Time to fetch Arion from the stables and introduce him to his new home. But first, they would go for a gallop in the park. It was too early for the fashionable to object.
Two hours later, washed, changed, and refreshed from his ride, he set out on foot.
A man lurked in the street outside Caindale’s townhouse. He stood to attention when Jack approached. A soldier once, but no one he recognized. Jack raised his hand in greeting, which the man returned.
The butler admitted Jack into the Caindales’ drawing room. Moments later, the door opened, and a dark-haired lady of middle age entered. Surprised, Jack bowed. “Captain Ryder, Lady Caindale. I wished a word with your husband.”
She hurried forward, fear in her eyes. “He’s not here, Captain Ryder. But he has left you a letter.” She held it out. “As you see it is sealed. It’s my hope Caindale has told you where he’s gone.”
Jack took the letter from her trembling fingers.
“Please, do sit down.” She sank onto a chair and began to explain how her husband had grown increasingly nervous, over the last month or so. “It began before his impromptu trip to Paris.” She rubbed her temples. “But he would tell me nothing, other than that I must not worry. Then yesterday morning while I was still abed, he left the house carrying a portmanteau his valet had packed for him. He rode off on his horse without leaving word. And he hasn’t returned.”
“Might he be at his country estate?”
“No. I sent a footman there straight away. The servant returned last night. They haven’t seen him.”
“Perhaps the letter will inform us.” Jack broke the seal. The letter was several pages of closely written script. He scanned it.
After a moment, she leaned forward. “Does he say where he’s gone?”
“His manufacturing business in Manchester.”
“Oh, that’s it then.” She sighed. “He’s been very worried about the cotton mill. Typhus struck down many of the workers and halted production. He will want to employ more staff. He doesn’t like to worry me about matters of business and would not have wanted me to come with him. Caindale hates slow coach trips.” She toyed with the cameo brooch at her neck as her eyes filled with doubt. “So, he is in Manchester?”
“Yes, he states quite clearly that is his direction.” Jack stood. “If I hear anything more from Lord Caindale, I’ll notify you straightaway, my lady. Although I expect you’ll hear from him before I do.”
She rose to see him out. “You are kind. Thank you, Captain Ryder.”
Instead of going directly to Bascombe, Jack made a detour to Grosvenor Square. In his letter, Caindale had given him the name of the man they sought, a Viscount Holmes. It was also a confession of sorts. Caindale had become involved in something bigger and more dangerous than he’d first envisaged. A Frenchman had employed him to cover up Butterstone’s investigation into the conspiracy to murder Bonaparte. When Caindale learned of the danger to his brother-in-law, he’d taken to the road to warn him, but his coach was held up and he’d been forced to return to London. Caindale was stricken with remorse to learn of Butterstone’s death and refused to take any payment for his part in the affair. Now that his family was safe, he had gone north to Manchester to improve his finances.
The Butterstone’s butler admitted Jack to the house. Jack was shown into the cramped office where the majordomo, Thacker stood waiting. “Good to see you again, Captain Ryder.” His disgruntled expression said otherwise.
“I wonder if you have any news for me.” Jack sat. “Anything untoward occurred since we last spoke?”
“Only that the housemaid Amy, who took Sarah’s place after the maid was run down in the street, appears to have absconded.”
“When was this?”
“In the late afternoon, it was. Two days ago.”
“You didn’t think it necessary to inform me?”
Thacker frowned. “At the time I didn’t consider it of particular importance. Maids come and go. Some fellow involved more than likely.”
“Did you inquire at the agency when you replaced her?”
“I did. They had no knowledge of Amy.”
“Her references were forged?”
“No! I wouldn’t fall for that ploy. You learn as many tricks as an organ grinder’s monkey in this job! Amy’s references came from a fine family related to the Butterstones.”
“Who might that be?”
“The Caindales.”
“Has Lady Butterstone been informed?”
“Yes. She didn’t seem to take it in. Said I should refer it to the housekeeper.”
“What about Lady Ashley?”
“Lady Ashley was present at the time. She made no comment.”
Jack tightened his jaw and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Thacker. You’ve been most helpful.”
Thacker either missed the note of irony in Jack’s voice or decided to ignore it. He climbed to his feet and offered his hand. “Glad to be of service, Captain Ryder.” He followed Jack down the corridor. “It’s been a smoky business all round. Do you have any news to impart about poor Lord Butterworth’s death?”
In the hall, Jack took his hat, gloves, and cane from the butler. “Not as yet, Mr. Thacker, but please contact me immediately should any other problem arise.”
Jack crossed the road. He examined this latest information as he walked toward Bascombe’s house. The colonel would be very interested in this latest development. He banged his cane against the wrought-iron fence that encased the gardens, as something he’d learned rose to trouble him. Ashley had known about the maid. Why hadn’t she mentioned it to him?
~~~
Home again at Rountree Park, Erina rode her mare, Jessie, along the trail through the woods. An hour later, she arrived back her thoughts in less of a turmoil. At the stables she groomed her horse with a curry comb, removing the loose hair, then worked briskly with the dandy brush, a ritual she found calming. She cleaned the horse’s hooves while Jessie watched her with her big soft dark eyes. Finally, Erina brushed the horse’s mane and tail. She put the feed bag on, patted Jessie’s neck and left the horse to the stable boy.
As she walked back to the house, Erina anguished over her approaching wedding which was to take place in the village church in a little over a week’s time. Her father had wasted little time bringing her home and organizing the vicar. Harry’s special license was employed. After deciding that their marriage was the only way to avoid a terrible scandal, her father, in collaboration with Sir Ambrose, had posted their engagement in the Morning Post the day after she and Harry left for Ireland. After which, it was put about that Erina had come down with a horrid rash after falling from her horse into a patch of bishop’s weed and would see no one. So, by some miracle, and the swift action of their fathers, their scandalous journey had remained a secret.
Aunt Abbie would arrive this afternoon to assist in the wedding preparations. Harry, who was improving daily, had been taken home to Featherstone Court in Mayfair to be treated by his father’s London doctor. They would not meet again until the day of the wedding.
Erina plucked a bay leaf as she passed the shrub, releasing a savory scent as she shredded it with her fingers. She didn’t like her days feeling so empty without Harry. She feared she’d fallen in love with him. She’d been shocked at her own eager response to the touch of his lips. Her mind constantly recalled the musk of his smooth skin, and the intriguing shape of his body beneath the bedcovers. She was a hopeless case. Would she become like her mother? Married to a man who didn’t love her?
Her father was in his study catching up on the news while his pipe smoke sucked the air from the room.
“Cathleen lives very simply.” Erina swooped up their tabby, Jasper, and sat on the sofa with him on her lap, stroking his soft fur. “Did Mama’s family lose their fortune?”
Her father peered at her over the top of the broadsheet. “What made you think your mother’s family was wealthy?”
“Didn’t Mama have a handsome dowry?”
“She did not.” Her father put down his paper and glared at her. “Do you believe that’s why I married her?”
“No, of course not.” Erina reddened.
“I loved your mother.” His gaze softened. “When we first danced at Almack’s, I knew there could never be another woman for me. My father tried to prevent the match. Irish and practically no dowry? He was furious. It was required of me to marry an heiress. I dug my heels in and married her, anyway. And I never regretted it for a moment.”
Erina stared at him suffering guilt for doubting him. “I didn’t know, Papa.”
“No, my dear. How could you? You were only a child when she died.” He puffed on his pipe and the familiar smell of tobacco spread through the room. “I supported her family for years. Profligates most of them. I refuse to do it again.”
“But Cathleen is a very nice person. I’m sure you’d like her.”
“Perhaps I would. But I’m not going back to Ireland to meet her.”
“Mama was your choice. Why didn’t you allow me to choose my husband?”
“I became concerned when you refused Lyndon Wainwright’s perfectly respectable offer last Season, because you feared he would prevent you from living as you wished. But I allowed you to have your way, did I not?”
“I am grateful.” She clamped her lips before she blurted out that Lyndon was still tied to his mother’s apron strings. Lady Wainwright mollycoddled her son and gazed at Erina with a critical eye. She feared Lady Wainwright would have insisted Erina treat him in the same fashion.
“Mm. I wasn’t so enamored of Wainright, but I am confident you and Harry will rub along together very well.”
“Are you, Papa? What makes you so sure?”
“He’s a steady fellow with a good temperament, and,” he glanced at her, “while I wouldn’t call you flighty, for you have a good brain in your head, you do suffer from the delusion that a woman can live as freely as a man. I’m afraid that is not so, my dear. I cannot see it ever being so. I feared you would be hurt. If Harold wasn’t such a gentleman, you well might have been.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you really believe traipsing off to Ireland with Harold would be a harmless frolic?”
“No, but I was so worried for Cathleen I suppose I didn’t stop to think of the consequences. I expected her to come home with me, which would have made everything all right and proper. And I did try to show you her letter, Papa. I asked you to take me to Ireland, but you refused.”
“Well, it’s all in the past now. Your cousin has returned to her home. You should be pleased about that.”
“I am.” She gently tweaked Jasper’s ears and was rewarded with a loud purr. “But I wish I wasn’t so nervous about marrying Mr. Feather.”
“It’s perfectly natural. Marriage is a big step. But I am confident you will be happy, Erina.”
She wanted to confess her fears; how Harry hadn’t wanted her from the first, and while he considered her a friend and perhaps did like her a little, he didn’t love her. Despite his warm assurances that their union was what he desired, she knew she wasn’t what he wanted in a wife. He’d made it plain when they first met that he preferred a quiet girl like Florence Beckworth. Try as she might, she could never be like her. But her father had returned to The Times. He wouldn’t understand.
She rose and put down Jasper who mewed in protest. “I must go and see if the blue bedroom has been made ready for Aunt Abbie.”
Her father, busy refilling his pipe, murmured agreement as she left the room.