Chapter Twenty-One
After nothing was heard from Caindale, Jack headed north to Manchester. On the road again with Arion, he gained that sense of freedom he’d missed. It was almost a relief to remove himself from the intense situation which had surrounded the Butterworth’s. Especially, when he hadn’t done as promised and found the murderer. And there was no sense in thinking of Ashley, although he did, constantly, with a sense of frustration and deep yearning. It was for her that he persisted with this task although he feared that what he might find could devastate her family.
Two days later, he rode through smoky Manchester which was quickly developing into a large town. It took him another hour to reach the river Bolin where Caindale’s cotton mill was located. The estate was impressive. Farm houses had been converted for the mill workers, even a school and a chapel.
As he drew close to the river, the noise greeted him. The huge metal water wheel on the northern end of the six-story brick building was clanking and churning with the rush of water. Jack dismounted and entered the mill floor which was crowded with the spinning mules that produced the cotton. This should be a hub of activity, but the workers were gone, the machinery driven by the belt attached to the wheel, chugging away pointlessly. Beyond the open back door, the river flowed past, the dank smell seeping in. Someone had been here then. Jack’s neck prickled.
At the sound of running footsteps, he bolted toward the door at the far end. He skidded to a stop then darted inside the counting house. Caindale was gurgling, strung up from a beam, his legs kicking uselessly in the air.
Jack pulled his knife from his boot and dragged a chair closer. He jumped up and cut the dying man loose from the rope which was wrapped tightly around his neck.
Caindale fell into Jack’s arms, barely breathing, his face suffused with blood.
“Can you speak?” Jack laid him on the floor and eased away the corded noose from his bruised throat. “Who did this?” he asked removing the man’s cravat.
Caindale opened his bloodshot eyes and coughed. “… a Frenchman,” he rasped. “… Renard.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
With a gasp, Caindale closed his eyes.
Jack searched for a pulse. He found a faint beat. With a curse, he rose and strode back through the mill in search of water, cocking his pistol. The man could still be lurking nearby. As he walked his gaze raked the huge room filled with the latest machinery that the Luddites objected to so violently. Nothing moved.
He’d almost reached the outer door when a gunshot rang out. The ball tore through Jack’s sleeve burning into his flesh. He dived to the floor, rolled, and came up in a crouch. Creeping forward, he viewed the mill floor from behind a wooden bench.
Silence, but for the scuffle of rats along the riverbank.
As Jack rounded the edge of a table, another shot bit a piece off the wooden post, sending shafts of timber flying. A piece of wood struck Jack’s cheek. He cursed under his breath and backed away.
“Let me walk out of here, monsieur. This is not your concern.”
Jack remembered Caindale’s words. A voice like hoarfrost. He leaned his back against the wood, listening. A soft shuffle edging closer.
An indrawn breath, a whisker away from him. His arm throbbing, on his hands and knees, Jack crawled in the opposite direction. A few yards on he peered around the table.
There he was. A short, dark-haired man. He leaned against a metal pillar intent on reloading his pistol, his swarthy face in profile.
Jack leaped to his feet and ran straight at him. The man looked up startled, but before he could react, Jack knocked the gun out of his hands. He shoved his own pistol into the Frenchman’s ribs. “Who are you?”
Hard brown eyes observed him. “One might ask you the same thing, monsieur.”
“I am a friend of Butterstone’s.” Jack took his measure. The brutal face of a dangerous man, his body coiled. Like a cornered rat, he’d use everything at his disposal to escape.
“The marquess has too many friends.” He bit out the words.
“You killed him and almost killed Caindale. Why?”
“Ah. Caindale still lives,” Renard said with a contemptuous stare. “Butterstone found out we planned to assassinate Bonaparte.”
“You poisoned him?”
“Now that you cannot accuse me of. I never met Bonaparte.”
“Who do you work for, Renard?”
“This is none of your concern. It would be wise not to get involved in this affair.”
With a prod to the man’s torso, he gestured toward the office. “Walk.”
“What do you intend to do with me?”
“Keep quiet and move.” Jack puzzled over how to deal with him. It would be difficult to get him back to Bascombe in London. But if he handed him over to the Manchester magistrate, this business would become public knowledge. That would be unwise.
In the office, Caindale still lay on the floor, but he breathed more normally, an arm resting over his eyes.
“You’re like a cat with nine lives, Caindale. You’re hard to kill,” the Frenchmen said dispassionately. “I should have shot you.”
Jack shoved him into the room. “Why?”
“He’s weak. Threatened to confess everything in parliament.”
“That’s not weak. It takes great courage.”
Caindale removed his arm and sat up. He stared at them with red eyes. “You don’t need to worry about me, Ryder. I’m all right now,” he said his voice a guttural bark.
As he climbed unsteadily to his feet he staggered. Lightning fast, the Frenchman leaped forward, grabbed Caindale, and swung him between himself and Jack, an arm around Caindale’s neck. A knife had slipped from his sleeve and he held it to Caindale’s throat. “Drop the gun. Then I shall leave here, and you can forget we ever met.”
Jack cursed. He was growing soft, should have searched him. “Reasonable of you. How can I resist?”
“Don’t listen to him, Ryder,” Caindale said. “He’s killed Butterworth and the maid and won’t have any qualms about killing you. You can’t trust him.”
Renard bared his teeth in a snarl. “Both deaths were necessary, and you’ll be next.” His blade nicked Caindale’s throat and beads of blood ran down into his collar.
“Kill him and you’re dead too, Renard.”
“I’ll take my chances, monsieur. Pistols can misfire. Or you may not be such a good shot.”
Jack dropped the pistol at his feet. The whites of Renard’s eyes revealed his panic. He’d made a serious error of judgment. Maybe his first, and possibly his last.
Renard edged toward the door, dragging Caindale with him as a shield. Before he reached it, Caindale’s knees buckled, and he went down. With a foul curse, the Frenchman raised the knife over the helpless man at his feet. Jack snatched up the pistol and fired from a crouch. The deafening sound boomed around the space as crimson blood spread across Renard’s forehead. With a surprised look, he crumpled to the floor.
Caindale rose slowly to his feet. He stood looking down at the Frenchman. He nudged him with his boot. “Dead as a burnt-out cinder.”
“You said there were two men, Caindale. The man who held up your coach and brought you back to London? Who is he?”
“Lies, all lies, designed to put you off,” Caindale said with a sad pull of his mouth. “There was only one. Renard was a convincing talker with the promise of enough money to get this mill up and running. My role was just to pave the way for a maid to join Butterstone’s household and search his luggage for any evidence of the plot.” He sighed, his forehead creased with pain. He put a finger to the cut on his injured throat which had turned his shirt collar red. “And I fell for it.”
Jack snatched up Caindale’s cravat and held it out to him. “Press this against the wound and sit down somewhere outside while I deal with the body. It’s better for no one to find it. Then we’ll fetch a doctor and hire a carriage to take you home. Lady Caindale is beside herself with worry and so is your niece. You are fortunate to have such a loving family.”
“I am.” Caindale found his hat and placed it on his head. “It’s more than I deserve.”
Jack hefted Renard’s body up over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
When he returned having loaded Renard’s pockets with rocks and dumped his body in the river, Caindale was slumped against a pillar, his blood-spotted cravat tied around his neck. “My horse has gone lame. He’s at the stables in the town. A cannon bone they say. But I’m not up to riding him in any event.”
“After you see the doctor, hire a carriage in Manchester. Your groom can fetch the horse later. We’ll double up, if you’re up to it.”
Caindale nodded. “I’ll manage. I’ve cheated death. I’m eternally grateful to you, Captain Ryder.”
“No need.”
They walked out through a loading bay. The rain had eased leaving pools of water on the ground. Around the corner, Arion neighed a welcome.
“You do believe me, don’t you Ryder?” Caindale asked desperately. “I swear I never thought Renard would kill either Butterstone, or that poor maid. I hoped that once he had the information he sought, the matter would be at an end. I feared for John should he continue to seek out the truth.” He moaned softy. “Out of desperation, I made a terrible mistake. I needed the money to make improvements, to put in one of the new steam engines to drive the power. I need it to ensure the regularity of the yarn. As it is now we can’t compete. Every time the water levels drop in the river during the summer it halts production for months.”
Caindale stopped and turned pleadingly to Jack. “My workers rely on me for their livelihood. They are in desperate straits.” He waved his hand toward the workers’ cottages and the buildings which housed the young. “I’m fighting to continue to pay for food for those who still live here.” He straightened his back. “The young are taught to read and write and can continue in other employment when they’re ready to leave. But I’ve had to put off many of them. Without work, the girls will end up on the streets. I’m constantly receiving letters from desperate people begging me to start production again.” He glanced up at the lowering clouds promising more rain. “I cling to the hope that I’ll be able to raise the money to continue.”
While Jack couldn’t approve of what Caindale had done, he did understand the man’s desperation. And he understood better why Ashley had tried to protect him. “Why did Renard consider it necessary to kill your brother-in-law?”
“Butterstone planned to consult the French ambassador. But he was away from London when my brother-in-law arrived back, so he didn’t get the chance.”
“Why string you up, why not shoot you?”
Caindale pulled a note from his waistcoat pocket. “Made me write this. He planned for my death to look like a suicide–knew how close I was to losing everything. No one would question it.” Caindale tucked the letter back into place. “Some French intelligence officer was poking around, and Renard was feeling the heat in London. Didn’t want another murder which might lead back to him, particularly with the editor of the London Chronicle sniffing out the story.”
Jack took the reins and mounted Arion. “So, Bonaparte was poisoned. Why else would they go to all this trouble?” He leaned a hand down for Caindale.
Caindale clasped hold of Jack’s hand. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind him. “Not sure. But Renard said they’d been feeding him arsenic for some time. Small doses in his wine.”
“Who would have administered the poison?”
“I was led to believe it was Bonaparte’s acting sommelier, Marquis de Montholon. But I am not certain.”
“Where is the marquis now?”
“Somewhere on the Continent. No sense in going after him. He has powerful friends. You might not make it home.”
“I’ll leave it for history to judge.” Jack led Arion along the road with Caindale hanging on behind him. “Why involve yourself in this business? Was it all about the money?”
“Some of it, but not all. Renard assured me Bonaparte was on the verge of escaping again. I lost my eldest son in the Peninsular Wars. I have another. He’s sixteen years old and wants to join the army. I don’t want another war.”
“Let’s hope we don’t get into one for a while.”
Caindale sighed. “Indeed.”
~~~
Harry shut the door while Erina, unable to breathe, waited ramrod still in the center of the room. She loved him. So intensely, it was impossible to express it with words. He took her hands, and drew her close, his brown eyes brimming with tenderness and what she hoped was desire.
“First of all, Erina, I want to make it plain why I married you.”
She released a breath. “Why, Harry?”
“Because you are the most infuriatingly stubborn, the most deliciously attractive, the most generous hearted woman I’ve ever met.” He put a finger to her lips as she began to interrupt. “And because, my darling girl, I am madly in love with you. And have been since that time in the stables when you introduced me to your horse.”
“Really?” she exclaimed joyfully.
Harry groaned and wrapped his arms tightly around her. “You make me feel alive, Erina. I wanted to draw you down in the hay back then. And every day since. Even when crippled and stuck in my bed, the urge has never left me.”
Shocked by his sudden ardor her skin tingled, and her body warmed. She eased away to stare into his face wanting to be sure. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lead me to believe…?”
“I didn’t do any such thing, my love. You were determined not to marry. Not me, at any rate. I knew I could never change that stubborn mind of yours, so I waited. And it’s almost killed me.” A look of vulnerability entered his eyes. “Do you love me a bit, Erina?”
“Oh, Harry. I love you a lot.” A soft gasp escaped her. “You mean everything to me.”
A wry, but indulgent glint appeared in his eyes. “I had begun to hope you regarded me with more than fondness, but I wasn’t sure. I know how you value your freedom.”
“But I don’t, not with you. I know you will be a fair husband. I want to be beside you, always!”
“My darling, passionate girl.”
His words became difficult to decipher as his soft lips sought hers. Harry cradled her face as he kissed her endlessly until her knees trembled. He took her hand and led her over to the bed.
As she sat there, Harry removed the ribbon from her hair tossing pins to the floor. Her heart throbbed with joy and love for him. But what would the servants think? “Does one do this in the daytime?”
“One does.”
He threaded her long auburn tresses through his fingers and raised a lock to his lips. “There are strands of gold through the red, and it smells so sweet.”
He stepped away and began to remove his clothes. Coat, cravat, waistcoat, and shirt were tossed aside in a very un-Harry-like manner. Then he sat to remove his boots and stockings.
A heavy feeling settled in her stomach as she gazed at his bare chest. She slipped from the bed to trace the puckered red scar on his shoulder. “Does this still hurt?”
His arms slipped around her and he pulled her close. “I shan’t let you destroy the mood, Erina,” he said as he nudged her ear and pressed kisses over her throat. His fingers at her back worked at the Dorset buttons on her gown. Slipping it from her shoulders it pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and stood in her petticoats while after kissing her shoulder he undid the laces of her stays. He continued to undress her with his usual efficiency, pausing to kiss parts of her as they were revealed. Her breath quickened, and she held onto his shoulder, his bare skin invitingly smooth beneath her fingers.
Harry stripped off his trousers and underwear and drew her down onto the bed. How extraordinary to lie skin to skin with a man, her body aching for his touch.
He cradled her breasts in his hands and bent to kiss them. “Your beauty exceeds all my boyish imaginings.”
Thrilled at his obvious pleasure in her she swept a hand over his chest while admiring his lean, well-endowed body. “You are very handsome, Harry.”
When he lowered his head again to her breasts, a hungry desire began to build within her.
“Shall we have a large brood of children?” His tongue did something exquisite to a nipple.
A moan of ecstasy slipped from her lips. “Five or six seems a respectable number.…”
His mouth on hers took her words away as his clever hands produced the most delightful feelings.
She arched to meet his feather-like strokes. She was losing herself as a need built within her. Then with a cry, she tumbled into a wave of delicious sensations. She lay there heavy limbed in the afterglow and yet, somehow not replete.
Harry rolled her beneath him, his rampant need for her nudging her belly, his eyes dark and smoldering with desire. “Shall we begin now?” he asked his voice strained.
“Oh, Harry. I adore you. Yes, my darling. Now!