Captain Jack Ryder -The Duke's Bastard: Regency Sons Page 16

  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?”

  “O
h, 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!

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  On reaching London, Jack visited Bascombe and told him what had occurred in Manchester and what he’d learned from Renard. “When Butterstone returned to our shores with the intention of informing the French ambassador about the French being behind the assassination plot, he signed his own death warrant.”

  Jack explained how Caindale, realizing Butterstone was in danger, had hoped that by helping the Frenchman gain access to the information he sought, the matter would be at an end.

  “Naive of him,” Bascombe said. “His lordship is culpable and should be in prison, but we’d be hard-pressed to bring charges against a lord of the realm. It would only draw attention to the matter. Let’s put the affair to rest. It shall remain between us. No sense in upsetting our Gallic neighbors, let them deal with the matter of Bonaparte’s demise if they wish to pursue it. Our involvement will die with Butterstone. After all, the success of any venture can only be measured by its results. The murderer is dead and neatly dispensed with.” He indicated his approval with a nod. “Well done. I’ll have the guard removed from Caindale’s house.”

  “The Marquis de Montholon still lives,” Jack said with a trace of bitterness. He disliked leaving a stone unturned. “No doubt enjoying his handsome legacy from Bonaparte.”

  A smile touched Bascombe’s lips. He shook his head. “Diplomacy is like a race horse, Jack. A good jockey must know how to fall with the least possible damage.”

  At home, his butler informed him a Mr. Welby had called and wished to see him. Jack sent a servant with a note to the London Gazette to inform Welby that he’d found nothing of interest. And, as he was about to leave London and would be away for some months, he would be of no help to them should they wish to pursue what seemed likely to be a waste of their time.

  Jack spent the next few days in his library reading documents about how to turn flax into linseed oil and how glass was manufactured. He was now confident he could ask some pertinent questions when he visited his businesses.

  Harry’s note advised him he and Erina had returned to London. They were putting up at Sir Ambrose’s mansion in Berkley Square and would depart for France on the following day.

  That evening, Jack went to White’s with Harry to celebrate his marriage along with Grant, Tim, and Miles. Amid the laughter, chatter, and clink of glassware, they dined together in the club dining room, enjoying an excellent meal of seafood soup and a tasty roast leg of lamb, minted in a pastry crust, washed down with an admirable vintage.

  Jack sat back, amused, as did Grant, while Tim, always up for a lark, roasted Harry, while Miles joined in. Later, in the games room, they played hazard.

  Harry glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s been splendid seeing you fellows again.” He tossed down his cards. “Can’t seem to concentrate. How much do I owe?” He drew out his wallet. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t make a long night of it. Erina is alone in a strange house and we leave for France in the morning.”

  Tim raised an auburn eyebrow. “Plenty of hours left to bed your wife, Harry.”

  Harry chuckled and shook his head.

  “The least you can do is stay for a round or two more.” Miles blue eyes turned devilish as he called for another bottle. “We wish to raise our glasses to you and your bride.”

  “You have already toasted me many times and with several glasses too many,” Harry protested.

  “Nonsense. One or two more. Then we shall let you go,” Miles said silkily.

  An hour later, Harry was fast getting foxed, as were Miles and Tim. There followed a good deal of laughter and ribald jokes. Jack considered it wise for someone to keep a clear head, as Grant, who seldom over imbibed, had left them.

  Finally, Harry pushed back his chair. “I’m off, fellows. It’s been fun,” he said with a foolish grin. He made his way unsteadily to the door.

  They all followed him out into the street.

  “Allow us to escort you home,” Tim offered, as they stood on the pavement.

  “What?” Harry’s eyes widened. “No need. I know the way.”

  The fresh night air made Harry stagger. “Don’ leave me with these two,” he pleaded to Jack. “Don’t trust ’em.”

  Jack chuckled. “Here’s a hackney. I’ll ride home with you.”

  “Dash it! Harry said indignantly, falling onto the squab as Jack climbed in beside him. He attempted to straighten his clothes, but only made things worse. “Seem to have lost my hat.”

  Jack picked it up off the floor and held it out.

  “There it is. The devils must have kept topping up my glass when my back was turned.”

  “I daresay my time will come and so will theirs, Harry,” Jack said with a grin. “Remember that.”

  “Ah,” Harry said with a lopsided smile. “Yes. I’ll get ’em.”<
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  ~~~

  Erina hadn’t been able to sleep. Sir Ambrose’s house was so big and ancient it creaked abominably and sounded as if someone walked backward and forward outside the door. This time there definitely were footsteps in the corridor. She frowned. It didn’t sound like Harry. She knew his firm tread. The door opened. She clutched the bedcover to her chest. Open mouthed, she watched as Harry staggered into the room in an appalling state of dishevelment. “Harry!”

  “Sorry, Erina. Sorry, my love,” he murmured with a lamentable shake of his head which almost made him lose his balance. His cravat was hanging limply, and his coat slid off one shoulder. He seemed to have lost a glove.

  She leaped out of bed and hurried over to him. “What has happened? Were you robbed?”

  “No. Fellows had a bit of fun with me. Bashelor dinner an all.”

  “Harry! You are drunk!” In all the time she’d known him she’d never seen him drink more than a glass or two of wine.

  “Good thing I paced myself. Only half-sprung.” Harry sat on a chair and tried to pull off his shoes. He managed one then gave up and stood, dragging off his coat and almost falling again. “That Tim is a sneaky devil,” he said heatedly, stripping it off and throwing the garment down. “Can’t trust Miles as far as you could throw him, either.”

  “Keep still.” She pulled off his cravat as he tried to kiss her. Missing her mouth, he kissed her nose instead. He smelled strongly of port. “Sorry, my love,” he said again. “But I’ll get ’em.”

  He fell back onto the bed.

  “Well, I hope it’s not during our honeymoon,” Erina said. “It seems you’ve got the worst of it this time.” She realized Harry was snoring.

  Erina slipped off his other shoe. She undid the buttons on his trousers and pulled them down while he continued to snore. Drawing the covers over him she gazed at his sleeping face, so boyish in repose. “Oh Harry,” she laughed. “And you always so immaculate. The rascals!”

  She climbed into bed beside him. “You’ll have such a headache in the morning. And we sail for France on the tide! I wonder if it’s your head I’ll be holding over the rail?” Giggling, she snuggled into his warmth and closed her eyes.