Chapter Four
The inn’s parlor was in an uproar. Guests crowded into the room where a man lay on the sofa. Jack saw he bled heavily from a chest wound. An older lady leaned over him, trembling, sobbing, and patting his cheek.
“What happened to the fellow?” Jack asked the innkeeper, Joe Peck, who stood silent and concerned beside him.
“Lord and Lady Butterstone and their daughter, Lady Althea, were returning home to Ivywood Hall from London when they were attacked by a highwayman,” Peck said. “His lordship resisted and was shot. I’ve sent for the surgeon.”
“I gained a little knowledge about treating gunshot wounds in the army,” Jack said. “I might be able to help.”
Peck looked relieved. “Then please do, sir. Lady Butterstone is close to hysterics.”
“Send the other guests back to their rooms. Fetch me clean cloths and warm water. Brandy too.”
Jack approached the sofa, where a young, fair-haired woman stood watching the sad tableau, her eyes stricken.
The daughter. Jack smiled gently at her.
“Captain Ryder, my lady. Allow me to see what can be done. If you could draw your mother away for a moment. Encourage her to drink a little brandy, or a strong, sweet cup of tea. Mr. Peck will see to it.”
She nodded, murmuring something in her mother’s ear. With an anguished glance at Jack, Lady Butterstone allowed her daughter to lead her away.
On his knees, Jack moved aside Lord Butterstone’s fine wool coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. As he eased up the linen shirt, a strong, metallic odor rose from where the ball had entered one side of his chest. Frothy blood gave clue to a lung wound.
When Peck brought the brandy, napkins, and water, Jack packed the linen against the wound and tried to stem the blood, knowing it was useless. When Jack eased a pillow beneath the gentleman’s head, Lord Butterstone opened his eyes.
“I’m dying.” A grim smile appeared in his lordship’s bloodshot eyes. “Too late to set things to rights.”
“Jack Ryder, sir. The doctor is on his way. Is there something I can do?”
Lord Butterstone coughed, and a trickle of blood touched his lips. With a weak hand, he motioned Jack closer. “Stamford’s son? Knew the duke. A good man.”
“Yes, he was.”
Lord Butterstone moaned. “Don’t have long. I must ask your help.”
“Anything.” Jack waited as the man fought to gain his breath. Did he need a priest?
“No highwayman… shot Bert, my groom, dead. A good servant. Can you see my wife and daughter safely home… stay with them until Lady Butterstone’s brother arrives?”
“Don’t worry, my lord. I will ensure their safety as long as is necessary. Who attacked you?”
“A long story…” He tried to raise his head. “And no time to tell it.” He licked the blood on his lips. “But I worry about my family’s safety.”
Jack realized that his lordship was losing his fight and gestured to where Lady Butterstone sat with a teacup in her hand.
She hurried over, knelt beside her husband, and held his hand. “My love.”
“Forgive me, Mary, I’ve been a fool…” His head rolled back.
Lady Butterstone gasped and collapsed onto the floor in a dead faint.
“Mama!” Lady Althea tried to help her mother. When she couldn’t rouse her, she looked at Jack with an appeal in her eyes.
Jack grasped Lady Althea’s shoulders and gently moved her aside. He hefted the unconscious woman up into his arms and carried her to an upholstered chair. The lady leaned her head back against the padded cushion, her face very pale.
He’d seen a great deal of dying men during the war, but watching these women was especially difficult. He hated feeling helpless. “I wish I could have done more.”
Lady Althea patted her mother’s hand. Her tear-filled blue eyes searched his. “There was never anything anyone could do.”
She was shocked but did not seem surprised. He wondered if she referred to something other than the attack.
“Your father asked me to escort you and your mother home. But might it be better to stay here until daylight? I’m sure Peck can find you a room.”
She straightened her shoulders, as if drawing on her own fragile strength. “I need to get Mama home. But you must be tired, Captain Ryder. We will have roused you from your bed.”
“After five years in the army, I am used to going without sleep.”
When she nodded, a pale-gold ringlet stirred against her cheek. She tucked it back, clearly exhausted. Violet shadows lay beneath her eyes, and faint worry lines creased her brow. “But we live twenty miles from here. Won’t it take you too far out of your way?”
“I’m not in any hurry. Your father asked me to remain with you until your uncle arrives. I’m happy to oblige, if your mother wishes it.”
“I’m sure Mama will be most grateful.”
“Did you recognize your attacker?”
She shook her head while continuing to stroke her mother’s limp hand.
“Did he steal from you?”
“No. I suppose he panicked.”
When she met his gaze, something unspoken hovered in the air. As if she wanted to say more.
Lady Butterstone stirred.
“Mama, can you sit up? Take a little brandy? This gentleman is Captain Ryder. Papa asked him to take us home.”
Jack addressed the prostrate lady. “I’m told you’ve lost your groom, my lady. I’ll see to your coach. And when you are stronger, tomorrow, perhaps? I’ll escort you both safely to Ivywood Hall.”
Lady Butterstone blinked at him, evidently bewildered. “Thank you, but I wish to go home.”
Jack crossed the room to where Peck waited. “Have the parish constable and the magistrate been sent for?”
Peck nodded. “Sent my ostler. Sad business. Lord Butterstone was much liked in these parts.”
“Any idea who was behind the attack? I wasn’t aware of highwaymen roaming this part of the countryside.”
“They haven’t been seen around here for years,” Peck said. “I don’t know who the murderer is, but the locals will be worried.”
“Lady Butterstone wishes to return to her home—tonight.”
Peck scratched his head. “Understandable, I suppose. It’s as well as the inn is booked out.”
“They could have had my room, but I can see her ladyship’s mind is made up. I’ll get everything ready.”
Outside in the shadowed forecourt, the coachman walked the horses. The poor man looked wretched.
Jack nodded at him. “Jack Ryder. Nasty business.”
“John Mullins, sir. Will Lord Butterstone recover?”
“I’m afraid he’s gone.”
Mullins lowered his head. “They were both good men. Didn’t deserve to be cut down like that.”
“Tell me how it happened.”
Mullins wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Blast and bugger your eyes, that rogue galloped straight up to us from out of the trees. Shot the groom, Bert, who sat beside me on the box without a how do you do. Bert was armed, but he might as well not have been. He was holding a lantern and had no time to raise the gun. Then his lordship stepped out of the coach, apparently to reason with the rogue, and was gunned down in cold blood. The murderous devil turned his horse and rode off. Made no attempt to rob her ladyship, who was screaming fit to burst. And those diamonds of hers must be worth a king’s ransom. ”
Not a robbery, then. “What did this gunman look like?”
The coachman shrugged. “Wore a handkerchief over his lower face and his hat pulled low. Tall in the saddle on a decent roan.”
“I’m to ride with you to Ivywood Hall.”
The coachman nodded, looking pleased. “Lady Butterstone will be relieved to have a big, strong fellow like you guarding her, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”
Jack retrieved his portmanteau from the bedchamber, loaded his gun, and shoved it into his coat pocket.
After he paid Peck for the bed he hadn’t gotten to sleep in, he went to the stable to saddle Arion.
It had stopped raining. The clouds overhead had shifted away, leaving the landscape cast in a chiaroscuro of silvery moonlight and deep purple shadows.
Even with the carriage lamps lit, visibility would be poor, and the roads potholed and muddy.
Jack checked the sky to the north. An ominous wall of midnight-dark clouds lurked on the horizon.
It begged the question as to why Lord Butterstone had chosen to travel so late at night, and in this inclement weather.
It could be an unpleasant and possibly dangerous ride to Ivywood Hall.
*
Erina and Harry’s conversation lapsed whilst they concentrated on scrambling down the steep path. Although he had still managed to whistle a lively tune.
“You don’t act like a man with a broken heart, sir,” she commented, once they’d reached level ground.
“I suppose not.” Harry paused to stretch. “Sometimes what one thinks one wants isn’t always what one needs.”
She cast him a sidelong glance. That didn’t mean Miss Beckworth hadn’t hurt him.
He might well have been hiding his disappointment from her and putting on a brave face.
“Fortunate to have discovered it before any firm commitment is made,” she said.
“It does leave us in a pickle, though, doesn’t it? ”
His eyes were solemn. “Short of browbeating our fathers into submission, I’ve run out of ideas, I’m afraid.”
“Is there no other lady who might have taken your fancy?”
He raised his eyebrows. “What? Here today? Why don’t you find a nice gentleman to suit your father, instead? There is one enjoying your father’s hospitality as we speak.”
“Who, pray, might that be?”
“The Honorable Lyndon Wainright.”
Mr. Wainright was younger than she was by a year. And when he was older, he would still be dull company.
“We wouldn’t suit,” she said quickly.
A gleam warmed Harry’s eyes. “His father is a viscount. Wouldn’t Wainright be a better choice than me?”
She wasn’t about to tell him she’d refused Mr. Wainright’s offer of marriage. It was a sore point with her father. She paused and gazed at Harry askance. “Well, no. As a matter of fact, if I must, I would prefer to marry you. At least you have a sense of humor.”
Harry chuckled. “Well, that’s extremely gracious of you.”
Beyond the fence, fields of wheat swayed in the breeze. Erina picked up her muslin skirts and took his extended hand to climb a stile. She had taken him the long way around because she dreaded going home. “Let’s stick to the matter at hand. We must work together.”
He jumped down and joined her. “We’ll have to agree to our parents’ wishes.”
“What?” She puffed away a wisp of hair that had escaped from beneath her straw hat and narrowed her eyes at him. “You surely aren’t giving up?”
With a shake of his head, he studied her for a moment. “My, but you are a spirited woman, Lady Erina.”
“It’s just that I don’t wish to marry,” Erina confessed.
“Never?”
“Well, yes, of course, eventually. But not with such haste.” It seemed foolish to mention love after her father had ridiculed the notion. “I’d like time to meet the right man, enjoy our courtship. And I dislike being told what I must do.”
“A little stubborn, would you say?”
Erina frowned at him as they entered the shady rhododendron, her outraged breath drawing in the pungent smell of damp, rotting leaves. “At least I’m not one to give up when things get too difficult.”
Harry swiveled to face her. “I only meant that we should merely appear to agree with our parents. To give us more time.”
She gazed thoughtfully into his chocolate-brown eyes. They were kind eyes, patient, humorous. A woman would be lucky to marry Harry. If she wished to live a sedate, ordered life. Erina almost shuddered at the thought. “Yes, that seems the only option left to us.”
They emerged into sunlight and walked under an arch of white clematis leading from the formal gardens onto the lawns.
Harry offered her his arm. “Shall we go in and face them?”
She nodded.
They walked into the house, where the last of the guests, anxious to continue their journey before nightfall, were about to depart.
Erina joined her father to bid them farewell as their carriages lined up on the drive.
Soon the last vehicle rattled away, and the house settled into its familiar sounds, the clunk of the long-case clock in the hall, the creak and rattle of timbers.
Half an hour later, Erina and Harry joined Sir Ambrose and her father in the library.
The men drank brandy while she sipped a glass of Madeira.
She selected one of the small cakes on the platter.
They had missed luncheon, and she was hungry.
She offered the plate to Harry, who winked at her and took two.
“You two young people seem to be getting on well,” Sir Ambrose said with a satisfied smile.
“We have become firm friends.” Harry smiled at her. “Have we not, Erina?”
“Yes, very good friends,” Erina echoed, earning a suspicious glance from her father.
“Excellent,” Sir Ambrose said. “Your father and I have decided to place an announcement of your engagement in the newspaper Friday next.”
Her father looked as pleased as Punch. “Your Aunt Abbie shall be called upon to assist you with your bridal clothes and the other necessities.”
Alarmed, Erina glanced at Harry. They had less than a week to come up with an alternative scheme. “Were you planning to depart today, Sir Ambrose?”
Sir Ambrose beamed. “Don’t wish to see Harold go, eh? Won’t be long before you two can be together as husband and wife, m’dear.”
“Sir Ambrose has decided to spend another night,” her father said. “So that you and young Mr. Feather can enjoy one more evening together.”
Harry grinned at her. “What shall we play after dinner? Draughts? Cards, chess?”
She was suddenly suspicious. It occurred to her that Harry might be becoming more reconciled to the idea of their marriage.
Was he merely pretending to find a way out?
Men could continue their lives as comfortably after marriage as they could before it.
He would just tuck her away somewhere and join his friends in London.
She smiled sweetly. “You haven’t met my horse, Jessie. It’s still light enough outside for a walk to the stables after dinner. May I show her to you?”
“Really, Erina, that horse of yours…” Her father clamped his lips, no doubt fearing she’d present as an unattractive, horsey woman to Sir Ambrose, as if being taller than most ladies weren’t bad enough.
Harry’s brows lifted, but he recovered quickly. “But of course. I look forward to it.”
When her father and Sir Ambrose became embroiled in a discussion about some bill before Parliament, Harry shrugged. A smile lifting his lips, he winked.
Erina almost giggled but fortunately was able to stop herself in time. It wouldn’t do to encourage him. She must make clear her feelings on the impossibility of a marriage between them. Trouble was, Harry had a way about him that distracted her.