Chapter Six
In the entry hall, Lady Althea left the servants and came to Jack’s side. “It’s my Uncle George, Baron Caindale. He was kidnapped on his way here.”
Her eyes registered shock. She wrung her hands as her desperate attempt to remain calm deserted her.
Against his better judgement, as it would look bad in front of the servants, Jack took her arm and drew her farther away from the huddle of servants.
“We need to talk. Perhaps you can see to the staff first?”
She spun around and sent her uncle’s groom and coachman on their way to the stables. Billings sent the footmen to the kitchen with an order for them to be fed and for tea and sandwiches to be brought to the salon.
“I must go up to my mother,” Lady Althea said, after order had been restored.
“Billings can see to Lady Butterstone,” said Jack. “I want you to tell me all that you know. Then I’ll question Lord Caindale’s servants. If something can be done, I’ll need to act fast.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” With a shuddering breath, Lady Althea went and spoke quietly to Billings.
She returned to Jack as the butler climbed the staircase with the gait of a man going to the scaffold. “Please come into the salon.” She led Jack through a doorway.
He followed her into an elegantly furnished room with walls decorated in panels of blue silk framed in gold leaf.
Dainty sofas with mahogany legs faced each other across a low table.
Jack took one and sat opposite Lady Althea.
Cramped, he tried to find a comfortable spot on the straight-backed and thinly padded sofa covered in blue damask.
Lady Althea watched him get settled. “We have just returned from Paris. When my father was sent there on a diplomatic mission, it was expected we’d stay for only a brief period, but we stayed for a year.”
“What kept him in France?”
She shrugged, exasperated. “Neither I nor my mother knows. We women are rarely told anything of importance.”
“Could these attacks have something to do with his work there?”
“It seems unlikely. Why wait until he reached England?”
Jack wondered about that himself but said nothing. He expected the facts would come to light eventually. Whoever was behind this could have more in store.
A footman brought the tea tray with a plate piled with ham and cress sandwiches and another with small cakes. Enough to feed at least six. Lady Althea picked up the teapot, but it wobbled in her nervous hands, and she put it down again.
He leaned forward and took it upon himself to pour the tea. She didn’t demur. The ornate, silver teapot was quite heavy. He placed a gold-rimmed cup and saucer before her, then poured one for himself and stirred in a sugar chip.
Jack sat back, the delicate china cup almost lost in his hand.
Tea wasn’t his favorite beverage, but he drank, poured another, then placed two small, triangular sandwiches on his plate.
He popped a whole one in his mouth. Tiny and woefully inadequate to quench his hunger, but delicious.
“What did your uncle’s servants tell you? ”
“Apparently, the carriage was held up in a woodland area a few miles from Dunstable.”
He selected another sandwich. “One man acted alone?”
“Yes. With a spare horse. He led my uncle away at gunpoint.”
“And you have no idea who this man might be? Or if it might be linked to your father’s shooting?”
She shook her head, such confusion and sadness in her eyes, Jack fought the impulse to take her in his arms.
“Then he did not intend to kill your uncle.” Not straightaway, at least. Jack searched Lady Althea’s sensitive, intelligent face.
If she had any knowledge or suspicions, she wasn’t about to reveal it to him.
She studied him closely, no doubt wondering whether to trust him.
He was aware the way he was dressed was not that of a gentleman.
“We came through Dunstable last night. It’s about fifteen miles from here,” he said.
“I’ll ride over there and inquire at the tavern. See if I can learn anything.”
She closed her eyes, wiped her brow with the back of her hand, easing away a wisp of hair. “Thank you, Captain Ryder. I am very grateful. We will expect you back for dinner.”
Jack put down his cup and saucer. “Please relay my regrets to your mother.”
“I will. But you’ve missed luncheon. Would you care for a meal before you leave?”
“No, thank you. I don’t wish to let the trail go cold.”
She spread out a clean napkin, then wrapped the cakes and sandwiches in it. “A man of your size…” She smiled slightly. “You must have a hearty appetite.”
Returning her smile, he took the welcome bundle from her.
They walked to the door together.
She was tall, but her willowy figure made her appear delicate. He suffered a moment of deep concern for her. A challenging time lay ahead for her until this matter was dealt with.
He took his leave and made his way to the stables, where there was nothing new to be gleaned from either the distraught groom or the coachman.
The carriage had been held up on the road through the forest, about five miles from the town.
No other vehicles or people were within sight.
Lord Caindale had ordered the groom to put down his gun.
His lordship went willingly, having said there was no need for bloodshed.
Then the two men rode away into the trees, with the kidnapper holding the reins of his lordship’s horse.
Arion was fresh and pulled at the reins, so Jack let the horse have his head as they galloped along the Holyhead Road toward Dunstable, the breeze cool on his face.
The busy toll road led all the way through Wales to Holyhead.
He’d already encountered a coach and six, a wagon, and a gentleman driving a phaeton.
A straggling line of merchants, tinkers, and assorted folk trudged along the side of the road.
The kidnapper must have had knowledge of the area to pick a spot that was likely to be overlooked, with a good chance of escape into the dense woodland afterward.
If the kidnapper didn’t live in the area, he would have had to do a reconnaissance and might have visited the Dunstable coaching inn or the tavern.
He’d worn a mask, but the description given by Lord Caindale’s servants had tallied with the marchioness and her daughter’s.
It proved to be of little help, however, except to show that the same man had probably been behind both attacks.
But what had prompted such violent acts?
Odd, indeed, to shoot a marquess down in cold blood, then take nothing from him.
Then kidnap another titled gentleman. There seemed more than vengeance behind it.
Would the truth die with Lord Butterstone, and possibly Lord Caindale?
Despite Lady Althea’s doubts, Jack was inclined to think this had had something to do with what had taken place in France.
The marquess had been on a diplomatic mission of some kind.
Jack knew little about the gentleman. He seldom attended soirées or balls, but he had often dined with his father, who, out of a desire to see his son a respected member of society, had sought to keep him up with the intrigues in King George’s court and the current politics.
Something nagged at the back of his mind.
Something he might have dismissed as gossip.
Mayhap it would come to him while he slept.
Happened sometimes. Although his dreams were usually disturbing and violent images from the war.
“We’ll expect you back for dinner.” Lady Althea’s words pushed their way into his mind.
Had she begun to depend on him? That was something he’d tried to avoid.
And now, not only was he compelled to oblige, but he also found himself willing to do what he could to help them.
It wasn’t surprising to want to help ladies in distress; any man would heed the call.
But that was where the matter must end. A marquess’s daughter was off-limits to a bastard.
Even if she hadn’t been married. Jack recalled her delicate perfume when they’d entered the salon together, and how her slender hands had trembled.
In her mid-twenties. He saw a ring on her left ring finger and mused as to where her husband was. Lucky devil.
Jack spent the rest of the journey raking his memory to discover something he might have heard about the Marquess of Butterstone.
By the time he’d entered the village high street and dismounted at the Dun Cow tavern, he’d failed to come up with anything.
Annoyed with himself for being pulled deeper into the mystery, when he should have been on his way to Ireland, he strode inside.
Half an hour later, Jack returned to his horse. An exercise in futility. The town was a busy place with passing trade. The proprietor saw fresh faces almost every day.
“You could try the coaching inn,” he’d said as Jack had drunk his ale. “But unless someone makes themselves known, they would go unnoticed amongst those piling in from the coaches.”
He’d been right.
As Jack mounted his horse, he noticed a cleric in black garb trudging along the road into the town. He rode over to him. “Good day, sir.”
“Good day, my good man.”
“I wonder if I might have a word.”
The man, not young, his hair grizzled, nodded wearily. “But of course.”
Jack dismounted. He explained what had occurred. “Have you heard anything about it on your travels?” he asked him.
The man removed his hat and scratched his head. “Might have done. Not sure if it’s helpful.”
“Anything.”
“Well, two riders did pass me in the woods. I took note of it due to their apparent urgency.”
“When was this?”
“Late morning, it would have been. Took me another hour before I reached open country. They rode east, away from Dunstable.”
“What did they look like?”
The cleric shrugged. “A well-dressed gentleman and a scruffy one. His servant, perhaps.”
“Ages? Size? Anything about the horses of note?”