Chapter Seven
In the salon after a sumptuous dinner that only Jack seemed to enjoy, he gently questioned Lady Butterstone.
She clamped her lips and refused to discuss her husband’s work in France.
Despite his dying declaration, Lord Butterstone had clearly been incapable of error in her eyes.
“Butterstone was an exemplary diplomat.” In her black bombazine gown, she fingered the black pearls at her throat, her face tight and defensive.
“My daughter believes you can help us, Captain Ryder. I have yet to be convinced of it.”
“You might consider employing a Bow Street Runner, my lady.” Jack eased his shoulders in a coat uncomfortably too small for him. It would be a wise decision and would allow him to continue on his way.
Her dove-gray eyes would once have been as beautiful as her daughter’s. But now they were clouded with grief and doubt. “I prefer not to.”
Lady Althea patted her mother’s hand. “I should like Captain Ryder to stay, Mama.” She turned to him. “If you can spare us a few more days.”
“Of course. I’d be happy to.” Jack wished she didn’t look so beautiful in blue satin.
The gown was molded to the curves of her body in such a way that…
He should leave—mention an appointment he must keep.
But he knew he wouldn’t as he swallowed the last mouthful of cognac and put down the snifter.
“However, without anything to go on, I doubt I can be of help to you. I’ll leave if Lady Butterstone wishes. ”
Lady Althea looked imploringly at her mother.
Her mother drew a lacy shawl around her shoulders, her face ravaged by grief.
“My husband’s luggage has been taken up to his bedchamber.
You’ll find his correspondence in the library.
Perhaps his letters will reveal something important.
And when your father’s secretary arrives, Althea, I shall ask him to examine them. ”
Lady Althea stood. “Then we shall go to the library and peruse them.”
“Should your mother wish it,” Jack said, pushing back his chair and rising.
“I prefer his secretary to deal with it. I… I’m… not sure that John would have approved of you reading his letters, Captain Ryder,” her ladyship stuttered.
Her daughter was already walking to the door. “Father has gone, Mama. And he did ask for Captain Ryder’s help.”
Lady Butterstone nodded wearily. “Very well. In that case, I shall retire.”
In the library, a room of immense proportions lined to the ceiling with tomes and smelling of dust, old parchment, vellum, and leather, Lady Althea rang for a footman and at his quick response, instructed him to light the fire.
“Do you care for more cognac? she asked Jack.
“Best keep a clear head,” he said, concerned at how easily he might lose his.
Once the coal in the hearth had burst into life, the footman left.
They went to the inlaid mahogany desk near the window, on which sat a large, leather valise.
“As Mother said, Father’s secretary will deal with this matter.
But that will take too long. Please take Father’s seat. It’s more comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
Jack drew up a maroon-and-white-striped chintz chair for her. He took the one behind the desk, covered in wine-colored leather.
She pulled the valise toward her and opened it. “I’ll separate all the correspondence relating to France. I doubt the rest is of interest.”
“An excellent idea,” Jack said, watching her.
Everything about her delighted him, from her slim hands to her graceful neck caressed by loose tendrils.
He’d like to release her hair from the pins.
Raise her pale-gold locks to his face and breathe her in.
He sighed, leaned back, and tapped his fingers on the leather desktop.
He had left London so that he would never want what he could not have.
And here he was, hopelessly, foolishly, caught up in something that had proven equally troubling.
“Perhaps we can uncover the mystery tonight.”
She raised her eyes to his, a letter in her hand. “You are anxious to leave us.”
He smiled. “My reason for that may surprise you.”
She flushed slightly. “But you won’t tell me.”
“Not a good idea.”
She traced her full bottom lip with her tongue and sighed. “Not if you don’t wish to.”
Jack’s blood heated. He pushed back the chair. He’d been accused of being hot-blooded in the past. And damn it, it was true. Why stop now when he knew what they both wanted? He came around to where she sat, reached down, and removed the letter before taking her hands and drawing her to her feet.
She didn’t protest, her gaze locked with his. With an arm around her waist, he drew her close, raised her chin and brought his mouth down on hers. Oh, but she was sweet; he lost himself in her scent and her slim body as she kissed him back, her fingers stroking his nape.
With a shaky breath, he drew away. “I should apologize. But that would be a lie.”
“I wanted you to kiss me.”
He studied her face for a moment and then pulled her close again, more urgently now, breathing deeply of flowers, and warm woman. “Where is your husband?”
She moved back and looked up at him. “He passed away. Didn’t you know?”
“That you’re a widow? No.”
She looked amused. “Yet you still kissed me.”
“It was worth the risk.”
“I am Lady Althea Lambourne.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Lambourne. The Duke of Westmore’s second son?”
“Yes, Charles and I married when I was eighteen and he nineteen. It was thought he would not live to be old. He died two years ago.” She sighed. “He was always quite frail.”
Now he remembered something of it. Her husband had been an invalid since birth. Jack’s father had gone to his funeral. The man’s elder brother had also been sickly and had died early this year.
“No children?”
She shook her head. “Regrettably, that side of our marriage was not successful,” she said briskly.
Jack sensed the pain behind her words but hid the quick rush of sympathy, which he felt would be unwelcome. “Perhaps we should continue looking into this.” He gestured to the letters.
“Or we could enjoy the warmth of the fire first.” She slipped her hand into his.
He smiled. “‘The fire’?”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you,” she said simply.
“And I you.” He drew a sharp breath. “But you’re distressed after all that has happened. You can’t be thinking clearly. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’ve had enough sadness in my life.” She placed a hand on her breast, which rose and fell with each quick breath. “I need something vital, alive, to warm me. I’m cold, Jack.”
After locking the door, he came to her and eased her down onto the soft rug. He lay beside her. “We will create our own fire tonight.”
She cradled his cheek in her hand. “And tomorrow?”
“We’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow.”
Althea was an exciting lover who copulated with abandon despite admitting her knowledge was limited. As they lay quietly while their breaths slowed, she told Jack about her marriage.
“Charles was my best friend. We shared an interest in art, and he was an excellent painter. But we rarely shared a bed.” She traced a finger over his bare chest. “Tell me about you, Jack. What brought you to the inn? Where were you going, all alone?”
Jack tried to put into words the reasons behind his need for travel. But his brief rationalization that because of the war, he had seen more of Spain and France than his own country didn’t fool her.
“So, you are also mourning your father,” she said, her eyes softening with sympathy and understanding.
“Yes. It was expected, in my case. But it’s impossible to prepare yourself. Although in a way, I was relieved he no longer suffered.”
Sometime later, they dressed. Jack did up her dress, regretting losing sight of her shapely, sweet-smelling body.
Althea tied her hair and then rang for the cold supper she’d ordered earlier. As they ate their ham sandwiches, they returned to examine her father’s letters. She smiled at him and put a hand to her mouth to smother a yawn. “I’m not sure I can let you go on your journey now.”
Jack was also reluctant to leave but knew he must. There was no future for them and delaying it would only make it worse. He had been careful not to impregnate her, but it was risky to continue.
They found nothing of interest in his lordship’s post. The last significant letter came from Lord Caindale. He wrote that he would call at Ivywood as soon as the family had returned from Paris.
“Did your father keep a diary?”
“Yes, I’m sure he did. It will be here somewhere.” She searched through the valise, removing several items and setting them aside. Finally, she shook her head. “It’s not here,” she said with a sigh of disappointment.
“Give the valise to me.”
Jack checked inside. “Might be something beneath the lining.”
He felt all around the interior. “Nothing here.”
Turning the bag upside down, he examined the bottom, pressing each of the metal studs. Suddenly, a false bottom opened, and a black, leatherbound book fell out.
Althea gazed at him, her eyes wide. “My father’s diary!” She rose and came around to lean over him, a hand on his shoulder as he turned the pages. Jack pulled her down onto his lap and moved the candelabra closer. As she leaned her soft, fragrant body back against him, they read it together.
Lord Butterstone had written of a plot he’d uncovered to assassinate Bonaparte. But nothing here explained how it was to be carried out. The general was to be poisoned. Two men, Lord A and a Mr. W., were underlined with a question mark. But their involvement in the affair remained unexplained.
“I remember hearing of Bonaparte’s final words when he drew up his last will and testament,” Jack said. “He said his death was premature, assassinated by the English oligarchy and their hired murderer.”
“His death wasn’t from natural causes?” Althea tensed against him. “Something did happen in France. Father’s manner changed. He became unlike himself.”
“Whom would he have confided in?”