Chapter Thirteen
Jack fell back against the squab as the carriage door slammed shut.
The vehicle lurched forward. Opposite him, Lord Caindale looked brittle and as pale as death.
“I’m glad to have found you, Captain Ryder,” he gasped.
“I find myself as frightened as Macbeth before the ghost of Banquo! I am being watched. A brute of a man has been lurking outside my house ever since you left.”
“Who is he? Have you seen him before?”
“No, he’s a stranger to me.”
Jack studied him thoughtfully. “Why do you think he’s there, my lord?”
Baron Caindale removed his hat and ran nervous fingers through his thinning locks. “They’re watching me. If I put a foot wrong…”
“But the kidnappers let you go. What worries you?”
The baron sighed. “I wasn’t entirely honest with my kidnapper. If I’d told him the truth, I might not be sitting here now.”
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Told him what?”
Lord Caindale swallowed. “When we were in Paris, John Butterstone informed me of a plot to kill Bonaparte by a cabal of Englishmen.”
Could this be true? Jack leaned forward, studying the man’s face for a sign his assertion was a lie, or at the most an exaggeration. “Did the marquess give you the plotters’ names?”
“He refused to tell me until he’d seen the Foreign Secretary, but from what he did say, I have a good idea. But now Bonaparte is dead, and I have no idea if they carried it out, or whether Bonaparte beat them to it by dying of natural causes.”
Jack frowned. “Forgive me, my lord, but you have lied to me before. How do I know you’re telling me the truth now?”
“I have no reason to lie.” Lord Caindale’s hair received more rough handling. “I wasn’t sure that I could trust you before. I feared you might give me away.”
“What changed your mind?”
“A note from my niece, telling me to receive you, and advising me that she and her mother are returning to London for her father’s funeral service.
” He swallowed. “This is not something I can deal with alone. A Frenchman questioned me in the cellar. If the French—apart from the Bourbons, who are happy to see the back of him—believe we killed their emperor, they won’t leave any stone unturned until they’ve avenged him. ”
“The name of the man who kidnapped you?”
Beads of sweat glistened on the baron’s upper lip. He dabbed it with a handkerchief. “I want it all to stop. If I tell you all I know, what will you do with the information?”
“I’ll question him and attempt to uncover the truth.”
He threw up his hands. “There. I thought so. If you approach these men and make it public, it will be like setting the hounds among the rabbits. And I will be the one they go after.”
“I shan’t mention you,” Jack said. “What else do you wish of me?”
“Protection for my family. My sister and niece may be in danger too.” He leaned in, his gaze fixed on Jack’s. “You are an army man; you will have useful friends.”
“Then you must tell me everything you know. Why was Lord Butterstone killed?”
“I can only imagine it was because he made inquiries of the wrong people at Whitehall. Stirred the hornet’s nest.”
Jack frowned. “You’re suggesting that someone in our government was involved?”
“It’s certainly possible,” Lord Caindale said.
“The other possibility is that the French might have considered the marquess to be a party to the plot to bring about Bonaparte’s death,” Jack said.
“In that case, why didn’t they kill you when they held up your carriage, as it appears it was they who shot Lord Butterstone?
Why take you back to London and then set you free? ”
“They believe I can lead them to Bonaparte’s supposed assassin.” He peered anxiously out of the window. The carriage traveled through the park. “I must be careful…”
Jack studied him. The baron’s forehead dripped sweat, and his hand clutching the handkerchief shook.
His fear was real. But could there be more to this than he revealed?
Jack recalled the pastor saying he’d seen two men riding side by side toward London.
Common sense urged him to refuse to have anything to do with Lord Caindale.
To leave the major part of the investigation to Bascombe.
But was Althea in danger? That was not to be borne. “I’ll have someone watch your house.”
The man’s shoulders drooped with relief, and he held out his hand. “Thank you, Captain. I am in your debt.”
Jack shook it. “Now, my lord, you say you know the name of the Frenchman?”
Lord Caindale nodded furiously. “As soon as your guard arrives, you shall have it.”
Annoyed by the man’s obfuscation, Jack thumped on the roof. When the horses were pulled up, he opened the door and leaped from the carriage.
Jack strolled toward his rooms in Piccadilly.
Frustrated, he didn’t feel as if he’d advanced any further.
The more he learned of this affair, the muddier the waters became.
He thought again of Althea. Would he be able to do as he had promised and solve her father’s murder?
It was really all he could give her of himself.
And this was the real reason he wouldn’t drop the matter.
Not unless he came up against a dead end with nowhere else to turn.
*
Thankfully, Gormley failed to make an appearance during the meal. After they’d eaten, Cathleen went to her bedroom to pack a valise. When she came down, she glanced around the parlor, regret in her eyes. “I hate having to leave my home, and my animals.” Her chest heaved with a sigh. “And Ireland.”
“In time, you might return,” Erina said. She had been so keen to take Cathleen to England, it hadn’t occurred to her how hard it would be for her to leave her home and country.
“But when, and to what?” Cathleen shook her head. “The farmhand has promised to look after the livestock. Gormley won’t care. I can assure you he won’t pay the man!”
Erina placed an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go to Dublin. You’ll feel better when you put a bit of distance between yourself and Gormley.”
Harry took her valise. “I’ll shake up the jarvie. He’s got a bit too comfortable in the hayloft.”
The rain held off on the way back to town. They traveled in silence, with Cathleen staring glumly out the window. At the hotel, they alighted from the carriage and stood on the pavement while Harry paid the driver. Cathleen instructed the hotel footman to retrieve her luggage.
“You there!”
They all spun around to find Gormley across the street, his rifle aimed at Cathleen. Stunned, her heart beating in her ears, Erina stared at him.
“Hold on, sir. We can settle this in an amicable manner. Go inside,” Harry ordered Erina and Cathleen over his shoulder as he stepped in front of them.
Erina’s legs didn’t want to move.
“There’s no need for violence,” Harry said. “We can talk this through. Come inside and have a drink with me.”
“I know you lot. Could talk a leg off a table,” Gormley said. “This doesn’t concern you. Step aside.”
Harry refused to move. “Let the ladies go inside at least.”
“No, Mr. Feather, let me talk to him.” Cathleen tried to push past Harry, but he put out an arm to stop her.
The sound of a shot echoed through the street. Cathleen shrieked as Gormley ran away. “What did he…?”
Beside her, Harry crumpled to the ground.
“Harry!” Erina felt as if the world had tilted. Breathless, she dropped to her knees beside him. He had put himself in the way of danger to protect them.
His eyes were closed, and blood flooded alarmingly from a wound high on his shoulder.
The hotel footman had dropped Cathleen’s bag and froze, as if shocked. “Send for a surgeon!” Erina screamed at him. For a moment, he dithered and stood as if rooted to the spot. “Don’t just stand there! Go for help. We must get him inside.”
At last, the fellow moved, racing up the steps and into the hotel.
Moments later, she and Cathleen followed two of the hotel staff as they carried the inert Harry to his chamber. “We’ve sent for the guard,” the manager said. “And Dr. O’Dowd is on his way.”
The servants laid Harry on the bed in his chamber.
Frightened at how still he was, Erina leaned over him and untied his cravat.
He still bled heavily. She unbuttoned his ruined waistcoat and the three buttons of his shirt, then pressed his folded cravat firmly inside against the wound on his shoulder as she anxiously watched his chest rise and fall with each breath.
“Harry,” she whispered. “Please don’t die. ”
Harry’s lashes fluttered. His usually alert brown eyes looked blank and confused. “What happened?”
She gasped and held his limp hand. “Oh, Harry! Gormley shot you. A surgeon’s on the way.”
“He was trying to shoot me, Mr. Feather,” Cathleen said. With a hiccup, she swiped at the tears dripping off her chin. “I am so sorry.”
“Gormley didn’t like me much,” Harry said, his voice sounding far away. “Snake. Didn’t St. Patrick drive the snakes from Ireland? He clearly missed one.”
Erina forced a watery smile. “You haven’t lost your sense of humor, then.”
The door was opened, and Dr. O’Dowd hurried into the room. “What do we have here?”
“He’s been shot, Doctor,” Erina said in a broken voice.
“You can help me take off his coat, young lady,” he said to Erina. “And you”—he nodded to Cathleen—“fetch hot water. Hot, I say. Not tepid.” He placed his bag on the table and opened it.
“I don’t believe in bloodletting, Doctor.” Erina had seen the results of it when one of their neighbors had died after such treatment. “Mr. Feather has lost enough blood already.”
“Well, that’s something we can agree upon.” Dr. O’Dowd picked up a pair of scissors. “Gentlemen wear their coats too tight in my opinion.” Erina watched him cut away the elegant coat. How poor Harry would hate that. “Don’t just stand there like a stunned goose,” the surgeon said, eyeing her.
Erina tugged at a sleeve.
“That coat is by George Shultz,” Harry muttered. He groaned.
She dropped her hand. “Oh! I hurt you.”
“Never mind that,” Harry muttered. “Do it, Erina. Can’t help, sorry.”
She and the surgeon swiftly removed the coat.
Soon, Harry’s shirt followed. Although lean, Harry was surprisingly well built and had smooth, olive-toned skin.
She averted her gaze from the sprinkle of brown hair on his sculptured chest and the bloody wound near his shoulder, which had slowed but still seeped.
“Not too much damage done. That’s good news, at least.” The surgeon nodded as Cathleen and a servant brought in pitchers of hot water, steam rising from them, before slipping out again and shutting the door.
Dr O’Dowd poured water into a bowl, added vinegar from a bottle, then dipped in a cloth.
He wrung it out and handed it to Erina. “After I dose him, I need you to wipe away the blood. Can you do that, lass?”
She nodded. As she took it, the middle-aged surgeon eyed her. “You won’t faint over the patient, will you?” He measured out a dose of laudanum and, raising Harry’s head, slipped the spoon between his lips.
After a moment, Harry’s eyes closed, and his head drooped.
“Oh! He’s not…”
“No,” the surgeon said.
Erina gritted her teeth and dabbed at the blood. It seemed a hopeless task.
“No, that’s good enough, lass.” The surgeon gently moved her aside.
As he worked, Erina stood with Harry’s coat in her hands.
When she folded it, a slip of paper fell to the floor.
She scooped it up. Not wishing to pry, she nonetheless couldn’t help glancing at the document in her hands.
She caught her breath. It was a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury in Doctors’ Commons, made out in their names and signed on the day before they’d left London.
“Good thing he’s out of it.” The surgeon held up a sharp instrument. “Ordinarily, I’d leave it for a while. But the ball is in a bad spot. I’ll have to remove it.”
“But he will be all right, Dr. O’Dowd?” Erina whispered.
“He’s a strong, young man. Depends on good fortune and tender care.”
She drew in a large breath tinged with the tangy smell of blood. “I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Don’t move him too soon and keep the wound clean. Hopefully, it will remain free of infection. Then he’ll recover quickly. Especially if he has a pretty, young woman looking after him.”
Erina flushed. Did Harry intend to offer her marriage to save her reputation? He was certainly honorable enough to conceive of such a foolish notion. Filled with curiosity and forced to be patient, she sat admiring the surgeon’s skilled hands.
She pulled aimlessly at her cuff, which was spotted with blood. “He has to recover, Dr. O’Dowd.”
“Aah.” The surgeon nodded. “Then I’ll take particular care, lass.”
Moments later, the ball dropped into the dish he’d brought with a metallic clink. Thankfully, Harry remained unconscious throughout the procedure.
“This wound is bleeding a bit too much for my liking,” Dr. O’Dowd said. “I had best put in three or four stitches. Then we pray he’ll mend.”
Anxiously, she examined Harry’s pale face, one she had come to like so much. She was so incredibly grateful to him too… but… She must not allow him to think he had to marry her when he had never wanted to.