Chapter Fifteen #2
“Improbable.” Bascombe ground out his cheroot into a saucer.
“Not with Louis Marchand, Napoleon’s loyal valet for ten years, in attendance.
” He paused to drink from his glass. “Only two people had close contact with Napoleon daily. One was his valet, and the other was Charles Tristan, the Marquis de Montholon. Montholon interests me the most. Initially, it was self-interest that motivated him, for why would he volunteer to serve Bonaparte on the barren island of St. Helena, for possibly another twenty years? Especially after Bonaparte had ordered Montholon’s discharge from his post as the French envoy to Wurzburg after he married the twice-divorced Albine Roger against Bonaparte’s wishes. ”
“Perhaps he didn’t intend to remain on the island for long?”
Bascombe nodded. “He did become the major beneficiary of Bonaparte’s will, and it is common knowledge that he needed the money.
He’s a gambler and in debt. But there’s a more significant possibility.
He’s known to be a strong royalist, as is his stepfather, the Comte de Simonville—a tricky customer, and a close friend of Louis XVIII.
Could it be that Montholon was acting as an agent of the Bourbons, who considered Bonaparte to be an enemy of peace in Europe? ”
“Interesting.”
“It is. Montholon was the sommelier. He had exclusive access to Napoleon’s wine. Arsenic powder was used to kill the rats on the island. It is neutral—it has no taste—and could be put into wine whenever Montholon wanted to.”
“So, who is this Frenchman Lord Caindale spoke of?”
“That is something we must find out. He is the key to Butterstone’s death, I feel certain.”
Jack stood. “Let’s hope we find him before any more blood is shed.”
“Indeed.” Bascombe saw him to the door.
*
The pied-à-terre Jack’s father had left him turned out to be a large townhouse.
There was a stables in the mews behind big enough for six horses and two carriages.
His father’s secretary, Stinson, opened the glossy, black door beneath a decorative fanlight, smelling strongly of macassar oil, his unruly hair the bane of his orderly existence.
Jack entered the lofty, marble-tiled entry hall, where a graceful staircase swept to the upper floors.
An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling.
“The house is furnished. At present, it is devoid of staff. As you requested, most will arrive tomorrow. I can be here to introduce you to the butler and the housekeeper if you wish.”
“I would be grateful, thank you, Stinson.” In the comfortable library, Jack signed the relevant documents, briefly discussed his other properties, then sent the secretary on his way.
He was moodily staring down into the street from his grand, new bedchamber, wallpapered in a pattern of gold and cream, with elaborate matching damask curtains and bed hangings, when a carriage drew up in front of the house.
An unaccompanied lady dressed in a black cloak with the hood pulled forward over her face emerged onto the pavement and hurried to the door.
Jack ran down the stairs, his pulse beating hard with a desire to greet the lady, plus a degree of concern for her reputation. He flung open the front door, grasped her arm, and drew her inside. Before a word was spoken, he’d pushed back the hood and covered her mouth with his.
Althea clung to him with a little sob. “Foolish man, did you think you were free of me?”
“Oh, my darling.” Jack swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.
“I have no pride where you’re concerned, Jack,” she whispered, hiding her face against his shoulder.
Jack drew in a breath. “I’m profoundly glad of it, Althea.”
In the bedchamber, he carefully removed her flowery hat. “Pretty thing.” He aimed the veiled concoction at the padded chair near the fireplace. It sailed to land neatly on the cushion. Althea giggled.
He turned his attention to the clasps on her cloak. “You look lovely.” He slowly removed each item of her clothing, until she stood naked before him, a rival of Botticelli’s Venus. “Mmm. Better.”
He drew her slender body into his arms and laid her on the bed, then bent to kiss her, breathing in her delicate fragrance.
Althea pushed him back, a hand against his chest. She rolled over onto her front and cupped her chin, with one long, slim leg bent at the knee, toe daintily pointed.
The halo of white-gold hair loosened and curled about her neck as she offered him an enticing smile.
“Now you must oblige me, sir. Begin with your coat, if you please.”
If ever he saw an angel, they must look very much like Althea. Perhaps not an angel, he amended, but a sprite. Angels weren’t known to be so naughty. With a grin, he shrugged off his coat.
Sometime later, as their breathing slowed, Althea leaned over to trace along the line of his jaw with her finger. “Would you consider marrying a twenty-six-year-old widow?”
He took her hand and kissed it. “If she were not the daughter of a marquess? In a heartbeat.”
She pulled her hand away and sat up, offering him a vision of cream, pink, and golden curves that would make a painter weep with joy.
Frowning, she drew her knees up, blocking the beguiling view from his appreciative gaze, and wrapped her arms around her legs.
She rested her chin on her knees. “Why must you be so concerned with ridiculous conventions?”
“Because, sweetheart, I was not born into the aristocracy like you.”
She shrugged her slim shoulders. “If I don’t care, why should you?”
“I don’t intend to subject you to the vicious gossip that would result from our union.”
“It would die down in time, especially when another scandal came to replace it.”
He rolled out of bed. “No, it wouldn’t.” Jack reached for his trousers and pulled them on. “My father’s wife has some vocal relatives. They jump on everything I do with absolute glee. They have done all my life, and now my father is gone, and there’s no hope of a bequest, they’ll be even worse.”
“They’d attack me?”
“No. Me. But by inference, you. You will never enjoy another Season.”
“Then we will spend our time in the country. I would like that.”
Jack threw his shirt over his head. He discovered his cravat on the floor, which was in a sorry state. “You say that now, but when you have little option, it will not seem so attractive.” He came to sit on the bed. “And you may not be quite so pleased to have married me.”
She tapped him lightly on the chest. “You think I’m that shallow?”
He grinned and grabbed her wrist, feeling her rapid pulse beneath the soft skin.
He had upset her. “Not a bit of it, Althea. You are a fascinating, intelligent woman. And I’m aware of how brave and strong you are.
” He resisted declaring how much he loved her.
There would be no coming back from that.
“Shakespeare wrote of ‘star-crossed lovers’ and while I don’t believe our lives could be blighted like Romeo’s and Juliet’s, I don’t think we can hope to find happiness in marriage.
Not unless the king decides to bestow a title on me, which is hardly likely. ”
Althea huffed. She climbed out of bed and reached for her clothes. “Then we shall continue to be lovers.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Shall we?”
“If it’s what you want, Jack.”
“I want just to be with you. As long as my presence doesn’t cause any harm to you.”
“How would it?”
“I’m taking precautions, but one cannot be sure. What if you have a child, Althea?” he asked gently.
Her eyes clouded. “I doubt I can. I had a miscarriage early in my marriage. They said it was unlikely to happen.”
Jack gathered her to him and held her close, feeling her tremble. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He kissed her hair.
She drew away. He suspected there were tears in her eyes, but she lowered her head, tying her petticoats. “I’d best go. Maybe it is better that I don’t come here again.”
*
Relieved to find no sign of infection, Erina treated Harry’s wound in the manner the surgeon had instructed. She had stopped using alcohol before it caused dryness and itchiness and now swabbed the wound with vinegar mixed with boiled water and a little honey.
He gazed up at her. “Am I ready for the stove yet?”
She smiled. “I’ll begin using the salve tomorrow.”
Harry lay back as she bent over his chest, attaching a fresh bandage.
Then she tied on the sling to support his left arm.
While caring for him, she’d become familiar with his musky masculine smell and how smooth his skin felt beneath her touch, but even so, his closeness still made her strangely short of breath.
She remembered Cathleen’s words, how Mr. Leahy had made her feel.
Dismissing the disturbing thought, she moved away from the bed. “You’re healing nicely.”
“Down to wholesome living.” Harry watched her as she rolled the remaining bandage. “You have capable hands, Erina.”
“Can you envision me sitting by the fire embroidering while my husband reads the broadsheets?” she asked sweetly.
Harry grinned. “You could sit on my lap, and we’ll read the newspaper together.”
Her heart leaped, but one glance at his expression and she knew he was teasing her again. “You must be feverish and delirious.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his forehead. “Cool. Bored, then, most likely.”
He sighed heavily. “I am bored stiff. Is it any wonder? I’ve been confined to bed for almost a sennight.
Your company is my only pleasure. And you pamper me as if I’d been shot in the head instead of the shoulder and incapable of making an intelligent decision concerning my own welfare.
You select my food—and I refuse to look at another egg custard or milk pudding!
The worst indignity is when you send an inept manservant to shave me and wash me like a baby. ”
“You can hardly shave yourself with one arm.” She smiled, relieved that he was becoming more like his old self.
“You’d be surprised what I can do with one arm,” Harry said with a wicked gleam.
Erina flushed. “You’re getting better.”
Harry fell back on the pillow and laughed weakly. “I dashed well hope so.”
“Tomorrow, you can sit in that chair by the window in the sun.”
“How exciting. I simply cannot wait.”
She fought to dismiss the tender feeling he evoked in her as she tidied away the bandage and salve in a box. “You used to accuse me of being impatient and short-tempered. I believe I’ve much to learn from you.”
Harry raked his chestnut hair with his good hand. “I apologize for cursing, Erina. I have become a sorehead. I shall be meek and mild for the rest of the day, and I’ll even allow you to win at cards this evening.”
“Decent of you,” she said. “I believe the score is sixty-forty.”
“In my favor,” he added silkily.
“I shall even that up tonight without any assistance from you. I’m learning to be crafty from one of the best.”
“Brave words!” He gestured to the letter on the table that she’d brought in with her. “A letter has come? Who is it from? Do you plan to read it to me?”
“Not my father.” Her father’s reply to her letter had stated crisply how the lack of a mother’s guidance had caused her to be less prudent and circumspect than a lady of her birth and breeding should be. There had followed a fearful silence. She held up the letter. “It’s another from Cathleen.”
“Good. I enjoyed her last letter. How are the piglets?”
“They are all thriving, and now that things have settled down at the farm, the hens are laying again.” She turned the page over. “Mr. Leahy has written. He’s coming to Naas to see her.” She grinned at Harry. “Isn’t that the best news?”
“Indeed, it is.” His gaze grew thoughtful.
She glanced at him. Her guilt at causing him to be shot lay heavily in her chest. “I do hope so. It would make this foolish trip of mine worthwhile.”
“It already is worthwhile.”
Her heart fluttered. “Why?”
“I’ve enjoyed it. Well, most of it.”
She stared at his face for confirmation that he was not just being his usual droll self. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“I’m somewhat surprised myself. Dash it.” The knot had unraveled on the sling supporting his left arm.
“Here, let me.” Erina bent over him on the bed and tugged on the bandage.
He gazed up at her, his face close to hers. “There I go cursing again. Forgive me?”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Harry called.
Two elderly men stepped into the room.
“Well!” Erina’s father’s wide eyes observed Erina’s hand where it rested on Harry’s chest. “So, caught in flagrante,” her father muttered, frowning as he strode across to her.
Erina stared at him, mouth agape, and tried to order her scattered wits.
“I did tell you,” Harry said, smiling.
She glared at him. How could he look….so…pleased with himself?”