Chapter Twenty-Two
On reaching London, Jack visited Bascombe and filled him in on what had occurred in Manchester and the information gleaned from Renard.
“When the marquess returned to our shores with the intention of informing the French ambassador about the men behind the assassination plot, he signed his own death warrant.”
Jack explained how Lord Caindale, realizing his brother-in-law had been in danger, had hoped that by helping the Frenchman gain access to the information he sought, the matter would be at an end.
“Na?ve of him,” Bascombe said. “His lordship is culpable and should be in prison, but we’d be hard-pressed to bring charges against a lord of the realm.
It would only draw attention to the matter.
Let’s put the affair to rest. It shall remain between us.
As we have no real evidence, there’s no sense in upsetting our Gallic neighbors.
Let them deal with the matter of Bonaparte’s demise if they wish to pursue it.
Our involvement died with Butterstone. After all, the success of any venture can only be measured by its results.
The murderer is dead and neatly dispensed with.
” He indicated his approval with a nod. “Well done. I’ll have the guard removed from Caindale’s house. ”
“The Marquis de Montholon still lives,” Jack said with a trace of bitterness. He disliked leaving a stone unturned. “No doubt enjoying his handsome legacy from Bonaparte.”
A smile touched Bascombe’s lips. He shook his head. “Diplomacy is like a racehorse, Jack. A good jockey must know how to fall with the least possible damage.”
At home, Jack’s butler informed him that a Mr. Welby had called and wished to see him.
Jack sent a servant with a note to The London Gazette to inform Welby that he’d found nothing of interest. And, as he was about to leave London and would be away for months, he would be of no help to them should they wish to pursue what seemed likely to be a waste of their time.
Jack spent the next few days in his library reading documents about how to turn flax into linseed oil and how glass was manufactured. He was now confident he could ask pertinent questions when he visited his businesses.
Harry wrote to tell Jack of their return to London.
They were putting up at Sir Ambrose’s mansion in Berkeley Square and would sail for France on the tide tomorrow.
Lady Erina had asked if Jack might take a package to County Kildare, which held a gown that would suit her cousin Miss Cathleen Sullivan better than Lady Erina, should he intend to include Ireland in his travels.
That evening, Jack went to White’s with Harry to celebrate his marriage along with their friends Grant, Tim, and Miles.
Amid the laughter, chatter, and clink of glassware, they dined together in the club dining room, enjoying an excellent meal of seafood soup and a tasty roast leg of lamb minted in a pastry crust, washed down with an admirable vintage.
Jack sat back, amused, as did Grant, while Tim, always up for a lark, roasted Harry, and Miles joined in. Later in the games room, they played hazard.
Harry glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s been splendid seeing you fellows again.
” He tossed down his cards. “Can’t seem to concentrate.
How much do I owe?” He drew out his wallet.
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t make a long night of it.
Erina is alone in a strange house, and we leave for France in the morning. ”
Tim raised an auburn eyebrow. “Still time left to bed your wife, Harry.”
Harry chuckled and shook his head.
“The least you can do is stay for a round or two more.” Miles’s blue eyes turned devilish as he called for another bottle. “We wish to raise our glasses to you and your bride.”
“You have already toasted me many times and with several glasses too many,” Harry protested.
“Nonsense. One or two more. Then we shall let you go,” Miles said silkily.
An hour later, Harry was fast getting foxed, as were Miles and Tim. There followed a good deal of laughter and ribald jokes. Jack considered it wise for someone to keep a clear head, as Grant, who seldom over-imbibed, had left them.
Finally, Harry pushed back his chair. “I’m off, fellows. It’s been fun,” he said with a foolish grin. He made his way unsteadily to the door.
They all followed him out onto the street.
“Allow us to escort you home,” Tim offered as they stood on the pavement.
“What?” Harry’s eyes widened. “No need. I know the way.”
The fresh night air made Harry stagger. “Don’t leave me with these two,” he pleaded to Jack. “Don’t trust ’em.”
Jack chuckled. “Here’s a hackney. I’ll ride home with you.”
“Dash it!” Harry said indignantly, falling onto the squab as Jack climbed in beside him. He attempted to straighten his clothes but only made things worse. “Seem to have lost my hat.”
Jack picked it up off the floor and held it out.
“There it is. The devils must have kept topping up my glass when my back was turned.”
“I daresay my time will come, and so will theirs, Harry,” Jack said with a grin. “Remember that.”
“Ah,” Harry said with a lopsided smile. “Yes. I’ll get ’em.” He turned to Jack suddenly and then appeared to regret it, groaning, and holding his head with both hands. “You’ve got the package for Miss Sullivan in Ireland?”
“I have it here safe, Harry,” Jack said, tucking the rather large parcel tied up with string under his arm. “Tell Erina I promise to deliver it.”
“Good fellow, Jack,” Harry murmured as the hackney pulled up. “Help me inside, if you will.”
*
Erina hadn’t been able to sleep. Sir Ambrose’s house was so big and ancient, it creaked abominably and sounded as if someone walked backward and forward outside the door.
This time, there definitely were footsteps in the corridor.
She frowned. It did not sound like Harry.
She knew his firm tread. The door opened.
She clutched the bedcovers to her chest. Open-mouthed, she watched as Harry staggered into the room in an appalling state of dishevelment. “Harry!”
“Sorry, Erina. Sorry, my love,” he murmured with a lamentable shake of his head, which almost made him lose his balance. His cravat was hanging limply, and his coat slid off one shoulder. He seemed to have lost a glove.
She leaped out of bed and hurried over to him. “What has happened? Were you robbed?”
“No. Fellows had a bit of fun with me. B…Bashelor dinner an’ all.”
“Harry! You are drunk!” In all the time she had known him, she’d never seen him drink more than a glass or two of wine.
“Good thing I paced myself. Only half-sprung.” Harry sat on a chair and tried to pull off his shoes.
He managed one, then gave up and stood, dragging off his coat and almost falling again.
“That Tim is a sneaky devil,” he said heatedly, stripping it off and throwing the garment down.
“Can’t trust Miles any farther than you can throw him, either. ”
“Keep still.” She untied his cravat as he tried to kiss her. Missing her mouth, he kissed her nose instead. He smelled strongly of port. “Sorry, my love,” he said again. “But I’ll get ’em.”
He fell back onto the bed.
“Well, I hope it’s not during our honeymoon,” Erina said. “It seems you’ve got the worst of it this time.” She realized Harry was snoring.
Erina slipped off his other shoe. She undid the buttons on his trousers and pulled them off while he continued to snore. Drawing the covers over him, she gazed lovingly at his sleeping face, so boyish in repose. “Oh, Harry,” she said with a soft laugh. “And you, always so immaculate. The rascals!”
She climbed into bed beside him. “You will have such a headache in the morning. And we sail for France on the tide! I wonder if it’s your head I’ll be holding over the rail?” Giggling, she snuggled into his warmth and closed her eyes.