He gestured to a padded leather chair facing the desk. “I expected not to see you for some time after your father’s funeral.” He tossed the cheroot dangling from his long fingers into the fire and watched it flare up, then crossed the floor to the drinks tray and poured two crystal glasses of brandy.
He handed Jack a glass and then sat in the leather chair behind the desk. “The duke considered it likely you’d take off somewhere or rejoin the army after he was gone.”
“Father knew me well.” Jack gave a sad, crooked smile. “I did intend to head off on a ramble, discover something of this country. I’ve spent most of my time on the Continent, but something has occurred to keep me here.” He explained about Lord Butterstone while the colonel listened in silence. “So, it would appear that even now, Bonaparte is not done with us. There are those still raising merry hell over his death.” Jack waited for the colonel, a shrewd man of vastexperience, to digest the information.
“I’m aware of the rumor that Bonaparte was poisoned.” Bascombe leaned back in his leather chair. “It was inevitable there would be talk after the general said as much on his deathbed. A commonplace death would not have appealed to him. He would have liked to carve his own epitaph, if it were possible.” He put down his glass. “The finger has been pointed at his jailer, Sir Hudson Lowe, who some say had not managed the general’s incarceration well, but that doesn’t mean the man is a ruthless murderer. Bonaparte was known for his exceedingly careful habits. He drank and ate sparingly. And he had gathered a loyal staff around him at Longwood House.” Bascombe picked up and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Those years of house arrest on St. Helena could have affected his health. The island was a barren, windy place, and he suffered a paucity of luxuries. His father died of a stomach tumor, and although he might not have admitted it, I suspect Bonaparte came to believe he suffered from the same malady. He just couldn’t resist a final jab at his enemies.” He grunted. “That’s not to say he might not have been helped along with a little arsenic.”
“What I want to know is why Lord Butterstone was killed,” Jack mused. “He admitted to his wife before he died that he had made a foolish mistake. And why was his brother-in-law, Lord Caindale—if he is to be believed—kidnapped, and questioned at length concerning what he learned from the marquess while he was in Paris?”
Bascombe frowned. “My estimation of Caindale is that he is a man who takes the comfortable path in life. I cannot see him involving himself willingly in this. He’s not been given to heroics, so we must ask ourselves why he would choose to.”
Jack put down his empty glass, the cold knot of unease warmed by the liquor. He had formed the same opinion about Caindale. “A weak man, but is he a dishonest one? Weak men can be manipulated, as can those with more ambitious aims.”
Bascombe’s eyes gleamed. “Quite so.”
“Lord Butterstone’s valet claims his master’s luggage was searched before it left London.”
“He is sure of that?”
“Apparently, there he found considerable disorder, which must have been caused by a hasty search.”
“Worth looking into.”
“There’s something not right at the marquess’s London mansion.” Jack told Bascombe about the maid’s death.
“Suspicious business, by the sound of it. Be careful how you go, Jack. I’ll read the autopsy report and ask my colleagues at Whitehall a few pertinent questions. If there’s any truth of an English involvement, I’ll ferret it out.” He rose from behind the desk. “You could leave it with me and take off on your travels if you wish. Your father wouldn’t thank me for encouraging you to become involved in something like this. It’s not like fighting a war, Jack. This sort of business isn’t clear-cut. You don’t know who your enemy is or when they will strike. Like dancing with shadows. And to what end? You cannot bring Butterstone back to life.”
Jack had no intention of dropping the matter but saw no reason to tell Bascombe. “I’m perfectly aware that we are dealing with a cold-blooded killer.” He grinned. “You should watch your back too, Colonel.”
Bascombe chuckled. “I intend to do so.”
Jack stepped out from the warmth of Bascombe’s house into the brisk, spring day and headed back to his rooms. He was so deep in thought, he failed to notice the carriage until it pulled up alongside him.
The carriage door swung open. Lord Caindale looked out. “Get in, please, Captain Ryder.”
*
A hired carriagetook Harry and Erina from the port. They crossed a bridge over the River Liffey into Dublin, a charming town with green parks and streets of elegant townhouses. In different circumstances, she would have loved to explore further, but her thoughts remained on what awaited them tomorrow. On Sackville Street, they alighted outside Dublin’s Gresham Hotel, a large, four-story stone building.
Harry explained to the hotel staff that he and his cousin were on their way to visit family. Her ladyship’s maid had been suddenly called home—a death in the family. He arranged two chambers for them, hired a carriage for the morning, and ordered their dinner. Erina was exhausted, hungry, and happy to relinquish it all to him. In the busy dining room, they enjoyed a tasty meal of Irish stew sopped up with soda bread, and a dish called Colcannon, which consisted of mashed potato flavored with leeks. Then she ate a delicious Irish apple cake with custard sauce, while Harry drank a glass of claret. Afterward, they retired to their respective chambers.
Erina bathed, changed into her nightgown, brushed her hair, and snuggled down gratefully in the soft, comfortable bed, planning to consider what tomorrow might bring. She did not think about it for very long, falling asleep soon after her head had hit the pillow.
After a breakfast of oatmeal and cream, a boiled egg, toast, and a good, strong cup of Irish tea, she and Harry set out in their hired hackney carriage. The rain drummed down, the streets awash as they left Dublin and traveled west. Harry had inquired at the hotel concerning the distance to Naas, County Kildare.
“No problem, sir,” the hotel clerk had told him. “A journey of two hours at the most.”
“Thank you,” Harry had said, turning away.
“But that depends on the carriage,” the clerk had called after him. “You might well become bogged down on the muddy roads and take a day. And that’s supposing someone comes and digs you out.”
Harry had chuckled. “That’s the Irish for you,” he’d said to Erina. “You seldom get the answer you might expect.”
So far, although the ride was bumpy, they rattled along at a good pace. Erina ran the tassel on her parasol through her fingers. “In one of her letters, Cathleen wrote that Naas had once been calledNás na Ríogh.It meansMeeting place of the kings.”
“Must read up on it sometime.” Harry reached across and stilled her busy fingers, his square hand in the French kid glove resting for a minute over hers. In his dark wool greatcoat and Hessian boots, he looked quite imposing. Even his cravat was perfection. How did he manage to be so well turned out without the assistance of a valet? Slightly crumpled, she looked less than her best in the muslin dress she had to struggle to get into, and her pelisse now had a small stain on the front. Not to mention her curly, red hair, which was quite a challenge at the best of times.
“I gather your cousin has agreed to accompany us to England?”
