Harry stepped forward. “Let’s not be hasty. We can discuss this outside,” he said in a pleasant tone. “And if you offer proof that you are now the owner of Miss Sullivan’s house, we shall deal with this business promptly.”
Gormley sullenly followed them from the church. In the forecourt, he grabbed hold of Cathleen’s shoulders and shook her so hard, an auburn ringlet escaped and fell across her cheek. “You’re going nowhere. That would be a breach of promise. You are legally bound to marry me.”
Cathleen cried out and struggled to escape his grip.
“Then I suggest you pursue the matter with a solicitor, sir,” Harry said. “Please unhand the lady.”
Gormley turned to look Harry up and down. His mouth formed a sneer. “Ye’re nothing but a London dandy. Who do you think ye are, coming here and interferin’? Cathleen will be me wife before the day is out. Go back to that heathen place ye came from.” He grasped Cathleen around the waist and almost pulled her off her feet.
Moving fast, Harry seized the man’s arm and spun him around. “Unhand her, I say!”
As Cathleen slipped from his grasp, Erina held her breath, horrified. A ham-fisted fellow, Gormley was twice Harry’s size.
“I’ll deal with you first.” Gormley bounced on his toes and took a wild swing, which Harry blocked. A well-placed elbow to the side of Gormley’s head, and a punch under the ribs sent Gormley off his feet, gasping on his back in the mud. Harry poked his polished boot against the man’s chest. “We are leaving, and I advise you to let us go or you’ll find yourself in worse trouble.”
Gormley gaped. He sat up, gingerly feeling his head.
“Come.” Harry shepherded them to the waiting hackney.
Erina looked back as their carriage trundled away down the street. The priest and the witnesses crowded around Gormley as he stood rubbing his head. “Harry! You were marvelous!” she cried. “I didn’t think you could… Well, it was very satisfying to watch, I must say.”
“Sparred with Gentleman Jackson, the best pugilist in England.” Harry frowned as he dusted dirt from his trousers. “I wonder if we might partake of that breakfast of yours, Miss Sullivan, before we leave for Dublin? The jarvie can put the feed bag on the horses and join us for a meal.”
“It’s not my house any longer, sir. Gormley won it from my father in a card game.”
Harry tilted his head. “Won it fair and square, did he? Let himproduce the deed of sale, then. Whether guilty or not, the man looked as sneaky as a rat in the palace kitchen. If he’s smart, he’ll wait for us to leave before he shows up again.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jack fell backagainst 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.”
