“How far is Limerick from here?”
“Aww, tis a long way.”
“Can you send him a letter?”
She looked doubtful. “I could. Should I be writing, though? He was terribly cast down.”
“I’m sure he won’t be if you explain the whole affair to him.”
Cathleen grinned. “Aye. Then I will. But I’d like to go home tomorrow, Erina. I’m worried about my animals. Unless you’d prefer I stayed to keep you company?”
Erina hugged her. “Of course, you must go and see to your farm. I pray you hear good news from Mr. Leahy.”
Cathleen shrugged. “What will be will be.”
Cathleen seemed so calm, so practical. A little envious, Erina wished she could be more like her.
“As Gormley cannot produce a deed of sale, I’ve got my home back, thanks to you and Mr. Feather. Write and tell me how he fares. I hope the dear man is on his feet very soon.”
“I will write often,” Erina promised.
“As luck would have it, a neighbor, Dillon Adair, is in town and has offered me a lift. I’ll go and arrange it.” With an eager smile, Cathleen slipped out the door.
One good thing about all of this was meeting Cathleen. How fond she was of her already. Even though her plan to take her cousin home to England had come to naught, Erina was glad to have helped her. She just wished she had a better explanation to offer her father. She took up paper and pen and braced herself to write the letter, the result of which would be like prodding a beehive.
Chapter Fifteen
“How d’you do,Captain Ryder? Lord Atworth.” The long-faced dandy in the seat opposite tucked the pistol into the back of his buff pantaloons. His collar sat uncomfortably high beneath his chin, his waistcoat an alarming shade of puce. Fobs and seals hung on a gold chain from his pocket watch. His uneasy glance took in Jack’s shoulders. “I apologize for the dramatics, but it’s urgent that we speak with you.”
“‘We’?” Jack struggled not to take the man by his ridiculous lapels and shove him out into the street. “Then I advise you to get on with it.” He glanced out the window as the carriage took off again, wondering who wanted him now and for what reason? “Where are we going?”
Atworth eyed him nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. “Patience, I beg you. Just a short way along Fleet Street. We are visiting an associate of mine, Mr. Welby.”
Jack lifted his eyebrows. “The editor ofThe London Gazette?”
“The same.”
“And why would Mr. Welby wish to see me?” Jack asked curtly. “I’ve nothing of interest to tell him.”
“You have maybe more than you are aware of at this precise moment, Captain Ryder.”
“I read his article inThe London Gazetteconcerning Bonaparte’sdeath. A well-written piece.”
“But not comprehensive enough,” Lord Atworth stated, folding his arms.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard the rumors same as you. No story in that. But if you’re looking to me to prove that Bonaparte didn’t die from natural causes, you are destined to be disappointed.”
“You are too humble, Captain Ryder. The undercover work you performed for General Colquhoun Grant has been highly regarded in certain circles. Your interest in Bonaparte’s death has led us to suspect you are after the truth. As are we.”
Jack studied the man’s nervous, hazel eyes. “I’m keen to know how you came to that conclusion.”
“You were seen entering Lord Caindale’s residence and also paid a call on Colonel Bascombe. You visited Butterstone’s home in Mayfair. We’ve since learned you were present at the marquess’s death. We are interested in what Butterstone may have told you before he gasped his last. You’ve come from his funeral at St. Paul’s, have you not?”
“I didn’t attend it. Why are you watching Lord Caindale? The marquess told me nothing that would be of interest to you. You waste your time following me.”
“Perhaps. We shall see.”
Jack considered the initials written in Lord Butterstone’s diary. Lord A and Mr. W. Unlikely to be coincidental. Had Atworth and Welby been involved in a plot to kill Bonaparte? Then why seekhimout? Were they afraid of imminent discovery and wished to know how close he was to the truth? If Lord Caindale was to be believed, the French were hot on the English plotters’ trail. But none of this fit. Somehow, it didn’t add up. What, or who, was missing?
