“No, I wouldn’t fall for that ploy. You learn as many tricks as an organ grinder’s monkey in this job! Amy’s references came from a fine family related to Lord and Lady Butterstone.”
“Who might that be?”
“Lord and Lady Caindale.”
The back of Jack’s neck prickled. “Has Lady Butterstone been informed?” he asked, rubbing a hand over it.
“Yes. She didn’t seem to take it in. Said I should refer it to the housekeeper.”
“What about Lady Althea?”
“Lady Althea was present at the time. She made no comment.”
Jack tightened his jaw and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Thacker. You’ve been most helpful.”
Thacker either missed the note of irony in Jack’s voice or ignored it. He climbed to his feet and offered his hand. “Glad to be of service, Captain Ryder.” He followed Jack down the corridor. “It’s been a smoky business all round. Do you have any news to impart about poor Lord Butterstone’s death?”
In the hall, Jack took his hat, gloves, and cane from the majordomo. “Not as yet, Mr. Thacker, but please contact me immediately should any other problem arise.”
Jack crossed the road. He examined this latest information as he walked toward Bascombe’s house. The colonel would be very interested in this latest development. He banged his cane against the wrought-iron fence that encased the gardens, as something he’d learned rose to trouble him. Althea had known about the maid’s strange background and the connection to her uncle. And she hadn’t mentioned it to him.
*
Home again atRountree Park, Erina rode her mare, Jessie, along the trail through the woods. An hour later, she arrived back, her thoughts in less of a turmoil. At the stables, she groomed her horse with the curry comb, removing the loose hair, then worked briskly with the dandy brush, a ritual she found calming. She cleaned the horse’s hooves while Jessie watched her with her big, soft, dark eyes. Finally, Erina brushed the horse’s mane and tail. She put the feed bag on, patted Jessie’s neck, and left the horse to the stableboy.
As she walked back to the house, Erina anguished over her approaching wedding, which was to take place in the village church in a little over a week’s time. Her father had wasted little time in bringing her home and organizing the vicar. Harry’s special license was employed. After deciding that their marriage was the only way to avoid a terrible scandal, her father, in collaboration with Sir Ambrose, had posted their engagement in theMorning Postthe day after she and Harry had left for Ireland. After which, it was put about that Erina had come down with a horrid rash after falling from her horse into a patch of bishop’s weed and would see no one. So, by some miracle, and the swift action of their fathers, their scandalous journey had remained a secret.
Aunt Abbie would arrive this afternoon to help in the wedding preparations. Harry, who was improving daily, had been taken home to Featherstone Court in Mayfair to be treated by his father’s London surgeon. They would not meet again until the day of the wedding.
Erina plucked a bay leaf as she passed the shrub, releasing a savory scent as she shredded it with her fingers. She didn’t like how empty her days seemed without Harry. Although she’d tried not to, she feared she’d fallen in love with him. She’d been shocked at her own eager response to the touch of his lips. Her mind constantly returned to the musk scent of his smooth skin, his broad shoulders and chest, and the intriguing shape of his body beneath the bedcovers. She was a hopeless case. Would she become like her mother? Married to a man whodidn’t love her?
Her father was in his study catching up on the news while his pipe smoke sucked the air from the room.
“Cathleen lives very simply.” Erina swooped up their tabby, Jasper, and sat on the sofa with him on her lap, stroking his soft fur. “Did Mama’s family lose their fortune?”
Her father peered at her over the top of the broadsheet. “What made you think your mother’s family was wealthy?”
“Didn’t Mama have a handsome dowry?”
“She did not.” Her father put down his paper and glared at her. “Do you believe that’s why I married her?”
“No, of course not.” Erina reddened.
“I loved your mother dearly.” His gaze softened. “When we first danced at Almack’s, I knew there could never be another woman for me. My father tried to prevent the match. Irish and very little dowry? He was furious. It was expected of me to marry an heiress. I dug my heels in and married your mother, anyway. And I never regretted it for a moment.”
Erina stared at him, suffering guilt for doubting him. “I didn’t know, Papa.”
“No, my dear. How could you? You were only a child when she died.” He puffed on his pipe, and the familiar spicy smell of tobacco spread through the room. “I supported her family for years. Profligates, most of them. I refuse to do it again.”
“But Cathleen is a very nice person. I’m sure you’d like her.”
“Perhaps I would. But I’m not going back to Ireland to meet her.”
“Mama was your choice. Why didn’t you allow me to choose my husband?”
His cheeks reddened. “I became concerned when you refused Lyndon Wainwright’s perfectly respectable offer last Season because you feared he would prevent you from living as you wished. I thought you would end up an old maid.”
She clamped her lips before she blurted out that Mr. Wainright was still tied to his mother’s apron strings. Lady Wainwright mollycoddled her son and gazed at Erina with a critical eye. She feared Lady Wainwright would have insisted Erina treat him in the same fashion.
