“Mm. I wasn’t so enamored of Wainright myself, but I am confident you and Harold will rub along together very well.”
“Are you, Papa? What makes you so sure?”
“He’s a steady fellow with a good temperament, and”—he glanced at her—“while I wouldn’t call you flighty, for you have a good brain in your head, you do suffer from the delusion that a woman can live as freely as a man. I’m afraid that is not so, my dear. I cannot see it ever being so. I feared you would be hurt. If Harold weren’t such a gentleman, you well might have been.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you really believe traipsing off to Ireland with Harold would be a harmless frolic?”
“No, but I was so worried for Cathleen, I suppose I didn’t stop to think of the consequences. I expected her to come home with me, which would have made everything all right and proper.”
“It would not have, my girl! You were unchaperoned on the trip there.”
Erina chewed her bottom lip. “But I did try to show you her letter, Papa. I asked you to take me to Ireland, but you refused.”
“Well, it’s all in the past now. Your cousin has returned to her home. You should be pleased about that.”
“I am.” She gently tweaked Jasper’s ears and was rewarded with a loud purr. “But I wish I weren’t so nervous about marrying Mr. Feather.”
“It’s perfectly natural. Marriage is a big step. But I am confident you will be content, Erina.”
She wanted to confess her fears; how Harry hadn’t wanted her from the first, and while he considered her a friend and perhaps did like her a little, he didn’t love her. Despite his warm assurances thattheir union was what he desired, she knew she wasn’t what he wanted in a wife. He’d made it plain when they’d first met that he preferred a quiet girl like Miss Florence Beckworth. Try as she might, she could never be like her. But her father had returned to readingThe Times. He wouldn’t understand.
She rose and put down Jasper, who mewed in protest. “I must go and see if the blue bedroom has been made ready for Aunt Abbie.”
Her father, busy refilling his pipe, murmured agreement as she left the room with the persistent rush of butterflies in her stomach.
Chapter Eighteen
Bascombe finished readingLord Caindale’s letter and tossed it onto the table. He and Jack sat in his library fortified with glasses of brandy, the ever-present cheroot in the colonel’s hand. “Viscount Holmes was seen to be conversing in the House of Lords with Butterstone before the marquess left London. I have been trying to locate him. According to his staff, he’s at his country house in Surrey.” Bascombe gestured to the letter. “So Caindale has decided it’s got too hot for him in London. Gone north, you say?”
“Lady Caindale is very concerned about the baron,” Jack said. “With good reason. He’s got himself mixed up in this nefarious business. Just for money?”
“Like many English, he’s a dyed-in-the-wool royalist.”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t see him as the sort of man to fight for his beliefs.”
“No. What seems more likely is that he’s dangerously close to Dun territory.”
“Yes, his cotton mill in Manchester is in trouble.” Jack put down his glass and stood. “I’ll watch out for Lord Holmes, and if Lord Caindale doesn’t appear by the time I get back from Waltham Abbey, I’ll go north to find him. But first, I have a wedding to attend in a sennight. My good friend Harold Feather’s.”
“A pleasant task, indeed. Who’s the lady?”
“Lady Erina Rountree.”
Bascombe smiled. “A vivacious young woman. Please convey my best to them both.”
The next day, Viscount Holmes’s butler informed Jack that his master had not yet returned to London. The guard outside Lord Caindale’s house also confirmed he was still away.
Jack filled in the hours familiarizing himself with his new staff and discussing his investments with Stinson. He was already feeling confined. Time to take up Grant’s invitation to visit Stamford.
In the afternoon, Jack drove his phaeton and newly purchased pair of thoroughbreds into Hertfordshire intending to view the whippet pup his cousin had offered him. Jack was fond of the breed. They were gentle animals, as fast as greyhounds and excellent rabbiters.
At his father’s enormous sandstone pile, which was now Grant’s home, Jack greeted the staff. Half a dozen remembered him as a young lad.
After an elaborate luncheon, he and Grant made their way on foot to view the dog, as the day was fine and pleasantly warm. They crossed the manicured grounds while Jack related all that had happened since they’d last met.
Grant’s gray eyes widened. “You still suspect Caindale to be behind all this?”
“He’s in it right up to his neck,” Jack said. “He’s been playing a deep game.”
“Who would have thought it of Caindale? He’s a member of my club, played hazard with him. Terrible player. Always loses. Must owe money everywhere.”
