Ladies who lived alone tended to talk too much, either to their cats or to anyone who would listen. Like Miss Snell, who did the flowers for the church every Sunday. It was a sorry state to find oneself in. She turned back to gaze at her handsome bridegroom with a warm look in his eyes. Why had she ever imagined she’d prefer to be a spinster?
Chapter Twenty
When Jack returnedto London after seeing the newly married couple off, he found Viscount Holmes in residence. In the hope that Lord Holmes could throw a light on what lay behind the Marquess of Butterstone’s murder and Lord Caindale’s involvement, Jack entered the viscount’s library. Over a brandy, Jack explained that he had been present when Lord Butterstone died, and he was helping in the investigation into his death. A tall, elegant man, Lord Holmes expressed his distress at the marquess’s death. He added that he would do anything he could to help.
“Sadly, I was away when the funeral took place. After an extended period of relentless rain, flooding on my estate put stock at risk and threatened the farms. Since then, I’ve paid my respects to his widow. An appalling thing to happen. I can barely bring myself to believe it, let alone try to make sense of it.”
Lord Holmes took a sweet wafer biscuit from the plate. “Are you far advanced in your inquiries, Captain Ryder? Although I fear you’re here because you’re not.”
Jack sipped from the glass of claret. “It’s my hope that you might assist me by relating what you know about Lord Butterstone’s movements in London before he left for his estate.”
Seated in the maroon leather wing chair, the viscount crossed his legs. “Of course. I’ll tell you all I know, which isn’t a great deal. Whilein Paris, Butterstone found out that his brother-in-law had engaged in a plot to assassinate Bonaparte. He insisted Caindale come to Paris to explain himself. Which he did. Caindale admitted some knowledge of it but said he’d done nothing untoward. He begged Butterstone to leave it be. But as Butterstone was afraid it would cause an international incident, he refused. He grew even more nervous when Welby, the editor of theLondon Gazette, arrived in Paris hot on the trail of a story.”
Lord Holmes paused to drink his claret. “Shortly afterward, Bonaparte died. Was it natural causes or poisoning? Who can say? Butterstone, unsure of the extent of Caindale’s involvement, asked me to speak to my colleagues in the House to discover, if I could, if there had been any British involvement in Bonaparte’s death. He suspected his brother-in-law had been merely aggrandizing his role, as he is wont to do. Butterstone mentioned that he planned to inform the French ambassador of his concerns.”
“Did he?”
“No idea. Not long afterward, I was called away to my estate.”
“What about Lord Caindale? Learn anything about his role?”
Holmes shook his head. “Nary a whisper about Caindale. As for the English involvement, I doubt there was ever anything serious. There had been grumblings, to which Wellington at once put an end. It was said that Bonaparte was a spent force and not dangerous. Although no one could be quite sure of that. Of course, the general had escaped from Elba, much at our expense, with so many lives lost at Waterloo.”
“Who were those Englishmen contemplating killing Bonaparte?” Jack asked.
The viscount shook his head. “You’ll never find out. It’s been buried. Too embarrassing.”
“So that’s all?”
“Not quite. I did pick up a rumor that a French agent was inLondon. The intelligence service had watched him for a time, but when they were closing in on him, they bungled it and lost him.”
“Interesting.” Jack wondered if the French agent Lord Holmes had mentioned could have been the same one dealing with Lord Caindale. All the pieces were starting to come together.Ifthe baron was to be believed. “So, you have no idea why someone wanted Lord Butterstone dead?”
The viscount shrugged. “Someone who felt the need to silence him? Or was it another matter entirely? But he was generally well-liked.” He grimaced. “A good man.”
Jack thanked the viscount and left. He needed to speak to Althea. He had to know the reason she’d kept what she had learned about her uncle from him.
Returning to the Butterstone townhome, he asked to see her.
Althea entered the drawing room. She greeted him, pale and composed in her black gown. “What news do you bring me, Jack?”
Ignoring the painful wrench the sight of her produced, he relayed what Viscount Holmes had told him and gave her Lord Caindale’s letter. She sat quietly to read it.
When she put it down, Jack folded his arms and studied her expression. “It was your uncle’s reference that supplied this house with the maid who could search your father’s luggage. For this to come about, a young woman was cruelly run down in the street. When did you learn of it? And why didn’t you tell me?”
Her cheeks paled. “I swear I didn’t know on the night we searched my father’s correspondence, Jack… I would never have…” She looked down at her hands. “I first heard of it from Mr. Thacker two days ago.”
“You might have notified me,” he said as he tried to deal with his disappointment.
Her eyes implored him. “I wanted desperately to tell you. But I couldn’t. Don’t you see? He is my mother’s brother. He is the only male relative Mama and I have left now, aside from that distant cousinwe don’t know who will inherit Papa’s title. And there’s my aunt and my cousins to consider.” Her voice broke, and she hid her face in her hands.
Jack clenched his hands, fighting the urge to rise and comfort her. “You’ve always suspected him, though, haven’t you?”
“Perhaps because of his sudden arrival in Paris and the heated conversation that took place between him and my father. My uncle is a foolish man, but that alone isn’t a crime. He could very well have been deceived. I can’t believe he was directly involved in the murder of that maid, and certainly not my father’s death. It crushed him. I know him, Jack; he’s not capable of such violence.”
“You may be right,” Jack said in a quiet voice. “Nevertheless, he is involved in this conspiracy up to his neck.”
“What will you do?”
