As he climbed unsteadily to his feet, he staggered. Lightning fast, the Frenchman leaped forward, grabbed Lord Caindale, and swung him between himself and Jack, an arm around his hostage’s neck. A knife had slipped from his sleeve, and he held it to Lord Caindale’s throat. “Drop the gun. Then I shall leave here, and you can forget we ever met.”
Jack cursed. He was growing soft; he should have searched him. “Reasonable of you. How can I resist?”
“Don’t listen to him, Ryder,” Lord Caindale said. “He’s killed Butterstone and the maid and won’t have any qualms about killing you. You can’t trust him.”
Renard bared his teeth in a snarl. “Both deaths were necessary, and you’ll be next.” His blade nicked Lord Caindale’s throat, and beads of blood ran down his neck.
“Kill him, and you’re dead too, Renard,” said Jack.
“I’ll take my chances,monsieur. Pistols can misfire. Or you may not be such a good shot, although I would be foolish to believe it. Drop it.”
Jack dropped the pistol at his feet, not willing to take the chance that the Frenchman would dig his knife into Caindale’s throat. The whites of Renard’s eyes revealed his panic. He’d made a serious error of judgment. Maybe his first, and possibly his last.
Renard edged toward the door, dragging Lord Caindale with him as a shield. Before the pair reached it, Lord Caindale’s knees buckled, and he went down. With a foul curse, the Frenchman raised the knife over the helpless man at his feet. Jack snatched up the pistol and fired from a crouch. The deafening sound boomed around the space as crimson blood spread across Renard’s forehead. With shock widening his eyes, he crumpled to the floor.
Lord Caindale rose slowly to his feet. He stood looking down at the Frenchman. He nudged him with his boot. “Dead as a burned-out cinder.”
“You said there were two men, my lord. The man who held up your coach and brought you back to London? Who is he?”
“Lies, all lies, designed to put you off,” Lord Caindale said with a sad pull of his mouth. “There was only one. Renard was a convincing talker with the promise of enough blunt to get this mill up and running after typhus wiped us out. I’m in debt for thousands, a debt that increases every week. My role in this affair was merely to pave the way for a maid to join Butterstone’s household and search his luggage for evidence of his intention to expose the plot to kill Bonaparte.” He sighed, his forehead creased with pain. He put a finger to the cut on his injured throat, which had turned his shirt collar red. “And I agreed to do it.”
Jack picked up the baron’s cravat and held it out to him. “Press this against the wound and sit down somewhere outside while I deal with the body. It’s better that no one finds it. Then we’ll fetch a surgeon and hire a carriage to take you home. Lady Caindale is beside herself with worry, and so is your niece. You are fortunate to have such a loving family.”
“I am.” Lord Caindale found his hat and placed it on his head, his voice shaking. “It’s more than I deserve.”
Jack couldn’t argue with that. He hefted Renard’s body up over his shoulder and headed for the door.
When Jack returned, having loaded Renard’s pockets with rocks and dumped his body in the river, Lord Caindale was slumped against a pillar, his blood-spotted cravat tied around his neck. “My horse has gone lame. He’s at the stables here in town. A cannon bone, they say. Couldn’t ride him, in any event.”
“My curricle is outside. Would you be able to make the journey south? Better that we don’t leave any evidence of what went on here.”
Caindale nodded. “I’ll manage. I’ve cheated death twice today. And I owe it to you. I’m eternally grateful to you, Captain Ryder.”
“No need. I promised Lord Butterstone I’d find his killer.”And Althea, he thought. He craved the opportunity to tell her himself, but better he leave that to her uncle.
They walked out through a loading bay into sunlight. Around a corner, Jack’s pair of grays stirred restlessly.
“You do believe me, don’t you, Ryder?” Lord Caindale asked desperately. “I swear I never thought he’d kill either Butterstone or that poor maid. I hoped that once Renard had the information he sought, the matter would be at an end.”
“Why did Renard consider it necessary to kill your brother-in-law?”
“Butterstone planned to consult the French ambassador. But the ambassador was away from London, as was the Foreign Secretarywhen my brother-in-law arrived back from France. He could have known his life was in danger and didn’t wish to stay in London any longer than he had to.”
“Why string you up; why not shoot you?”
Lord Caindale pulled a note from his waistcoat pocket. “Made me write this. He planned for my death to look like a suicide—knew how close I was to losing everything. No one would question it.” He tucked the letter back into place. “There was a French intelligence officer poking around, and Renard was feeling the heat in London. Didn’t want another murder that might lead back to him, particularly with the editor ofThe London Chroniclesniffing out the story.”
Jack untied the reins and climbed into the curricle. “So, Bonaparte was poisoned? Why else would they go to all this trouble?” He leaned a hand down for the baron to join him.
With his face a grimace, Lord Caindale settled on the seat beside Jack. “Hard to say. But Renard said he’d been fed arsenic for weeks. Small doses in his wine.”
“Who would have administered the poison?”
“I was led to believe it was Bonaparte’s acting sommelier, the Marquis de Montholon. But I am not certain.”
“Where is the marquis now?”
“Somewhere on the Continent. No sense in searching for him. He has powerful friends. You might not make it home.”
