She frowned. Men had such freedom. If only she were able to go to Ireland, she could help Cathleen.
Erina led the way up the narrow winding track through the magnificent aged oaks of Epping Forest. Above them, Hangman’s Hill waited. A steep, hour-long march. She glanced at Harry, but he seemed to be keeping up well. He might have been slim and declared himself lazy, but he was quite fit, not puffing a bit. “Now, about Miss Florence Beckworth,” she began.
“No point.” Harry stopped and turned to view the landscape they’d left behind. The complex roofline of the family mansion rose above the trees with its turrets and chimneys reaching for the sky.
She frowned at him. “Surely, you haven’t given up?”
“I’m afraid I have,” Harry said with a shrug. He didn’t appear too heartbroken. “Miss Beckworth drew me aside after breakfast and confided in me.”
“Confided what?”
“She is in love with the village vicar. Her father opposes the match, but she’s determined to change his mind.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. But why?” Erina’s heart sank. Nothing now stood in the way of their engagement. She felt sorry for Harry, and she liked him, but not enough to marry. And it was clear he felt the same.
“Miss Beckworth wishes to be a pastor’s wife. There’s something about sermons and bible studies that appeals far more to her than I ever could.” Harry shrugged. “Come on, Erina. Step up, or we won’tbe back for luncheon. Is that a kestrel I see soaring above us?”
Erina cast a glance at his set profile, wondering if Miss Beckworth’s rejection had hurt him badly, before raising her head to watch the magnificent bird swoop down to its prey. And she tried to think of a way to change her father’s mind, or at least distract him from his plan. Although Harry was more amiable than she had expected and he was certainly not unattractive, they would not suit.
Chapter Four
The inn’s parlorwas in an uproar. Guests crowded into the room where a man lay on the sofa. Jack saw he bled heavily from a chest wound. An older lady leaned over him, trembling, sobbing, and patting his cheek.
“What happened to the fellow?” Jack asked the innkeeper, Joe Peck, who stood silent and concerned beside him.
“Lord and Lady Butterstone and their daughter, Lady Althea, were returning home to Ivywood Hall from London when they were attacked by a highwayman,” Peck said. “His lordship resisted and was shot. I’ve sent for the surgeon.”
“I gained a little knowledge about treating gunshot wounds in the army,” Jack said. “I might be able to help.”
Peck looked relieved. “Then please do, sir. Lady Butterstone is close to hysterics.”
“Send the other guests back to their rooms. Fetch me clean cloths and warm water. Brandy too.”
Jack approached the sofa, where a young, fair-haired woman stood watching the sad tableau, her eyes stricken. The daughter. Jack smiled gently at her. “Captain Ryder, my lady. Allow me to see what can be done. If you could draw your mother away for a moment. Encourage her to drink a little brandy, or a strong, sweet cup of tea. Mr. Peck will see to it.”
She nodded, murmuring something in her mother’s ear. With an anguished glance at Jack, Lady Butterstone allowed her daughter to lead her away.
On his knees, Jack moved aside Lord Butterstone’s fine wool coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. As he eased up the linen shirt, a strong, metallic odor rose from where the ball had entered one side of his chest. Frothy blood gave clue to a lung wound.
When Peck brought the brandy, napkins, and water, Jack packed the linen against the wound and tried to stem the blood, knowing it was useless. When Jack eased a pillow beneath the gentleman’s head, Lord Butterstone opened his eyes.
“I’m dying.” A grim smile appeared in his lordship’s bloodshot eyes. “Too late to set things to rights.”
“Jack Ryder, sir. The doctor is on his way. Is there something I can do?”
Lord Butterstone coughed, and a trickle of blood touched his lips. With a weak hand, he motioned Jack closer. “Stamford’s son? Knew the duke. A good man.”
“Yes, he was.”
Lord Butterstone moaned. “Don’t have long. I must ask your help.”
“Anything.” Jack waited as the man fought to gain his breath. Did he need a priest?
“No highwayman… shot Bert, my groom, dead. A good servant. Can you see my wife and daughter safely home… stay with them until Lady Butterstone’s brother arrives?”
“Don’t worry, my lord. I will ensure their safety as long as is necessary. Who attacked you?”
“A long story…” He tried to raise his head. “And no time to tell it.” He licked the blood on his lips. “But I worry about my family’s safety.”
