Captain Jack Ryder_The Duke's Bastard
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Captain Jack Ryder
The Duke’s Bastard
Regency Sons
Book One
Maggi Andersen
COPYRIGHT
Captain Jack Ryder – The Duke’s Bastard
Regency Sons – Book One
Copyright@2018 by Maggi Andersen
Published by Maggi Andersen
Book Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. This book may not be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author.
Maggi Andersen’s Website: http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Author Notes
About the Author
Other Books by the Author
Dedication: To the heroes in my life, David, James, Adam, and Liam.
Book Description
Captain Jack Ryder~The Duke’s Bastard, Book One.
Regency Sons
Captain Jack Ryder
Mr. Harry Feather
His Grace, Grant Neville, the Duke of Stamford
Lord Timothy Scott, Baron Waddington’s heir
Lord Miles Hawkeswood, second son of Marquess Sterling
The death of Captain Jack Ryder’s father, the Duke of Stamford, leaves Jack restless. The duchess’ spiteful relatives have made his life a misery, and he wants nothing more than to escape London for a time. Dressed in buckskin breeches, he takes to the road on his horse, Arion, with the intention of visiting his mother’s grave in Ireland. But after one day, events conspire to interrupt his plans.
Jack finds himself not only caught up in a conspiracy of immense proportions, but also in a passionate love affair with a lady he cannot marry. Lady Ashley Lambourne’s father, the Marquess of Butterstone has been murdered, and Jack promises to find his killer.
A close friend of Jack’s from his army days, Harry Feather, heir to one of the largest fortunes in England, faces an arranged marriage to Lady Erina Roundtree. A tall half-Irish beauty, Erina is a spirited lady who makes it plain she doesn’t wish to marry Harry, either. Determined to enjoy a quiet existence after his years fighting Bonaparte, Harry fears Erina will run him ragged. Why he is indulging Erina in one of her harebrained schemes is beyond him when he should marry a quiet woman like Florence Beckworth.
Chapter One
Stamford, Hertfordshire, 1821
The horses proceeded down the avenue of ancient elms at a solemn pace, their black plumed heads bowing, as the Duke of Stamford was taken to his last resting place. His chest tight, Captain Jack Ryder watched the steam flow from the thoroughbred’s nostrils in the crisp, cold, air.
“Chin up, old fellow.” Harry Feather, heir to Sir Ambrose, Baronet Feather’s immense fortune, walked beside Jack as they followed the hearse with a cortège of subdued friends, and relatives, a few of whom Jack wished to purgatory. The one thing he shared with the duchess’ family was mutual dislike. Close behind them was his cousin, Grant, heir to the dukedom, and Grant’s mother, Aunt Elizabeth. Jack was extremely fond of them both. Aunt Elizabeth had been the closest thing to a mother to him, visiting him at his boarding school to bring him cakes, she’d made his lonely life bearable.
Jack scrubbed his hands over his face, as if the tiredness from too many nights of lost sleep while his father breathed his last, followed by the ensuing heavy sensation of grief, would be rubbed away. “Did as much as he could for me. Loved my mother, cared for her until she died.”
Harry nodded. “Indeed. And not every peer sends their sons born on the wrong side of the blanket to Oxford.”
“Then agreed albeit reluctantly to my request to join the army. Feared I’d do something reckless and be killed.”
“He had good reason for it,” Harry said. “You did behave as if your life wasn’t worth much. Earned you considerable praise though.”
“If he hadn’t been born a duke, Father would have married my mother. He was forced into a marriage to a woman he disliked.”
“Who wasn’t kind to you.”
“Can’t say that, exactly. She never acknowledged my existence.”
Harry checked if anyone was within earshot. “The duchess was universally disliked. I’d be surprised if there were many who shed tears over her deathbed.” He turned back to Jack. “Do you mind that Grant has inherited Stamford?”
“That drafty pile of stone?” Jack shook his head. “Why should I? I’ve known since birth it would be this way.”
“Still, Stamford is a magnificent property and there are other investments.”
“Father left me a living. The Northumberland farm.”
Harry wound his scarf tighter around his neck, hunched his shoulders and pulled his hat down over his chestnut hair. “Is it in good condition?”
“Yes. According to my father’s man of business. I’ve never been there.”
Harry’s brown eyes widened. “Why not?”
Jack shrugged. “Never had any reason to. It gives me a modest income, which is all I require.”
“Is that the extent of your inheritance?”
“It’s all I know about. I don’t expect anything more. Father bought me a commission in the army, and I saw that as a step on the ladder of life. The rest is up to me.”
“But the war’s long over and now you’ve resigned your commission...”
“I learned a few life skills during those years, did not you?”
Harry shrugged. “I suspect you would have learned them anyway, Jack. All it did for me was make me realize how much I prefer a life of comfort over trekking through Spain in dreadful conditions and being shot at.”
“Taught you discipline, toughened you up. Made you a man, Harry. You aren’t one of those soft indulged sons who waste their lives whoring and gambling about London.”
Harry smoothed an invisible crease on his sleeve. “Have no fondness for it. But you should go and sort out that property after the reading of the will.”
“Mm.” Jack watched the sway of the black and gold hearse moving along in front of them. He felt cut off at the knees when he tried to envision the direction his life would take. His father had given his life meaning and now it was stripped away. “Eventually.”
“You’re in no hurry?”
“No.” Jack drew his grief around him like a shroud, took a deep breath, and made a decision. “You know, being a bastard gives a man certain advantages.”
“Oh? What would they be?”
“I can go wherever I like without any call on my time. No parliament, no bending the knee to King George and his set.”
“Some might care about those things.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t. Nothing can change it, can it?”
“You’re accepted in society, Jack. People like you.”
“Some do. Maybe some just liked my father.”
Scattering fallen leaves, the hearse approached Stamford village churchyard where, hunkered down
in the cold, villagers waited to see off a popular duke.
“What do you intend to do next?” Harry asked. “Continue with your rooms in Town?”
“No. I’m going to travel.”
“Really? No desire for it. Saw enough during the war.”
“Not the Continent. The British Isles. And not as a well-heeled gentleman.” The plan formed in Jack’s mind. “I’ll travel light like we did in the army. Just a small portmanteau, and Arion, my faithful stallion. I’ve seen little of my own country.”
Harry shuddered and murmured something derogatory about how badly dressed he’d be, as the horses pulled the hearse to a halt before the family’s enormous stone mausoleum.
Jack, with a deep anguished breath, took his place with the other pall bearers to carry his father’s coffin inside the stone edifice.
Jack and Harry continued their conversation hours later in a tavern where two other friends joined them, Miles Hawkeswood, second son of the Marquess of Sterling, and Baron Waddington’s heir, Timothy Scott. In their mid to late twenties, the four had formed firm friendships when they fought with the 7th Hussars during the Peninsular campaign and acquitted themselves well at the Battle of Waterloo.
Miles drew his eyebrows together, his blue eyes rendered thoughtful by Jack’s declaration. “You’re not waiting for the reading of the will?”
“I shan’t be missed. Everything goes to Cousin Grant. And the duchess’ relations will be there hoping to be remembered. Can’t abide any of ’em.”
“Well I think it’s a mad idea.” Miles raised his voice above the ruckus from a table in the corner where a drunken fellow had made a clumsy attempt to pull the serving wench down onto his lap. “Traveling rough on English roads in our foul weather sounds downright uncomfortable. Had enough of that in Spain where it was hot at least.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Harry said. “Dangerous too. You could be robbed and murdered before you get twenty miles from London.”
“I doubt that,” Tim interjected. “Jack was the best marksman in our regiment. He’s mighty handy with his fists too. Might have been a pugilist. Just look at him. Is anyone going to take him on?”
Jack grinned and shook his head, then drank deeply of his ale.
Tim perched a large booted foot on his knee and cast an eye over the breadth of Jack’s shoulders. “None of us are short, bar Harry, and Jack towers over all of us.”
“Dash it all, I object!” Harry thumped Tim on his arm. “I would be considered a reasonable height if I chose a new set of friends. The ladies have no complaints, I might add.”
Jack pushed back his black hair from his brow. “I’ll carry a pistol, but I’m not looking to use it unless I have to. An adventure appeals to me. To roam about the country without an identity. That’s true freedom. I considered re-enlisting, but after the war ended army life was more tedious than exciting.”
Tim gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “And when you’ve seen as much as you care to, what then?”
Unable to supply an answer, Jack shrugged. “Then, I shall embark on something else.”
“Marriage? And the lady will be of your choosing,” Harry said gloomily, his fingers raking his chestnut hair, his brown eyes somber. “Father has picked out a bride for me. Daughter of a friend of his. He’s corresponding with her father as we speak.”
It was the first Jack had heard of it. The first of them to marry. “Who is the lady?”
“Lady Erina Rountree.”
“What’s wrong with Erina?” Jack brought the lady’s visage to mind. Abundant mahogany hair and fine green eyes. He’d danced with her at her ball when she’d entered society. Tall and slim, her gaze had challenged him, and she’d made him laugh when she’d complained about the crick in her neck she got from talking to him. One of the few men tall enough to have achieved that she had said. “She’s pretty. Smart too.”
“All right for you, no one is pushing you to marry,” Harry said.
“No, nor is marriage part of my plans.” He didn’t want to care about anyone. “You’re a lucky fellow. Don’t know what you’re complaining about.”
Harry folded his arms. “I suspect Erina could start an argument in an empty room.”
Jack laughed. “Take care, Harry. Those eyes of hers can certainly flash.”
“I prefer a quiet woman, like Miss Florence Beckworth.”
The fair Florence had the look of a frightened mouse. To give her the benefit of the doubt, her shyness might mask intelligence. “A milk and water miss? Who won’t challenge you? How dull that would be.”
“Why has the conversation turned to women?” Tim gave a snort of disgust. “I’d rather talk about Tiresias, the Duke of Portland’s horse that won The Derby in fine style.”
“Because women are more interesting than horses.” Jack smiled at the buxom tavern wench who carried four pots of ale, two in each hand. She placed them on the table without spilling a drop and winked at him.
“Not always,” Tim grumbled.
“As the son of a baron, you will be expected to marry, Tim.” Jack took hold of his tankard. “You need to produce an heir.” He chuckled and slapped him on the back. “And, anyway, I like talking about women. I like women.” He was without regular feminine company since his mistress remarried. Not such a bad thing, it contributed to his sense of freedom. Now there was nothing to hold him here.
“I like them in bed,” Tim said. “But out of it, they can join their sewing circles or whatever they do and leave me to my own devices.”
“Strong words, Tim.” Jack recalled that Tim had taken it badly when a lady ended their affair a year ago, after finding a gentleman with deeper pockets. “What if you come to love one of them?”
“Redheads are said to be passionate romantic fellows, are they not?” Harry mocked.
“And always with a devil of a temper,” Miles added, joining in the roasting.
“Enough.” Tim smiled and scrubbed his hand through his auburn locks. “Romance is for women. How about a game of billiards?”
~~~
Roundtree Park, Waltham Abbey, Essex
Erina Rountree finished tending to her horse and had a few words with the groom about the mare’s left fetlock joint. Reassured, she left the stables and the smells of hay, saddle oil, leather, and horse behind and walked back along the driveway to the house. She had received a worrying letter from her Irish cousin. She must speak to her father about it.
She entered the front door and crossed the chequerboard tiles of the entry hall, as Roberts, their butler, appeared from the servants’ door.
He flinched at her soiled riding boots. “Your father requires your presence in the library, Lady Erina.”
She raised her skirts a little, examined her boots and gasped in mock horror. “Thank you, Roberts.”
She left him but not before she saw a small smile twitch his lips.
It would not be good news. Her father stood awaiting her presence. She preferred it when he sat and smoked his pipe.
“I have just received a letter from the baronet, Sir Ambrose Feather. He has agreed to the terms of your union with his son.”
Erina stared at him as the meaning of his words took hold. It wasn’t just bad news, it was positively ghastly. She placed her hands on her hips. “Marry Mr. Harold Feather? That’s ridiculous! I will not!”
Father eyed her cautiously and shook his head. “You are like your mother. Irish forebears.” He made it sound damning, which riled her further. Her mother was from a fine Irish family. She had never met them but had begun corresponding with her cousin Cathleen two years ago, discovering they shared an interest in animals, especially horses. Erina hated that she was unable to help her.
“My dear child you will do as you are bid.” He was exasperated but apparently not surprised by her reaction. “It is an excellent match. Harold is heir to a large fortune. You will be kept in the manner any woman would covet. A vast improvement on this. Look around you.” With a sweep of his arm, he ind
icated the worn chair coverings and faded carpet. The magnificent gold leaf missing in spots on the cornices. “Good lineage is the only thing on offer here. As for your youthful beauty, Erina, it won’t last forever.” He shook his head. “It’s not an easy task for me to find you a husband. You are uncommonly tall like your mother and have no dowry to speak of.”
Erina bit her lip. She’d reacted with her usual lamentable burst of temper. If only she’d taken time to think of a tactful way to appease him. But she doubted it would have made any difference. She loved her father but suspected he was thinking more about the upkeep of the estate. Their present circumstances came from unsound investments his man of business put him onto. This marriage was to be an injection of funds into their empty coffers, at her expense. It didn’t matter what she might want for herself. “Harold doesn’t even like me. We tend to disagree. And he is too short for me.”
“You’ll be lucky to find a husband at all with your temper, my girl.” Father rested a hand on the fireplace overmantel and drew himself up to his full height which wasn’t above average. “He’s too short? Is height now a prerequisite for marriage? I’ve never heard the like. What has happened to the world? Young people today! Good marriages don’t necessarily begin as a love match. Sometimes it’s more important just to like the person. And you do like him?”
“Like him? Well, I don’t dislike him, but that’s not…” she frowned. “Harold won’t be any happier about this arrangement than I am.” In fact, Erina hoped Harold would create enough of a fuss to prevent it. Unless his father was a tyrant like hers. There was no point in arguing with him. She would have to think of a way out of it. But she needed time.
“I had hoped you might take me to Ireland, Papa.”
“Ireland? Why would I do that?”
She retrieved the letter from the pocket in her skirts. “Cousin Cathleen is in trouble. Before her father died, he lost their home to a neighbor in a card game. Mr. Gormley, a man she mistrusts and is afraid of, has offered her the choice between marriage or being cast out into the street.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, but what on earth can I do about it?” Her father made a slashing motion with his hand. “I severed my connection with that family years ago.”