Captain Jack Ryder_The Duke's Bastard

by Maggi Andersen

  Erina stared at him bitterly. She excused herself, and wiping away tears, which resulted more from anger than sorrow, gathered up the skirts of her green velvet riding habit. Climbing the stairs, she prayed this marriage would never happen. Perhaps she’d fall ill and hover on the brink of death for a few weeks. After that her father could hardly…

  In her bedchamber, she threw herself onto the faded floral counterpane of her four-poster bed. With her arm over her eyes, she revisited the scene in the library. It sounded as if the negotiations had already been settled between her father and Feather. And without a word to her! Well, she would never agree. She couldn’t afford to wait. She must do something to stop it.

  Erina rolled off the bed and reread Cathleen’s letter. The words had not lost their impact. With a huge sigh, she folded the missive and tucked it into a drawer. If she was a man she could travel to Ireland and rescue Cathleen. Father had no time for the Irish or her mother’s family. But he wasn’t a cold-hearted man, she was sure he would take pity on Cathleen once she sought sanctuary beneath his roof.

  Chapter Two

  The morning Jack intended to set out on his journey, his cousin, Grant, paid him a visit at his rooms in Piccadilly. Jack liked him, always had. If the dukedom was to go to anyone, it should be Grant. A decent fellow, he would take infinite care of his inheritance. Even as a lad he was of a serious mien and considered ancestry to be of great import. He’d make as good and fair a duke as Jack’s father before him.

  Jack admitted him to his bedroom while he continued to pack. He deliberated over adding another shirt. Every item needed to be carefully selected as there was very little room in his portmanteau. “Take a seat, Grant. Can I offer you a drink?”

  His tall fair-haired cousin folded himself into a chair. “No, thank you. I see you mean to go on this journey. I thought it might only be talk. You know, a reaction to that business with your mother’s relatives.”

  “There is nothing that lot can do or say to upset me. Although they do keep trying.” Jack looked up from folding the shirt. “So, you thought I was all piss and wind.”

  Grant sighed. “Let’s just say I hoped you would change your mind. Simms, the family solicitor, is to read the will this afternoon. You’ll stay for that, surely?”

  Jack shook his head. “Whatever it contains will keep until I return.”

  “You’re heading north to your estate?”

  “In a roundabout fashion. Thought I’d go via Ireland.”

  Grant uncrossed his legs and sat up. “Ireland?”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “Neither have I. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. Just have a hankering to see it.” He’d been thinking of it for some time, after discovering some letters of his mother’s in a drawer of his father’s desk.

  Grant nodded light dawning in his gray eyes. “Your mother’s people were Irish.”

  “Yes, but I’m a stranger to them. Can’t see they’d want that to change.”

  If Grant thought seeing Ireland would cure Jack’s restlessness, he was barking up the wrong tree. It was curiosity that drew him, pure and simple. Jack squeezed his toiletry bag containing soap, razor, toothbrush, and a hairbrush into his portmanteau. Difficult to find these on the road, and since being in the army he disliked disorder of any kind. In the side flap of the saddle he’d add the currying brush to keep Arion in the best condition. The horse would enjoy this trip as much as he. He’d been a wonderful asset to Jack during the war and appeared to relish the adventure.

  He eyed his cousin. “I expect you’ll tour the ballrooms now, to select a bride from the current crop of debutantes,” he said with a devilish grin. He knew Grant would prefer to remain closeted in his study with his history books and tomes on heraldry. “Time you married, anyway, at thirty-two.”

  Grant didn’t look eager as he smoothed back his fair hair with both hands. “I’m prepared to do my duty.” He watched with obvious unease as Jack checked his pistol.

  “Duty?” Jack chuckled. “If it’s not to be a love match, find a woman you want to bed. One who makes you laugh. You’re going to be together for a long time, God willing.”

  ~~~

  “Wear your best dress to the ball tonight, Erina,” her father said. “The pale green satin looks well on you. I expect to see you dance with Harold Feather. And smile at him.”

  “I doubt he’ll be smiling at me,” Erina said. “I don’t think he likes to dance with taller women.”

  Her father scowled. “He’ll get used to it. Some men like taller women, although not many, I grant you.”

  Her mother had been an inch or two taller than he.

  “Yes, you did like tall women, papa.” Perhaps it was her mother’s dowry which attracted him. Erina couldn’t remember them being in love, for her mother had died when she was eleven.

  Her father banged his pipe against a bowl then began to fill it. Intent on his task, his face looked strangely vulnerable. “I overlooked it. Your mother was a fine woman.”

  Erina’s throat tightened. Would Mr. Harold Feather be prepared to overlook her height?

  That evening in the Moncrieff’s hot, crowded ballroom, Harold approached her and bowed. “Would you grant me the waltz, Lady Erina?”

  When she rose from her curtsey, Erina studied his expression. Harold’s jaw looked rigid, his expression bleak. How unflattering. He wasn’t unattractive in his black and white evening clothes, with chestnut brown hair and eyes the color of chocolate. But even if he’d been a bit taller, she wouldn’t marry him. He was an obedient son. Of sober character. The type of man many women might admire. But he didn’t excite her.

  When the musicians struck up, Harold returned and led her onto the dance floor with a polite smile. He placed his gloved hand at her waist and they began to waltz in the light flooding down from two massive chandeliers. The dancers whirled around them over the floor, a blur of color amid the men’s dark evening clothes and the debutante’s white gowns.

  In her ball slippers, she and Harold were of a similar height. He was a neat and adequate dancer, guiding her safely over the floor with an absence of thrilling flourishes.

  “You are glaring at me, Lady Erina,” he said as they reversed.

  “Am I? I hope you don’t think it’s because I’m angry with you, sir.”

  “I quell at the thought.”

  “You don’t wish to marry me, either,” she said bluntly.

  He smiled for the first time. It improved his appearance. “You don’t mince words do you?”

  “I like to call a spade a spade as the saying goes. And we have no time for delicate sensibilities if we are to put a stop to our parents’ ridiculous scheme.”

  Her father stood watching them. To appease him, she turned the full force of her smile on Harold.

  “Those green eyes of yours certainly flash,” he said. “When you look at me like that, I am sure we are unsuited. You have wildness in you. You’re a passionate woman.”

  “Is that so very bad?” she couldn’t help asking.

  “You’d turn my quiet life upside down.”

  It was all very well for her not to want to marry him. But he so obviously didn’t want her, she felt piqued. “How cowardly,” she said with a grin, aware of being perverse.

  “Yes.” He smiled. “I admit it. After years in the army, I fancy a simple life. An enjoyable book, a brandy and a cigar, my wife with her embroidery by my side. Just looking at you, I can foresee riding to hounds, jumping tall hedges, and dancing till dawn. It fatigues me to think of it.”

  Erina laughed. She glanced over her shoulder. Her father smiled and nodded. “You describe me well, Mr. Feather. I admire your clear-sightedness. So, what will you do to help me put an end to this madness?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What will I do? Precisely nothing.”

  She frowned. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “My father will grow tired of the idea. He
does you know. Tends to flit from one thing to the next.”

  She tightened her lips. “I don’t see how you can be so confident. My father sets a course and sticks to it.” And some of his courses were better cast aside.

  The musicians were coming to the end of the Mozart concerto. The rondo dying away.

  “Let us not be too impatient,” he said offering her his arm when the dance ended.

  They joined the line departing the ballroom floor. “But I am. Father plans a house party in you and your father’s honor, Mr. Feather. You shall be in my company for several days. And at the end of it our engagement will be announced.”

  He rubbed his brow with a gloved finger, looking pained. “Who else is invited?”

  “Some forty or so guests.” Her father had complained about the cost. But he put it down to an investment.

  His gaze settled on a small, fair-haired young woman who sat quietly alone. “Can you gain an invitation for Miss Florence Beckworth?”

  Erina had met Florence once and found her difficult to converse with. So dreadfully serious. So that is how things are, she thought gleefully. “I shall send the invitation myself.”

  He nodded. “Good. And leave the rest to me.”

  “You have hidden depths, Mr. Feather,” Erina said, as they approached her father. “I’m in half a mind to snap you up myself.”

  Harold bowed. “You are a most frightful tease, Lady Erina.”

  Chapter Three

  Close to nightfall, Jack had ridden far enough to leave the sprawl of London behind him. Forced to find an inn after a storm blew overhead and lightning spooked his horse, he welcomed the sight of one. The Old Angel Inn appeared out of the gathering dusk, surrounded by woodlands, fields, and farmhouses.

  In the stables, he saw to Arion’s needs then left instructions with the stable boy who stared goggled-eyed at the magnificent chestnut.

  Jack went in search of a meal. During his army life, he ate and slept when he could. No telling when the opportunity for either would present itself after breakfast tomorrow. Winter was giving way to spring, but the air still had a bite. Hungry, he crossed the cobbles to the thatched-roofed Tudor building. He stepped through the door, pulled off his brown greatcoat and removed his black beaver hat, hanging them on a hook near the door. The inn appeared to be a well-run establishment. It was clean, and tasty aromas wafted from the kitchen. With a room secured for the night, Jack entered the dining room. It was snug, with a low-beamed ceiling and a hearty fire, which snapped and popped in the fireplace. Several tables were occupied. Two men sat together, discussing the merits of crop rotation, while a well-dressed gentleman sat alone smoking a pipe. In a corner, a man and a woman silently ate their soup.

  A dark-haired serving girl swung her hips between the tables as she approached him, a twinkle in her eye. Jack ordered beef, ale and parsnip pudding, cabbage with bacon and onions, and apple pie. He smiled his thanks when she placed a tankard before him. Whilst he drank his ale, he watched her go about her tasks, with brisk neat movements.

  While the dull ache caused by the loss of his father still lodged somewhere near his heart, Jack felt at one with himself for the first time in years. He had relished the companionship of his fellow soldiers during the war, and his friends since then, but now it surprised him to find he enjoyed his own company and looked forward to his journey through Wales and across the sea to Ireland. He didn’t anticipate trouble. But if he should encounter any he could handle himself well enough.

  Jack’s appearance gave no clue to his background. He wore sober earth tones and leathers; the clothes of a man of relatively modest means or a country squire in buckskin breeches and oxblood leather boots. His coat was a serviceable brown and his cotton waistcoat black. His usual starched white shirts and intricately tied cravats had been replaced with a cream shirt and a brown scarf. Once on horseback, he presented in a different light, however. Arion was a gentleman’s horse, which could make Jack more susceptible to the interest of unsavory characters who roamed the roads. He would keep his pistol loaded.

  The meal was satisfying, good simple fare. After a port in the taproom, Jack retired to his small bedroom and undressed. He folded his clothes and put them on the chair, washed in tepid water, cleaned his teeth, and toweled himself dry. He slipped between clean cold sheets in the narrow bed. The mattress was too short, his feet hung over the edge. He’d prefer to have slept out in a field and would have but for the wet weather.

  He lay with his arm under his head thinking about the life he’d left behind. The relatives of his father’s widow were probably eyeing the silver. He hoped Grant would give those hangers-on their marching orders.

  Close to midnight he began to think about sleep. Downstairs, the tap room quieted. Noise from the patrons departing floated through his window. He turned on his side, bashed his pillow, and closed his eyes.

  At the clunk of his door being unlatched, Jack rolled over. He was on his feet in a minute and snatched up his pistol, the chilly air a shock on his bare skin.

  The door edged open, and a hand appeared holding a fluttering candle. A girl’s pale face framed by long curly dark hair followed, then her buxom figure dressed in a white nightgown. “Were you asleep, sir?”

  The girl who’d served his meal stepped farther into the room. She put a hand to her mouth with a gasp as her gaze roamed from his head to his feet and settled on his mid-section.

  “As you can see I am not.” Jack tossed his pistol down and grabbed the small towel pulling it around his waist. It was woefully inadequate.

  “I’m Callie. I wondered if you might need company.” She put the candlestick down on the table, then came forward and placed a hand on his bare chest, smiling up at him. “You’re a very big gentleman.”

  Jack removed her hand from where it had begun to wander. He clasped it in his, breathing in the scent of warm woman. “And one with very little money.”

  She pouted. “That what you think of me? I’m not after money. I’m a bit homesick, is all.”

  “Are you?” Jack’s gaze dropped from her comely face to her breasts pressed against the thin material of her nightgown. “Well then…”

  Below in the courtyard, a coach clattered noisily through the archway, raising the dogs. Loud voices erupted in the still night air. A woman cried out.

  “What the devil is going on?” Jack opened the window wide and leaned out. Four people alighted from the sumptuous coach. Two women stood by the vehicle as a man who appeared to be sick or hurt, was hefted out by the coachman and half carried toward the inn.

  Jack snatched up his clothes from the chair, donned his breeches and sat to pull on his boots. “I suggest you return to your room, Miss Callie. The proprietress might have need of you. Wouldn’t do to be seen here.”

  Callie backed away to the door with a huff of disappointment.

  “But thanks for the offer,” Jack added with a wry grin.

  She grinned back. “Are you staying long?”

  “I leave in the morning.”

  “A pity.” She hurried out.

  Throughout the inn, doors began to open, and guests crowded into the corridor from their rooms. Jack buttoned his coat and strode out, descending the stairs, as sounds of sobbing rose from the parlor.

  ~~~

  Erina rode into the stable block. The straggly group of houseguests she’d escorted through the wood had wandered off to view the lake. She threw the reins to their groom, Joseph, and jumped down.

  The house party had begun on Thursday. It was now Sunday, and as the weather remained pleasant, few seemed intent on departing. Harold Feather had told her he planned to accompany Miss Beckworth to view the rose garden, which was still a long way from bursting into full bloom. He was doing his best to ignite some passion in her, Erina supposed. She wasn’t confident he’d succeeded. At the ball last evening, he had danced several times with Florence, who’d barely smiled, and once with Erina. It earned her a sharp rebuke from her father as she went up to bed
in the early hours.

  “I have no control over Mr. Feather, Papa, should he prefer Miss Beckworth’s company to mine.”

  “Who invited the Beckworths? They were not on the guest list. Mr. and Mrs. Beckworth are of damnably inferior stock.” He stared accusingly at her. “Did you have some hand in it?”

  “Harold expressed the wish for her to be invited.”

  “Did he now? If I’d known, I would have told you not to invite them.” He raised his eyebrows. “You are not trying hard enough, my girl.”

  “Love is not something one can conjure up. Or desire for that matter.”

  “That is nonsense. Desire does not come into it. I expected you to be smarter than this, Erina. You have always had a good head on your shoulders.”

  Suspecting he wanted to see her secure because he could no longer provide for her, she put a hand on his arm. “Perhaps I don’t wish a secure and passionless life.”

  “You’re young. You understand nothing about life.”

  She raised her chin. “I believe I know my own heart.”

  “Sir Ambrose is awaiting me in the library. I’ll see how the land lies. If you must be forever on horseback have the good sense to take Feather with you.”

  “He’s not over fond of riding. Said he was seldom off a horse’s back when in the army.”

  “Then show him the maze.”

  She had a terrible urge to giggle. Did her father wish her to seduce Harold in the maze? It was overgrown and very damp. She wrestled control of her emotions which threatened to overtake her. “If it’s fine, we’ll hike up to Hangman’s Hill. There’s a marvelous view of Epping Forest from there.”

  “Good. Go to bed, get some beauty sleep.”

  The next morning Erina rose earlier than she cared to. Whilst most ladies were still abed, she waited for Harold at the bottom of the stairs confident he would be down for breakfast, having confessed to being an early riser. As soon as he put a foot on the hall tiles, she herded him into the deserted library.