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A Buccaneer At Heart
Stephanie Laurens
Unexpected love—plus passion, intrigue, and danger—challenge our hero to embrace his true nature.#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens continues THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET, a riveting blend of Regency-era high seas adventure, a mystery shrouded in the heat of tropical jungles, and the passionate romances of four couples and their unexpected journeys into love.After a decade of captaining diplomatic voyages for Frobisher Shipping, alongside covert missions for the Crown, Captain Robert Frobisher decides that establishing a home—with hearth and wife—should be his next challenge. But an unexpected mission intervenes. Although Robert sees himself as a conservative businessman-cum-diplomat and this mission is far from his usual sphere, it nevertheless falls within the scope of his abilities. As matters are urgent, he agrees to depart for West Africa forthwith.To Robert, his way forward is clear: Get to Freetown, determine the location of a slavers’ camp, return to London with the information, and then proceed to find himself a wife.Already in Freetown, Miss Aileen Hopkins is set on finding her younger brother Will, a naval lieutenant who has mysteriously disappeared. Find Will and rescue him; determined and resolute, Aileen is not about to allow anyone to turn her from her path.But all too quickly, that path grows dark and dangerous. And then Robert Frobisher appears and attempts to divert her in more ways than one.Accustomed to managing diplomats and bureaucrats, Robert discovers that manipulating a twenty-seven-year-old spinster lies outside his area of expertise. Prodded by an insistent need to protect Aileen, he realizes that joining forces with her is the surest path to meeting all the challenges before him—completing his mission, keeping her safe, and securing the woman he wants as his wife.But the villains strike and disrupt their careful plans—leaving Robert and Aileen no choice but to attempt a last throw of the dice to complete his mission and further her brother’s rescue.


INTERIOR ARTWORK
IS LOCATED
BETWEEN CHAPTER 12 AND CHAPTER 13
and also can be accessed via the TABLE OF CONTENTS
A Buccaneer at Heart
The Adventurers Quartet: Volume 2
Stephanie Laurens




ISBN: 9781474045209
A BUCCANEER AT HEART
© 2016 Stephanie Laurens
Published in Great Britain 2016
by HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Cover design by Savdek Management Pty. Ltd.
Cover and inside front couple photography © 2016 Period Images
Image of canopied bed: photographic credit to John Kershaw
The name Stephanie Laurens is a registered trademark of Savdek Management Proprietary Ltd.
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Unexpected love—plus passion, intrigue, and danger—challenge our hero to embrace his true nature.
#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens continues THE ADVENTURERS QUARTET, a riveting blend of Regency-era high seas adventure, a mystery shrouded in the heat of tropical jungles, and the passionate romances of four couples and their unexpected journeys into love.
After a decade of captaining diplomatic voyages for Frobisher Shipping, alongside covert missions for the Crown, Captain Robert Frobisher decides that establishing a home—with hearth and wife—should be his next challenge. But an unexpected mission intervenes. Although Robert sees himself as a conservative businessman-cum-diplomat and this mission is far from his usual sphere, it nevertheless falls within the scope of his abilities. As matters are urgent, he agrees to depart for West Africa forthwith.
To Robert, his way forward is clear: Get to Freetown, determine the location of a slavers’ camp, return to London with the information, and then proceed to find himself a wife.
Already in Freetown, Miss Aileen Hopkins is set on finding her younger brother, Will, a naval lieutenant who has mysteriously disappeared. Find Will and rescue him; determined and resolute, Aileen is not about to allow anyone to turn her from her path.
But all too quickly, that path grows dark and dangerous. And then Robert Frobisher appears and attempts to divert her in more ways than one.
Accustomed to managing diplomats and bureaucrats, Robert discovers that manipulating a twenty-seven-year-old spinster lies outside his area of expertise. Prodded by an insistent need to protect Aileen, he realizes that joining forces with her is the surest path to meeting all the challenges before him—completing his mission, keeping her safe, and securing the woman he wants as his wife.
But the villains strike and disrupt their careful plans—leaving Robert and Aileen no choice but to attempt a last throw of the dice to complete his mission and further her brother’s rescue.
Compelled to protect those weaker than themselves and bring retribution to a heartless enemy, they plunge into the jungle with only their talents and inner strengths to aid them—and with the courage of their hearts as their guide.
The first voyage is one of exploration, the second one of discovery. The third journey brings maturity, while the fourth is a voyage of second chances. Continue the journey and follow the adventure, the mystery, and the romances to the riveting end.
Praise for the works of Stephanie Laurens
“Stephanie Laurens’ heroines are marvelous tributes to Georgette Heyer: feisty and strong.” Cathy Kelly
“Stephanie Laurens never fails to entertain and charm her readers with vibrant plots, snappy dialogue, and unforgettable characters.” Historical Romance Reviews
“Stephanie Laurens plays into readers’ fantasies like a master and claims their hearts time and again.” Romantic Times Magazine
A BUCCANEER
AT HEART
by Stephanie Laurens
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Principal Characters:
Frobisher, Robert – Hero
Hopkins, Aileen – Heroine
In London:
Family:
Frobisher, Declan – Robert’s younger brother
Frobisher, Lady Edwina – Robert’s sister-in-law
Staff in Declan & Edwina’s town house:
Humphrey – butler
Government:
Wolverstone, Duke of, Royce, aka Dalziel – ex-commander of British secret operatives outside England
Wolverstone, Duchess of, Minerva – Wolverstone’s wife
Melville, Viscount – First Lord of the Admiralty
Dearne, Marquess of, Christian Allardyce – ex-operative of Dalziel’s, now functioning in some unspecified capacity in government intelligence
Carstairs, Major Rafe – army liaison in matters requiring discretion
Hendon, Lord, Jack – ex-operative, now owner of Hendon Shipping
In Aberdeen:
Frobisher, Fergus – Robert’s father
Frobisher, Elaine – Robert’s mother
Frobisher, Royd (Murgatroyd) – eldest Frobisher brother
In Southampton:
Higginson – clerk, Frobisher Shipping
At sea:
Frobisher, Caleb – youngest of four Frobisher brothers
Frobisher, Catrina (Kit) – female cousin
Frobisher, Lachlan – male cousin
In Freetown:
Dixon, Captain – army engineer, missing
Hopkins, Lieutenant – navy, West Africa Squadron, missing
Fanshawe, Lieutenant – navy, West Africa Squadron, missing
Hillsythe – ex-Wolverstone agent, governor’s aide, missing
Holbrook, Governor – Governor-in-Chief of British West Africa
Holbrook, Lady, Letitia – Governor’s wife, now absent
Satterly, Mr. – Governor’s principal aide
Eldridge, Major – Commander, Fort Thornton
Decker, Vice-Admiral – Commander, West Africa Squadron, currently at sea
Richards, Captain – army, Fort Thornton
Hardwicke, Mr. – Anglican minister
Hardwicke, Mrs. Mona – Anglican minister’s wife
Sherbrook, Mrs. – local lady
Hitchcock, Mrs. – local lady
Winton, Major – Commissar of Fort Thornton
Winton, Mrs. – wife of Major Winton
Babington, Charles – partner, Macauley & Babington Trading Company
Macauley, Mr. – senior partner, Macauley & Babington Trading Company
Undoto, Obo – local priest
Sampson – old sailor
Lashoria – vodun priestess
Fortescue, Katherine – missing governess from the Sherbrook household
Wilson, Mary – missing shop owner-assistant, Babington’s sweetheart
Muldoon – the Naval Attaché
On board The Trident:
Latimer, Mr. Jordan – First Mate
Hurley, Mr. – Master
Wilcox – Bosun
Miller – Quartermaster
Foxby, Mr. – Steward
Benson – experienced sailor
Coleman – experienced sailor
Fuller – experienced sailor
Harris – experienced sailor
CHAPTER 1
May 1824
London
Captain Robert Frobisher strolled at his ease along Park Lane, his gaze on the rippling green canopies of the massive trees in Hyde Park.
He’d steered his ship, The Trident, up the Thames on the previous evening’s tide. They’d moored at Frobisher and Sons’ berth in St. Katherine’s Dock, and after he’d dealt with all the associated palaver, it had been too late to call on anyone. This morning, he’d dutifully gone into the company office in Burr Street; as soon as the customary formalities had been completed and the bulk of his crew released for the day, he’d jumped into a hackney and headed for Mayfair. But rather than driving directly to his brother Declan’s house, he’d had the jarvey let him down at the end of Piccadilly so that he could take a few minutes to drink in the green. He spent so much of his life looking at the sea, being reminded of the beauties of land was no bad thing.
A self-deprecating smile curving his lips, he turned the corner into Stanhope Street. Barely ten o’clock was an unfashionably early hour at which to call at a gentleman’s residence, but he felt sure his brother and his brother’s new wife, the lovely Edwina, would welcome him with open arms.
The morning was fine, if a touch crisp, with the sun intermittently screened by gray clouds scudding across the pale sky.
Declan and Edwina resided at Number 26. Looking down the street, Robert saw a black carriage pulled up by the curb farther along.
Premonition swept cool fingers across his nape. Early as it was, there was no other conveyance waiting in the short residential street.
As he continued strolling, idly swinging his cane, a footman perched on the rear of the carriage saw him; instantly, the footman leapt down to the pavement and moved to open the carriage door.
Increasingly intrigued, Robert watched, wondering who would descend. Apparently, he wouldn’t need to check the house numbers to discover which house was his goal.
The gentleman who, with languid grace, stepped out of the carriage and straightened was as tall as Robert, as broad-shouldered and lean. Sable hair framed a face the features of which screamed his station.
Wolverstone. More precisely, His Grace, the Duke of Wolverstone, known in the past as Dalziel.
Given Wolverstone was plainly waiting to waylay and speak with him, Robert surmised that Wolverstone’s status as commander of British agents outside of the isles had, at least temporarily, been restored.
Robert’s cynical, world-weary side wasn’t all that surprised to see the man.
But the gentleman who, much less elegantly, followed Wolverstone from the carriage was unexpected. Portly and very precisely attired, with a fussy, somewhat prim air, the man tugged his waistcoat into place and fiddled with his fob chain; from long experience of the breed, Robert pegged him as a politician. Along with Wolverstone, the man turned to face Robert.
As Robert neared, Wolverstone nodded. “Frobisher.” He held out his hand.
Robert transferred his cane to his other hand; returning the nod, he grasped Wolverstone’s hand, then shifted his gaze to Wolverstone’s companion.
Releasing Robert, Wolverstone waved gracefully. “Allow me to present Viscount Melville, First Lord of the Admiralty.”
Robert managed not to raise his brows. He inclined his head. “Melville.” What the devil’s afoot?
Melville curtly nodded back, then drew in a portentous breath. “Captain Frobisher—”
“Perhaps,” Wolverstone smoothly interjected, “we should adjourn inside.” His dark eyes met Robert’s gaze. “Your brother won’t be surprised to see us, but in deference to Lady Edwina, we thought it best to await your arrival in the carriage.”
The notion that consideration of Edwina’s possible reaction held the power to influence Wolverstone even that much... Robert fought not to grin. His sister-in-law was a duke’s daughter and thus of the same social stratum as Wolverstone, yet Robert would have wagered there were precious few who Wolverstone would even think to tiptoe gently around.
Curiosity burgeoning in leaps and bounds, at Wolverstone’s wave, Robert led the way up the steps to the narrow front porch.
He hadn’t previously called at this house, but the butler who opened the door to his knock recognized him instantly. The man’s face lit. “Captain Frobisher.” Then the butler noticed the other two men, and his expression turned inscrutable.
Realizing the man didn’t know either Wolverstone or Melville, Robert smiled easily. “I gather these gentlemen are acquainted with my brother.”
He didn’t need to say more—Declan must have heard the butler’s greeting; he appeared through a doorway down the hall.
Smiling, Declan strode forward. “Robert—well met!”
They grinned and clapped each other on the shoulders, then Declan noticed Wolverstone and Melville. Declan’s expression shuttered, but then he looked at Robert, a question evident in his blue eyes.
Robert arched a brow back. “They were waiting outside.”
“Ah. I see.”
From Declan’s tone, Robert gathered that his brother was uncertain whether Wolverstone and Melville’s appearance was good news or bad.
Yet with assured courtesy, Declan welcomed Wolverstone and Melville, shaking their hands. “Gentlemen.” As the butler shut the door, Declan caught Wolverstone’s eye. “The drawing room might be best.”
Wolverstone inclined his head, and the butler moved to throw open the door to their left.
Declan waved Wolverstone, Melville, and Robert through; as Declan started to follow, Robert heard the butler ask, “Should I inform her ladyship, sir?”
Without hesitation, Declan replied, “Please.”
Sinking into one of the numerous armchairs spread around the cozy room, Robert was surprised that Declan hadn’t even paused before summoning his wife to attend what was clearly destined to be a business meeting—although of what business, Robert couldn’t guess.
Declan had barely had a chance to offer his guests refreshments—which they all declined—before the door opened and Edwina swept in, bringing all four men to their feet.
Fetchingly gowned in cornflower-blue-and-white-striped silk, she looked happy and delighted—glowing with an uncomplicated enthusiasm for life. Although her first smile was for Declan, in the next breath, she turned her radiance on Robert and opened her arms. “Robert!”
He couldn’t help but smile widely in return and allow her the liberty of an embrace. “Edwina.” He’d met her several times, both at his parents’ home as well as at her family’s, and he thoroughly approved of her; from the first, he’d seen her as precisely the right lady for Declan. He returned her hug and dutifully bussed the smooth cheek she tipped up to him.
Drawing back, she met his eyes. “I’m utterly delighted to see you! Did Declan tell you we planned to make this our London base?”
She barely paused for his answer—and his quick look at Declan—before she inquired about The Trident and his immediate plans for the day. After he told her of his ship’s position and his lack of any plans, she informed him that he would be staying for luncheon and also to dine.
Then she turned to greet Wolverstone and Melville. The ease she displayed toward them made it clear she was already acquainted with them both.
At Edwina’s gracious wave, they resettled in the armchairs and sofa, and the next minutes went in general converse, led, of course, by Edwina.
Noting the quick smiling looks she shared with Declan, and noting his brother’s response, Robert felt a distinct pang of envy. Not that he coveted Edwina; he liked her, but she was too forceful a personality for his taste. Declan needed a lady like her to balance his own character, but Robert’s character was quite different.
He was the diplomat of the family, careful and cautious, while his three brothers were reckless hellions.
“Well, then.” Apparently satisfied with what Wolverstone had deigned to share about his family’s health, Edwina clasped her hands in her lap. “Given you gentlemen are here, I expect Declan and I had better tell Robert about how we’ve spent the last five weeks—about the mission and what we discovered in Freetown.”
Mission? Freetown? Robert had thought that, while he’d been on the other side of the Atlantic, Declan and Edwina had remained in London. Apparently not.
Edwina arched a brow at Wolverstone.
His expression impassive, he inclined his head. “I daresay that will be fastest.”
Robert didn’t miss the resignation in Wolverstone’s tone.
He felt sure Edwina didn’t either, but she merely smiled approvingly at Wolverstone, then transferred her bright gaze to Declan. “Perhaps you had better start.”
Entirely sober, Declan looked at Robert and did.
Between them, Declan and Edwina related a tale that kept Robert transfixed.
That Edwina had stowed away and joined Declan on his run south wasn’t really that much of a surprise. But the puzzling situation in Freetown—and the consequent danger that had stalked them and, beyond anyone’s ability to predict, had reached out and touched Edwina—was a tale guaranteed to capture and hold his attention.
By the time Edwina concluded with a reassurance that she’d taken no lasting harm from the events of their last night in Freetown, Robert no longer had any doubt as to why Wolverstone and Melville had been waiting on the doorstep to waylay him.
Melville huffed and promptly confirmed Robert’s assumption. “As you can see, Captain Frobisher, we are in desperate need of someone with similar capabilities as your brother to travel to Freetown as fast as may be and continue our investigation.”
Robert glanced at Declan. “I take it this falls under our...customary association with the government?”
Wolverstone stirred. “Indeed.” He met Robert’s eyes. “There are precious few others who could do the job, and no one else with a fast ship in harbor.”
After a second of holding Wolverstone’s dark gaze, Robert nodded. “Very well.” This was a far cry from his usual voyages ferrying diplomats—or diplomatic secrets of whatever sort—back and forth, but he could see the need, could appreciate the urgency. And he’d sailed into Freetown before.
He looked at Declan. “Is this why there were no orders waiting for me at the office?” He’d been surprised to learn that; the demand for his services was usually so great that The Trident was rarely free for more than a few days, and Royd and his Corsair often had to take on the overload.
Declan nodded. “Wolverstone informed Royd the government would most likely need to call on another of us once The Cormorant got back, and fortuitously, you were due in. I received a missive from Royd, and there’s one waiting for you in the library—we’re free of our usual business and are to devote our services to the Crown.”
Robert dipped his head in acknowledgment. He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm as he sifted through all Declan and Edwina had revealed, adding in Wolverstone’s dry comments and Melville’s few utterances. He narrowed his eyes, in his mind studying the jigsaw-like picture he’d assembled from the facts. “All right. Let’s see if I have this straight. Four serving officers have gone missing, one after another, along with at least four young women and an unknown number of other men. These disappearances occurred over a period of four months or more, and the few instances known to have been discussed with Governor Holbrook, he dismissed as due to those involved having gone off to seek their fortune in the jungle or elsewhere. Some such excuse. In addition, seventeen children from the slums are also missing, apparently disappearing over much the same period, with Holbrook brushing their vanishing aside as children running off—nothing more nefarious.
“Currently, there is nothing to say if Holbrook is trying to suppress all interest in this spate of missing people because he’s involved, or whether his attitude springs from some other entirely noncriminal belief. Regardless, Lady Holbrook has proved to be definitely involved, and it’s doubtful she’ll still be in the settlement, but you would like me to verify whether Holbrook himself is still at his post. If he is, then we presume him innocent—or at least unaware of whatever is driving these kidnappings.” Robert arched a brow at Wolverstone. “Correct?”
Wolverstone nodded. “I haven’t met Holbrook, but from what I’ve been able to learn, he doesn’t seem the type to be involved. However, he might well be the type of official who will refuse to react until the unpalatable truth is staring him in the face—until circumstances force him to it.”
Robert added that shading to his mental jigsaw. “To continue, in the case of the missing adults, there are reasonable grounds on which to believe that they’re being selected in some way and that attendance at the local priest Obo Undoto’s services in some way facilitates that. We know nothing about how the children are taken, other than that it’s not through any connection with Undoto’s services.”
Declan shifted. “We can’t even be sure the missing children are being taken by the same people or for the same reason as the missing adults.”
“But given that young women have been taken as well as men,” Edwina put in, “there has to be a possibility that all the missing, children as well as adults, are being...used in the same way.” Her chin firmed. “By the same villains.”
Robert paused, then said, “Regardless of whether the children are going to the same place, given the priestess’s claims—none of which have yet proven unfounded, so let’s assume she spoke true—Undoto and his services are clearly the obvious place to look for the beginnings of a trail.”
No one argued. After a second of considering the picture taking shape in his mind, Robert went on, “If I’ve understood correctly, the vodun priestess Lashoria, Reverend Hardwicke, and even more his wife, an old sailor named Sampson, and Charles Babington are people you”—he glanced at Declan and Edwina—“consider safe sources.”
Both nodded. Declan stated, “They’re potential allies and might well be willing to play an active hand in helping you learn more.” He met Robert’s eyes. “Babington especially. I believe he has a personal interest in one of the young women who has gone missing, but I didn’t get a chance to pursue that or him further. But he can command resources within the settlement that might prove useful.”
Melville cleared his throat. “There’s also Vice-Admiral Decker. We have no reason to imagine he has any involvement in whatever heinous crime is under way in the settlement.” He all but glowered at Declan. “I gave your brother a letter enabling him to call on Decker’s support. I believe I worded it generally, so it will apply to you as it would have to him.”
Declan dipped his head. “Decker wasn’t in port while I was there. I still have the letter—I’ll give it to you.”
Robert wasn’t fooled by Declan’s noncommittal tone; he wouldn’t be tripping over his toes to ask any favors of Decker, either. Indeed, he hoped the vice-admiral remained at sea throughout his visit to the settlement.
“Regardless,” Wolverstone said, “I cannot stress enough how critical it is that whatever occurs while you’re on this mission, you must not at any point do anything to alert the perpetrators to any level of official interest. We must protect the lives of those taken—sending in a rescue team who find only dead bodies isn’t something any of us wish to even contemplate. Given that we cannot be certain who of those in authority in the settlement is involved, and conversely who is safe to trust, every action you take must remain covert.”
Robert nodded curtly. The more he heard—the more he dwelled on all he’d learned—remaining covert first to last seemed his wisest choice.
“So, Captain,” Melville said bracingly, “we need you to go into Freetown, follow the trail your brother has identified, and learn all the details of this nefarious scheme.”
Melville’s expression was a blend of belligerence and something much closer to pleading. Robert recognized the signs of a politician facing a threat beyond his control.
Before he could respond, Wolverstone softly said, “Actually, no.” Wolverstone caught Robert’s gaze. “We cannot ask you to learn all the details.”
From the corner of his eye, Robert saw Melville’s face fall as he stared at Wolverstone, who, in this matter, was effectively his mentor.
As if unaware of the angst he was causing, Wolverstone smoothly went on, “From what your brother has said, and from all I’ve learned from others over recent days, given that those effecting the kidnappings are slave traders, then I gather that in Freetown, as generally in that region, the slave traders will be operating out of a camp. They will hold their captives at that camp until they have a sufficient number to take to whoever they’re supplying. Further, the camp will almost certainly be outside the settlement’s borders, somewhere in the jungle, possibly some distance away.”
Wolverstone glanced at Declan, who, his expression impassive, nodded.
Imperturbably, Wolverstone continued, his gaze returning to Robert’s face, “Consequently, this mission is highly unlikely to be accomplished in only two stages. There will be however many stages we require to learn what we need to know, all without alerting the villains involved. Your brother”—he paused, then inclined his head to Edwina—“and Lady Edwina got us the first vital clues. They identified Undoto’s services as being a part of the scheme and gave us the connection to the slave traders. They also confirmed that those in high places in the settlement are involved, something we must strive never to forget. If Lady Holbrook was suborned, almost certainly others will have been as well.”
Wolverstone’s gaze cut to Melville, but although he looked dejected and, indeed, disgruntled, the First Lord made no attempt to interrupt.
“Therefore,” Wolverstone continued, “your mission must be to confirm the slave traders’ connection to Undoto and, by following the slavers, to identify the location of their camp. Your orders are specifically that. Locate the slavers’ camp, then return and report. You must not follow the trail further, no matter the temptation.”
Wolverstone paused, then added, “I appreciate that, very likely, that will not be an easy directive to follow—it’s not one I take joy in giving. But in order to mount a rescue of all those taken, it’s imperative we learn of the location of that camp. If you go further and are captured yourself...put simply, all those missing can’t afford that. If you are taken, we won’t know until your crew return to tell us. And once they do, we’ll be no further forward than we are now—no nearer the point of knowing enough to effectively rescue those taken.”
Wolverstone glanced at Melville; when he looked back at Robert, his features had hardened. “Running a mission in successive stages may seem like a slow way forward, but it is a sure way forward, and those taken deserve our best attempts to successfully free them.”
Robert met Wolverstone’s gaze; two seconds ticked past, then he nodded. “I’ll locate the slavers’ camp and bring the information back.”
Simple. Straightforward. He saw no reason to argue. If he had to sail to Freetown and do this mission, he was glad enough that it should have such a definite and definable endpoint.
Wolverstone inclined his head. “Thank you.” He looked at Melville. “We’ll leave you to prepare.”
Melville rose, as did everyone; he offered Robert his hand. “How long before you and your ship will be ready to depart?”
Robert gripped Melville’s hand. “A few days.” As hands were shaken all around and they moved toward the door, Robert thought through the logistics. He halted at the doorway and spoke to all. “I’ll send The Trident to Southampton to provision from the stores there. I imagine I’ll be able to set sail in three days.”
Melville humphed, but said no more. From his expression, Robert surmised that the First Lord was even more deeply troubled by the situation in Freetown than Wolverstone.
Then again, Wolverstone had no real responsibility to shoulder in this instance, while Melville...as Robert understood it, as First Lord, Melville had his neck metaphorically on the block, at least politically, and possibly even socially.
Robert returned to the armchair opposite the sofa. While Declan and Edwina farewelled their unexpected guests, he swiftly reviewed all he’d been told.
When Declan and Edwina reentered the drawing room and resumed their seats, he looked from one to the other. “All right. Now tell me all.”
As he’d assumed, the pair had a great deal more to impart to him of society in Freetown, of all the characters who had played even small parts in their own drama, of the sights, sounds, and dangers of the slums, and so much more that, he knew, could well prove helpful, and perhaps even critical, once he was on the ground in the settlement.
The hours slid by unnoticed by any of them.
When the clocks struck one, they repaired to the dining parlor and continued their discussions over a substantial meal. Robert grinned when he saw the platters being brought in. “Thank you,” he said to Edwina. “Shipboard food is good enough, but it’s nice to eat well when one can.”
Eventually, they returned to the comfort of the drawing room. Having exhausted all the facts and most of the speculation applicable, they finally turned to the ultimate question of what purpose lay behind the strange kidnappings.
Slumped in the armchair he’d claimed, his long legs stretched out before him, his booted ankles crossed, Robert tapped the tips of his steepled fingers to his chin. “You said that Dixon was the first to vanish. Given he’s an engineer of some repute, assuming he was chosen for his known skills, I agree that that suggests the enterprise our villains are engaged in is most likely a mine.”
Lounging on the sofa beside Edwina, Declan nodded. “At least in those parts.”
“So what are they mining?” Robert met his brother’s blue eyes. “You know that area better than I. What’s most likely?”
Declan twined his fingers with Edwina’s. “Gold and diamonds.”
“I assume not together, so what’s your best guess?”
“If I had to wager, I’d go for diamonds.”
Robert had a great deal of respect for Declan’s insights into all matters of exploration. “Why?”
Declan’s lips twisted. He glanced at Edwina. “I’ve been thinking about why those behind this have chosen to take young women and children—what uses they might have for them. Children are often used in gold mines to pick over the shattered ore—they’d be just as useful in mining for diamonds, at least in that area. But young women? They have no real role I can think of in gold mining. But in mining for diamonds in that area?”
Gripping Edwina’s hand, Declan looked at Robert. “The diamonds there are found in concretions, lumped together with other ore. Separating the ore from the stones is fine work—not so much precision as simply being able to work on small things. Young women with good eyesight could clean the rough stones enough to reduce their size and weight so that the final product, while keeping its value, would fit into a relatively small space—easy to smuggle out, even by mail.”
Declan held Robert’s gaze. “If I had to guess, I would say our villains have stumbled on a pipe of diamonds and are busy retrieving as many stones as they can before anyone else learns of the strike.”
* * *
Later that same day, in a tavern in Freetown located on a narrow side street off the western end of Water Street—an area frequented by clerks and shopkeepers and others more down at heel—a man rather better dressed than the other denizens sat nursing a glass of ale at a table in the rear corner of the dimly lit taproom.
The tavern door opened, and another man walked in. The first man looked up. He watched as the second man, also better dressed than the general run of the tavern’s clientele, bought a glass of ale from the man behind the counter, then crossed the room to the table in the corner.
The men exchanged nods, but no words. The second man drew up a stool and sat, then took a deep draft of his ale.
The sound of the door opening reached the second man. His back was to the door. He looked at the first man. “That him?”
The first man nodded.
Both waited in silence until the newcomer had bought an ale for himself and approached the table.
The third man set his glass down on the scarred surface, then glanced around at the others in the taproom before pulling up a stool and sitting.
“Stop looking so damned guilty.” The second man raised his glass and took another sip.
“All very well for you.” The third man, younger than the other two, reached for his glass. “You don’t have an uncle as your immediate superior.”
“Well, he’s not going to see us here, is he?” the second man said. “He’ll be up at the fort, no doubt busily sorting through his inventory.”
“God—I hope not.” The younger man shuddered. “The last thing we need is for him to realize how much is missing.”
The first man, who had silently watched the exchange, arched a brow. “No chance of that, is there?”
The younger man sighed. “No—I suppose not.” He stared into his ale. “I’ve been careful to keep everything we’ve taken off the books. There’s no way to see something’s missing if according to the books it was never there.”
The first man’s lips curved without humor. “Good to know.”
“Never mind that.” The second man focused on the first. “What’s this about Lady H? I heard through the office that she’s decamped on us.”
The first man flushed under his tan. His hands tightened about his glass. “I was told Lady H had gone to visit family, and for all I know, that might still be the case. So yes, she’s gone, but as she knows nothing about my connection to our operation, she didn’t see fit to explain her reasons to me. I asked around—indirectly, of course—but apparently Holbrook doesn’t know when she’ll be back.”
“So we might have lost our ability to vet our kidnapees?” The second man frowned.
“Yes,” the first man replied, “but that isn’t what most concerns me.” He paused to take a sip of his ale, then lowered the glass and went on, “Yesterday, I heard from Dubois that Kale claims he lost two of the three men he sent to the governor’s house to fetch some lady Lady H had sent word to them to come and get.”
The third man looked puzzled. “When was that?”
“As near as I can make out, it was fifteen nights ago. Three days before Lady H sailed. I spent the evening in question dealing with dispatches, so I knew nothing about it at the time.” The first man paused, then more diffidently went on, “From what I could gather, it was Frobisher’s wife, Lady Edwina, who came to see Lady H that evening, but I can’t be certain Lady Edwina was the lady Lady H called Kale to come and get, and I see no point in asking too many questions of the governor’s staff.
“According to Dubois, Kale said that the lady his men picked up was drugged and asleep. All his man—the one who survived—could tell him was that the lady had golden hair. In their usual team of three, Kale’s men wrapped her in a rug and carried her out through the slum behind the house, but then they were attacked by four men—sailors, according to the survivor. The sailors killed two of Kale’s men and took the lady back. Kale’s third man ran, but then doubled back and trailed the sailors to the docks. He saw them get into a tender and be rowed off, but in the dark, he couldn’t tell which ship they boarded.”
The second man continued to frown into his glass. “If I’m remembering aright, Frobisher’s ship was in the harbor that night. It wasn’t there the next day—they must have left on the morning tide.”
The first man humphed. “Word is that they—Frobisher and Lady Edwina—were on their honeymoon and were headed to Cape Town to visit family there. If that’s so, then even if it was Lady Edwina who Lady H drugged—God alone knows why the silly bitch would do such a thing, but if she did—I can’t imagine we’ll hear any more about it.”
The third man stared at the first. “But...surely Frobisher will lodge some sort of official complaint with Holbrook?”
The first man grinned. “I doubt it. Lady Edwina’s the daughter of a duke—very highly placed within society in London. I really can’t see Frobisher wanting to draw attention to his wife being in the hands of the likes of Kale’s men, in the night, in the slum, no one else about. Not the sort of thing he’d want known about his wife.”
“I agree.” The second man nodded. “He’s got her back, and by the sounds of it, no harm done. He’ll leave it at that.” He paused, then added, “If Frobisher had wanted to make anything of it, he wouldn’t have sailed without pounding on Holbrook’s desk. He didn’t, so I agree—that’s that.” He cut a glance at the third man. “No need to borrow trouble on that account.”
The first man leaned his chin on one hand. “And I don’t think we need to fear Lady H giving us up to anyone, either. She has far more to lose than we do. The only reason she agreed to Undoto’s suggestion was for the money—that’s really all she cared about. And if it was Lady Edwina she tried to drug and send off to Kale, then once she learned that Lady Edwina had been rescued, I can quite understand Lady H wanting to make herself scarce. I would, too. But if that’s the case, it’s better for us that she’s taken herself off—we wouldn’t want her to be waiting here to be asked any awkward questions if any are ever directed this way.”
The second man grunted. “She doesn’t know enough to point the finger at us, anyway.”
The first man dipped his head. “True. But she might have pointed at Undoto, or given up her contact with Kale, and that might have started things unraveling... No. Overall, we should be glad she’s gone. But if she has done a flit for good and all, then the one thing we do need to work on is how to cover for her expertise.” The first man looked at the other two and raised his brows. “Any notion how we’re to vet those we take to make sure their disappearance doesn’t set off any alarms?”
Silence ensued.
Finally, the second man raked his hand through his thick black hair. “Let’s leave that for now, but keep alert for any possible other way. As of this moment, Dubois has enough men for his needs.”
“But he says he’ll need more,” the first man countered. “He said Dixon’s not far from opening up the second tunnel, and once he does, if we want to increase production like we’ve promised our backers, then Dubois will need more men.”
“So he’ll need them soon, but not immediately.” The second man nodded. “No need to panic. We’ll find a way.”
“What about women and children?” the third man asked.
“Dubois said he has enough of both for now.” The first man turned his glass between his hands. “He won’t need more until they start hauling rock from the second tunnel.”
The three fell silent, then the second man humphed. “I hope Dixon can be trusted to do what’s needed.”
The first man’s lips quirked. “Dubois was very confident that in order to keep Miss Frazier safe and unmolested, Dixon will perform exactly as we wish.”
The second man grinned. “I have to say that Dubois’s notion of using the women’s safety to control the men has proved nothing short of inspired.”
The first man grunted and pushed away his empty glass. “Just as long as the men don’t think ahead and realize that, when we have all we need from them, it’s all going to come to the same thing in the end.”
* * *
A gray dawn was breaking far to the east as Robert steered The Trident down the last stretch of the Solent. The day was overcast and blustery, the waves a choppy gray-green, but the wind gusted from the northeast, which made it damned near perfect sailing, at least to him.
He’d risen in the small hours and had jockeyed The Trident into position to be one of the first ships to heel out on the surging tide. With the way clear before the prow, he’d called up the sails in rapid succession. Ships like The Trident were best sailed hard, with as much canvas flying as possible; they were designed to race over the waves.
The buoys at the Solent’s mouth came into view, rising and falling on the swell. Robert corrected course, then, as the first of the Channel’s rolling waves hit, swung the wheel. He called rapid sail changes as the ship heeled; the crew scurried and shouts flew as the sails were adjusted, then The Trident was shooting into the darker waters of the Channel, prow unerringly on the correct heading to take them out into the Atlantic on the most southerly tack.
Once the ship steadied, he checked the sails, then, satisfied, handed the wheel to his lieutenant, Jordan Latimer. “Keep her running as hard as you can. I’ll be back for the next change.” That would come when they swung even further to the south to commence the long haul to Freetown.
Latimer grinned and snapped off a salute. “Aye, aye. I take it we’re in a hurry?”
Robert nodded. “Believe it or not, The Cormorant made the trip back in twelve days.”
“Twelve?” Latimer let his disbelief show.
“Royd put a new finish on the hull and fiddled with the rudder. Apparently, if running under full sail, it shaves off nearly a sixth in time—Declan’s master reported The Cormorant was noticeably faster even on the run from Aberdeen to Southampton.”
Latimer shook his head wonderingly. “Pity we didn’t have time for Royd and his boys to doctor The Trident before we set out. We’ll never make it in twelve days.”
“True.” Robert turned to descend to the main deck. “But there’s no reason we can’t make it in fifteen, as long as we keep the sails up.”
If the winds held steady, they would. He went down the ladder to the main deck, then paced along the starboard side, checking knots, pulleys, and the set of the spars, listening to the creak of the sails—the little things that reassured him that all was right with his ship.
Halting near the bow, he glanced back and checked the wake, all but unconsciously noting the way the purling wave broke and the angle of the hull’s cant. Seeing nothing of concern, he turned and looked ahead to where, in the far distance, the clouds gave way to blue skies.
With luck, when they reached the Atlantic, the weather would clear, and he would be able to cram on yet more sail.
The ship lurched, and he gripped the rail; as the deck righted, he leaned against the side, his gaze idly sweeping the seas ahead.
As he’d predicted, it had taken three days for The Trident to sail from London to Southampton and to be adequately provisioned from the company’s stores there. Add fourteen more days for the journey south, and it would be eighteen days since he’d agreed to this mission before he sighted Freetown. Fourteen full days before he could start.
To his surprise, impatience rode him. He wanted this mission done and squared away.
The why of that had been difficult to define, but last night, as he’d lain in his bed in the large stern cabin—his cold, lonely, and uninspiring bed—he’d finally got a glimpse of what was driving his uncharacteristically unsettling emotions.
After three full days spent with Declan and Edwina, he wanted what Declan had. What his brother had found with Edwina—the happiness, and the home.
Until he’d seen it for himself, until he’d experienced Declan’s new life, he hadn’t appreciated just how deeply the need and want of a hearth of his own was entrenched in his psyche.
Put simply, he envied what Declan had found and wanted the same for himself.
All well and good—he knew what that required. A wife. The right sort of wife for a gentleman like him—and that was definitely not a sparkling, effervescent, diamond-of-the-first-water like Edwina.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his wife would be like—he had yet to spend sufficient time dwelling on the prospect—but he viewed himself as a diplomat, a man of quieter appetites than Royd or Declan, and his style of wife should reflect that, or so he imagined.
Regardless, all plans in that regard had been put on hold. This mission came first.
Which, of course, was why he was so keen to have it over and done.
He pushed away from the side and headed for the companionway. He dropped down to the lower deck and made his way to his cabin. Spacious and neatly fitted with everything he needed for a comfortable life on board, the cabin extended all the way across the stern.
Settling into the chair behind the big desk, he opened the lowest drawer on the right and drew out his latest journal.
Keeping a journal was a habit he’d acquired from his mother. In the days in which she’d sailed the seas with his father, she’d kept a record of each day’s happenings. There was always something worthy of note. He’d found her journals as a boy and had spent months working his way through them. The insight those journals had afforded him of all the little details of life on board influenced him to this day; the impact they’d had on his view of sailing as a way of life was quite simply incalculable.
And so he’d taken up the practice himself. Perhaps when he had sons, they would read his journals and see the joys of this life, too.
Today, he wrote of how dark it had been when they’d slipped their moorings and pulled away from the wharf, and of the huge black-backed gull he’d seen perched on one of the buoys just outside the harbor mouth. He paused, then let his pen continue to scratch over the paper, documenting his impatience to get started on this mission and detailing his understanding of what completing it would require of him. To him, the latter was simple, clear, and succinct: Go into the settlement of Freetown, pick up the trail of the slavers, follow them to their camp—and then return to London with the camp’s location.
With a flourish, he set a final period to the entry. “Cut and dried.”
He set down his pen and read over what he’d written. By then, the ink had dried. Idly, he flicked back through the closely written pages, stopping to read entries here and there.
Eventually, he stopped reading and stared unseeing as what lay before him fully registered. Unbidden, his gaze rose to the glass-fronted cabinet built into the stern wall; it contained the rest of his journals, all neatly lined up on one shelf.
The record of his life.
It didn’t amount to much.
Not in the greater scheme of things—on the wider plane of life.
Yes, he’d assisted in any number of missions, ones that had actively supported his country. Most had been diplomatic forays of one sort or another. Since his earliest years captaining his own ship, he’d claimed the diplomatic missions as his own—his way of differentiating himself from Royd and Declan. Royd was older than him by two years, while Declan was a year younger, but they were both adventurers to the core, buccaneers at heart. Neither would deny that description; if anything, they reveled in being widely recognized as such.
But as the second brother, he’d decided to tread a different path—one just as fraught with danger, but of a different sort.
He would be more likely to be clapped into a foreign jail because of an unintended insult exchanged over a dinner table, while his brothers would be more likely to be caught brawling in some alley.
He was quick with his tongue, while they were quick with their swords and fists.
Not that he couldn’t match them with either blades or fists; growing up as they had, being able to hold his own against them had been essential—a matter of sibling survival.
Thoughts of the past had him smiling, then he drew his mind forward, through the past to the present—then he looked ahead.
After a moment, he shut the journal and stowed it back in the drawer. Then he rose and headed for the deck.
Given how boring his recent life had been—more like existing than actively living—perhaps it was a good thing that this mission was not his usual diplomatic task. Something a little different to jar him out of his rut, before he turned his mind to defining and deciding the details of the rest of his life.
A fresh and different challenge, before he faced a larger one.
Climbing back onto the deck, he felt the wind rush at him and lifted his face to the bracing breeze.
He breathed in and looked around at the waves—at the sea stretching forever on, as always, his path to the future.
And this time, his way was crystal clear.
He’d go to Freetown, learn what was needed, return to London and report—and then he would set about finding a wife.
CHAPTER 2
“Good morning.” Miss Aileen Hopkins fixed a polite but determined gaze on the face of the bored-looking clerk who had come forward to attend her across the wooden counter separating the public from the inner workings of the Office of the Naval Attaché. Located off Government Wharf in the harbor of Freetown, the office was the principal on-land contact for the men aboard the ships of the West Africa Squadron. The squadron sailed the seas west of Freetown, tasked with enforcing the British government’s ban on slavery.
“Yes, miss?” Despite the question, not a single spark of interest lit the man’s eyes, much less his expression, which remained impersonal and just a bit dour.
Aileen was too experienced in dealing with bureaucratic flunkies to allow his attitude to deter her. “I would like to inquire as to my brother Lieutenant William Hopkins.” She set her black traveling reticule on the counter, folded her hands over the gathered top, and did her best to project the image of someone who was not about to be fobbed off.
The clerk stared at her, a frown slowly overtaking his face. “Hopkins?” He glanced at the other two clerks, both of whom had remained seated at desks facing the wall and were making a grand show of deafness, although in the small office, they had to have heard her query. The clerk at the counter wasn’t deterred, either. “Here—Joe!” When one of the seated clerks reluctantly raised his head and glanced their way, the clerk assisting her prompted, “Hopkins. Isn’t he the young one that went off God knows where?”
The seated clerk shot Aileen a quick glance, then nodded. “Aye. It’d be about three months ago now.”
“I am aware that my brother has disappeared.” She failed to keep her accents from growing more clipped as her tone grew more severely interrogatory. “What I wish to know is why he was ashore, rather than aboard H.M.S. Winchester.”
“As to that, miss”—the first clerk’s tone grew decidedly prim—“we’re not at liberty to say.”
She paused, parsing the comment, then countered, “Am I to take it from that that you do, in fact, know of some reason William—Lieutenant Hopkins—was ashore? Ashore when he was supposed to be at sea?”
The clerk straightened, stiffened. “I’m afraid, miss, that this office is not permitted to divulge details of the whereabouts of officers of the service.”
She let her incredulity show. “Even when they’ve disappeared?”
Without looking around, one of the clerks seated at the desks declared, “All inquiries into operational matters should be addressed to the Admiralty.”
Her eyes narrowing, she stared at the back of the head of the clerk who had spoken. When he refused to look around, she stated in stringently uninflected tones, “The last time I visited, the Admiralty was in London.”
“Indeed, miss.” When she transferred her gaze to him, the clerk at the counter met her eyes with a wooden expression. “You’ll need to ask there.”
She refused to be defeated. “I would like to speak with your superior.”
The man answered without a blink. “Sorry, miss. He’s not here.”
“When will he return?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, miss.”
“Not at liberty to divulge his movements, either?”
“No, miss. We just don’t know.” After a second of regarding her—possibly noting her increasing choler—the clerk suggested, “He’s around the settlement somewhere, miss. If you keep your eyes open, perhaps you might run into him.”
For several seconds, her tongue burned with the words with which she would like to flay him—him and his friends, and the naval attaché, too. Ask at the Admiralty? It was half a world away!
Thanking them for their help, even if sarcastically, occurred only to be dismissed. She couldn’t force the words past her lips.
Feeling anger—the worst sort, laced with real fear—geysering inside her, she cast the clerk still facing her a stony glare, then she picked up her reticule, spun on her heel, and marched out of the office.
Her half boots rang on the thick, weathered planks of the wharf. Her intemperate strides carried her off the wharf and up the steps to the dusty street. Skirts swishing, she paced rapidly on, climbing the rise to the bustle of Water Street.
Just before she reached it, she halted and forced herself to lift her head and draw in a decent breath.
The heat closed around her, muffling in its cloying sultriness.
The beginnings of a headache pulsed in her temples.
Now what?
She’d come all the way from London determined to learn where Will had gone. Clearly, she’d get no help from the navy itself...but there’d been something about the way the clerk had reacted when she’d suggested that there was a specific reason Will had been ashore.
Her older brothers were in the navy, too. And both, she knew, had served ashore at various times—dispatched by their superiors on what amounted to secret missions.
Not that she or their parents—or even their other siblings in the navy—had known that at the time.
Had Will been dispatched on some secret mission, too? Was that the reason he’d been ashore?
“Ashore long enough to have been captured and taken by the enemy?” Aileen frowned. After a moment, she gathered her skirts and resumed her trek up to and around the corner into Water Street, the settlement’s main thoroughfare. She needed to make several purchases in the shops lining the street before hiring a carriage to take her back up Tower Hill to her lodgings.
While she shopped, the obvious questions revolved in her brain.
Who on earth was the enemy here?
And how could she find out?
* * *
“Good morning, Miss Hopkins—you’ve been out early!”
Aileen turned from closing the front door of Mrs. Hoyt’s Boarding House for Genteel Ladies to face its owner.
Mrs. Hoyt was a round, genial widow and a redoubtable gossip who lived vicariously through the lives of her boarders. Her arms wrapped around a pile of freshly laundered sheets, Mrs. Hoyt beamed at Aileen; with frizzy red hair and a round face, she filled the doorway to her rooms to the left of the front hall, opposite the communal parlor.
Having already taken Mrs. Hoyt’s measure, Aileen held up a small bundle of brown-paper-wrapped packages. “I needed to buy some stationery. I must write home.”
Mrs. Hoyt nodded approvingly. “Indeed, dear. If you want a lad to run your letters to the post office, you just let me know.”
“Thank you.” With a noncommittal dip of her head, Aileen walked on and up the stairs.
Her room was on the first floor. A pleasant corner chamber, it faced the street. Lace curtains screened the window, lending an aura of privacy. Before the window sat a plain ladies’ desk with a stool pushed beneath it. Aileen laid her packages and reticule on the desk, then stripped off her gloves before unbuttoning her lightweight jacket and shrugging it off. Even with the window open, there was little by way of a breeze to stir the air.
She pulled out the stool and sat at the desk. She opened her packages, set out the paper and ink, and fixed a new nib to the pen, then without allowing herself any further opportunity to procrastinate, she got down to the business of informing her parents where she was and explaining why she was there.
She’d been in London staying with an old friend, with no care beyond enjoying the delights of the Season before returning to her parents’ house in Bedfordshire, when she’d received a letter from her parents. They’d enclosed an official notification they’d received from Admiralty House, stating that their son Lieutenant William Hopkins had gone missing from Freetown, and that he was presumed to have gone absent without leave, possibly venturing into the jungle to seek his fortune.
Her parents had, unsurprisingly, been deeply distressed by that news. For her part, Aileen had considered it ludicrous. To suggest that any Hopkins would go absent without leave was ridiculous! For four generations, all the men in her family had been navy through and through. They were officers and gentlemen, and they viewed the responsibility of their rank as a sacred calling.
As the only girl in a family of four children, Aileen knew exactly how her three brothers viewed their service. To suggest that Will had thrown over his position to hie off on some giddy venture was pure nonsense.
But with both her older brothers at sea with their respective fleets—one in the South Atlantic, the other in the Mediterranean—as Aileen had been in London, her parents had asked if she could make inquiries with a view to discovering what was going on.
She’d duly presented herself at Admiralty House. Despite the family’s long connection with the navy, she’d got even less satisfaction there than she had at the naval office here.
Goaded and angry, and by then seriously worried about Will—he was younger than she, and she’d always felt protective of him and still did—she’d gone straight to the offices of the shipping companies and booked the first available passage to Freetown; as she’d brought ample funds with her to London, cost had not been a concern.
She’d arrived two days ago. She’d had plenty of time on the voyage to plan. Although her station and family connections meant that there was almost certain to be some family from whom she could claim support and a roof over her head while she searched for Will, she’d decided on a more circumspect approach. Hence, Mrs. Hoyt’s Boarding House, which was located on Tower Hill, the province of local British society, but below the rectory rather than above it. The houses of those moving in what passed for local society were located on the terraces higher up the hill.
Aileen had no time for social visits. Her sole purpose in being in the settlement was to find out what had happened to Will—and, if at all possible, rescue him.
At twenty-seven years of age and as naturally inclined to command as her brothers, she’d seen no reason not to come to Freetown and see what she could do. She was as capable as her brothers, and the other two were not in any position to help Will at that time.
There was also the underlying niggle of knowing that if she hadn’t been the only one of their brood available and, moreover, already in London, her parents would never have turned to her for help.
She was the girl in the family. No one expected her to contribute to anything in any way. She was supposed to be decorative rather than effective, and the only expectation anyone seemed able to credit her with was to make a comfortable marriage and keep house for some husband—most likely another naval officer.
In her heart, she knew that such a future was unlikely to ever come to pass. Aside from all else, her temperament and the odd itch beneath her skin—the same impulsive longing for adventure that had compelled her to set sail for Freetown—made her unsuitable for the position of meek and mild wife.
Even as she sent her pen scratching across the paper, she felt her lips quirk. Meek and mild was not an epithet anyone had ever applied to her.
After outlining her decision to come to Freetown and her intention to discover where Will had gone, she devoted several paragraphs to describing the settlement and where she was staying with a view to easing her parents’ minds, then briefly outlined what she’d ascertained from her first inquiries.
Yesterday—her first full day in the settlement—hoping to gain some casual insights before she called at the naval office, she’d sought out the usual taverns around the docks where naval officers were wont to congregate. There were always certain establishments that attracted their custom, and while in general she would never have ventured into a tavern alone, in those places that catered to naval officers, her family’s connection to the service—and the Hopkins name was well known throughout the navy—gave her a degree of protection.
She’d relied on that, gone in, and as she had hoped, she’d found several old sailors who knew her brother and had shared drinks and tall tales with him. She’d reasoned that if Will had been sent ashore on some mission that involved the settlement, then these were the men from whom he would have first sought information.
If Will had asked questions, she wanted to know what about.
And she’d been right. According to the old sea dogs, shortly before he’d disappeared, Will had asked questions that circled two subjects. First, an army officer called Dixon, who was stationed at Fort Thornton, which squatted at the top of Tower Hill. That was puzzling enough, but Will’s second area of interest had been some local priest who held services in the settlement. Apparently, Will had attended several services, possibly as many as three.
Of all her brothers, she knew Will the best, understood him with the greatest clarity. That he’d voluntarily attended a church service meant he’d gone for some reason that had nothing to do with religion.
She lifted her pen and read over all she’d written. After a moment’s deliberation, she decided against sharing her intention to rescue Will; there was no need to add to her parents’ anxieties. Instead, she concluded with a less stressful repetition of her intention to discover where Will had gone. She ended with a promise to be in touch in due course.
While she sanded the sheet, then sealed her missive, she debated her options.
She set aside the letter, then glanced at the small clock on the mantelpiece. Lips firming, she pushed back from the desk and walked to the low chest that served as a dressing table. In the mirror above it, she considered her reflection, then grimaced and started unpinning her hair.
As she did, she considered the image the clerks at the naval office had seen. A gently bred English rose with pale skin and roses in her cheeks. Her face was close to oval, her nose unremarkable, her forehead wide. Her bright hazel eyes were her best feature, large and fringed with long brown lashes and well set under finely arched brows; other ladies might have used them more, but she rarely thought of it. Her lips were well enough—pink and softly plump—but they were usually set in a firm if not uncompromising line above her distinctly determined chin.
Her hair was a pleasing but unusual and distinctive shade of copper brown. It normally fell in glossy waves, but at the moment, her tresses were frizzing almost as badly as Mrs. Hoyt’s in the unrelenting humidity.
With her pins removed, she wielded her hairbrush with grim determination. Eventually, she managed to rewind and refasten her hair in a passable chignon.
She put down the brush, twisted side to side examining her handiwork, then she nodded to herself in the mirror. “Good enough.”
Good enough to pay a call at the rectory.
She resettled her skirts of pale bone-colored cotton, then put the matching jacket on again, but in a concession to the heat, left it open over her neat white blouse. After sliding the cords of her reticule over her wrist, she picked up the letter and headed for the door.
From Mrs. Hoyt, she’d learned that the Anglican minister’s wife was a Mrs. Hardwicke, and that Mrs. Hardwicke could be found most mornings at the rectory. Aileen felt sure that the minister’s wife would know about the other priest’s services.
Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. “There’s also the army officer, Dixon.” As far as she knew, Will had no friends in the army.
For a second, she debated—rectory or fort? Then she firmed her lips and opened the door.
She would post her letter and then call at the rectory.
One question at a time. Step by step, she would hunt Will down.
And then she would get him back.
* * *
Two days later, Aileen filed out of the rustic church in which the local priest, one Obo Undoto, conducted his services. Hemmed in between two other ladies, she was carried forth on the tide of the emerging congregation, which then spread across the dusty area before the church.
As matters had transpired, she hadn’t had to ask Mrs. Hardwicke for information; when she’d called at the rectory, she’d found a small gathering of ladies taking tea. At Mrs. Hardwicke’s invitation, she’d joined the group. After the introductions had been dealt with, the conversation had turned to events occurring in the settlement—and a Mrs. Hitchcock had mentioned that Undoto’s next service would be held at noon two days hence. Later, Aileen had left the rectory with Mrs. Hitchcock and had asked for directions to the church, which Mrs. Hitchcock had readily given, along with a recommendation that she would find the service diverting.
When Aileen had walked into the rectangular church just before noon, she’d had to hunt to find a seat; she’d been astonished by how full the church had been. People of all races and of a wide range of social classes had crammed the pews—Europeans of all nationalities primarily to the left, with local natives and others of the African nations mostly to the right.
Her surprise had lasted until she’d heard enough to appreciate the tenor of Undoto’s offering. In a voice full of thunder and brimstone, with a showman’s zeal, he delivered something more akin to a stage performance than a conventional religious experience. Given the dearth of entertainment she had by then noted in the settlement, the crowd packing the church wasn’t such a wonder. Anything to fill the boredom that many, of necessity, had to bear.
None of which explained why Will had attended. Most likely more than once. She knew beyond question that Undoto’s performance wouldn’t have appealed to her younger brother as a way to pass his time.
She’d spent the majority of the service surveying the congregation and everything else she could see, searching for some sign of what might have drawn Will to the place, but she’d seen nothing and gained no clue to that mystery.
As she slowly wended her way through the crowd now thronging the forecourt, she noticed an old man—a grizzled old tar if she’d ever seen one—ponderously stumping away from the church. He leaned heavily on his cane; he had lost one leg and had an old-fashioned wooden peg leg.
Instantly, Aileen knew who among all the congregation Will would most likely have approached. Her younger brother had always been fascinated with old tales of the sea.
She changed tack and went after the old man. As she drew level, she glanced at his face and discovered he was one-eyed, too. “Excuse me,” she said. “I wonder if I might speak with you.”
The old sailor glanced at her in surprise. But the instant he took in her face and her attire, he halted, politely raised his cap, and, planting his cane, half bowed. “Of course, miss.” His eyes crinkled at the outer edges as he set his cap back on his head. “Old Sampson at your service. Always happy to have a chat, although what a lady like you might want with an old sea dog like me, I can’t imagine.”
She smiled. “It’s quite simple, really. My brother was here”—with a wave, she indicated the church—“some months ago, and I’m quite sure he would have spoken with you. He’s mad for tales of seafaring, and you look like you could tell quite a few.”
The old sailor folded both hands over the head of his cane. “Aye.” He nodded. “You have that right. I’ve sailed all of the seven seas in my day. Ain’t nothing I like better than to remember those days. Rip roaring, they were. But what’s your brother’s name?” Before she could answer, he added, “I pride myself on learning the name to go with every face I see, at least among the Europeans.”
Excellent. Aileen’s smile brightened. “His name is William Hopkins. He’s a lieutenant currently serving with the squadron here.”
“Will Hopkins? Sure and I remember him. Interesting lad—keen to hear my stories.”
She beamed. “I was sure he would have asked.”
“So how can I help you?” Sampson arched his bushy brows. “Young Will hasn’t been by for some time, and truth to tell, I never did understand why he came. Lads like him can usually find enough to interest them in the settlement without resorting to Undoto’s histrionics.”
“I can imagine.” With three brothers, she certainly could. “But Will has disappeared, it seems, and I’m here to see if I can find any trace of where he might have gone, or why.” She saw a frown form in Sampson’s eyes. She tipped her head, regarding him more closely. “I gathered that Will came to more than one service.”
“Aye.” Sampson nodded, but his expression had grown absentminded, as if the news that Will had disappeared had triggered thoughts of something else. “He came three times.”
“Do you recall if he met with anyone after the service—perhaps some young lady? Or was he watching someone?”
Sampson shook his head and answered in a distracted fashion, “Not that I saw. And I sit on a stool in the back corner, so I see most things.”
With the obvious excuse discounted, Aileen concluded that Will’s purpose in attending the services—three of them—had to have been connected with his mission. Whatever that mission had been.
But how?
She raised her gaze to Sampson’s face, only to discover he’d refocused on her and was now regarding her with some concern. “What is it?” she asked.
He frowned. “It’s possible I shouldn’t tell you this, but there were others asking questions—a captain and his crew, not navy, but I got the impression they was...authorized, if you get my drift. A couple of weeks ago, they were here asking about people—officers—who’d apparently attended Undoto’s services and then...vanished. They didn’t mention your brother by name, but if I recall aright, they said there were two navy lieutenants among the missing.”
Her heart leapt. “This captain and his crew—are they still here?”
The worried look in Sampson’s eyes increased. “No. I heard they’d sailed off in something of a rush. Some say to Cape Town, but others as saw them go say they left under oars at night, and the tack they took out of the estuary lay to the north.”
For a second, Sampson searched her eyes, then he drew himself up. “If you’ll pardon the liberty, miss, this Captain Frobisher was a sharp sort, and he and his crew knew what they were doing. They came asking questions about people who’d gone missing, and they must have found something—something of the sort to send them packing, possibly back to London.”
Sampson glanced swiftly around, then shifted closer and lowered his voice. “It’s true there’s something havey-cavey going on in the settlement. Seems there’s more missing than a handful of officers. But whatever’s going on, it’s dangerous enough to have a captain of the likes of Frobisher playing cautious. You need to take that on board. Asking questions about those who’ve gone missing might end with you going missing, too.” He shifted back and looked her in the face. “Trust me, miss, you need to back away and leave this to those trained to handle such things.”
The possibility that, contrary to all appearances, someone—most likely someone in authority in London—was pursuing those missing, Will included, came as a huge relief.
However, they—whoever they were—weren’t here, and she was.
And Will was still missing.
She’d held Sampson’s gaze while those thoughts flitted through her mind; his worry remained plain to see. She drew breath, hesitated, then inclined her head. “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Sampson. Rest assured, I’ll pay it due heed.”
No need to tell him that learning that Will had, indeed, been on some mission and had subsequently disappeared, and that others had disappeared as well, had only made her more determined than ever to find her missing brother and, if possible, rescue him, too.
* * *
The obvious first step was to learn more about the mission Will had been pursuing.
Other than attending Undoto’s church, the only oddity she’d heard of in Will’s behavior before he’d disappeared had been his interest in Dixon, the army officer stationed at the fort.
Given the time-honored tensions between army and navy, Will’s interest in Dixon had to have been work related—ergo, mission related. Presumably, he’d gone to speak with Dixon, which made Dixon an obvious person for her to speak with, too.
Her hopes of gaining some insight into the nature of Will’s mission were riding high as she toiled up the final stretch of road that led to the open gates of the fort, with its guardhouse built against the palisade to one side of the entrance.
On gaining the cleared area before the gates, she paused and looked back. Perched on the crown of the hill above the harbor, the fort commanded an arresting view over the settlement and the ships clustered before the docks to the wide blue sweep of the estuary beyond. She took a full minute to savor the sight.
Three days had passed since she’d spoken to Sampson outside Undoto’s church. She’d spent those days alternating between vacillation and action. On the vacillating side, she’d found herself entertaining nagging doubts along the lines that perhaps Sampson was right, and she and her family would be better served by her retreating and then waiting to hear through official channels...
Every time she’d got to the “waiting to hear through official channels” part, her thoughts had come to an abrupt halt, and she hadn’t been able to follow that line any further.
She would never convince herself that waiting for someone else—especially someone with official authorization—to rescue Will was a viable alternative.
Her actions had been more to the point; she’d gone back to the taverns she’d previously visited and tried to learn more about Dixon. She’d reasoned that the more she could learn about him before she faced him, the better placed she would be.
Unfortunately, that tack had proved futile. For the same reasons she hadn’t expected Will to be acquainted with an army officer, none of those he had drunk with knew much of Dixon, either.
Just that he was stationed at Fort Thornton.
And now she was there.
She turned away from the vista and walked the last yards to the guardhouse and the pair of middle-aged guards taking the sun at their ease beside it.
They straightened as she neared. Both respectfully touched a hand to their hats.
“Miss,” said the younger with a nod.
“Ma’am,” said the older, straightening even more.
Aileen halted before them and smiled. “Good morning. I would like to speak with an officer by the name of Dixon. I understand he’s quartered here.”
Both guards looked at her, then to her surprise, the pair exchanged a sidelong glance.
The older refocused on her. “I’m afraid, ma’am, that that won’t be possible.”
She blinked.
Before she could formulate an appropriate response, the younger guard blurted, “He’s not here, you see. Gone off to seek his fortune in the jungle, they say.”
The older guard cut his junior a chiding look. “Don’t believe—much less repeat—everything you hear.” Looking back at Aileen, he said, “Captain Dixon was here—he should still be here—but he went missing some months back, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him, nor heard anything about him since.”
“He’s vanished?” She fought to rein in her shock. Battled to keep her expression uninformative.
Nevertheless, the older guard frowned in concern. “Why did you wish to speak with him, ma’am?”
She met his shrewd eyes. She couldn’t think of any reason to lie. “I believe my brother, a lieutenant in the navy, came to speak with Captain Dixon. This would have been some months ago—possibly three months or more.”
“I remember that!” The younger guard beamed at her. “Thought it odd that one of the navy bas—ah, officers wanted to speak with one of ours.”
“So he—my brother—and Dixon met?”
The younger guard shook his head emphatically. “Couldn’t. Dixon was already gone. Would have been a good five weeks before. I remember we told your brother that. Had quite a jaw about it, now I think back. About what Dixon vanishing like that might mean.”
The older guard was regarding her closely. “Why don’t you ask your brother about Dixon—about what he was after him for—when the squadron sails in? Should be in a week or so, I gather.”
Aileen met his eyes, then grimaced. “Would that I could. Sadly, my brother has vanished, too.”
“Cor!” The younger guard’s eyes rounded. “Mercy me! Whatever’s going on?”
The older guard narrowed his eyes on his junior. “Told you. Don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not what it looks like.”
* * *
A week later, late in the afternoon, Aileen threw a shawl about her shoulders and left the confines of the boardinghouse to walk in the public gardens behind the rectory. She’d found the little oasis of civilized peace just a few yards up the road and down a short lane six days ago, and it had quickly become her favorite place for thinking.
As the sun began its final descent toward the western horizon, a cooling breeze often lifted off the harbor and estuary beyond, sweeping up the hill with gentle grace, refreshing and renewing the air after the stifling, muggy heat of the day.
Pacing along the lightly graveled path, Aileen made for her favorite bench. Situated beneath the spreading branches of a tall, shady tree, the bench was unoccupied, as it usually was. She’d seen only a handful of people using the gardens, and most of those were nursemaids or governesses with their charges; at this time of day, they were busy elsewhere, doing other things.
Amid the leaves of the old tree, long brown seedpods hung, dry now, and in the stirring of the breeze, they added their soft rustle to the evening’s chorus. She found the already familiar susurration welcoming. She sat, letting the fine shawl fall to her elbows so she could better enjoy the coolness on her skin.
She scanned the short stretch of lawn below and saw only a single couple who were already heading home. She watched them go, then she raised her gaze to the wider vista of the harbor and its ships, and the estuary beyond. From there, she could even see the opposite shore, so distant it was nothing more than a thick band of jungle green edging the water.
This was a very foreign land.
She told herself that. Told herself it was no real surprise that finding any trace of Will months after he’d disappeared would take time. More, that any trail wouldn’t easily be uncovered.
In search of that trail, she’d returned to sit through two more of Undoto’s performances. She’d spent both observing closely, searching for some hint of what had sent Will there—desperately hoping for some inkling of what he had gone there to find. Other than feeling faintly disturbed by the tenor of the services, she’d learned nothing more.
She’d spoken with Sampson again, but perhaps unsurprisingly given his earlier concern, he’d been discouraging.
His attitude had only added to her welling despondency.
She’d expected to get somewhere by now.
Glumness dragged at her. Instead of giving in to it, she focused on the scene before her. A ship—sleekly hulled and sporting three towering masts—was sliding gracefully up the estuary. Even from this distance, she could make out the tiny figures of sailors scrambling high on the spars, furling a quite staggering array of sails.
The sight of the ship held her transfixed. As she watched, it smoothly slid past the mouth of the harbor and continued up the estuary, still well out from shore.
She wondered why the ship wasn’t turning in. As far as she knew, there was no other settlement—certainly not a settlement of the size to which such a ship might sail—farther along the estuary’s shores.
She continued to trace the stately passage of the ship. Watching it was curiously soothing.
Courtesy of her brothers’ incessant obsession, she was more than passingly acquainted with the latest designs in sailing vessels. In the sleek lines of the ship nosing down the estuary, she thought she detected the telltale shape of the new ships out of the Aberdeen shipyards. Clippers, as people were starting to call them, because under full sail—which was how they were designed to be sailed—the hull rose and sped across the water, clipping the waves.
She imagined how fast the ship before her might go if all the sails she could see were set before a good wind.
It would fly.
Will would have loved it.
“Will will love it one day.” She frowned at herself, at the unintentional surfacing of her deepest fears.
The best way to eradicate fear was to face it. She didn’t want to, yet she forced her mind to consider the unthinkable.
She still couldn’t believe it. Will isn’t dead.
He’d gone missing, but he was somewhere, and still alive.
He was findable. In turn, that meant he could be rescued.
She would do it.
She would not give up—she would never give up—on Will.
Finally, the ship she’d been watching turned its prow toward shore. It came in a short way, then anchored just inside a cove two bays to the east of the harbor.
She wondered why the captain had chosen to avoid the harbor proper. “Perhaps they’re only anchoring for the night, or to take on water.”
Regardless, she’d seen enough; she had more pressing matters to address.
Eschewing the sight before her, she turned her thoughts inward. Doggedly, she retrod—yet again—all she’d learned. Now that she’d worked out why Will had gone to see Dixon—because Dixon had already disappeared and Will had wanted to learn more—that left Will’s attendance at Undoto’s services as the one peculiarity she had yet to explain.
She decided that was a clear enough sign. Either something happened at the services that Will had seen but that she had yet to notice, or...
She couldn’t think of anything that or might be.
Frowning, she refocused on her surroundings and realized the light was fading. In the tropics, night descended like a curtain falling on a stage—with brutal finality and quite surprising abruptness.
She rose. The temperature had started dropping with the setting of the sun. She flicked her shawl about her shoulders and set off at a brisk walk for the lane, the road, and Mrs. Hoyt’s Boarding House.
As she entered the lane, her senses came alert. Pure habit; she didn’t expect to meet with any difficulty in that area.
Nevertheless, as she emerged onto the road by the rectory, she recognized that, with the falling of night, the atmosphere in the settlement changed.
It wasn’t only the view, the surroundings, that grew darker.
She set off along the rough pavement toward the boardinghouse. Lights were already burning on the front porch, and a welcoming glow shone through the parlor curtains.
Then she nearly tripped as her mind connected her recent thoughts. She halted and stared ahead as she realized...
“I might have been looking in the right place, but at the wrong time.” She breathed the words as the possibilities firmed in her mind.
In this place—as in any other rough and dangerous place in which predators lurked—time of day made a very real difference to what anyone watching might see.
Her heart lifted. She stepped out, her stride firmer, more decided—even more determined.
She’d been watching Undoto during the day. She needed to watch him during the evening and night.
True evil walked in darkness, after all.
CHAPTER 3
Robert stepped out of The Trident’s tender onto a rickety pier constructed of old spars lashed together with vines. Better than slogging through the waves, he supposed, and definitely better for the swift execution of his plan than sailing into the harbor proper.
With its usual abruptness in these climes, night had fallen some hours before. The Trident had been in position by then, but he’d deliberately held off and waited until the bustle of early evening activities had faded before coming ashore.
He directed a searching look into the darkness beyond the pale sand, but there were few people to witness their landing—an old man slumped with a bottle in his hand in front of a ramshackle hut, a young man sitting on a stool and frowning over some nets, several women and children flitting like wraiths through the shadows; none seemed to be paying any great attention.
No doubt they knew better than to stare too openly at men like his party, white men who came ashore under the cover of darkness and well away from the lights of the settlement.
With a few quiet words, he and the four men he’d handpicked to accompany him hoisted their bags, then moved silently and swiftly off what was plainly the local pier of a small fishing village huddled around a pocket of the shore of the wide-mouthed bay two bays farther east from Kroo Bay and the main port of Freetown.
Robert led the way up a stretch of deep sand. He paused where the sand gave way to firmer ground and the shadows of listing palms created a pool of deeper darkness and waited for his men to join him.
As they trudged toward him, he looked past them at the tender steadily pulling out through the shallow waves. The Trident herself was a dark, somewhat indistinct shadow that seemed to hover, gently drifting, on the dark surface of the water farther out in the cove.
The four men reached him. With a tip of his head, he indicated that they should follow him; resettling his seabag over his shoulder, he walked on in the direction of the settlement.
He took whatever path offered, tacking this way and that as he steadily led the way westward through the straggling shantytown of crude dwellings that bordered the settlement like lace on a woman’s petticoat.
He’d left all his officers on board; they couldn’t merge into the population of Freetown in the same effortless, unobtrusive way the four men he’d brought with him could. Benson, Harris, Fuller, and Coleman were all sailors, plain if experienced seamen for whom no one in a port city would spare a second glance. All four were also highly experienced fighters, whether on deck or on land. For what Robert imagined he would need to complete this mission, the four possessed the best collection of requisite skills.
Jordan Latimer, his lieutenant and second-in-command, hadn’t liked it, any more than his ship’s master, Hurley, and his quartermaster, Miller, had, but they’d held their tongues. They were accustomed to being the ones by his side; that, this time, he’d chosen others for that role simply illustrated how very unlike his usual missions—which often involved drawing rooms and even ballrooms—this particular mission was.
He’d left his officers to manage the ship and hold her ready to depart at a moment’s notice. He’d given instructions that once the tender was re-stowed, they should let the ebbing tide draw them farther out from shore, back into the estuary proper, and then anchor where, through a spyglass, they could see the rickety pier, yet where their position made it clear they were not intending to engage with—or threaten—anyone.
He paused to glance back—to see if the tender had been hauled in and if The Trident was drifting out again—but the stands of palms that lined the shore, and the black shapes of the village houses with their palm-frond-thatched roofs, blocked his view.
His men milled behind him. Cloaked in darkness, he turned and strode on.
He’d been to Freetown before; his memory of the settlement’s geography was rudimentary but sufficient, and Declan and Edwina had spent hours describing the various areas of the town as they now were. So while he didn’t have anything resembling an accurate map, he had a fair idea of where he was heading, and the pulsing throb of many lives lived at close quarters drew him steadily on.
They entered the settlement proper—the area defined by recognizable streets, even if the surfaces were merely beaten earth—from the east and made their way toward the nearer edge of the commercial district. There, traders’ stores, smaller warehouses, and inns and taverns catering to various types of travelers congregated between the end of Water Street and the shore.
Robert halted in the middle of a dark street that in one direction led to Water Street and in the other to the wharves the local fishing fleet used. He looked around, then glanced at his men. “Let’s see if we can find an inn—one catering to merchants should suit. I want something not too far from this spot. Meet back here in ten or so minutes.”
With nods, the men spread out, drifting down this alley, that lane. Robert himself walked on toward Water Street, but found only stores and offices.
He was walking back to where he’d parted from his men when Benson came trotting out of a lane on the side of the street away from the harbor.
He fell in beside Robert. “Nice little place just along there, Cap—sir.” With a tip of his head, Benson indicated the lane he’d come out of. “Could be our place.”
Robert halted. “Let’s see what the others turn up.”
Gradually, the other three drifted back. Harris had found another inn, but was dubious about its quality. “Bit too run down and leery, I’m thinking. We’re supposed to be respectable, right?”
Robert nodded and jerked his head toward the lane. “Let’s take a look at the place Benson found.”
Benson’s find proved to be perfect for their needs. Only a few doors from the street connecting with Water Street, the inn was small, unassuming, and run by a stalwart couple, who, by their careful manner, clearly strove for security and respectability, and therefore also offered a degree of privacy to their guests.
Posing as a trader visiting the settlement to determine what prospects for goods for Europe and the Americas the region might provide, Robert hired three decent-sized bedchambers—one for him and two for his four men to share.
His men knew how to slip into the supporting roles he’d assigned them, bobbing respectfully to the landlady and dismissing with relaxed thanks the landlord’s offer to have their bags carried up.
After reassuring the landlady that they wouldn’t be putting her to the trouble of making up a meal for them at such a late hour, Robert accepted a lighted lantern from his host and followed his men up the scrubbed wooden stairs.
His room was neat and clean, the bed a touch more solid than a cot, with decent linens and a fine net looped over a metal circle suspended over the well-stuffed mattress. The room also contained a simple desk and a single straight-backed chair. Robert swiftly unpacked the few clothes and other items he’d brought with him and tossed his seabag into the narrow armoire.
After discussing his options with Declan and Edwina, he’d decided to avoid the port and enter the settlement on foot, and subsequently to assume an identity and a purpose that would keep him well away from—essentially out of sight of—all the various local authorities. And even farther from local society.
Declan had been here mere weeks ago, and too many would recognize the similarity between them. Robert’s hair was a darker shade of brown than Declan’s, and his features were a touch more austere, but they both had blue eyes and in so many other ways echoed each other physically that Edwina had been adamant that even if people didn’t recognize him as Robert Frobisher, they would definitely recognize him as a Frobisher.
While Declan’s appearance in the settlement, explained by being on a honeymoon cruise with Edwina, would have passed muster well enough not to raise any suspicions, a second Frobisher turning up a month later would certainly make any villain with links to the authorities...twitchy, at the very least.
Luckily, Robert wasn’t the least averse to what was—compared to where his usual missions landed him—slumming it. Posing as a trader meant he didn’t have to call on anyone, didn’t have to play the gentleman-diplomat-captain—didn’t have to do the pretty by anyone at all. He could simply get on with this mission—get started immediately on picking up the slavers’ trail, finding their camp, then heading back to England.
In pursuit of that goal, he returned downstairs. His men were waiting just inside the inn’s door. At his nod, they all filed outside.
Robert paused under the narrow porch that ran along the front of the inn. Looking into the darkness, listening to the distant yet raucous sounds emanating, no doubt, from the taverns lining the docks, he confirmed his bearings, then looked away from the harbor toward the now largely silent streets that terraced the slope of Tower Hill.
All was quiet up there.
“Time to learn the lie of the land.” Lips quirking, he glanced at his men and tipped his head toward the quieter quarter. “Let’s take a walk.” At this time of night, they could go all the way up to Fort Thornton itself, then descend and walk the length of Water Street, through the heart of the commercial district.
In a loose group, they strode down the lane, then up the road to Water Street. They crossed the thoroughfare and started up the slope into the residential streets, dimly lit by flickering flares, beyond.
They weren’t out to take the air. All of them scanned the streets, taking note of landmarks, occasionally turning to look down at the settlement and the harbor beyond. Sauntering along, Robert slid his hands into his pockets. “We’ll save the docks for last.”
That was where the greatest danger of him—or even his men—being recognized lay, but by then, most of those sober enough to trust their eyes would have gone back to their bunks, and those remaining would pose no real threat.
When they reached the precinct of the fort, a jumble of buildings squatting behind a timber palisade, they hugged the shadows, careful to avoid the sentries keeping watch from the flare-lit area before the gates.
“How they expect to see anyone with all that light about, God only knows,” Coleman muttered.
“Oh, they’ll see ’em,” Fuller replied. “Just too late to save themselves.”
Robert’s lips twitched at the sneering comments. Even though his men weren’t navy, they had a seafarer’s contempt for those who served on the land.
As they headed down the hill again, Robert felt satisfied with the day’s progress. By the time they returned to their beds, they would have a working knowledge of the settlement, enough to see them through their mission.
Enough to be able to start investigating properly tomorrow.
The inn would provide a safe base. Undoto’s church and the tavern the old sailor Sampson frequented were a little farther up and around the hill—easy to walk to from the inn. The slum where the priestess Lashoria lived also lay in that general direction, but farther away from the settlement’s center.
While they ambled down the length of Water Street, noting the shops and offices along the way, Robert reviewed his potential contacts—Lashoria, Sampson, and Babington. Of the three, Babington was the one Robert felt least confident about asking for help. He knew Babington better than Declan did; they’d crossed paths several times. Babington was a shrewd negotiator, more so because he didn’t appear to be outwardly aggressive—much like Robert himself. In Robert’s opinion, Babington was not properly appreciated by his own family. He was largely wasted here, essentially playing nursemaid to Macauley—who, heaven knew, needed, and would accept, no one’s help.
Babington might prove to be a valuable ally, but attempting to recruit him might also be a big mistake, depending on where his loyalties lay. Robert had no intention of revealing any of the mission’s more pertinent details—such as their belief that there was a diamond-mining operation involved—unless he could first satisfy himself as to what Babington’s priorities truly were.
Given that dealing with Babington might not be straightforward, Robert decided to call on Sampson first. Declan and Edwina had suggested that interviewing Lashoria would be best done in the evening, so he’d start his day with Sampson and see where the trail took him from there.
He’d been following the direction his men had been taking without any real thought. Refocusing, he discovered they’d circled around and down to the end of Government Wharf.
His men halted at the steps leading down to the wharf itself; they glanced his way as he joined them.
To their left, Government Wharf extended into the harbor. While there appeared to be no navy frigates moored there or anywhere else in sight, Robert studied the long line of merchant vessels tied up and slowly rising and falling on the gentle swell. “Not along the wharf.”
Too dangerous. Too many merchant captains knew his face.
He looked ahead, along the main quay and the row of buildings fronting it. Most were government offices, agencies, harbormaster’s quarters, and the like. The now diminishing sounds of revelry drifted from lanes and alleys that ran back from the quay. There were no taverns directly facing the water.
He started down the steps. “Along the quay to the end. We can get back to our inn that way.”
And tomorrow he’d make a start on finding the slavers’ trail. The sooner he did, the faster he’d learn where their camp was hidden, and then he would be on his way back to London and the challenge of finding a wife.
As he imagined was the case for most men, a large part of him instinctively recoiled from even contemplating that final task. Yet as he stretched his legs and strolled through the humid dark, he discovered that one small part of his mind was already cautiously questing, imagining and envisioning his ideal wife.
* * *
The morning after the epiphany that if she wanted to discover any nefarious dealings, she would need to watch Undoto in the dark hours rather than in the full light of day, Aileen stood in her bedchamber and surveyed the items she’d spread on the chintz counterpane.
Clothing came first. She’d left the bulk of her wardrobe with her friend in Russell Square, so she had limited choices. But she’d had time between booking her passage and her departure from London to purchase four simple outfits—skirts with matching jackets—in lightweight cotton. The modistes had only just started to create such garments for the English summer, and they’d cost a pretty penny, but since arriving in the settlement, she’d been glad of her foresight.
The most useful outfit for any nighttime excursion would be the one in deep blue twill. Although the ensemble was intended to be worn with an ivory blouse, she’d bought a silk blouse in the same shade of dark blue with some thought of possibly needing to pass herself off as a widow.
She hadn’t had to employ the subterfuge, but that had left her with a dark-colored outfit she’d yet to don; the unrelenting heat of the days had dissuaded her from wearing the darker shade.
“With a hat and veil...” She grimaced and looked at the bureau, at her one and only hat, a villager style in straw, sitting perched on the bureau’s top. She wrinkled her nose. “Entirely unsuitable.”
But she’d seen a small milliner’s shop tucked in a side street off Water Street. She glanced again at the clothes she’d laid out, then down at what she was wearing—one of the jacket-and-skirt ensembles in a soft lemon yellow with an ivory blouse. She wouldn’t need the hat or the darker clothes until the evening; if she accomplished what she hoped to by midafternoon, she would have plenty of time to call in at the milliner’s and find something more appropriate. “Along with a good swath of black netting for a veil.”
She felt sure any milliner would have black netting to hand; no doubt the settlement had funerals enough.
With her clothes and headgear decided, she turned to her open suitcases, located her gloves, and discovered she’d packed a pair of mid-length black gloves. “Perfect.” Laying the pair aside, she looked down. Raising her skirts, she regarded her dusty half boots. “More than adequate for creeping about in.”
She released her skirts and smoothed them down. Sartorially speaking, she had everything she needed.
“Next—equipment.” She reached into one suitcase, underneath her clothes at the very back, and drew out what appeared to be a jeweler’s box, along with a silk roll of the sort ladies used to carry pearls.
She crossed to the small desk and placed both items on the surface. Smiling to herself, she sat on the stool, opened the jeweler’s box, and surveyed the tiny American-made pistol her eldest brother had given her for her last birthday. She’d already known how to shoot a pistol, but she’d practiced diligently with the smaller weapon and now counted herself an excellent shot, at least at appropriate range.
Just to check, she untied the cords about the jewelry roll and spread it open, revealing a pair of sharp daggers and a whetstone. Satisfied she had everything she would need, she returned her attention to the pistol; after gently easing it from its velvet bed, she hefted the familiar weight in her hand.
Carefully, she put it down, lifted out the cleaning supplies that had been nestled alongside it, and settled to clean the weapon.
The exercise, something she’d done many times in the past, freed her thoughts to wander. She was convinced Will’s disappearance was somehow connected with Undoto; she intended, therefore, to watch the priest, evening and night, until she saw whatever there was to be seen.
Her lips firmed; her gaze was fixed on the pistol in her hands, her eyes not truly seeing. “There has to be something.” Something about Undoto that had caused Will to haunt his services. Some link that would lead from Undoto to Will.
After reassembling the pistol, she laid it aside and picked up the whetstone and one of the knives.
As the sound of the whetstone passing along the blade filled her ears, she forced herself to face the fact that she had no idea if she would find anything—would stumble upon anything pertinent—by watching Undoto, but she had no other clue, no other avenue to follow.
So she would follow this one and see where it led.
The resolution had her reviewing the practicalities of what she’d planned. “First—find out where Undoto lives.”
That would be easy enough, but she would need transportation.
* * *
Robert found Sampson exactly where he’d expected him to be—in the taproom of the tavern above which he lived.
The old sailor was seated at a table in the corner; head down, he was scanning a news-sheet and didn’t look up when Robert and his four men entered the low-ceilinged room.
Despite the relatively early hour, Robert bought a round of ale for his men, himself, and an extra for Sampson, then carrying Sampson’s drink as well as his own, he crossed to the table at which the old man sat.
When Robert halted before the table, Sampson deigned to look up. And up.
When Sampson’s gaze found Robert’s face, the old tar blinked, then sat back, the better to view him.
Robert smiled and gestured with the mugs of ale. “Mind if we join you?”
Sampson glanced at the other four hanging respectfully back; he identified them as fellow seafarers and grinned. “Not at all.” He nodded at the four in welcome, then his gaze returned to Robert’s face as Robert placed the mugs of ale on the table and pushed one toward him. “Thank ye. Looks like me mornin’ just became more interesting.”
He scrutinized Robert as he settled on the stool opposite. “Was it your brother who was here before, then? Cap’n Frobisher?”
Robert nodded. “Yes. My younger brother.”
Sampson studied Benson, Fuller, Harris, and Coleman as they pulled up stools, sat, and sipped their ale. He looked back at Robert. “You’re another Cap’n Frobisher, then?”
Robert dipped his head in assent and took a long pull of his ale. The taste was distinctly different, but it was recognizably ale. Lowering the mug, he met Sampson’s inquisitive eye. “We’re here to follow the trail my brother blazed.”
Sampson sobered. “Aye. Good thing, too. I’d noticed people not turning up to Undoto’s services even before your brother came, but I don’t go farther afield in the settlement, so I just thought they’d growed bored with it and hadn’t bothered coming back. But your brother and his men said people had vanished, and I gather that’s still true.”
“Indeed. We’re trying to find out where they’ve gone, with a view to staging a rescue. My brother suggested you’d be amenable to helping us out with information.”
Sampson nodded. “Happy to help any way I can.” His lips twisted wryly. “And these days, supplying information is about my limit.”
“Nevertheless, we appreciate your help.” Robert sipped, then said, “What can you tell us about any changes in behavior of those you see regularly? Especially any changes since my brother was here.”
“Hmm.” Sampson’s brow creased in thought. He lifted the mug of ale and sipped, absentmindedly savoring the taste before he swallowed and said, “The most notable change would have to be her ladyship—Lady Holbrook. She stopped coming to Undoto’s services some weeks back. Thinking on it, her stopping would have been just after your brother sailed.” Sampson flicked Robert a shrewd glance. “Bit abrupt, that seemed—he and his ship were here one day and gone the next.”
Robert acknowledged the point with a nod. “He had his wife with him.”
Sampson nodded readily. “I remember her—pretty little thing.”
Robert’s lips eased. “In her case, you don’t want to be fooled by the prettiness. But she and my brother ran into strife courtesy of his—their—investigations, and they had to draw back. I’m their replacement—the next stage of the investigation.”
“Aye, well, there haven’t been any other major changes in those I see, other than Lady Holbrook not coming to Undoto’s services anymore, and for all I know, she might just have lost interest, or taken to her bed ill, or have too much to do.”
“Do you know if Holbrook himself is currently in the settlement?”
“Far as I’ve heard—or rather, I’ve heard nothing about him sailing off anywhere.” Sampson grinned. “But I don’t exactly swan about in those circles, so I can’t rightly say what the governor’s been up to.”
Robert nodded. “I’ll check with others.” He would have to; Wolverstone and Melville would be waiting to learn which way the wind blew with Holbrook. He watched Sampson down a large mouthful of ale. “Have you heard any whispers of people going missing recently, or of any other odd happenings?”
Sampson pursed his lips. After a moment, he said, “Haven’t heard anything about anyone on Tower Hill being gone, but I did hear about the docks that some navvies didn’t turn up where they were expected. But hereabouts, no one can say if they’ve vanished like those others, or if they just upped stakes and went off to some better prospect, or took work on some ship.” Sampson shrugged his heavy shoulders. “No way to know, is there?”
“Indeed.” That was half the problem in this case; in this sort of place, so many people were disconnected drifters.
Sampson shifted on his bench. “Howsoever, in terms of odd happenings, there was one I hadn’t expected.” His voice had grown stronger, more definite. “A young lady—well, not that young, I suppose, but young enough, if you catch my drift. She turned up...ooh, must be going on two weeks ago now. Showed up at one of Undoto’s services and spent the whole time looking sharply about. She spotted me, and after the service, she came up and asked to speak with me. She was searching for her brother—a naval lieutenant by the name of Will Hopkins. I’d seen him at the services, months back. And she—the lady—was right. Young Will had come up and had a jaw with me. He liked to hear my stories.”
Robert frowned. He was acquainted with the older two Hopkins brothers. “This lady. Did she mention her name?”
Sampson’s brow furrowed as he clearly thought back, but then he shook his head. “No.” He met Robert’s eyes. “I suppose she’d be Miss Hopkins, but she was more than old enough to be married, and widowed, too, so she might have another name now.”
Before Robert could comment, Sampson continued, “Anyways, she was asking questions, obviously trying to figure out what had brought her brother to the services. Asked if it were some young lady, but I put her straight about that. But she was right—a lad like Will Hopkins had to have had some reason to come to the services. He wouldn’t have just wandered up to waste his time, not on three occasions at least.”
“He was sent to track Dixon, the army engineer who had already vanished.” Robert saw no reason to conceal that fact.
“Aye, well—Miss Hopkins, or whatever her name is, hadn’t tumbled to that, but she knew as well as I did that there had to be something behind Will coming to the services. She was asking questions, trying to learn what.” Sampson drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t think that was wise, and I tried to warn her off.” He met Robert’s gaze. “I told her about your brother and how he’d been asking questions about the officers who’d gone missing, including her brother, most like. I also told her that your brother had to withdraw quickly—that he’d sailed from the settlement and just might have headed back to London—and I pointed out that people who asked questions about people who’ve gone missing tended to wind up missing, too. I did me best to get her to back off and leave the investigating to those qualified to do it.”
Robert arched a cynical brow. “Did you succeed?”
“I’m not hopeful. She’s been back to two more services, and anyone who thought to watch her would know she weren’t paying attention to Undoto’s thunderings.”
Robert grimaced; the last thing he needed was a gently bred but determined female complicating his simple and straightforward mission. “Do you have any idea where she’s staying?”
“Not precisely. She’ll be up on Tower Hill somewhere, would be my guess.”
“What did she look like?” It was Benson who asked.
Sampson took a moment, plainly calling up a picture in his mind. “Brassy-brown hair—sort of bright brown and glossy, not dark. Hazel eyes. Average height. Good figure, but well laced. Very English looking, and if I had to guess, used to getting her own way. Wouldn’t say spirited so much as forceful.”
Unease trailed tauntingly down Robert’s spine. Damn! He was going to have to act to effectively deflect the woman. He couldn’t risk her popping up at some crucial moment and interfering with his mission. More, if she was Hopkins’s sister, then given his acquaintance with her older brothers, he should definitely do his best to send her packing all the way back to England.
Sampson humphed. “I made it clear she was dabbling in dangerous waters, and while she listened, I’m damned sure she’s not going to pay my warning much heed.”
For a moment, all were silent. Sipping the last of his ale, Robert considered what would have brought a lady like Miss Hopkins all the way to Freetown. Sibling devotion, clearly, but it would have to be strong to have driven a gently bred lady to take ship and brave the dangers of a place like Freetown, a settlement on the outer fringes of civilization. That Hopkins’s sister was in the settlement at all, let alone determinedly asking questions, argued that convincing her to meekly step back, return to England, and leave the investigating to him wasn’t going to be any easy task.
That she’d found her way to Undoto’s services and Sampson—and it sounded as if she was concentrating her efforts around Undoto and his church—suggested she was intelligent, too.
Robert drained his mug. He would need to remove the lady from the situation, and soon. Before matters became any more complicated.
He set his mug on the table and glanced at his men, then looked at Sampson. “I need to speak with the vodun priestess, Lashoria. My brother told me she lives in the slum on the hillside to the east of here—is that still the case?”
Sampson nodded. “Far as I know.” He drained his mug.
“There’s a gentleman by the name of Babington—Charles Babington. I’ll probably need to speak with him, too. Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s the one that’s Macauley’s junior partner, aye?” When Robert nodded, Sampson said, “That’s easy, then. He lives in the apartment above the company’s office. On Water Street, that is. You can’t miss it.”
Robert nodded. He’d noted the Macauley and Babington office during their walk the previous night.
He’d call on Lashoria that evening and decide what he wanted to do about Babington after that.
He refocused on Sampson. All the men had finished their ales. “Our landlady mentioned that Undoto is holding one of his spectacles at noon today.”
“Aye.” Sampson nodded his shaggy head. “I planned on heading up there about now.”
“Do you mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Sampson grasped his cane and levered himself to his feet. He beamed at Robert and his men. “Glad of the company.”
They rose and left the tavern. Robert waved his men ahead and adjusted his pace to Sampson’s halting one. Robert looked about him as in companionable silence they progressed slowly up the hill.
He doubted he needed to ask Sampson to point out the notables in the congregation; if Robert was any judge, the old man thoroughly enjoyed having his knowledge plumbed, his observational skills put to use.
But when they halted at the edge of the forecourt before what was obviously the church, Robert murmured, “If you see Hopkins’s sister...”
Sampson nodded. “I’ll point her out.” He surveyed the people streaming toward the open doors. “Can’t see her, but she might already be inside.” With his cane, he waved toward the door. “Let’s go in.”
The forecourt stretched across the front of the rectangular church and extended down both sides, wider to the left than the right. To the left, several benches sat beneath a row of trees large enough to cast some shade. Carriages were drawn up in a long line opposite the front façade; ladies and gentlemen descended and strolled across the forecourt to the doors, most smiling and chatting, nodding to each other as if they were attending a social event.
As they walked forward and Robert refocused his attention on the church itself, a frisson of awareness—the sort of awareness he recognized very well—swept tantalizingly across his senses.
Glancing around, he looked back at the carriages. Most were simply black. Dusty, anonymous, and unremarkable.
Anyone could be sitting inside one and looking out.
It was hardly the first time he’d been the recipient of an assessing glance. If the lady had noticed his reaction, she probably wouldn’t show herself until after he’d gone inside.
Mentally shrugging—he certainly wouldn’t have time to follow it up, distractions of that ilk being indisputably the very last thing he needed—he returned his attention to those before him.
As they joined the throng streaming inside, Sampson added, “I hope you’ll be able to make the lady see sense.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Robert hadn’t expected to have to use his diplomatic talents on this mission, but he could be very persuasive when he wished.
Curious, he looked around as they moved into the church, noting the disposition of people to cluster in their own groups. His men had gone in ahead of him and Sampson and had sat in the last pew. Robert followed Sampson to a stool in the rear left corner.
The old man settled on the stool, his peg leg braced at a comfortable angle. Then he surveyed those seated.
Robert remained standing, leaning against the wall as several other men had elected to do.
Sampson grunted. “I can’t see her. She’s not here yet.”
His gaze sweeping the room, Robert shrugged. “Let me know when you spot her.”
As soon as he got a bead on her, he intended to seize the first chance that offered to warn her away from the investigation—and he was prepared to be a great deal more definite and effective than Sampson had been.
He had no intention whatever of allowing anyone—male or female—to interfere with his mission. For once, he had a mission whose path was blissfully clear and defined—learn the location of the slavers’ camp, then race the information back to London. The lady might be determined, but so was he; he was determined to allow nothing to get in the way of him finishing this mission in the shortest amount of time.
He wanted it done so he could put it behind him and concentrate on following the lure that, increasingly, drew him.
The need for a hearth. The need for a home. The need for a wife who would be his anchor.
* * *
Aileen leaned back against the squabs of her hired carriage as the last stragglers made their way into the church.
She’d debated joining the congregation, but she couldn’t imagine that she would see or learn anything she hadn’t already by subjecting herself yet again to Undoto’s version of fire and brimstone. Much better to sit and conserve her energies. She’d rolled up the flaps on the carriage windows, and a breeze as faint as an exhalation stirred wisps of hair at her nape.
Her strategy had already yielded one piece of information—the direction from which Undoto approached the church. After leaving Mrs. Hoyt’s, she’d walked down to Water Street and had hired a driver for the rest of the day; she’d had him drive her up to the church at just after eleven o’clock and draw his carriage to a halt at a spot toward the end of where the line of carriages would form. She’d been inside the carriage watching when Undoto had come walking down the street that curved up the flank of the hill.
Most of the congregation came from either below the church or, in the case of the European contingent, along the road from the west. The area from which Undoto had come was not one she’d previously explored.
But she would. Later, when she followed the priest back to his home. For the next hour, however, she had nothing to do but sit in the carriage and cling to her patience.
She’d chosen this spot from which to watch because it allowed her an unobstructed view of the church’s forecourt and also the smaller door along one side toward the rear of the building. That was the door through which Undoto had entered the church; others—the choristers and altar boys and several older men—had followed. One of the older men had later opened the front doors.
Patience wasn’t really her long suit, but she could, she told herself, manage an hour. In pursuit of Will, she could manage more than that.
With nothing else to do, she reviewed all she’d seen to this point, cataloging those of the congregation she’d seen previously, searching for anything odd or different.
Her mind snagged on the man—a newcomer, at least to her—who had arrived with old Sampson.
There was something about the man that had snared her attention, then effortlessly held it. In the privacy of the carriage with nothing else to occupy her, she could admit that and, via a distinctly vivid memory, indulge in a long, mental perusal.
He was the sort of gentleman commonly described as well set up. Tall with broad shoulders, but lean with the length. Strong, but flexible, too, exuding an aura of reined physical power. That he’d arrived with Sampson, chatting with the old man and clearly accepted by him, suggested the unknown was a sailor, but she would have guessed that anyway. She was accustomed to dealing with seafaring men, and the way he held himself, balanced in a certain fluid way, had instantly registered.
As had the sword at his hip. It wasn’t the type of weapon your average sailor sported. If she had to guess, she would say the intriguing stranger was a captain, one who commanded; an ineffable air of command had hung like a cloak about him, something innate that showed in the way he’d stood, in the manner in which he’d looked about him, scanning the surroundings, taking note of the people as well as the place.
Remembering that, she felt certain he’d never been to Undoto’s church before.
She hadn’t forgotten Sampson’s mention of a Captain Frobisher who had come to ask questions about those missing; it was tempting to speculate that this man was Frobisher, come back to take up the hunt, but if he hadn’t previously attended the church, that seemed unlikely.
Although courtesy of the distance, she hadn’t been able to note anything specific about the man’s face and features, she had to admit he’d made an impression.
She realized her lips had curved appreciatively, but there was no harm in such idle admiration. It wasn’t as if he and she were likely to meet face to face.
The warmth of the sun lay heavy on the land; the distant hum of the settlement’s center and port droned almost below the level of hearing.
Lulled, she felt her lids drooping. After a second, she allowed them to fall.
Her mind wasn’t empty; the image of the unknown man still lingered. He hadn’t been wearing a uniform; she recalled Sampson’s description of Captain Frobisher—not navy, but authorized. Most likely, Sampson had meant that the man had some degree of backing from the authorities; despite his lack of uniform, the unknown stranger had exuded the ineluctable sense that he possessed such authority.
So a captain, but almost certainly not of a naval vessel.
The memory of the clipper-style ship she’d seen so gracefully gliding up the estuary the previous evening swam across her mind’s eye.
The unknown captain’s ship?
Her attention shifted to the ship. Truth be told, she could admit to feeling a certain attraction to the vessel, too—a wish to see her, to examine her, to sail on her. To stand on her deck and experience the sensation of flying over the waves.
Aileen had long known she was no more immune to the siren song of the sea than her brothers.
And it was probably a good deal safer to explore an attraction to the ship than to the ship’s captain, even in her mind.
She grinned, then the sound of voices spilled into the forecourt. She opened her eyes and saw that the service was finally over. Undoto stood at the door, farewelling his parishioners.
Aileen sat up, then stretched her arms, easing her spine. She leaned closer to the window, then, realizing she might be seen, sat back in the shadows of the carriage once more.
She watched the congregation leave. She saw the intriguing stranger again. After exchanging words with four sailors—members of his crew?—and apparently dispatching them ahead, the stranger left with Sampson, pacing more slowly beside the one-legged sailor as they followed the winding street down the hill.
There was a courtesy there, in the stranger’s attention to Sampson, of which Aileen approved—a recognition that old men like Sampson were by no means worthless.
The stranger and Sampson soon passed out of sight.
She returned her gaze to the church itself and, counseling herself to patience anew, watched and waited while the congregation dispersed. When all were gone, Undoto and one of the older men who helped with the church pulled the doors shut, while two other older men set the woven-rush window panels back in place.
Aileen shifted her gaze to the side door. The altar boys and choristers had already left. The old men came out; calling to each other, they waved and went their separate ways.
Finally, Undoto emerged, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Again, Aileen was tempted to lean forward, but she held herself back; she hadn’t yet got her hat and veil.
She watched as Undoto walked along the side wall of the church and into the forecourt. He saw her carriage, but barely gave it a glance and continued across the gravel to the street.
Aileen crossed her fingers, praying he would return to his home and not go wandering elsewhere in the settlement.
Undoto reached the street and turned up it, heading back in the direction from which he’d earlier come.
She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d chosen this carriage because it had a small window set beneath the coachman’s seat through which she could look out over the horses’ backs and see what was happening in front of the carriage. Through that window, she watched Undoto stride up the dusty street. She waited as long as she deemed she could, then rose, stretched up, and lifted the small trapdoor in the carriage’s roof.
For all she knew, her driver might have been snoring for the past hour. “Driver?”
The carriage shifted as the driver started. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I was hoping to meet my friend here, but she didn’t attend the service. I must have dozed off. I’ve only recently arrived in the settlement, and as we are here, I would like you to drive slowly—just rolling very slowly along—up the street before us, the one heading up the flank of the hill.” The one Undoto had taken; he was almost out of sight. “Just carry on, and I’ll tell you when I’ve seen enough, and we can then return to Water Street.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Aileen swayed, then sat as the carriage rocked into motion. The driver followed her instructions well enough and kept their pace nice and slow. Through the small forward-facing window, she could see Undoto well ahead, but as he was striding along at a good clip, the distance between him and the carriage was only slowly decreasing.
The area the street ran through was neither a slum, nor was it Tower Hill. The houses were modest, but neatly kept; most were situated on their own small block. Few plants graced the gardens, but rocks and stones marked entrances and paths. From the few people she glimpsed, it appeared this was the area populated by the equivalent of the lower middle class.
There were still a good fifty yards between the carriage and the priest when Undoto crossed the road, went up a short path, climbed a few steps to a house’s porch, then opened the door and disappeared inside.
Aileen shifted to the window on that side and, as the carriage rolled closer, studied the house the priest had entered. As the house neared, she again drew back into the concealing shadows, but with her eyes fixed on the building, she cataloged every identifying feature she could spy.
The carriage rolled on, and the house fell behind. Satisfied, she sat back. She would recognize the house, even by night.
Her afternoon’s work—laying the groundwork for her evening’s endeavors—was done.
She let the driver steer his horses on for a full minute more, then she lifted the trapdoor again. “I’ve seen enough for today. Back to Water Street. You can let me out near the middle of the street.”
She had a milliner to visit.
And then...
She couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that the house Undoto had entered was his own abode, yet there’d been a lack of concern, of even the slightest hesitation, in the way he’d walked up the front path and had opened the door and gone inside. If it hadn’t been his house, surely he would have knocked?
Still, tonight would tell. If Undoto was still there when night fell...that was really all she cared about.
As the carriage rocked slowly down the hill and turned toward the center of the settlement, she reviewed her preparations. Once she bought what she needed from the milliner, there was one last issue to address.
To keep watch on Undoto’s house, she would need the concealment of an anonymous carriage, much like the one she was presently in. But she couldn’t risk hiring just any coachman and trusting him to keep his mouth shut about her peculiar excursions, much less the address from which he picked her up.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way around trusting the driver she hired. “Which means,” she murmured, “that I’ll have to make sure the driver I hire is, indeed, trustworthy.”
Hat and veil first; carriage and trustworthy driver second.
Once she’d succeeded in securing both... “Then I’ll be ready to keep watch and see who comes calling on Undoto.”
CHAPTER 4
Darkness had fallen. The slum area in which Lashoria lived had no lighting to illuminate its winding alleys.
Robert paced steadily up the passageway that Declan had told him led to the priestess’s red door. Somewhere in the shadows behind him lurked Benson and Coleman. Both men were past masters at trailing others. Even though he knew they were there, Robert couldn’t hear or in any way sense them; if he glanced around, he knew he’d see nothing.
It was a slow climb. Long enough for him to feel the atmosphere of the slum—of such a density of close-packed humanity—close around him. The smells and sounds rifled his senses, tickling and pricking them to higher awareness. The smothering heat, a solid warmth from which there was no escape, didn’t help. As most locals did, he’d dispensed with his coat. Unfortunately, in the gloom of the slum, the relative whiteness of his linen shirt made him feel like a walking target.
To distract himself, he thought back to his afternoon, to Undoto’s service. Admittedly, he was predisposed not to approve of Undoto, but the man’s belligerent, overconfident—almost bellicose—delivery had set his teeth on edge. At least he and his men would now be able to recognize the priest.
After taking a thorough look at the congregation, noting especially the Europeans attending, he’d confirmed via Sampson that Hopkins’s sister hadn’t been present. Once that was established, he’d spent the rest of the hour thinking of various ways in which he could send the overinquisitive lady packing.
He glimpsed a flash of bright red ahead on the right.
A minute later, he stood facing what was patently Lashoria’s door.
Neither Declan nor Edwina had said anything about the brilliant red being splotched with black.
The black looked recent.
There was no light showing through the thick material covering the window of the front room. Neither Declan nor Edwina had mentioned curtains, either; instead, Declan had said he’d been able to look into the alley while seated on the love seat inside that room.
The fine hairs at Robert’s nape stirred.
He drew in a breath, climbed the two steps to the front door, and rapped sharply.
He had to knock a second and a third time before he heard shuffling footsteps—too light to be a man’s—approaching from deeper inside the house.
Then the door was flung open, and he found himself facing an old woman, her face haggard and worn.
“What do you want?”
The demand was aggressively made, but the woman’s voice sounded rusty, scratchy.
Before Robert could reply, her dark eyes drifted over him—then flicked back to lock on his face.
The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “You...no, your brother. He was here before. With his pretty wife.”
Robert nodded. “Yes. He and his wife spoke with Lashoria. I need to speak with her, too.”
The old woman’s eyes widened. For two seconds, she stared at him.
Then she glanced furtively down the alley as she reached out, gripped his sleeve, and tugged. “Come inside. Quickly.”
Robert needed no further urging. He stepped over the threshold and past her. He watched as she shut the door, then wrestled two heavy bolts across.
She turned and slipped past him. She beckoned. “Come. To the back.”
She led him down the corridor Declan and Edwina had described, but instead of going into the room at the end—Lashoria’s consulting room, as Edwina had termed it—the old woman turned left and led the way down a flight of crude steps cut into the earth. Robert had to duck to pass under the lintel at the bottom of the steps; straightening, he found himself in a small chamber carved into the ground. A wood oven built into one wall marked it as the kitchen. It was transparently the old woman’s domain.
She perched on a stool at one end of the narrow wooden table that took up most of the floor space. “Here.” She pushed a low stool his way. “Sit.”
A single candle in a holder on the table cast a small circle of golden light.
As Robert complied with her order, taking the place to her left, the old woman folded her hands on the table and met his gaze. “They killed her—the beasts. They killed my Lashoria.”
Robert had suspected as much—why else the black on the door?—but the wealth of emotion in the old woman’s voice, the virulent hatred he could see burning in her eyes, made him still. Then he drew breath and asked, “Who?”
“The slavers who work with Undoto.” The old woman’s fingers gripped tight. “They killed her because she spoke of their evil to others.”
“Their evil?”
Robert didn’t have to ask more questions; just that was enough to fracture the dam wall. The old woman poured out her hatred of those she termed “the beasts.” Robert let her rave, let her sob and rail; she remained dry-eyed throughout, as if she had no more tears to shed.
He waited silently, unjudging, just being there. When she finally fell silent and simply breathed, he quietly said, “My brother and his wife had nothing to do with Lashoria’s death. They were attacked when they left here.”
The old woman waved dismissively. “You think I don’t know that? That I would speak to you if I believed...?” She shook her head. “I know it was not them. I was here.” She pointed over their heads. “I was in my room upstairs when Lashoria showed your brother and his wife out of the back door. I peeked out and saw them go down the hill. But then there was a pounding on the front door, and Lashoria...she went and opened it. They came in—the beasts. I could hear, but not see. They struck her, then pushed her into her room. They beat her.” The old woman exhaled a shuddering breath. “They did not stop until she was dead.”
The simple words held a weight of helpless fury.
The old woman’s gaze had grown distant, her hands once again gripping tight. “There was nothing I could do to save her—my lovely Lashoria. The beasts did not know I was here, under the same roof, or they would have killed me, too.”
Robert heard the guilt. He wondered if he was wrong to do so, yet... “There was nothing you could have done then.” He met the old woman’s gaze. “But if you know who did this, tell me. I cannot promise swift justice, but justice can be served in many ways.”
She considered him in silence for a full minute, then she nodded. “Lashoria spoke, and they killed her. I am a very old woman—now that they have killed her, I have little to live for. So why not speak?”
Robert said nothing; he was far too old a hand at negotiating to push.
The old crone regarded him for several more moments, then she nodded again, this time decisively. “It was Kale and his men. I heard his voice, and I am sure it was he.”
“Who is Kale?”
“He is the leader of one band of slavers. I know him from long-ago days. Many years ago now, my husband, he was one of them, so I know of Kale, although he was only a young one then.”
“Do you know where Kale’s camp is?” Robert held his breath. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy.
The old woman shook her head. “Not now. Now Kale is in charge, and he is an arrogant beast. Everything is his way. New ways.”
“Tell me what you know of this Kale. What does he look like?”
“He is English, but not just Anglo. A mix. He does not look that much different from many others, not until you look into his eyes or hear him speak. His voice was damaged in the fight in which he killed the last leader of their band. But Kale...he is a snake of a man, quick with his fists and blades, and cunning and clever, too.”
“How do the slavers operate? Lashoria told my brother that Undoto was involved.”
“Yes!” The word was hissed. “He is a snake of a different skin, that one. But he is not the leader—that is Kale, without any doubt. Undoto is his...procurer. Yes, that is the word. Undoto points and says, ‘That one.’ And Kale and his men, they take that one. That is how it works.”
Robert recalled the point Declan and Edwina had made about those taken being selected, not chosen at random. Facts shifted in his brain. Lady Holbrook had known the background of virtually every English person in the settlement. She told Undoto which ones would fit his bill, and Undoto then pointed Kale their way. But who had told Lady Holbrook or Undoto which types of people were needed?
With no answer to that, Robert set the point aside and turned his mind to the other end of the slavers’ operation. “You said your husband used to run with the slavers. What are the steps the slavers take once they seize someone in the settlement?”
“They will take them first to their lair.”
“Lair?”
The old woman huffed out a breath. “The slavers do not usually walk the streets during the day. That would be inviting too much attention, and snatching people in daylight is more difficult. More risky. So they wait for the darkness to hunt their prey. But their camps are too far out in the jungle”—the old woman flung out a hand—“for them to come in every night from there. So they have a lair—a place where they can wait during the day. And they gather any they snatch in one night there before taking them out to the camp.”
“Do you have any idea where Kale’s lair is?”
“No. It will be in one of the slums somewhere. I do not think it is in this one, but I cannot be certain.”
Robert reviewed what he now knew, then he looked at the old woman. “What can you tell me about Kale’s camp? Anything at all will be helpful.”
She pulled a face. “Few who visit a slavers’ camp return to tell of it. All I know is from my husband, and that is from years ago. The camps must be out in the jungle a long way. They have to be beyond the areas your soldiers patrol, and also outside any villages’ or chieftains’ boundaries, or the chiefs will cause trouble.” She met Robert’s eyes. “The villagers around do not hold with slavery—very few in this area do.”
Robert nodded. He knew that some tribes from the north were wont to assist slavers who preyed on natives from deeper in the interior, but with the West Africa Squadron sailing out of Freetown, he’d assumed this area was less troubled by the scourge.
The old woman had been studying his face. “For what it is worth, this business of stealing English men and women is very different from the usual trade.”
“How so?” Robert tipped his head, inviting her to explain.
She took a moment to order her thoughts. “Kale has been a slave trader for years and years, yet only now, in this business with Undoto, has he started to take Europeans. That has never been normal anywhere, but especially not here. With the fort so close and the ships, too, why risk the wrath of the governor and his men? So that is one mystery. And the care to pick the people—this one and not that one—is also unheard of. A man is a man—why do they need to choose so carefully?”
So that they took only those whose disappearance would be unlikely to raise any, or at least not too much of, an alarm. Robert didn’t say the words, but he was sure enough of that.
The old woman straightened from the table and raised her hands. “There is no rhyme or reason to this. No sense in it at all. It is very peculiar to choose to play this game right under the English governor’s nose.”
A nose that had been singularly unresponsive to date, but that, Robert was starting to realize, had been very carefully arranged.
He was starting to believe that Holbrook was entirely innocent of any complicity in the scheme.
The old woman looked tired, even more worn out. Robert could think of no more to ask her. He rose. When she looked up at him, he half bowed. “Thank you for speaking with me.” He hesitated, then reached into his pocket. “If you will not take it amiss...” Hauling out three sovereigns, he laid them on the table. “For your help.”
The old woman’s gaze had fallen to the coins. She studied them for a long moment, then she reached out a hand and covered them, and drew them to her. “Beggars cannot be choosers. Thank you.”
Robert hesitated. “I don’t expect it will be any real consolation, but the help you and Lashoria have given will, in the end, save many lives.”
The old woman’s head came up. Some of her earlier hate sparked in the darkness of her eyes. “Kale. Be careful of him. He is like a rabid dog—do not take your eyes from him. But if you and your people can end Kale’s life, I will die happy.”
Robert held her gaze for a moment more, then nodded. “I’ll see what we can do.” He stepped back from the table. “I’ll show myself out, but please bolt the door once I’m gone.”
She nodded.
He didn’t wait for more but climbed the rough steps, strode along the corridor, slid back the bolts, opened the door, and stepped outside. He pulled the black-blotched red door closed behind him, then went down the steps.
In the alley, he paused, breathing deep of the air that, although still cloyingly humid, felt much less smothering than the air in that kitchen, weighted as it had been with so much helpless emotion—powerful emotions that had no outlet. When he caught the scrape of the bolts sliding home again, he straightened his shoulders and set off to walk back down the long passage.
He felt nothing more than a stir in the air at his back as Benson and Coleman fell in at his heels.
“Learn anything?” Benson murmured.
“Enough to be going on with.” As he strode down the slope, Robert used what he now knew to construct what he thought must be the slavers’ operation. Some of the slavers would be waiting in their lair. Undoto, or perhaps Lady Holbrook when she’d been there, would send to summon them, directing them to this victim or that. The slavers waited until night, then seized their victim. They returned to the lair—possibly to report, also possibly to combine their victims—then either on the same night or the next, the slavers ferried said victims out of the settlement and took them to their camp.
It was the location of the camp Robert needed. But clearly, the first step toward finding the camp was identifying the slavers’ lair.
* * *
Night had fallen hours ago.
Seated in the small and entirely plain black carriage she’d finally chosen and hired for the duration of her stay in the settlement, Aileen fidgeted, impatient and restless.
She’d had her new driver, Dave—a cockney who, of the dozen coachmen she’d interviewed, had struck her as the most trustworthy—call for her at the boardinghouse at sunset. She’d directed him to drive on a roundabout route to eventually pull up in the tiny lane that joined the street above Undoto’s church almost directly opposite Undoto’s house.
From their position in the lane, through the forward-facing window beneath the coachman’s bench, she could look across the street. The entire front façade of Undoto’s house was within her field of vision, along with the extension of the narrow lane that ran down the right side of the house. She suspected—hoped—that meant she would see anyone entering or leaving from either the front or rear of the house.
The tiny lane was the perfect spot from which to observe all comings and goings from the priest’s abode. Well and good. But the waiting was getting on her nerves.
She shifted on her seat. She lifted her reticule, feeling the weight of the pistol inside it, then set it back down on the seat beside her. She had no idea if anything would come of this covert surveillance. If she was asked to explain what she expected to happen and what she hoped to achieve, she wouldn’t be able to formulate any real answer beyond that this was something she could do, and she had no other viable avenue to pursue.
And, deep down, some instinct—that conviction of the emotions her mother called a woman’s intuition—insisted that this was the way to go, the path to follow if she wanted to find Will.
Everything revolved about Undoto. Surely, through watching him, she would see something and learn something more.
Thus far, all she’d seen had been an old woman who had come out of the side gate into the narrow lane and fed table scraps to the neighborhood dogs.
Stifling a sigh, Aileen fixed her gaze on the front of Undoto’s house and lectured herself for the umpteenth time to be patient.
She heard the men approaching before she saw them; the tramp of heavy feet coming down the dusty street reverberated through the quiet and reached through the open carriage windows. Eagerly leaning forward, she peered out through the small window; she prayed Dave was following her instructions and pretending to be asleep on the box.
As it happened, the image Dave projected mattered not at all. The four large armed men who appeared from the left and turned off the street onto the path to Undoto’s front door didn’t spare even a glance toward the carriage. Their arrogant confidence was absolute, demonstrated unequivocally in their swaggering gaits, in the soft laugh they shared as the leader reached out to thump a meaty fist on the door.
The moon was high, casting a silvery light over the scene. Aileen studied the four men. Although all were deeply tanned, the leader appeared English, the others of mixed European heritage. They were at ease, relaxed, transparently at home. This was their territory, and in it, they reigned supreme; they didn’t expect to be challenged.
She had the sudden thought that if they’d known she was watching, they would merely have leered and shrugged it off as of no account.
The door opened, and Undoto stood framed in the doorway. Even though the narrow porch was poorly lit, she could make out his smile of welcome. He shook hands with the leader and stood aside to wave him and his three cohorts into the house, beaming and exchanging comments and claps on the shoulders with the men as they filed past.
Close acquaintances, at the very least. Almost brothers-in-arms.
Undoto stepped back and shut the door.
Aileen sat back.
Now what?
She was tempted to get out of the carriage, sneak across the street, and crouch beneath the single window of Undoto’s front room. But the house was long and narrow; there was no reason to assume Undoto was conversing with his guests in that particular room, and the risk...
Was too great.
Quite aside from the danger of being discovered by those inside the house, she would be readily visible to anyone in the street and in the houses opposite. Even in her dark clothes, she would stand out.
She huffed and forced herself to remain where she was. In the dark, looking out of the small window at Undoto’s uninformative front door.
Impatience and impulsiveness were abiding weaknesses; she had to hold against both.
In search of distraction, she directed her mind back to what she’d actually seen, to replaying the images and studying them for clues.
The four men. What could she deduce about them?
They’d come from farther up the hill. She’d noticed the street looped over and around the squat hill’s flank, dipping away into an area of the settlement into which she’d yet to venture. That was the direction from which the four had appeared.
Was that where they lived?
Certainly, nothing she’d seen suggested that they lived with Undoto or even in this quieter neighborhood; they certainly wouldn’t have fitted in.
She’d got the impression they were brothers-in-arms. Colleagues, at least. Reviewing the interplay between them only strengthened that conclusion.
So what enterprise did Undoto share with these men?
Other than his ministry, she knew very little of Undoto. Sampson hadn’t known much about the priest, either.
That brought her back to the four men. They’d been large, but most of their size had been muscle. Quite a lot of it.
Undoto was tall, well built, and had a commanding presence, but that presence relied more on the force of his personality, not merely his physical size.
In contrast, the armed group’s leader was taller by several inches and was significantly more physically overwhelming. That, too, was not simply due to size but to the menacing way the man moved, the intimidating way he stood.
Adding to the image of danger, each of the four men had carried at least one long-bladed weapon strapped to his side or back, and all four had bristled with smaller knives; she hadn’t had to look hard to see that. They wore their weapons openly...
Mercenaries?
The more she thought of it, the more the description fitted.
What connection might lie between a priest and a group of mercenaries?
Was stumbling on the mercenaries why Will had disappeared? And Dixon before him?
Undoto’s front door opened. The mercenaries trooped out. The leader was the last to leave. He turned on the narrow porch to speak with Undoto.
Aileen watched the exchange like a hawk. She strained her ears; although she couldn’t make out the words, the tone of both men’s voices reached her.
The mercenaries weren’t happy, but it didn’t seem that they were angry with Undoto. For his part, the priest appeared—and sounded—resigned. He didn’t seek to appease the hulking mercenary leader, but his responses were grave, as if he shared their...disappointment?
That was the impression Aileen received. That the mercenaries, and Undoto, too, had hoped for something, but had been denied.
The mercenaries turned away from Undoto with no exchange of smiles, waves, or any farewells. They strode up the short path and turned into the street—heading back the way they’d come.
Aileen gave a little jig on the carriage seat. If her luck held...
The trapdoor in the coach’s ceiling lifted.
“You want me to follow them, miss?” Dave’s disembodied whisper floated down.
“Please,” she whispered back. “But entirely unobtrusively. Hang well back.”
“I’ll do me best, miss.”
The trapdoor fell shut. The carriage moved forward, then halted. Aileen realized Dave had stopped where he could see up the hill, but he hadn’t yet turned the carriage into the street.
He waited, waited, and eventually gave his horse the office and slowly, ponderously, rolled around the corner and on up the street. Like most streets outside the settlement’s center, this one was potholed and rutted, forcing any driver to ease their conveyance over dips and bumps; a very slowly moving carriage wasn’t as suspicious a sight as it would have been in London.
Aileen peered out of the forward window. There were no streetlights, and clouds had now veiled the moon; she could just pick out the four dark shapes as they moved through the shadows.
The street continued to climb. There was a flare burning at the side of the road at the crest. Beyond lay nothing but the blackness of the night sky as the land dipped on the other side of the ridge.
“Miss.” Dave’s voice reached her. “The street narrows just over that crest ahead. It quickly becomes too tight for me carriage. ’Nother of the slum areas starts about there. Must be where those four are headed.”
Aileen considered their situation. “How far can we go before turning back?”
“Well, there’s a side street ahead, a little way below the crest—we can take that, and it’ll carry us back to the streets of Tower Hill. I wouldn’t want to go over the crest—it’ll be hard to turn the carriage if’n I do. I’ll have to get down to manage it, and if you don’t mind, miss, that’s not something I want to do at this hour in this area with the likes of those four hanging about.”
“No, indeed.” Aileen bit her lip. She didn’t want to pull back, to give up this odd chase, but the danger...and it wasn’t just her involved but Dave, too.
Ahead, the four dark shapes walked into the circle of light cast by the flickering flare. The first three trudged on and over the crest, but the leader halted. And looked back.
Directly at the carriage.
He stood bathed in the light from the flare.
Less than thirty yards away, Aileen saw his face—saw the scar slashing across one cheek. Saw the hard, merciless gaze he trained on the carriage.
Even though she knew he couldn’t see her, she felt herself freeze like a rabbit before a rabid dog.
“Miss?”
Dave’s urgent whisper jerked her into action. Into speech. “Take the side street!”
Smoothly, as if that had been his direction all along, Dave angled his horse slowly to the right, away from the watching mercenary and on into the quiet street leading across the hillside.
Shrinking back into the deepest shadows in the carriage, Aileen stared at the mercenary as the coach turned.
Her second look didn’t improve on her first. Instinctive fear closed chill fingers about her throat.
She couldn’t take her eyes from the threat. As the carriage continued, she shifted, keeping the mercenary in view.
But with the carriage turning aside, he appeared to lose interest. He turned and continued over the crest, disappearing into the darkness beyond.
Aileen exhaled. She slumped back against the seat, only then realizing her hand had risen to her throat.
She lowered her hand and dragged in a huge breath. Her heart was still pounding.
Minutes later, the carriage reached better-surfaced streets, and Dave urged his horse to a faster pace.
As her breathing returned to normal, Aileen reminded herself that the mercenary wouldn’t have been able to see her, that he wasn’t following her.
Despite the reassurance, her heart continued to thump faster than it had before.
* * *
Robert returned to the inn, but couldn’t settle; thinking of Lashoria’s death at the hands of the slavers left him restless—wanting, needing, to act.
On diplomatic missions, he rarely had to cope with situations like this—when an unnecessary and violent slaying provoked him.
Sleep wasn’t going to come soon. Remembering his earlier plan, he told Benson where he was headed, then left the inn.
Cloaked in deep night, he walked to Water Street and on to the office of Macauley and Babington. As befitted the holders of the lucrative trading license between the colony of West Africa and England, the company’s office was in a relatively new stone building in the middle of Water Street—in business terms, the beating heart of the settlement. A foray down the alley running alongside the building revealed an exterior staircase leading to an apartment above the rear of the office.
The door on the landing at the top of the stairs was locked, and Babington didn’t respond to Robert’s knock.
After deciding Babington was most likely out socializing, Robert picked the lock and went in.
The door opened into a living room. Robert stepped inside, quietly closed the door, then listened. Half a minute sufficed for his senses to confirm that he was the only person there.
He relaxed and looked around.
Two well-stuffed armchairs with a small round table between faced a sofa set against one wall. A bureau bearing a tantalus graced the wall opposite the sofa, while a desk stood against the wall a little way from the door. The fourth wall, opposite the door, played host to four long windows; the central panes were French doors giving onto a narrow balcony.
Sufficient moonlight washed through the uncurtained windows for Robert to see well enough. A door in the wall against which the sofa sat stood ajar; a glance beyond showed a bed and the usual appurtenances of a bedchamber.
Robert walked to the bureau, checked the decanters in the tantalus, then helped himself to a glass of whisky. Drink in hand, he angled one of the armchairs toward the door, sat, sipped, and settled to wait.
As the whisky slid down his throat, he found himself pondering his lack of hesitation in breaking into Babington’s rooms. Perhaps he had more of his brothers—and his father—in him than he knew.
Or perhaps it was simply his impatience to get on, further fueled by learning of Lashoria’s murder.
An hour later, he heard footsteps steadily climbing the outer stair. A key slid into the lock.
Babington didn’t realize the door was unlocked, but carelessly opened it and sent the door swinging wide.
He immediately saw Robert sitting in the chair, outlined by the light from the windows at his back.
Babington froze.
Robert remained where he was, but realizing that Babington couldn’t see his face, said, “Robert Frobisher.” When Babington blinked and the tension that had tightened his frame eased, Robert held up the half-empty glass. “Not a bad drop, but the Glencrae is better.”
“Frobisher.” After a further second’s hesitation, Babington stepped inside and walked to the small table. He lit the lamp upon it; the light flared, and he glanced at Robert—a sharp glance confirming his identity. Satisfied, Babington turned down the wick, set the glass on the lamp, then returned to the door and closed it. He set his cane in the rack beside the door, then went to the tantalus and poured himself a drink.
Only when he had it in hand did he look at Robert. Babington raised his glass, sipped, then asked, “Why are you here?”
Robert sent him an unamused grin. “As you rightly suspect, it’s connected with Declan’s visit. But as you’ve already realized, my visit is quite deliberately more...private.”
“Covert, in other words.” Babington crossed to the sofa and sat at his ease, stretching out his long legs. The lamplight played equally over them both. Babington studied Robert, then asked, “I presume you want my help with something. So what’s going on?”
Robert had had plenty of time to decide how he wished to proceed. “I understood from Declan that you might have an interest in people who’ve gone missing.”
Babington was too experienced to shift, but he stilled.
Over the rim of his glass, Robert scrutinized Babington’s expression, then quietly asked, “Is that so?”
Babington’s features didn’t give him away, but his color had ebbed. He remained frozen, staring at Robert. After several seconds, in a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “Why do you want to know?”
Robert shifted his gaze to the glass in his hand. “Because if you do have such an interest, then, presumably, it would predispose you to assist me in my quest.” He paused, then glanced at Babington. “However, if you don’t have such an interest...then I fear I would be unwise to share with you the details of why I am here.”
Babington remained sprawled on the sofa, staring through the lamplight and studying Robert’s face.
Then, slowly, Babington sat up. Moving deliberately, he set his glass down on the small table. Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he scrubbed both hands over his face. He stared blindly across the room for several seconds, then he met Robert’s gaze. “All right.”
Robert fought to keep his expression impassive, unresponsive. Babington looked almost tortured, his eyes shadowed.
“There’s—there was a young lady, a young woman in our terms. A Miss Mary Wilson. Her family was down on its luck, and she came out here for a fresh start, helping her uncle in his store. She was more than an assistant. More like her uncle’s heir—a co-owner.” Babington drew in a tight breath, then went on, “She and I...we were courting, but of course, I haven’t told anyone in the family that. They’d have an apoplexy if they knew I wanted to marry a shopkeeper—that’s how they’d see it. See her. They wouldn’t even want to meet her.”
Robert came from much the same background; he understood Babington’s familial situation.
Babington had paused as if ordering his thoughts. He continued, “One day, I called at the shop, and when he saw me, her uncle was furious. He tried to throw me out, but then he realized I hadn’t come to tell him that I’d persuaded Mary to give up her place with him and become my ladybird. That I didn’t have any more idea of where she was than he.
“We were frantic—the pair of us. We searched. I hired men to hunt high and low through the settlement—but she was gone. Vanished.” Babington gestured helplessly. “As if into thin air.”
Babington looked at Robert, and now anger lit his eyes. “So if you want to know if I have an interest in people going missing from the settlement, the answer is yes. Yes! I’d give my right arm to know what has happened to Mary.”
Robert set down his glass and crisply stated, “Then obviously, you’ll do all you can to further any venture that might—just might—result in getting her back.”
Babington snarled, “Anything. I’ll do anything to get her back.” He lifted his glass and tossed back his drink, then looked again at Robert, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think there’s any chance of that? That she’s even alive?”
Robert held his gaze, then sighed. “I won’t lie to you—I can’t be certain. But there is a chance that she’s been spirited away by those who’ve been taking a range of other Europeans, picking them off—men, women, and, it seems, even children—and taking them out of the settlement. The reason behind the kidnappings is a mystery, but as far as we’ve been able to make out, there’s a definite chance those taken are still alive.” Robert paused, then went on, “We’re proceeding on the basis that they are still alive, and that whatever we do in pursuing them must be done in such a way as to not alert the perpetrators.”
Babington was by no means slow. He figured it out in seconds. “So said perpetrators won’t risk covering their tracks by killing those they’ve taken.” He nodded. “And you think someone in the settlement is involved.”
“Some people, yes. More than one person, but exactly who is involved we can’t say.” Robert paused, reading what he could now see in Babington’s face—stripped of the man’s usual debonair mask—and made the decision to trust him. “Pour yourself another drink, and let me tell you what we know.”
Babington cut him a glance, then complied. Once he’d resettled on the sofa, a glass of whisky in his hand, Robert proceeded to lay out the entire scenario as they knew it, starting with Declan’s mission.
When he got to the part about Edwina being drugged by Lady Holbrook and then passed on to men they believed to be part of the slavers’ gang, Babington swore.
“She’s gone, you know. Took ship...it must have been a few days after Declan sailed. Holbrook told Macauley she went to help a sister in need, but I later heard the ship she’d sailed on was headed to America.” Babington’s face hardened. “That seemed odd at the time. Now...”
“Indeed. One thing you can confirm for me—Holbrook’s still here?”
Babington nodded. “On deck as usual. No change that Macauley or I have noticed—and the old man would have said if he’d sensed anything amiss.”
“So it’s likely Holbrook is innocent in all this—but he’s not likely to be much use to us, either. Until we know the identity of all those involved, alerting Holbrook might see him react in a way that will alert the villains, which, again, is the last thing we want. Also, as the focus of the investigation lies outside the settlement, it’s unlikely Holbrook will be able to provide the kind of help required. That makes telling him a large risk without much chance of reward.” Robert cocked a brow at Babington. “At least that was Declan’s assessment.”
Babington grimaced. “I wouldn’t disagree. Holbrook is paranoid about keeping the colony calm, and any hint of white slavers operating within the settlement would cause a panic—and send Macauley’s blood pressure soaring.” Dryly, he added, “Never a good thing. Especially not for the political classes. And Holbrook’s no great poker player. If he knew something disturbing—let alone something as threatening to his well-being as this—he wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
Robert humphed. After a moment, he resumed his recitation of events—Declan’s return to London, his report to Melville and Wolverstone, and Robert’s subsequent recruitment to undertake the next leg of the mission.
Babington arched a brow. “Not your usual sort of escapade.”
“True, but I’m not averse to the occasional challenge.” Robert realized that was, indeed, the truth. “It keeps me on my toes.”
“It’ll do more than that if there are slavers involved. Normally, they don’t operate in the settlement—they give it a wide berth—but I’ve heard tales aplenty. Enough to know the locals both despise and fear them with good cause.” Babington looked at Robert. “So you’re here to pick up the slavers’ trail.”
Robert nodded. “My task is to locate their camp, which I’ve learned will be out in the jungle somewhere, sufficiently far out to avoid the patrols out of Thornton, and also to steer clear of the surrounding villages and their chiefs.”
“That makes sense.” Babington met Robert’s gaze. “Whatever help I can give, you can count on it.”
Robert inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My orders are to learn the camp’s location, then take that back to London. I’ve been expressly forbidden to follow the trail of the captives any further.” He looked Babington in the eye. “In trusting you with the details of this mission, I expect you to abide by the restrictions, too.”
Babington thought, then grimaced. “As you say, locating the enterprise—the mine, if it turns out to be that—without alerting whoever the villains have in their pockets here is absolutely vital. If news that London is conducting an investigation leaks out...” He took a swig of his whisky, then bleakly finished, “All the captives will be dead sooner than you can blink.”
“Just so.” Robert felt his face harden.
“So what do you need me to do?”
Robert reviewed his options. “At present, my men and I are quietly tucked away in an inn in the merchants’ quarter. Far enough from the docks that it’s unlikely we’ll run into anyone who would recognize me—or my men.”
Babington frowned. “Where’s The Trident?”
“At anchor farther down the estuary.” Robert paused, then added, “We have false name boards up, and with the squadron at sea, there’s no one around likely to recognize her lines.”
“Except me.” Babington drained his glass. “And I won’t tell.”
“Exactly.” Robert paused, then asked, “Do you have any inkling of who in the settlement might be involved in this? Anyone acting suspiciously?”
Babington snorted. “I hadn’t a clue Lady Holbrook was involved, and I met with her and Holbrook regularly.” He shook his head. “On the one hand, I can still barely believe it, but on the other, I can. She was always so much more...grasping than he.”
Robert returned to his earlier line of thought. “At the moment, I have all the help I need. My orders more or less forbid me to engage, so having an extra sword isn’t going to make a difference. But thinking ahead, having you on the ground here, keeping your eyes and ears open...at some point, once we have the location of the mine, I imagine a force will be sent in to liberate it. And given the issues in the settlement, that force will almost certainly arrive direct from London. They’ll need help—the sort of help you will be perfectly positioned to give.”
Babington nodded. “Very well. I’ll keep my head down, eyes open, and ears flapping. However...” His eyes narrowed. He tapped one fingernail on the now empty glass in his hands. Slowly, he smiled, although there was no humor in the expression. “One thing I can do that would be entirely in character—all but routine, or at least I could make it appear so—is to run checks on the cargoes being loaded into certain holds. Even when a ship is sailing for some port not in England, we will occasionally run a spot check, just to make sure there are no goods marked to be shipped on.”
Babington met Robert’s gaze. “I agree with Declan that the most likely enterprise at the bottom of this scheme is a diamond mine. And if it’s diamonds, the shipments will be headed to Amsterdam. I can search all ships bound for that area. I’ll disguise it as some sort of crackdown due to something or other—easy enough for me to fabricate a cause.”
“What about Macauley?”
“He tends to leave the day-to-day business to me, while he massages the politicians and the relevant authorities.” Babington’s lips twisted. “It’s an arrangement that works for both of us and, in this case, leaves me free to make it harder for our villains to clear their ill-gotten goods.”
“Interfering with their logistics in such a way...” Robert narrowed his eyes as he contemplated that, then he nodded decisively. “As long as you can make it seem entirely due to some other unconnected reason, putting that sort of pressure on the villains’ plans might well unsettle them, might even force them to act in some way they haven’t planned, which can only be to our advantage.”
Babington nodded. “There’ll be no risk to the captives as long as the villains have no reason to imagine their game has been uncovered. They’ll merely see my efforts as an annoying and unhelpful nuisance.” He grinned coldly. “I’ll certainly be doing my best to make that so.”
After a moment, Babington asked, “So where do you intend to start your search for the slavers’ trail?”
The question brought Robert back to his day. He’d told Babington of Lashoria’s claim of the slavers being connected with Undoto. Now he filled Babington in about what he’d found when he’d visited Lashoria.
Babington listened in stoic silence. Robert ended his tale with the old woman’s information about the slave trader Kale. Babington nodded. “As I said, the locals hate them, but they’re generally too afraid to make any sort of move against them, not even to pass on information.”
Robert exhaled and sat up. “So I’m going to start with Undoto, because he appears to be the only lead I have. Can you add anything to what I already know about him?”
Babington shook his head. “I’ve been to only one of his services—I never saw the point. But Mary liked them—she said it was the drama.” Babington’s voice had grown cold. “If it turns out it was that—her going to his services—that led to her being taken—”
“He’ll pay.”
Babington’s lips curved menacingly. “Indeed, he will.”
Deciding to ignore that, Robert said, “One thing Lashoria’s old servant stressed was how very different this scheme was to the usual sort of slavery practiced hereabouts.”
Babington nodded. “It is. Normally these days, those seized by the slavers are tribesmen from deep in the interior. The slavers walk them out, then load them onto ships well away from any of the settlements. Coming anywhere near Freetown—well, it’s the base for the governor and the squadron, so for slavers, that’s akin to asking to be caught and clapped in irons themselves. But in this case, they’re taking Europeans, and not just men but young women and children, too, and it seems they’re taking them out of the settlement and into the jungle—and, if the assumption of a mine is correct, they’re using them here, not shipping them out for sale far away. It’s a very different kind of trade.”
After a moment, Babington said, “If it’s a mine, why take young women and children? I understand Declan’s suggestion of how young women and children might be used in a diamond-mining operation, and that might well be true, yet when we’re talking about amassing a workforce via slavery, then if there’s a choice between men on the one hand and women and children on the other...” Babington shook his head. “If there’s a sufficient supply of men, and in a settlement like this there surely is, then taking women, much less children, should have been a less attractive—less efficient—option.” Babington met Robert’s gaze. “An option of lower return to the slavers as well as the mine operators, yet it’s one they’ve taken, apparently deliberately.”

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