Читать книгу The Lady's Command - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe following morning, her marital challenge in the forefront of her mind, Edwina swept into the breakfast parlor to find her handsome husband frowning over a letter. She halted. “What is it?”
He glanced up. His gaze rested on her for a second, then he shook his head. He folded the letter and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Just a note calling me to a meeting. Company business.”
The tip of Edwina’s tongue burned with the urge to press him for more; for a second, she flirted with the idea of offering to accompany him just to see how he would react. But… It was too early for that. Frontal assaults rarely worked with men like Declan; they instinctively resisted any pressure, which later made convincing them to change their stance all the harder. She needed to pave her way.
She turned to the sideboard, sent a smiling nod Humphrey’s way, and accepted the plate he handed her. As she sampled the various delicacies in the chafing dishes, then went to the table and slipped into the chair Humphrey held for her, she reflected on her glaring lack of knowledge of her husband’s business. While she might not yet be in a position to demand to know the details of an upcoming meeting, there were other questions it was patently time she started asking.
She reached for the teapot, poured herself a cup, then lifted it and sipped. Looking over the rim, she studied Declan; he appeared absorbed with making inroads into a mound of scrambled eggs. “I know you captain one of your family’s vessels, but I don’t know what you actually do.” When he looked up, she caught his eyes and arched her brows. “For what reasons do you sail? What tasks do you accomplish for Frobisher and Sons?”
Declan regarded her. He was happy enough to answer that query, if only to distract her from those facts he didn’t wish to share. Rapidly, he canvassed his options to most effectively—engagingly and distractingly—satisfy her. “In order to do that, I have to explain something of the structure of the family’s fleet.”
When she opened her eyes wide, indicating her interest and that he should continue, he smiled and complied. “The fleet has two principal arms. The first is comprised of traditional cargo vessels. They’re larger—wider, deeper, and heavier—and therefore slower ships that carry all manner of cargo around the globe, although these days, we concentrate on Atlantic routes. At present, our farthest port on routes to the east is Cape Town.”
He paused to fork up the last bite of his scrambled eggs, seizing the seconds to consider his next words. She took the chance to slather jam on her usual piece of toast, then lifted the slice to her lips and took a neat bite. The crunch focused his gaze on her mouth; he watched the tip of her tongue sweep the lush ripeness of her lower lip, leaving it glistening…
Quietly, he cleared his throat and forced his wayward mind back to the issue at hand. After remarshaling his thoughts, he offered, “It’s the other arm of the family business in which my brothers and I are actively engaged. We each captain our own ship, and it would be accurate to say that we still carry cargo. But our ships are by design faster and also, again by design, newer and better able to withstand adverse conditions.”
With a soft snort, he set down his knife and fork and reached for his coffee mug. “You might have noticed that Royd is somewhat obsessed with our ships’ attributes and performances.” Royd—Murgatroyd, although no one bar their parents ever dared call him that—was his eldest brother and, these days, more or less in charge. “He’s constantly redesigning and updating. That’s why The Cormorant has been out of commission over these past weeks. She’s been in dry dock in the shipyards at Aberdeen while Royd fiddles, implementing his latest ideas, which I’ll eventually get to test.”
Declan paused to sip, then wryly acknowledged, “I have to admit that the rest of us are usually very grateful for his improvements.” Often those improvements had tipped the scales between life and death, between freedom and captivity.
“When you say ‘the rest of us’”—Edwina brushed crumbs from her fingers—“who precisely do you mean?”
“The four of us—Royd, Robert, me, and Caleb—and several of our cousins. Still other cousins captain several of our merchantmen, but there’s a group of family captains, about eight all told, who sail for the other side of the business.”
“Last night, some gentleman mentioned a treaty your family had assisted with. Was that an undertaking you were involved with?”
“No. That was Robert. He tends to specialize in meeting the more diplomatic requests.”
She frowned slightly. “What is the nature of this other side of the business? What sort of requests, diplomatic or otherwise, do you undertake?”
Declan considered for a moment, then offered, “There are different sorts of cargoes.”
She arched her brows. “Such as?”
Fleetingly, he grinned. “People. Documents. Items of special value. And, most valuable of all, information.” He paused, aware that it would not be wise to paint their endeavors in too-intriguing colors. “It’s a relatively straightforward engagement. We undertake to transport items of that nature quickly, safely, and discreetly from port to port.”
“Ah.” After a moment of consideration, she said, “I take it that’s the motivation behind Royd’s obsession.”
He set down his coffee cup. He hadn’t consciously made the connection before, but… “I suppose you could say that the fruits of Royd’s obsession significantly contribute to Frobisher and Sons being arguably the best specialized shipping service in the world.”
She smiled. “Specialized shipping. I see. At least now I know how to describe what you do.”
And that, he thought, was as much as she or anyone else needed to know.
Before he could redirect the conversation, she went on, “You said that you only sail for about half the year. Do you sail at any time, or are your voyages always over the same months each year?”
“Generally, our side of the business operates over the summer and into the autumn months, when the seas are most accommodating.”
“But you don’t expect to set out on The Cormorant before July or thereabouts?”
He nodded. “There was no”—mission—“request falling between now and then that I, specifically, needed to handle. The others took it upon themselves to cover for me.” He grinned and met her eyes. “I believe they thought of it as a wedding gift.”
“For which I am duly grateful.” She set down her empty teacup.
Before she could formulate her next question, he swiveled to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace at the end of the room. As he had hoped, she followed his gaze.
When she saw the time, her eyes widened. “Great heavens! I have to get ready for Lady Minchingham’s at-home.”
He rose and drew out her chair. “I’ve this meeting to attend, then I think I’ll call in at our office, purely to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world of shipping.” The Frobisher and Sons office was located with many other shipping companies’ offices near the Pool of London.
Distracted now, she merely nodded and led the way from the room. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”
She stepped into the hall, then paused. “I had planned for us to attend Lady Forsythe’s rout, but I rather feel we’ve moved beyond the need.” She glanced at him and smiled, one of her subtly appraising—and frankly suggestive—looks. “Perhaps a quiet evening at home, just the two of us, might be a better use of our time.”
He saw nothing in that suggestion with which he wished to argue. Halting on the parlor’s threshold, he smiled into her wide blue eyes. “A quiet evening spent with you would definitely be my preference.”
Her smile blossomed with open delight. She stretched up on her toes, and when he dutifully bent his head, she touched her lips to his.
He locked his hands behind his back to rein in the impulse to catch her to him and prolong the caress; aside from all else, both Humphrey and the footman were within sight.
If the commiserating quality of her smile as she drew back was any guide, she’d nevertheless sensed his response; while the look in her eyes suggested she shared the temptation, her expression also stated that she approved of his control. She lightly patted his chest, then turned away. With an insouciant wave, she headed for the stairs.
He remained where he was and watched her go up. Once she’d passed out of the gallery in the direction of their room, he reached into his pocket and drew out the folded note that had been burning a hole there. His smile faded as he reread the simple lines of the summons. They told him little more than that he was expected at the Ripley Building as soon as he could get there.
Glancing up, he saw Humphrey waiting by the side of the hall. “My hat and coat, Humphrey.”
“At once, sir.”
As Humphrey helped him into his greatcoat, Declan reflected that his summoner wasn’t a man it was wise to keep waiting. Seconds later, his hat on his head, he walked out and down the steps. Lengthening his stride, he headed for Whitehall.
* * *
From Whitehall, Declan turned into the Ripley Building. When he presented himself to the sergeant on duty, he wasn’t surprised to be directed into Admiralty House. He was, however, surprised to be directed not downward to some undistinguished office on the lower level but upstairs to the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Then again, the war was long over, and as far as Declan knew, the gentleman who had summoned him was no longer actively engaged in managing their country’s defenses; presumably, he no longer maintained an official office to which to summon his minions.
A harried-looking secretary asked Declan’s name; on being supplied with it, the man immediately escorted him to an ornate door. The secretary tapped, then opened the door, looked in, and murmured something; he listened, then speaking more loudly, he announced Declan, stepped back, and waved him through.
Very much wondering into what he was strolling, Declan walked into the room.
As the door closed silently behind him, he scanned the chamber. Two men waited for him.
The Duke of Wolverstone—Declan’s summoner—had been standing by the window looking out over the parade grounds. He’d acceded to the title of duke shortly after the war, but Declan still thought of him as Dalziel, the name he’d used throughout the years he’d managed the Crown’s covert operatives on foreign soil—and on the high seas. As Declan walked forward, Wolverstone turned and came to greet him.
If becoming the duke, marrying, and having several children had in any way blunted Dalziel’s—Wolverstone’s—lethal edge, Declan couldn’t see it. The man still moved with the same predatory grace, and the power of his personality had abated not one jot.
Declan glanced at the only other occupant of the large room—Viscount Melville, current First Lord. Declan recognized him, but they hadn’t previously met. A heavy-boned, slightly rotund gentleman with a round face, a florid complexion, and the dyspeptic mien of a man who liked order but who was forced to deal with the generally disordered, Melville remained seated behind his desk, fussily gathering the papers on which he’d been working and piling them to one side of his blotter.
Literally clearing his desk.
The sight, indicating as it did Melville’s interest in meeting with him, did not fill Declan with joy. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon. His brothers and cousins had worked to clear his schedule.
Unfortunately, it appeared that the Crown had other ideas.
“Frobisher.” Wolverstone held out his hand. When Declan grasped it, Wolverstone said, “I—we—apologize for dragging you away from your new wife’s side. However, the need is urgent. So urgent that we cannot wait for any other of your family to reach London and take this mission.” Wolverstone released Declan’s hand and waved him to one of the pair of chairs angled before Melville’s desk. “Sit, and his lordship and I will explain.”
Although Declan had been too young to captain a ship during the late wars, through the closing years of the conflict he’d sailed as lieutenant to his father or one of his uncles, and had experienced firsthand, as had his brothers and cousins—those currently engaged in the other side of the business—the workings of the largely unwritten contract that existed between the Crown and the Frobishers. Alongside straightforward shipping, their ancestors had been privateers; in reality, those sailing for the other arm of the company still operated as privateers—the company’s Letters of Marque were active and had never been rescinded. In return for the company continuing, on request, to provide certain specialized and usually secret services to the Crown, Frobisher and Sons enjoyed the cachet of being the preferred company for the lucrative shipping contracts the government controlled.
The symbiotic link between the Frobishers and the Crown had existed for centuries. Whatever the request Wolverstone had summoned Declan to Melville’s office to hear, there was not the slightest question that Frobisher and Sons would, in one way or another, oblige.
Exactly how they responded, however, was up to them—and, it seemed, in this instance, the decision was in Declan’s hands.
He subsided into one chair. Wolverstone sat in the other.
“Thank you for answering our call, Mr. Frobisher.” Melville exchanged nods with Declan, then looked at Wolverstone. “I haven’t previously had reason to invoke the Crown’s privilege and call on your family for assistance. However, Wolverstone here assures me that, in this matter, asking Frobisher and Sons for help is our best way forward.” Melville’s brown eyes returned to Declan’s face. “As His Grace is more experienced than I in relating the facts of such matters, I will ask him to explain.”
Declan looked at Wolverstone and faintly arched a brow.
Wolverstone met his eyes. “I was at home in Northumberland when word of this problem reached me.” Declan was aware that Wolverstone’s principal seat lay just south of the Scottish border. Wolverstone continued, “I immediately sent word to Aberdeen. Royd replied, reluctantly naming you as the only Frobisher available. He wrote that he was dispatching your ship, The Cormorant, with a full complement of crew south at the same time as he sent his reply. Your ship should be waiting for you at the company berth in Southampton by the time you’re ready to leave.” Wolverstone paused, then said, “Again, let me offer our—and your family’s—regrets over disrupting your honeymoon. Royd, I believe, would have answered our call himself, but your father and mother have left on a trip to Dublin and are not available to take the company’s helm.”
Declan recalled his mother mentioning the trip.
“Robert, meanwhile, has recently set sail for New York and is not expected back for some weeks—and, as mentioned, our matter is urgent. Likewise, none of the others are immediately available”—Wolverstone’s lips twisted wryly—“while courtesy of your honeymoon, you are already here, on our doorstep in London.”
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Declan inclined his head.
“Royd also wrote that, as the mission involves our West African settlements, you are unquestionably the best man for the job.”
Declan widened his eyes. “West Africa?”
Wolverstone nodded. “I gather you’re familiar with the ports along that coast and have also gone inland in several locations.”
Declan held Wolverstone’s gaze. Royd might have mentioned Declan’s knowledge of the region, but his eldest brother wouldn’t have revealed any details, and Declan saw no reason to regale Wolverstone, of all men, with such facts. “Indeed.” In order to avoid further probing, he added, “Royd’s right. Assuming you want something or someone found in that area, I’m your best hope.”
Wolverstone’s lips curved slightly—he was far too perceptive for Declan’s peace of mind—but he obliged and moved on. “In this case, it’s information we need you to find.”
Leaning over his desk, Melville earnestly interjected, “Find—and bring back to us.”
Wolverstone flicked the First Lord a faintly chiding glance, then returned his dark gaze to Declan’s face. He imperturbably continued, “The situation is this. As you no doubt know, while Freetown is presently the base for the navy’s West Africa Squadron, we also have a sizeable detachment of army personnel stationed at Fort Thornton, in support of the governor-in-chief of the region, who is quartered there.”
“The governor’s currently Holbrook.” Melville caught Declan’s eye. “Do you know him?”
“Not well. I’ve met him once, but not recently.”
“As it happens, that’s advantageous.” Wolverstone went on, “An army engineer from the corps at Fort Thornton disappeared four months ago. As far as we’ve been able to learn, Captain Dixon simply vanished—he was there one day and not the next. Apparently, none of his colleagues have any idea of where he might have gone or that he’d been planning any excursion. Although relatively young, Dixon was an experienced engineer and well regarded. He was also from a family with connections in the navy. At those connections’ request, Melville authorized a lieutenant from the West Africa Squadron to investigate.”
Wolverstone paused; his gaze held Declan’s. “The lieutenant disappeared—simply vanished—too.”
“Bally nonsense,” Melville growled. “I know Hopkins—he wouldn’t have gone absent without leave.”
“Indeed.” Wolverstone inclined his head. “From what I know of the Hopkins family, I would agree. Subsequently, Melville sent in another lieutenant, Fanshawe, a man with more experience of investigations and the local region. He, too, vanished without trace.”
“At that point,” Melville stated rather glumly, “I asked for Wolverstone’s advice.”
Without reaction, Wolverstone continued, “I suggested a gentleman by the name of Hillsythe be sent to Freetown as an attaché to the governor’s office. Hillsythe is in his late twenties and had worked for me previously in covert operations. His experience is sound. He knew what he had to do, and, once there, he would have known how to go about it.” Wolverstone paused, then, his voice quieter, said, “Hillsythe has disappeared, too. As far as we can judge, about a week after he’d arrived in the settlement.”
Declan absorbed what it said of the situation that one of Wolverstone’s own had vanished. Imagining what might be going on, he frowned. “What does the governor—Holbrook—have to say about this? And the commander at Thornton, as well. Who is that, incidentally?”
“A Major Eldridge is the commanding officer at Thornton. With respect to Dixon, he’s as baffled as we are. As for Holbrook…” Wolverstone exchanged a glance with Melville. “Holbrook appears to believe the, for want of a better term, local scuttlebutt—that people who vanish in that manner have, and I quote, ‘gone into the jungle to seek their fortune.’” Wolverstone’s gaze locked on Declan’s face. “As you are someone who, if I’m reading between Royd’s lines correctly, has walked into those same jungles in search of fortunes, I’m curious as to what your opinion of Holbrook’s assessment might be.”
Declan returned Wolverstone’s steady regard while he considered how best to reply. Given he would be contradicting the stated opinion of a governor, he chose his words with care. “As you say, I’ve been into those jungles. No man in his right mind would simply walk into them. The roads are mere tracks at best and are often overgrown. Villages are primitive and few and far between. The terrain is difficult, and the jungles are dense and, in many places, impenetrable. While water is, in general, plentiful, it may not be potable. It’s entirely possible, if not likely, that you will meet hostile natives.” He paused, then concluded, “In short, any European venturing beyond the fringes of a settlement would need to gather a small company, with significant supplies as well as the right sort of equipment, and assembling all that isn’t something that can be done without people noticing.”
Melville humphed. “You’ve just confirmed what Wolverstone’s been telling me. That we—meaning the Crown—can’t trust Holbrook, which means we can’t trust anyone presently on the ground in Freetown.” Melville paused, then grimaced and looked at Wolverstone. “We probably shouldn’t trust anyone in the fleet, either.”
Wolverstone inclined his head. “I believe it would be wise not to do so.”
“Which,” Melville said, returning his gaze to Declan, “is why we have such urgent need of you, sir. We need someone we can trust to go out to Freetown and learn what the devil’s going on.”
Wolverstone stirred, reclaiming Declan’s attention. “We should clarify that, in part, our urgency is fueled by wider considerations.” Wolverstone caught Declan’s gaze. “I’m sure you’ll recall the case of the Black Cobra, which ended with a public hanging just a year ago.” When Declan nodded—who hadn’t heard of that episode?—Wolverstone continued, “The Black Cobra cult, controlled by a trio of English subjects, caused significant harm to our colonial peoples. That the cult was able to spread so widely, and act for as long as it did, was an indictment on the British government’s ability to manage its colonies.” Wolverstone’s lips thinned. “The government—the Crown—does not need another similar incident raising further questions about our ability to rule our empire.”
Declan didn’t need further explanation. He now fully understood that the pressure on Melville to find out exactly what was going on in Freetown, to resolve the matter and re-establish appropriate order, was coming from a great deal higher up the political pole. “Very well.” He glanced at Wolverstone. “Do you know when The Cormorant is due to reach Southampton?”
“Royd said it sailed…it would be the day before yesterday.”
Declan nodded. “They most likely left late, so the earliest into Southampton would be tomorrow morning, but allowing for the winds and the tides, it’ll probably be later. The crew will need a day to fully provision the ship from our stores there. I’ll use the next two days to see what information about doings in Freetown I can glean from the London docks, then I’ll leave for Southampton the following day and sail on the evening tide.”
“How long do you think it’ll take you to reach Freetown?” Melville asked.
“With favorable winds, The Cormorant can make it in fourteen days.”
“There’s one thing both Melville and I wish to stress. Indeed,” Wolverstone said, “you can consider it a part of your orders—an instruction not to be ignored.”
Declan arched his brows.
“The instant you learn anything—any fact at all—we want you to return and bring that fact back to us.” Wolverstone’s voice had assumed the rigid tones of absolute command. “We cannot afford to lose more men while continuing to have no idea what is taking place down there. We need you to go in, winkle out a first lead—but we don’t, specifically do not, want you to follow it.”
“We need you to come back and tell us,” Melville reiterated.
Declan didn’t have to think too hard to understand that the political pressure for some answers, any answers, would be mounting by the day.
Wolverstone’s tone was dry as he remarked, “I realize that, as a gentleman-adventurer, you would prefer not to operate under such a restriction. That is, however, what is needed in this case. The instant you learn anything—and especially if, subsequently, you sense any opposing reaction—you are to leave immediately and bring that information home.” He paused, then, in a quieter tone, added, “We’ve lost too many capable men already, and for nothing. That cannot go on.”
Although he hadn’t personally received orders directly from Wolverstone before, Declan knew enough of the man’s history to know that last stipulation was a very un-Dalziel-like stance. The man had been renowned for giving his operatives objectives as orders, allowing said operatives to execute their missions largely as they saw fit. Dalziel had always shown an appreciation for flexibility in the field. And an expectation of complete success.
Which, more often than not, had been met.
That he was being so very cautious—indeed, insisting on such rigid caution—Declan suspected was more a reflection of the seriousness of the situation rather than any indication that the leopard had changed his spots.
He didn’t like the caveat, the restriction, but… “Very well.” If all he was required to do was learn one fact, that would probably take him no more than a day. In effect, his unusual orders would reduce his time away from Edwina; he decided it behooved him to be grateful rather than disgruntled. He glanced at Melville, then looked at Wolverstone. “If there’s nothing else…?”
“I’ve penned a letter giving you the authority to call on the West Africa Squadron for any assistance you might need,” Melville said. “It’s with my secretary—you can pick it up as you leave.”
As Declan rose, Wolverstone, too, came to his feet. “Short of a compelling need, however, I would suggest you keep that letter to yourself. Use it only as a last resort.” He met Declan’s eyes. “Were I you, I would trust no one. Not with the details of your mission. Not with anything they do not need to know.”
The cool incisiveness in Wolverstone’s words told Declan very clearly that neither Wolverstone nor Melville trusted Governor Holbrook or Major Eldridge, or Vice-Admiral Decker, presently in command of the West Africa Squadron. And if they didn’t trust them, they didn’t trust anyone.
There was something rotten in Freetown, and it had spread and sunk its roots deep.
Declan exchanged a nod with Melville.
Wolverstone extended his hand, and Declan gripped it and shook.
“We’ll expect to see you in a month or so.” Wolverstone paused, then, releasing Declan’s hand, murmured, “And if you’re not back inside six weeks, I’ll send Royd after you.”
Declan grinned at the threat, which was no real threat at all; he and his big brother might butt heads all too frequently, but he couldn’t think of any man he would rather have at his back. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
With a salute, Declan made for the door, already thinking of the preparations to be made—and the news he now had to break to his wife.
