Читать книгу A Buccaneer At Heart - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 10

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.”