Читать книгу A Buccaneer At Heart - Stephanie Laurens, Stephanie Laurens - Страница 11

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.”