by Kate Bateman
He placed his hands on his hips in a vaguely combative stance. “What of it? Fate, or luck, or whatever else you want to call it—maybe some higher power with an exceptionally warped sense of humor—seems to have thrust you, someone with an exceptional knowledge of seafaring matters, into an investigation that requires precisely those same skills. Who am I to ignore that kind of assistance, hmm?”
She had no answer to that.
“Don’t think you’ll be getting half the reward money if we catch Johnstone, though,” he cautioned. “This is still my case. You’re just assisting.”
“I wasn’t even thinking of it,” Georgie protested truthfully.
“Well, good. You have quite enough money of your own.”
She choked back a surprised laugh. Nobody had ever dismissed her fortune with such casual levity before.
He tilted his head and surveyed her from head to toe. “I never thought you’d end up being useful, Mrs. Wylde. Decorative, yes. Irritating? Undoubtedly. But useful? Never.”
Georgie opened her mouth to berate him, but he laid his index finger over her lips, and she sucked in a little gasp of surprise. Her stomach swooped as if she’d just driven over a jolt in the road or cleared a fence on her horse. The contact of his warm skin made her lips tingle.
“Perhaps if we’re successful, I’ll quit Bow Street and we can set up a rival agency: Wylde and Wylde, independent investigators. No job too small. No reward too big.”
He was joking, of course. The idea of them having such a close association once the season was over was impossible. But his crooked smile did funny things to her insides. He lifted his finger and tapped her playfully on the nose, and Georgie laughed to cover her confusion. She’d hoped he was about to kiss her.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get away from your mother tomorrow?”
“Yes. I visit our own warehouse every month, so she won’t be surprised if I go to the docks. I’ll have to bring Pieter with me, of course, but we’ll pick you up on the way.”
Wylde ushered her to the door, and Georgie suppressed a sigh. Here she was, an unchaperoned young lady in the private rooms of a rogue—a rogue, moreover, to whom she was legally married and had kissed quite comprehensively several times—but who apparently had no inclination to further their acquaintance.
Had he only been teasing when he made his offer to introduce her to passion? Or had he changed his mind, having kissed her and found her wanting? Perhaps he looked at every woman with that same hungry look he sometimes sent her. The thought was rather demoralizing.
Still, she was looking forward to tomorrow.
Chapter 23.
Georgie donned her most practical dress for their visit to the wharves. Pieter, seated up front of the nondescript carriage she’d purchased precisely for her monthly visits to Blackwall, made his opinion of her fraternizing with a “disreputable cove” like Wylde evident with an eloquent, disapproving sniff.
Wylde was ready when they pulled up in front of the Tricorn Club. He bounded down the front steps, leapt up into the carriage before Pieter could get down from the box, and settled himself on the opposite, rather threadbare seat across from Georgie.
“Morning, Georgie girl.”
She curbed the urge to call him “Benny boy” in retaliation and adopted a businesslike tone. “Good morning, Mr. Wylde.”
He gave her modest attire a lingering look that somehow made her feel as if she were wearing something far more alluring than a plain blue worsted dress. Or wearing nothing at all.
Her skin tingled. She’d never met anyone who had such an effect on her. It was animal attraction, obviously, the kind described in dramatic prose in Juliet’s gothic romances. The kind that made otherwise sensible people do foolish things in Simeon’s epic poems.
Wylde himself was clothed equally plainly, in buff breeches, boots, and a navy jacket—none of which lessened his unholy appeal. He should have looked like a tradesman or a schoolteacher, someone dull and anonymous, but if anything, he appeared to greater advantage without the distraction of exquisite tailoring. His natural confidence shone through, as it had in Newgate.
He had the athletic body of a manual worker, lean, yet muscled. He certainly didn’t need the padding, sawdust, or male corsets used by many gentlemen to improve his figure. Instead of a cravat, he’d knotted a neckerchief casually around his strong throat, and Georgie tried not to notice the way the thin linen of his shirt clung to his chest.
She fidgeted in her seat as they rattled along the Strand and past Somerset House, the venue for the Royal Academy of Arts annual exhibition, then indicated the cardboard tube he’d placed on the seat. “The plans, I take it?”
“Yes. This Harrison of yours will need to take a look.”
They bowled down Fleet Street, then past Doctors’ Commons and along Thames Street, with the river on their right. As soon as they passed London Bridge, Georgie leaned forward to see one of her favorite sights on the whole trip: the vast open-air fish market of Billingsgate.
Even with the window closed, the overpowering odor of the place—a vile combination of roach and plaice, flounders and eels—permeated the carriage, and she wrinkled her nose.
The lively scene always fascinated her. She caught a glimpse of an auctioneer standing on a barrel next to the stalls that had been set out around the dock, reducing the sum he requested until one of the rowdy fishwives thrust up a hand to bid for a parcel of fish. A grey-haired old crone sat on a basket smoking a clay pipe, while another took a swig from a dark green bottle. A couple of cats wound hopefully around their legs.
The reassuringly solid walls of the Tower of London appeared next. The route was familiar to Georgie; she and Pieter took it at least once every month, but the sheer variety of sights it offered never failed to entertain.
The houses became more crushed together as they headed east. Many had upper stories that were wider than the ones below. They leaned so close, they almost touched, blocking out the light to the narrow alleys they created below. Churches squeezed in cheek by jowl with shops and taverns, and the streets teemed with sailors and merchants’ wives, coaches and horses, clergymen and whores. Georgie smiled as they passed a ragtag child driving a cart pulled by a rangy dog. The pair narrowly missed a liveried footman on an errand and a laundress with a basket of clothes balanced precariously on her head.
As they skirted the rough edges of Limehouse and Cheapside, she breathed a thankful prayer that she’d been born to a life of comfort instead of misery in such a squalid place.
Considering how aware she was of Wylde’s presence, she’d thought the journey would be awkward, but they’d settled into a companionable silence. Mama and Juliet always seemed to feel the need to fill every minute of a journey with chatter, but he seemed content to gaze out of the window and savor the view. Every so often, he would point something out to her—like a woman in a ridiculously oversized bonnet battling against the wind—and they would share a smile. The tension that always seemed to fizz between them was still present, but it was layered with an odd sense of easy contentment. She felt as if they were becoming friends, and yet she knew so very little about him.
“Tell me about your family,” she said suddenly.
His muscles tensed, and she cursed herself for ruining the convivial atmosphere, but then he shrugged.
“There’s not much to tell. My parents had a classic marriage of convenience. I have an older brother, John, eighteen months my senior. Not long after I was born, my mother declared that she hated the country. She promptly decamped to the London town house, where she lived quite separate from my father until she died a few years ago. John and I grew up on the estate, and since Father paid us very little attention until we were old enough to play a decent hand of cards, we were left to a succession of nannies, nursemaids, and tutors.”
He glanced up and must have seen the pitying look on her face because he sent her a reassuring grin. “It was an idyllic childhood, truly. Those nannies and tutors wer
e easy to escape. John and I spent much of our time romping in the fields and woods on the estate, riding, fishing, and swimming.”
Georgie frowned down at her hands. “That’s so different to my own experience. It sounds as though your parents had nothing in common, as if they barely tolerated one another, whereas my parents’ marriage was a love match. Mother was devastated when Father died so suddenly.”
Georgie quelled a sad little smile. It seemed both their parents’ marriages were cautionary tales; her own parents’ against the risk of loving and potentially losing, his about marrying with no love on either side.
Benedict nodded. “My parents didn’t dislike one another, per se, it’s just that they had different interests, different lives. They stayed on friendly terms—at least until the extent of father’s gambling losses became apparent.” A shadow crossed his face. “I was away in Portugal when everything came to a head, but Mother died just before he lost the London house in a game of whist. Things got worse after that. Father refused to stop gambling. When he died, only a year later, there was nothing left except that which was entailed.”
“Is that why you need money?” Georgie asked quietly. “To help your brother repay your father’s debts?”
He nodded. “John shouldn’t have to shoulder it alone. We both grew up at Morcott Hall. Its servants and tenants practically raised us, they’re as much family as my own flesh and blood. We need to support them, to keep the village school open so their children have a chance to better themselves. Just think of all the wasted talent if you’d never been taught to add a column of figures. You’d never have discovered your own abilities, never had the chance to get so far in life.”
His eyes gleamed as he spoke, his face was animated; he was clearly passionate about the subject.
“One of those children might end up being the next Shakespeare or Sir Christopher Wren.” He glanced out of the carriage window and waved his hand at the narrow, crowded streets. “I’ve seen the results of a lack of education, a lack of options, both here in London, and during the war in France and Spain. It’s awful. Children forced to beg and steal, to work in foul conditions for a pittance. Young girls selling themselves for a scrap of bread. We owe it to our tenants to give them that chance. A new landlord might not be so caring.”
Georgie nodded, delighted that his thoughts on the subject so closely correlated with her own beliefs. Wylde was the polar opposite of her cousin; Josiah firmly believed that the lower classes should stay where they had been put and be grateful.
Feeling the need to lighten the atmosphere, she sent him a sparkling glance. “You’re so lucky to have had such adventures. And a brother. I confess I’m a little jealous. Juliet was never daring enough for me. I could never convince her to climb trees or come sailing on the lake. It’s always better with friends. To have someone with whom to say, ‘Remember that time we—’ instead of, ‘This one time, I—’ don’t you think?”
Wylde sent her a smile that, while clearly meant to be more friendly than flirtatious, nevertheless warmed her insides with a happy glow.
“You’ll get your adventures someday, Mrs. Wylde,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”
Georgie rather hoped those adventures would include him.
Soon they were rattling past Wapping and the West India Docks until they finally reached Blackwall, where Georgie’s ships unloaded directly into Caversteed Shipping’s warehouses.
It was low tide. The earthy, fecund scent of the Thames was stronger here, and she caught a glimpse of several mudlarks—filthy young children—scouring the water’s edge for pickings amongst the mud and rubble of the shoreline, looking for anything they could sell.
The streets surrounding the docks were, unsurprisingly, filled with a vast assortment of businesses that not only catered to the demands of the shipbuilding industry, but also sold the wares that were unloaded every day. It was all so vibrant and bustling, so different from the sedate, genteel pace of Mayfair. Georgie felt infused with energy every time she came here.
Tea and coffeehouses, taverns, silk merchants, and spice vendors vied for space with cordwainers, sailmakers, and clockmakers. As they rattled down Poplar Street, past the inventively named Eel Pie Lane and the Mayflower pub, Georgie knocked on the carriage roof with her knuckles to signal Pieter to stop.
A swinging sign above the door of the bow-fronted shop outside read, T. HARRISON, PRECISION MARINE INSTRUMENTS.
“Here we are.”
Pieter handed her down from the carriage, and Georgie entered the shop with Wylde close behind. She loved coming here. Mr. Harrison was, in her humble opinion, a technical genius, and the shop interior reflected the chaotic yet brilliant state of the man’s mind. Every way one turned, there was a new wonder to behold. The counters and shelves were crammed to bursting with scientific instruments, some complete and for sale, others in various stages of construction or deconstruction. A three-draw brass-and-leather telescope teetered next to a brass sextant and a hygrometer for measuring atmospheric pressure, while a mechanical figure of a monkey and an organ-grinder lay in pieces on one side.
Wylde sucked in a breath as he ducked his head to avoid various barometers and other instruments that swung from the low ceiling. A smile stretched Georgie’s lips. He looked like Gulliver from Mr. Defoe’s tale, a giant in a land of midgets.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” She bustled over to the shop counter, which was almost invisible beneath a pile of springs, cogs, wood shavings, and assorted tools, and rang a small bell. “Mr. Harrison?” She peered toward the back room. “He has a small foundry out the back,” she explained to Wylde. “Sometimes he can’t hear very well over the noise of the bellows.”
Wylde was examining a complicated mechanism near his elbow. “What is this? A clock?”
“A marine chronometer. See how it is gimbled so it always stays level, even in the worst seas? Knowing the precise time of day is of vital importance when it comes to navigation. Mr. Harrison makes the best chronometers in the country. I have just fitted my entire fleet with them.”
He raised his brows. “That sounds expensive.”
Georgie shrugged. “It was. But a correctly functioning instrument can mean the difference between life or death at sea. Didn’t you read about the Arniston last year?”
“I don’t believe I did.”
“She was an East Indiaman that wrecked off the coast of South Africa with the loss of over three hundred and fifty lives. It was in all the newspapers. The captain couldn’t afford the sixty guineas for a chronometer, and the ship’s owners were unwilling to purchase one. They even threatened to replace him with another captain if he refused to set sail without one.”
Georgie frowned in renewed anger at the memory. “The crew had to navigate heavy seas using older, less reliable means, since the inclement weather prevented them from using celestial navigation to get a fix on their position. They headed north, thinking they’d already passed Cape Point, but they’d miscalculated, and instead, they were wrecked on the coast, with the loss of all but six lives.”
She pursed her lips, both saddened and incensed by such senseless waste. “Even if the owners had provided the worst chronometer ever made, they would not have lost their ship, nor sacrificed men, women, and children for the sake of some short-sighted economy.”
She shifted uncomfortably under Wylde’s penetrating gaze, suddenly self-conscious. She often became a little too passionate in her arguments. Mother was always telling her to stop prattling on like the fishwives at Billingsgate. But this was a subject close to her heart.
“Your own father died at sea, did he not?”
“He did, although not for the lack of a scientific instrument. Still, the employees of Caversteed Shipping are as well-equipped as I can make them. If I can prevent just one family from experiencing a similar loss, then it’s money well spent.”
“You are an extraordinary woman, Mrs. Wylde,” he said softly.
Georgie felt herself flush with pleasure
at the sincerity in his words. Only Pieter, a sailor himself, appreciated the things she did for her workers. Perhaps, having been a soldier, Wylde could appreciate that reliable equipment saved lives.
She turned away, flustered. “Yes, well, you might want to suggest to your friend Admiral Cockburn that the Royal Navy supply all its vessels with chronometers too. They do not currently do so as a matter of course.”
She was saved from further awkwardness by the appearance of Mr. Harrison. The old man bustled in from the darkened back room, wearing his usual uniform of a battered leather apron tied over a shirt and a wilting jacket. A halo of frizzy white hair surrounded his speckled head, and a delighted grin split his face beneath his wire-rimmed spectacles.
“Miss Caversteed! It’s a pleasure to see you again. How are you? How are those chronometers working out?”
Georgie returned his smile. “Good day, sir. I am very well. And the instruments are wonderfully accurate, as expected. I received a report from the captain of the Juliana a week ago saying he had arrived in Constantinople a full two days sooner than expected.”
“Capital! So, what brings you here today?” He glanced curiously at Wylde.
“May I introduce an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Benedict Wylde?”
Harrison nodded. “Good morning, sir. A sailor, are you?”
“I’m afraid not. Ex-Rifles, actually. Currently working for Bow Street.” He withdrew the plans from the tube and handed them to the older man. “I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on these.”
Harrison swept a forearm across the counter to clear a space and unrolled the papers. His bushy white brows rose as he studied them. “Well, well, what do we have here?”
“They’re plans for a submersible craft,” Georgie offered. Wylde’s shoulder touched hers as he angled himself next to her on the counter, and she shivered in awareness. “Mr. Harrison, do you recognize this ship? Or any part of it?”
The old man bent closer. “Extraordinary,” he murmured.