Dorcas braced herself and breathed deeply. From experience, she knew that was the best way to accustom herself to the smell. It would fade in her nostrils soon enough. The men who worked there probably didn’t smell it at all, even though they were contributing to it.
This close to the river, alehouses, inns and bake houses vied with chandlers’ shops. They passed a shop offering the best optical supplies, gleaming telescopes and complex navigation instruments displayed proudly in the window. Damaris would have swooned at the number of fine telescopes and sextants crammed in the small window of the shop. Dorcas passed them by. The three balls suspended above another grimy shop offering mixed goods proclaimed it as a pawnshop.
Dorcas noted all the sights, but while normally they would have fascinated her, she had only one topic on her mind, obsessing her. Those plants. They were somewhere here, lingering for a week, with no word being sent and no delivery arriving in Mayfair. Their fate desperately worried her.
The ship she wanted was the Voyager. She’d passed the address up to Coachman Gorman, from the notification she’d received. It should be there. Ships could stay at anchor here for weeks while the disposition of its cargo was sorted out, and that, above all, worried her more than anything else. Who would feed her precious rose bushes, water them, keep them out of the vicious salt of the sea that could kill them?
She’d ordered them kept below decks in their own space, planted in wooden tubs and sent strict instructions for their care. Since the cost was out of her reach, Gerald had helped her. The amount they’d paid was breathtaking, but the plants were beyond price as far as Dorcas was concerned. The potential rewards were enormous.
The carriage slowed as they rattled over the worn cobbles near the shore, and then it stopped.
Gorman came to the window as she pulled it completely down. “This is as far as the coach can go, my lady. Do you want me to go and inquire at the ship?”
“I’ll come with you. Where is it?”
“Close to the wharf, my lady.”
“Madam,” she reminded him. “Or Miss. Don’t advertise my rank here.”
Gorman nodded. “Ma’am,” he said. “Let me go to the wharf and find a ferryboat.”
“I’ll come with you.” Before the footman could stop her, she’d opened the door and jumped down.
Without the steps, the distance was greater than she’d assumed, and without him to steady her, she’d have fallen on the slippery cobbles. The heels of her sturdy leather shoes gave way as she landed. She looked down and decided she didn’t care to investigate what exactly she’d slid on. The smell gave her a clue.
“Come on,” she said briskly, and led the way down to the wharf. Ships were anchored five and more deep but, fortunately, after a brief inquiry, they found the Voyager moored nearest to the wharf.
The vessel was an East Indiaman, stately and built for long-distance journeys.
Men swarmed about the three-masted ship, carrying bundles down the narrow planks that led from the upper decks to the shore. Above their heads, pulleys lowered bulkier cargo into the ferryboats waiting below, the nets holding a fortune in goods.
The Voyager had been to China, its regular cargo of tea supplemented by Dorcas’ plants. Carts, pulled by horses and smaller ones pulled by men, waited on shore to receive the shipments. Other men stood on guard, cradling weapons in their arms.
This was indeed no place for a lady. Despite that, Dorcas thrilled to the bustle, the industry. A cart rolled in front of them, barely missing Gorman, who stepped forward to protect Dorcas from its path. The back was so loaded that it threatened to teeter over, rocking when the man pulling it abruptly changed his path, but by some miracle it continued on its way.
The cacophony of voices, creaking timbers, rolling wheels punctuated by the whinny of the horses nearly deafened Dorcas.
When she walked forward, the footmen had to accompany her. Leaving her to cope with the sailors herself would have raised Gerald’s wrath to incandescent, and they all knew it. As it was, Dorcas would be paying for this expedition dearly. She couldn’t expect Annie not to tell Gerald.
At least Gerald wouldn’t make her destroy her plants, as another, petty guardian might. Besides, she was nearly twenty-seven, dammit, and not beholden to anyone. Except financially, and that was the rub. She hated upsetting her brother. They had enough to contend with outside the family without her bringing trouble inside it.
But she had no choice.
Lifting her skirts clear of the obstacles that littered the cobbles, Dorcas walked to the ship.
Her footmen flanked her, moving slightly ahead of her so they could clear the way. Which they did, efficiently, without having to do more than touch someone on the shoulder, or steer her around a cart. Until they reached the edge of the wharf, where a huge man stood in their way.
“We’re not embarking for another week. You’ll have to find somewhere to stay until then,” he told her.
The man’s eyes widened slightly when he caught sight of Gorman.
Dorcas fumbled in her pocket. “I’m here to collect an order. I have the letter here.” Dorcas didn’t intend to leave until she had her small portion in her hands.
The man took the paper and glanced at it, then handed it back. “You need the quartermaster for this.” He turned his head. “Oy!” The volume made Dorcas step back. The echo rang in her ears. “I need Mr. Baker here! Somebody wants some cargo!”
An answering bellow came from above, where the wooden, carbuncle-crusted walls of wood towered above them. After five minutes, nothing happened. Another five, and she was ready to march onto the nearest ferry. Her mouth was dry, the fear that she would never see her precious plants tightening her throat. Waiting was the devil, worse than when something actually happened.
Gorman and Trace waited, legs apart, arms loosely by their sides. Although Dorcas had never attended a prize fight, she recognized the stance by the prints and engravings she’d seen of famous fighters. They weren’t looking for trouble, but if it arrived, they were ready for it.
The air between them grew tense, tightened until Dorcas could hardly breathe.
Then a man waved at her from above. “Come aboard!”
A ferryman signaled his readiness to take them and, gingerly, Dorcas and her two attendants climbed aboard the rocking vessel. It was larger than the ferries that took customers across the Thames further down, past the bridge, but it was similar. She sat on the plank at the end.
The ferryman plied his oars and took the journey in double-quick time while Dorcas tried not to clutch the side of the boat during the short trip. When they arrived, Dorcas gave him a coin, and gripped the rope ladder leading up to the main deck.
Using one hand to balance, she used the old trick of pulling the back of her skirt through her legs to the front, and securing it with one of the pins from her pocket. She had no desire to have anyone looking up her skirts. She tackled the ladder and made short work of the distance to the deck above. A man waited there to help her aboard.
She stared up into his face. He wasn’t much taller than her, and his features made it obvious he had foreign blood in him. Almond-shaped, almost lidless eyes were set in a swarthy face, the features creased and battered, as much from his exposure to the elements than his racial origin. She bent to unpin her skirts and shake them free.
When she’d unpinned her skirts, her footmen had arrived. The man who had helped her was plainly dressed, but the fabric was good and it sported no patches or worn parts. A cut above what most men were wearing here.
He nodded to her, then performed a stiff half-bow, as if recalling his manners. “You’re collecting cargo on behalf of Lady Dorcas Dersingham?”
Dorcas nodded, suppressing her wince when a twinge of pain went through her head. She had the start of what might be a vicious headache, but she didn’t have time for it now. Her megrims usually took a day or two to get going, so she’d plan for it when she got home. Annoying but not disastrous.
Th
at morning in her room, she’d scribbled a note authorizing the bearer to collect the goods. She flourished it now.
The man tucked a finger under his wig and scratched, tilting the item off-center. “There now.” He waved a hand and looked up. “You can see how much we have to unload.” The deck contained crates and bundles, ready to be disembarked and taken to the warehouse. “I’ve found your small order.”
What did he want, congratulating? Dorcas waited.
“It’ll take a while to bring them to you. We can offer you some refreshment while you wait in the master’s cabin.”
That sounded ominous to Dorcas. Women of her rank had been abducted in a wink, and her ruse of being the representative, not the lady, could be uncovered easily. That was why she’d brought her men with her. She shook her head.
“Ma’am,” Trace murmured, “you might be safer in a state room.”
She looked up at the pulleys creaking above them, the heavy loads being lowered to the ferries, a few feet away. “What is your main cargo?” she asked.
“Tea, my lady.”
That made sense.
“And some porcelain.”
Better. Her plants needed careful handling, and so did porcelain. “I trust my cargo was put with the porcelain.”
The man gave her an indulgent smile. “The porcelain is packed in the tea, my lady. It keeps both safe.”
Her heart sank. “They wouldn’t have put my plants in the tea. So where are they?”
The silence behind her gave her the clue that something had changed.
“Dorcas? Lady Dorcas?”
She turned her back on her tormentor. Her mind boggled. “Your grace?”
Chapter Seven
Could this day get any worse? First the blow to his head, which had proved to be a cut and a lump that promised to swell, and now this? What in God’s name was Dorcas doing here?
After the attack, he’d had to concentrate on getting on board without falling in the drink, but there a comfortable cabin awaited him, and a good dose of brandy.
After a short rest, he went about his business. Having lost his copy of the manifest in the tussle, he’d had to borrow one from the quartermaster. He’d come here to do a job, so he got on with it, checking that everything was well on board and sending a member of the crew to hunt for Lady Dorcas’ delivery, which he still planned to deliver to her personally.
And now this.
Only her voice had told Grant that the lady standing between the two bullies was Lady Dorcas Dersingham. Certainly the back view gave him no clues.
Until he heard her voice raised in anger, and realized she was standing on the deck of his ship.
Her pretty face turned up to his, and he found himself in the middle of a situation he would have done his best to avoid, had it been anyone else. “For heaven’s sake, what are you doing here?”
She tsked. “What do you think I’m doing? I’ve come to collect my cargo, the delivery I told you about. Everyone was talking over me, so I decided to deal with it myself.”
“I thought your brother forbade you to come here. With good reason,” he added, fully aware of the ruffians surrounding them. “You could be attacked, abducted, anything.”
She lifted her hands, spread wide. “As you can see I’ve brought protectors with me.”
“They wouldn’t have a chance against the mob.”
With exaggerated care, she looked around, moving her head slowly. “I see no mob. Only men working hard and a few women, too.”
He groaned. Apparently the riverside whores hadn’t escaped her notice. “You shouldn’t be here. What if you were taken for one of them?”
Turning her head, she stared at a female, who stood about fifty yards away on the wharf, her head tilted back, watching them blatantly.
Dorcas scanned the woman from the battered straw hat down her coarse brown gown, patched and worn, the holes in the skirt revealing she had little or nothing on underneath, to the clumsy clogs on her feet. Then she brought her gaze back to Grant. “You think I stand in danger of being mistaken for her? Or her fellow whores?”
A few men sniggered. They might be working but that didn’t mean their ears weren’t flapping. Grant suppressed another groan. “You shouldn’t know about them, either.”
“Good grief, do you think I went about Smithfield with my eyes closed? I lived close by for years. And I am not a child fresh out of the nursery, I’m a woman grown, over the age of majority and able to make my own decisions.”
Unaccountably, despite his desire to find a compliant, tranquil wife, he found this new virago-like aspect of his betrothed aroused him. Actually aroused him. The part of him that should remain dormant until he needed it stirred, as rebellious as the woman glaring at him. Her eyes were even bluer when she was in a temper. “I will escort you home.”
Too late, he recalled he didn’t have his carriage.
“I have my own transport,” she told him haughtily. In other words, “Thank you for your concern, but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
He doubted that. She shouldn’t be here at all. She didn’t have the common sense she was born with. He tried again. “I will take you home directly.”
“You will do no such thing. At least not until I have received my cargo, or proof that it has been properly taken care of.”
“Why could you not wait until I brought it to you?” Women were damnably impatient.
Her ladyship had the audacity to turn her back on him. “Well?” she demanded, catching the quartermaster in mid-grin. “Don’t stand there like a booby, man, fetch my cargo and I’ll be off.”
“Probably best,” Grant said wearily, exchanging a look of long-standing patience with the man. “Find her package, Baker, and I’ll take her home.”
“Aye, sir, well that’s it,” Baker said.
He scratched his head, while Grant had the urge to pull the wig off his head and stamp on it. He might as well not wear it at all. The front was too low over his forehead and the whole thing was lopsided, giving him the look of a ruffled pigeon. His scalp was probably alive under it.
“Her ladyship’s cargo is a mite hard to lay my hands on. If you can give me half a day, I can find it.”
“Half a day?” she all-but shrieked. “The plants will be dead in that time!”
Grant watched a bound cube of tea lowered the last few inches to the ground. That took a lot of skill, to handle goods that way. The crates and boxes were quickly hoisted up and borne off, taken to the nearby warehouse by a succession of dockers. The hooks they wore attached to their waists proclaimed their profession. Her plants wouldn’t be in those cubes.
He sighed, giving in to the inevitable delay. “Come down to the stateroom,” he suggested.
“Your man already suggested that,” she said, shooting poor Baker a loathing glare that should have shriveled him to nothing on the spot. “I’ll wait.”
“The main cabin will be a safer place than here.” The deck was crowded, busy, with ropes, winches, ladders and other objects providing the potential for death-dealing accidents. Nightmares flicked through his mind, of her plunging into the sea, or getting squashed by a falling tea crate as a winch gave way. He’d seen those and more. “Do you have any idea where her belongings are?” he demanded of Baker. “Can we hurry this?”
The quartermaster’s attention went from the tight-lipped Lady Dorcas to Grant and back to the manifest in his hand. “I’ll do it myself. I think I know where to put my hands on it.”
Thank God he’d seen sense. Turning his back on them, he scampered away, as sure-footed as if he were running up Ludgate Hill.
“Does your brother know you’re here?” he asked her, still angry at the disruption to his day and his fears for her safety. If Carbrooke had given her permission to come here, much less not elected to bring her himself, then Grant would be having words with him.
“Why should he?” She flicked her gaze away from him, her discomfort obvious.
“So you
deceived him?”
She shrugged. “Not as such. I merely didn’t tell him that I was coming here.”
“Where does he think you are?”
“At Cathcart’s. Then the Exchange.”
The Royal Exchange wasn’t too far away, and presumably Cathcart’s, his wife’s company, was close as well. So she’d slipped away. He jerked his chin at the two men waiting silently behind her. “And these two?”
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t foolish enough to try to come here on my own. Now that would have been stupid. I have Gorman Coachman over there, and this is Gorman Footman and Trace. They won’t leave me.”
“We couldn’t,” the taller and slimmer of the footmen said. Though that wasn’t saying much. They were both bulky men even a rough would think twice before challenging.
“What do you think your brother will do?”
She rolled her eyes skywards. “He will try to do all manner of things. Look, Gerald brought us up, more or less. He took care of us when we were motherless babies, and he taught us to take care of ourselves. But we’re adults now, and if he ever behaved like a tyrant, I would leave his house. Not that he ever would.” She folded her arms, glaring at him belligerently.
But he saw more in her stance, in her overaggressive attitude. Fear. She had braved her family and her natural reluctance to come here. For a reason. Sighing, he led the way to the steep stairs that led down to the main cabin.
His quartermaster and steward were waiting for them outside the door. “I believe I’ve located your goods. I’ve sent a man to get them, but it could take half an hour or so. I’ll bring you some refreshment, my lady, your grace.”
Low-ceilinged enough for Grant to duck his head as they entered, he nevertheless appreciated the comfortable fittings. A bed was tucked into an alcove, neatly made up, and the wide table, bolted down to the deck, was made of good mahogany.
A Trace of Roses Page 6