Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  As for how they would know to close in, if Isobel was asked outright as to where she’d got the necklace, she would raise her hand to the stones and fiddle with the links.

  Their preparations had been made, and everyone was in place, eager to put their plan into action.

  He and Isobel chatted, smiled, and moved through the crowd, in reality shifting from one group of protectors to another. They circled the room once, giving all those there the opportunity to notice and stare at the diamonds—which everyone did. Royd hadn’t been certain that the prediction that no lady would boldly walk up and ask where Isobel had found the stones would hold true, but it seemed Minerva had been correct; although any number of ladies ogled the diamonds, not one asked specifically about them.

  That Isobel wasn’t widely known among London’s ton undoubtedly helped; people couldn’t place her, but as she was plainly acquainted with a select group among the upper echelon, no one dared patronize her, either.

  “Everyone—simply everyone—is talking about the diamonds,” Edwina softly crowed as she swanned past on Declan’s arm.

  Then the musicians started up, and Royd claimed the first waltz. As it was the only waltz he was allowed that evening, he was determined to enjoy it.

  As he drew Isobel into his arms and stepped onto the clearing floor, he realized it had been a very long time since they’d shared a dance in a ballroom, let alone a waltz. Yet she moved with him instinctively, her steps mirroring his; as they were both so tall, it was easy to tighten his hold and step out. She matched him; on a gurgle of laughter, she met his eyes. “If I haven’t already become the cynosure of all eyes, this will surely achieve that.”

  He dipped his head and, his eyes on hers, murmured, “I live to serve.” You. Only you.

  She held his gaze as if she’d heard the unspoken words. They drowned in each other’s eyes, navigating the crowded floor more by instinct than design, lost for those moments in the other’s presence, in the reality they now shared.

  Unfortunately, the measure wound to a close.

  As he whirled her to a halt, her gaze still on his face, as if sensing the battle he waged to allow her out of his arms, she murmured, “This will work—you know it will.”

  He met her eyes. “It better.”

  She knew he wasn’t speaking of luring the backers to show themselves but of her being adequately protected through the night.

  As arranged, as he led her off the floor, Caleb stepped forward to, with an insouciant grin, filch her hand from his.

  Royd released her. As he stalked through the crowd, he reminded himself not to scowl, and that it was infinitely better his youngest brother was first in the long line of gentleman-protectors scheduled to step in; any of the others and he might not have been able to play his part and let her go.

  He gritted his teeth and tried not to let it show. He’d known he wouldn’t enjoy the evening, but until that moment, he hadn’t appreciated just how onerous his role would be.

  * * *

  Isobel smiled and joked with Caleb, who spent most of their dance extracting as many facts about Kate and her family as he could. He handed her off to Dearne, who smiled kindly, waltzed extremely well, and, she learned, had been one of Wolverstone’s operatives in France during the last war.

  When the dance ended, Dearne conducted her to a group including his wife and several other couples. They chatted and waited to see if any gentleman not of their number approached, but none did.

  That became the pattern of her evening; she would dance with several of her protectors, then chat with them and their wives while waiting in vain for a backer to appear.

  But they’d foreseen that the backers might not be so easily tempted into openly approaching her—not in full sight of a goodly portion of the ton—and had planned accordingly. Consequently, after dancing the supper waltz with Rupert Cynster, one of the duke’s cousins, she prettily declined his offer to escort her into the supper room. After sending him to look for his wife, she turned and, unhurriedly, strolled down the ballroom and into a short corridor. She opened the door at the end and walked into the mansion’s conservatory.

  She closed the door behind her, paused for a second to listen, then, choosing the central path of the three leading into the moonlit shadows, walked down the avenue of densely packed palms and ferns.

  Anyone watching her would think she had gone there to meet with some gentleman, which, as it happened, was true. According to the plan, several gentlemen of her acquaintance, Royd among them, would be concealed among the profusion of palms. She strolled, making no attempt to mute her footfalls. Now to see if any other gentleman sought to follow her and have a word in what appeared to be a private setting.

  The conservatory’s walls as well as its roof were made of glass. Moonlight slanted in, gilding leaves and laying a silvery sheen over the tiled floor. At the far end, all three paths converged on a circular space hosting a small fountain. The tinkle of water, the smell of rich loam, and the scents of night-flowering plants brought the jungle the diamonds had come from vividly to Isobel’s mind.

  “How appropriate,” she murmured sotto voce.

  Immediately, she heard the click of the conservatory door closing. After the briefest of pauses, heavy footsteps started following her down the path. Subterfuge was clearly not the gentleman’s intent. She reached the fountain and turned, head rising, to see who had walked into their trap.

  A large, florid-faced gentleman, no more than an inch taller than she but three times as wide, came stumping down the path. He’d pulled out a white handkerchief and was already mopping his brow. “Dashed warm in here.” His tone was complaining.

  Isobel studied him. “It is rather humid.”

  He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and sketched her an excuse for a bow. “Sir Reginald Cummins. Miss Carmichael, is it not?”

  Isobel barely inclined her head. “Indeed, sir.” In contrast to the room, her tone was chilly.

  Sir Reginald didn’t notice. His gaze had locked on the necklace.

  Even in the moonlight, Isobel was fairly certain it would be winking and blinking, casting its invisible net.

  Sir Reginald certainly seemed caught. He moistened his lips and, without shifting his eyes from the stones, said, “I wonder, my dear, if you would tell me where you got that necklace.”

  “This?” Isobel raised her fingers to the diamonds. She paused, then said, “From an admirer. Quite recently. It’s the first time I’ve worn it.”

  Sir Reginald forced his gaze to her face. His expression was no longer the least bit friendly. “Frobisher?” The word was a demand.

  Isobel arched her brows, then let a small smile play about her lips. “Sadly, no—not him. Someone else.”

  Sir Reginald’s hand shot out and locked about her wrist. “Who?”

  “Why, sir—”

  “Dammit, woman—don’t play games with me! Those are blue diamonds, as anyone with a half-trained eye could see. That many stones could only have come from one place, and I supposedly have an interest in that venture. Yet I’ve heard nothing about this damned necklace. So tell me, you minx—who gave it to you?”

  Three large male bodies materialized from the shrubbery and surrounded Sir Reginald.

  Another—Royd—appeared beside Isobel. Before Sir Reginald got his mouth closed, Royd gripped Sir Reginald’s wrist.

  Sir Reginald’s eyes popped wide. A sound of pain escaped him, and he released Isobel’s wrist as if he’d been burned. He hauled in a breath. “See here!” Even in the moonlight, his face had reddened. “What is this, heh?”

  One of the shadowy figures leaned closer. “I believe, Sir Reginald, that you had better come with me.” It was Dearne who spoke. “There are several gentlemen waiting to speak with you, Wolverstone among them.”

  “What?” The panic
in Sir Reginald’s face echoed in his voice.

  A chirp sounded from close by the door.

  Dearne seized Sir Reginald’s wrists and bound them; one of the other figures stuffed a handkerchief into Sir Reginald’s mouth when he opened it to shout, while the other promptly wrapped a scarf around the man’s head, effectively and efficiently gagging him.

  The three bodily lifted the shocked baronet aside, into a darker pool of shadows. How they planned to immobilize him, Isobel didn’t know, but she trusted they would.

  Royd melted away, back into the shadows from which he’d come. Isobel blinked. Even though she knew he was there, she couldn’t see him.

  Footsteps approached, not down the central path but along one of the side paths. And this time, they were quiet—not quite stealthy but careful.

  Isobel waited to see who would arrive. Once she was certain from which direction they were coming, she shifted to look into the bowl of the fountain; the position allowed her to watch the side path from the corner of her eye.

  She hadn’t carried a reticule, but a fan dangled from her wrist. She flicked it open and idly waved it before her face.

  A tall, rather cadaverous gentleman, exceedingly well dressed yet projecting an aura of ennui and overt dissipation, stepped from the shadows. “There you are, my dear. I’ve been looking for you.”

  She ceased her waving and widened her eyes at him. “You have? Yet I don’t believe we’re acquainted, sir.”

  “Lord Hugh Deveny.” He gave her a nod rather than a bow. “And I’ve been looking for you to reclaim my property—I believe that lovely necklace is mine. If you would be so good as to hand it over?”

  Isobel nearly laughed, but even on less than a minute’s acquaintance, she realized Lord Hugh actually believed she would comply. “Yours, sir?” She infused enough shocked amazement into her voice to be convincing. “There must be some mistake. I received this necklace from my papa—he, in turn, had it from a gentleman acquaintance in Africa. It’s only been in the country for a very short time—I fail to see how it could possibly be yours.”

  Lord Hugh’s expression darkened. His lips compressed, then he contemptuously spat, “It’s simple, you silly girl! That gentleman from Africa was some bounder who sold your father stolen goods. Those are blue diamonds and come from a mine I’ve invested in, so I’m right—those diamonds belong to me, and I suggest you hand the damned necklace over immediately!”

  Lord Hugh reached for the necklace.

  Royd caught his hand.

  Lord Hugh jumped, then blinked, dumbfounded, at Royd.

  Wolverstone walked out from the shadows. “Good evening, Deveny. In case you’re wondering, I was here all along and heard every fascinating word you let fall.”

  Lord Hugh opened and shut his mouth several times without emitting any sound. Unlike that of Cummins, Lord Hugh’s complexion had turned deathly pale.

  “I don’t know...” With a visible effort, Lord Hugh pulled himself together. “See here, Wolverstone. I don’t know what game you’re playing—”

  “More to the point, Deveny, is what game you”—Wolverstone glanced aside as the other three gentlemen appeared, pushing Sir Reginald, bound and gagged, before them—“and Sir Reginald here have been involved in.”

  At the sight of Sir Reginald, every vestige of color drained from Lord Hugh’s face.

  “Cat got your tongue, Deveny?” When Lord Hugh didn’t respond, Wolverstone glanced at the trio behind Sir Reginald. “Ungag him.”

  When they’d complied, as Sir Reginald moistened his lips, Wolverstone stated, “Now would be a good time to start talking, gentlemen. Leniency can be extended only to those who cooperate, and we only need one of you to do so to complete our investigations.”

  Lord Hugh stared helplessly at Sir Reginald.

  Sir Reginald stared back, then he set his jaw pugnaciously and glared at Lord Hugh. “You’ll get nothing out of me, sirrah! Whatever fabrications and wild accusations you might make, there’s not a shred of evidence to say we’ve been involved in anything underhanded.” He switched his now-belligerent gaze to Wolverstone. “We’re innocent. You have to let us go.”

  Wolverstone arched a dark brow. After a moment, in a quiet voice, he said, “Not yet, Cummins. Not yet.”

  Lord Hugh tried to wrench free of Royd’s hold—to no avail; Royd simply held him. “I’ve no notion of what you’re talking about, Wolverstone.” To Royd, he hissed, “Let go, damn it!” Straightening, trying to ignore Royd, he addressed Wolverstone. “If you will instruct this gentleman to release me, Your Grace, I believe I will return to the ball.”

  Wolverstone’s smile flashed sharklike in the moonlight. “Sadly, I’m not so inclined.” He turned to the other three. “Take them away—you know where.”

  One of the other men—Isobel saw it was Lord Trentham—moved to Deveny’s side and took his arm in a hard grip.

  Wolverstone looked at Deveny, then at Sir Reginald. “Let’s see if we can’t find some lever to loosen their tongues.”

  * * *

  They hadn’t expected to snare two of the backers on their first attempt.

  “Sadly,” Carstairs reported, “even though we now have four of them, and we’ve taken care to keep them separate from each other, none of the bloody blighters will talk.”

  It was early in the afternoon of the next day, and all those who’d been involved in the attempt to capture the backers had gathered in the Wolverstone House drawing room to learn of the end result.

  Wolverstone arched a cynical brow. “It appears there’s honor among thieves, even of this ilk.”

  Jack Hendon snorted. “No honor there.” Along with Carstairs and several others of the company, Hendon had been involved in the subsequent interrogations. “They’re as guilty as sin—you can see it in their eyes. Cummins and Deveny haven’t even denied involvement. They’ve simply shut up.”

  “I got the impression they’d discussed what to do in the event of any interference from the authorities,” the Earl of Lostwithiel put in.

  Wolverstone nodded. “That does, indeed, seem likely.”

  “What we have got from them”—Carstairs’s tone was redolent with frustration—“is that they’re utterly convinced they are beyond the law—effectively untouchable. That if they just hold the line and admit nothing, they will, in the end, walk free.”

  A dissatisfied silence fell, then Dearne stirred. “On a more positive note, we might have got a bead on where the six met. Apparently, Ross-Courtney favors the Albany for his more discreet meetings. We’re working on getting information from the staff there, and knowing four of the six names will expedite that.” He paused, then added, “But, at most, all that will give us is the other two names and evidence that the six met in private—possibly frequently over the crucial period. It won’t give us anything to link them to the mine.”

  “That’s the critical link our lure has delivered,” Wolverstone said, “at least with respect to Cummins and Deveny. By their own words, they implicated themselves with a venture producing blue diamonds—ergo, the mine.”

  “Ross-Courtney and Neill implicated themselves by their presence and actions at the mine,” Caleb said.

  “True.” Looking across the crowded room, Wolverstone met Caleb’s gaze. “However, sad to say, I doubt that’s going to be enough to convict Ross-Courtney. Not with his connections. He’ll fabricate some ridiculous tale of being captured and held for ransom, and because many will prefer to believe him, they will.”

  “And if Ross-Courtney walks free, the others will, too.” Robert looked at Royd.

  Royd met his brother’s gaze, then directed his own at Wolverstone. “So how long do we have before our weakest link fails?”

  Wolverstone softly snorted. “You mean Melville.” It wasn’t a question. “He was bad enough about Ross-Cou
rtney and Neill. Now we’ve added Lord Hugh plus Cummins, Melville is all but having conniptions. Lord Hugh’s father is a strong supporter of the government. That we’ve more or less kidnapped the duke’s son, more or less under Melville’s aegis, is making Melville exceedingly nervous.” He paused, then added, “I can’t, regrettably, order Melville on no account to tell anyone we have the four in custody, but I have cautioned him over the extreme inadvisability of doing so, and asked him to inform me before he shares the information with anyone at all—including his wife.” Wolverstone faintly shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “In other words”—Trentham’s tone was cynical—“in spite of the government’s exceedingly desperate desire to convict in this case, we won’t have all that long.” To the room at large, he reported, “We’ve men trawling through the diamond merchants in Amsterdam, but it’s slow going, and we haven’t had even a glimmer of a possibility so far.”

  “We’ve started making inquiries via the banks,” Rupert—better known as Gabriel—Cynster put in. “We’re trying to identify our mysterious banker by attempting to find payments made to both Ross-Courtney and Neill from the same source. Now we can include Cummins and Deveny as well, that might go faster.” He paused, then grimaced. “Fast being a relative term. Given the degree of discretion we’re having to employ so as not to alert the men’s agents...it’s going to take at least a week, possibly more.”

  Devil Cynster caught Wolverstone’s eye. “We might not have a week.”

  When Wolverstone didn’t respond, Lostwithiel shifted. “Loath as I am to suggest it, perhaps employing other methods of persuasion, not just words, might be in order.”

  Wolverstone hesitated, then shook his head. “Were this war, that would be justified. But this isn’t war, and engaging in such practices would lower us to their level.” He paused, then more decisively went on, “With respect to the four backers in our custody, our best tack will be to continue to interrogate them while seizing every opportunity to undermine their confidence—to convince them we’re certain we’ll be able to hold them incommunicado long enough to get the evidence we need.”