Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Even if she had,” Wolverstone replied, “someone should have seen and alerted us.”

  In seconds, they, and all the others of their company they came across, were quartering the crowd. The congestion was at its height; just fighting one’s way through the bodies was an effort. The musicians were playing, and the dance floor was packed; Royd scanned the dancers, as did others, but Isobel wasn’t among the circling couples. Jack Warnefleet, her scheduled partner for this dance, hadn’t been able to find her.

  Royd searched to the far end of the room, but he knew she wasn’t there. His instincts were in full flight, pressing and urging.

  He met up with Wolverstone and Devil Cynster in the space beneath the musicians’ gallery.

  Grimly, Wolverstone shook his head.

  Devil Cynster swore.

  Then the duke turned and took the stairs to the gallery three at a time. Abruptly, the musicians stopped playing.

  As the dancers noticed, slowed, and looked up, Devil leaned on the gallery railing and roared, “Silence!”

  All conversations ceased. Silks shushed as everyone swung to face the gallery.

  Into the shocked silence, Devil said, “This is vitally important. We’re searching for a lady—the one with the necklace. Tall, black-haired, striking, in a blue-green gown. Most of you have seen her. Look around you now—can anyone see her?”

  Rustles filled the room as people obeyed, but no one spoke up.

  Then a pudgy beringed hand waved from the end of the room, and an older lady called, “That gel went out a few minutes ago—the Strickland pup was with her.”

  Royd strode for the main doors, Wolverstone beside him. The crowd parted, clearing a path up the center of the room. Others of their company fell in behind them as, from above, Devil called, “Strickland!” When no answer came, Devil said, “Look around again—is he here?”

  This time, no one answered.

  Royd swore beneath his breath. The ballroom doors lay just ahead. He asked Wolverstone, “Do you know Strickland by sight?”

  Wolverstone shook his head.

  “I do.” Dearne was just behind them.

  “You stick with Royd.” Wolverstone nodded ahead. “We’ll split up—you go downstairs. I’ll set people searching up here, then join you.”

  They strode into the area at the head of the stairs. Leaving Wolverstone there—he was immediately joined by Honoria, and they started sending pairs of searchers down various corridors—Royd and Dearne, with several others falling in behind them, hurried down the grand staircase.

  Royd paused on the landing, Dearne by his side; the position gave them an excellent view of the entrance hall. “Can you see Strickland?”

  Dearne and several others searched, then Dearne pointed to a stripling leaning against the wall of the corridor running beside the stairs. “There.” The youth’s head was down, his attention on the notes he was counting.

  “You’re on interference,” Royd ground out.

  He all but leapt down the remaining flight and swung around the newel post. Two strides and he filled his fist with Strickland’s neckcloth, lifted the youth, and slammed him bodily against the wall.

  He snarled into the boy’s stunned face. “Where is she?”

  Strickland swallowed, then babbled, “She’s in the carriage outside.” His gaze darted to the wall of aggressive men closing at Royd’s back. His eyes widened to saucers. “It was just a lark! He said he just wanted to talk to her. I just had to get her outside—it was the others, his men, who took her and put her in the carriage, but he swore he’d let her go once they’d talked!”

  The last word came out on a squeak as Royd flung him aside and raced for the door.

  Behind him, he heard Dearne order, “Hold him!”

  Royd heard the thunder of feet at his back, but didn’t turn to see who was following. He shouldered his way through the press of bodies and stepped onto the front porch. Carriage, the boy had said.

  A chaos of carriages lay before him.

  The thoroughfare was clogged with vehicles setting down arrivals and others summoned to take their owners up.

  “Not those.” Royd looked farther afield. “If he wants to talk...”

  Veiled by shadows, the small black town carriage drawn up by the curb some way to the right, well outside the light thrown by the street flares, was almost indiscernible.

  Royd was moving again before he’d even thought. He reached the pavement, pushed through the crowd of onlookers, and raced for the carriage.

  * * *

  “So, you see,” Isobel said, “I haven’t actually spoken to Ross-Courtney or Neill at all. Indeed, I haven’t set eyes on them since we left the jungle.”

  “But you’re sure they’re still in custody?” the gentleman pressed.

  “I really can’t say, but I assume they are as I’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

  “And you don’t know where?”

  “No.” She caught the sound of rushing footsteps and hurriedly went on, “But I do know they’re not being held in any usual jail or by the police—”

  The door was wrenched open.

  “He has a gun!” she screamed.

  “Frobisher!” the man snarled.

  The carriage tipped as a large, heavy body came through the door.

  Royd was going to get himself killed!

  She couldn’t do much, but her legs weren’t tied; she raised one foot, shod in her ballroom pump, and drove the thick heel as hard and as deeply as she could into where she judged the man was sitting.

  Flesh squashed beneath her heel, and the pistol went off.

  The sound was deafening in the enclosed space.

  The carriage rocked; grunts and curses filled the air.

  Obviously, Royd wasn’t dead.

  Then came a hideous thwack of fist forcefully meeting flesh, and the rocking eased.

  An instant later, Royd’s hands closed on hers. “Hold still—let me get the hood off.”

  She’d fainted for the first time not so long ago; now she was hyperventilating. She’d come within a whisker of losing him. The stupid man had flung himself at a villain with a pistol! Admittedly, to save her, but still!

  Then the hood was lifted away, and she looked up, into Royd’s face. He was standing bent over her. In the poor light, she could barely make out his expression; he looked grim, but not in pain.

  After one searching, comprehensive glance at her face, he looked down and picked at the knots in the rope about her wrists. “Are you hurt?” The words were a deep growl.

  “No. Not at all.” Her heart was still galloping. “You?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She hauled in a breath, then another. The dizziness faded. Peering around him, she saw the man who had captured her sprawled in an ungainly heap across the seat. He didn’t look particularly notable in any way—a rather conservative gentleman of no great physical distinction.

  The man stirred, then groaned.

  Wolverstone and Dearne stood by the open carriage door, with others behind them.

  She quickly said, “He threatened me, but other than that, he asked about Ross-Courtney and Neill. About what they’d said and where they’d been, and where they are now. And he took the necklace—it’s in his pocket.”

  She paused to draw in another huge breath.

  Royd drew away the rope; awkwardly, he crouched and massaged her wrists. Beneath his fingertips, he felt her racing pulse. “Everything’s all right.”

  The words brought her gaze back to his face; her dark eyes were huge. “He knew about Duncan—knew I had a son.” Her fingers clutched his. “Oh, God—do you think—”

  “No.” So that was why she’d left the ballroom. He wished he could hit the man—whoever he was—again.
“No one will have got to Duncan.”

  But he could see from her eyes that she wouldn’t calm until she knew for certain. He rose and helped her up. “We’ll send a footman to make sure.”

  “Yes. Right now!”

  He climbed down from the carriage, then turned to lift her down. She all but fell into his arms.

  Her hand landed on his left shoulder—right on the spot where the pistol ball had scored a furrow—and he bit back a hiss.

  He stepped back from the carriage, giving the others room to go in and haul the still-insensible blackguard out. With a house railing at his back, he set Isobel on her feet.

  She looked down at her palm, then at his shoulder. Then her lips set, and she jabbed him in the chest. “Damn it, Royd—you are hurt! You’ve been shot, for heaven’s sake!”

  “It’s just a flesh wound. It’ll stop bleeding in a minute.”

  “How can you know? There’s barely any light.” She bobbed on her toes, studying the bloody scrape.

  Royd saw one of Wolverstone’s footmen and beckoned. He gave the man orders to go to Stanhope Street and inquire as to the location of one Duncan Frobisher.

  The footman looked to his master. After one glance at Isobel, Wolverstone nodded. “As fast as you can.”

  Isobel barely seemed to notice. She was still muttering over his wound. “I told you there was a pistol. Are you sure it doesn’t sting? Did you really have to just leap straight in—”

  He hauled her to him and kissed her.

  Let free all the pent-up anguish of the past fraught minutes, reveled in—let both of them revel in—the fact they were both still there, both alive, relatively unscathed...

  After the first heartbeat, she grabbed his head and gave as good as she got.

  When he raised his head, she opened her eyes, looked into his—and he knew she was back. That she was with him, focused again.

  He released her, but caught her hand. She turned, and they watched as the barely conscious man was dragged from the carriage. Royd caught Wolverstone’s eye. “Who is he?”

  “Clunes-Forsythe. An exceedingly wealthy man of excellent birth—something of a powerbroker. Keeps to the shadows. I’ve heard he has no interest in any enterprise unless it promises some personal advantage.” Wolverstone joined them. They watched as several others, under Dearne’s direction, bound the still-groggy Clunes-Forsythe’s hands and commenced lugging him, hunched over and apparently unable to stand upright, along the pavement in full view of a now-goggling throng. The onlookers had deserted the St. Ives’ guests in favor of more action and drama.

  Wolverstone gestured, and they followed the others, the three of them bringing up the rear.

  “This may be the breakthrough we’ve been angling for.” Glancing at Royd, Wolverstone nodded at his shoulder. “How’s that?”

  “Flesh wound. It’s nothing.” Of course, Isobel shot him a glare and humphed. He decided he owed her the truth. “It would have been much worse except Isobel kicked the blackguard where it hurts the most at just the right moment—his shot went high.”

  Isobel swung to stare at him. Her gaze tracked down from the furrow in his shoulder, and her eyes widened...

  He squeezed her hand—and kept squeezing until she dragged her gaze up and met his eyes. He grinned. “We make an excellent team.”

  A muffled sound escaped Wolverstone, who was studiously looking ahead.

  Isobel wasn’t appeased. She glared again, then muttered, “Later,” and faced forward.

  Two paces on, Wolverstone inquired, “I take it they used some threat against your son to lure you from the ballroom?”

  “Yes.” Isobel explained. In conclusion, she shrugged. “As soon as Duncan entered into the calculations, I forgot about everything else.”

  “Entirely understandable,” Wolverstone returned. “That was what Clunes-Forsythe was counting on.”

  They’d reached the St. Ives’ steps when pounding footsteps and a hail of “Your Grace” gave them pause.

  Wolverstone looked back. “Yes?”

  The footman they’d sent to Stanhope Street pulled up with a grin. Although breathless, he managed to get out, “All’s well with the boy—he’s apparently fast asleep in his bed.”

  “Thank God!” Isobel felt a lingering weight slide from her shoulders; she’d been almost sure Duncan was safe and sound, but when it came to her son, almost would never be good enough. She smiled at the footman. “And thank you.”

  The footman, still grinning, bowed. “A pleasure, miss.”

  “Right, then.” Wolverstone started up the steps with renewed vigor.

  Arm in arm, Isobel and Royd followed.

  Wolverstone paused just inside the mansion’s doors.

  They were joined by Devil Cynster. “Dearne said you wanted to have a go at Clunes-Forsythe here and now. Honoria suggested the ground floor drawing room—it’ll fit all of us who want to watch.”

  Wolverstone nodded. He glanced at Isobel and Royd. “I’ve a feeling that, thanks to a mother’s overriding instinct to save her child, we’ve just been handed the lever we’ve been searching for. In kidnapping Isobel, stealing the necklace, and shooting Royd, Clunes-Forsythe committed three capital crimes—ones we can easily prove—and all before witnesses of unimpeachable standing.”

  “As to that,” Devil said, “Strickland’s fallen apart. He’ll testify as to Clunes-Forsythe’s instructions. Strickland’s an idiot, but his family is sound—they’ll hold him to it.”

  “Excellent.” Wolverstone waved them all forward. “Let’s see about bringing this oh-so-lengthy mission to a comprehensively satisfying end.”

  * * *

  “Let’s endeavor to make this easy on all of us.” Wolverstone stood before the huge fireplace in the St. Ives’ downstairs drawing room.

  Clunes-Forsythe, his hands still bound, had been placed on a straight-backed chair at the end of the Aubusson rug, facing Wolverstone. To either side, the room was packed with all those who had assisted in his capture. The ladies filled all the available seats, and the men ranged about the walls.

  Clunes-Forsythe’s face showed little expression, little by way of reaction to Wolverstone’s words, but the man was listening.

  “Our position is this.” Wolverstone drew the blue diamond necklace from his pocket. Walking forward, he handed it to Isobel, seated in the middle of one of the long sofas; Clunes-Forsythe’s eyes tracked the winking stones. “These diamonds represent the products of an illicit mine operating in West Africa, a few days out of Freetown. The area in question is part of the British colony of West Africa. The mine could have been set up legitimately, but those behind it elected to improve their profits by keeping the enterprise a secret and, most relevantly, using slave labor—British men, women, and children seized from the settlement of Freetown. Through various efforts, a mission was dispatched with the aim of rescuing those held captive, closing the mine, identifying those responsible, and securing evidence sufficient to convict those behind the scheme.” Wolverstone paused to incline his head to Clunes-Forsythe. “Courtesy of your intervention tonight, we now know the identity of all six backers—and we have all six in custody.”

  Clunes-Forsythe blinked.

  Wolverstone’s smile took on a sharp edge. “Indeed. We already have Ross-Courtney, Neill, Deveny, Cummins, and Risdale secreted away. We realize that the rationale behind what you all believed to be a very safe investment was the assumption that your positions—especially that of Ross-Courtney as one of the king’s closest confidantes—guaranteed that, even if the scheme was uncovered, even if your involvement was discovered, ultimately no charges would be laid.”

  His dark gaze resting on Clunes-Forsythe, Wolverstone paused, then, in a conversational tone, went on, “Five—or even three—years ago, that might well have been the case. But thanks to
some of those here”—a wave indicated those watching and listening—“the Black Cobra was brought down last year. Together with unrest over the courts’ perceived reluctance to hear charges against the upper echelon—those with political, monetary, and social clout—the incident of the Black Cobra and the ramifications flowing from it have forced the government to take a stand.” Wolverstone leveled a steady gaze on their prisoner. “The government has already decreed that those behind schemes such as this diamond mine will be treated as any other men and bear the full consequences of their actions. Publicly.”

  Clunes-Forsythe twitched; he was now listening avidly.

  “As the investigating force, we currently have all six backers in custody. The other five are being held incommunicado—there will be no chance for any of them to alert any supporters to their incarceration. No chance for Ross-Courtney’s friends, or any others, to attempt to interfere. You will shortly be joining the other five. None of you will be freed again—the next time you appear in public will be at your trial. As for the evidence we either already hold, or are in the process of gathering, we have the three local managers of the scheme in custody as well, and all three have agreed to turn king’s evidence. Their testimony, linked with the personal evidence of the agents who freed those at the mine and of several officers who were among the captives, will prove conclusively the criminal nature of the mining operation. In addition, Ross-Courtney and Neill had already reached the mine and demonstrated their involvement beyond doubt to said agents and officers before the rescue was carried out and Ross-Courtney and Neill were captured. Further, we now have documentary evidence of the money Ross-Courtney sent Satterly to fund the mine. Now we know the identities involved, we will be able to access evidence showing where that money came from—namely, the six backers. We also know of the existence of the diamond merchant and expect to learn his identity any day. He will lead us to the banker, and that will close the circle, giving us evidence of the six backers profiting from the sale of the diamonds taken from the mine they paid to establish.”

  Wolverstone sent a congratulatory glance around the room, at all those gathered. “All in all, we’ve managed to construct a strong and inescapable case.” He returned his gaze to Clunes-Forsythe. “We expect to have the last pieces in place within days.”