He’d wracked his brains throughout the day, but had yet to find any new path forward.
He could only hope he would.
And there it was again—hope. He—they—had to keep hoping.
They were all quietly eating when footsteps suddenly thudded on the barracks’ porch.
Most glanced across—and saw Muldoon striding swiftly their way. Dubois, looking puzzled, was following more slowly, Arsene and Cripps trailing behind him.
But Muldoon...the man appeared elated. Excited, in alt—all but jumping out of his skin with joy.
His face alight, Muldoon strode straight to Kate. Halting beside her, he thrust out his hand. “Where did this stone come from?”
When she blinked at the raw diamond in Muldoon’s palm, then, baffled, looked up at him, he made an obvious effort to rein in his excitement and clarified, “From the first tunnel or the second?”
Kate frowned and reached for the stone. For a second, Muldoon tensed, and she wondered if he would allow her to take it, but then he forced himself to stillness and let her lift it from his palm.
She turned the cleaned stone between her fingers. “Harriet—I think this is one of yours.” They each had their own way of approaching the cleaning, and Harriet was left-handed, which made her work easy to spot.
Harriet glanced warily at Muldoon. When he curtly nodded, she took the stone Kate held out. Harriet examined it. “Yes. I did this one today.”
“So from the first tunnel or the second?” Muldoon demanded.
“Well, if we cleaned that today,” Kate told him, “it would almost certainly be from the second tunnel. Because of the earlier backlog, we’ve only just moved on to stones from there.”
Muldoon’s expression turned beatific. He filched the stone from Harriet’s fingers.
Dubois approached.
Muldoon swung to face him and thrust out his hand. “Take a look at that.”
Puzzled, Dubois took the stone and examined it. “A cleaned raw diamond.”
“Not just any raw diamond. That, my friend, is a blue diamond.” Muldoon all but snatched the rock back. He turned it in his fingers, then pointed. “See? Just there. You can see the color—the blue fire.”
Dubois looked, then humphed. “So it’s a bit blue. What difference does that make?”
“About ten times,” Muldoon informed him. As if trying to contain his exuberance, he drew in a long, deep breath, then more evenly stated, “I spent all of my last home-leave in Amsterdam with the jewelers who are receiving our diamonds. They taught me about the various grades of stones. They had a few chips—just tiny things—of blue diamond. According to them, every diamond collector the world over will give their right arm for a decent-sized blue.”
His expression almost fiendish with delight, Muldoon all but brandished the raw diamond in Dubois’s face. “This, my mercenary friend, even when cut, will be more than a carat’s worth of blue diamond. It, alone, is worth a small fortune.” He swept an arm toward the mine. “And we have an entire rock face of the damned things!”
Kate cleared her throat, preparing to speak, but Dixon beat her to it.
“I’ve heard of blue diamonds. It’s unlikely every diamond in the second pipe will be a blue.”
Muldoon fixed Dixon with a commanding look. “But there will be more?”
Dixon nodded. “That would be my guess, but what percentage of the stones will be blue...the only way to know is to look and see.”
Muldoon nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Just from what was in the strongbox today, I’ve already found two.” He pointed at the women. “I’ll come into the shed tomorrow and teach you what to look for.” His gaze shifted to the children. “And then you can teach the brats. If they can pick the difference during sorting, we can keep aside the whites and concentrate on cleaning the blues first.
“And as for you”—Muldoon swung to face Dubois and jabbed a finger at the mercenary’s nose—“you can forget any notion of closing this mine any time soon. As long as there’s even the slimmest chance of a blue diamond coming out, the mine stays open—and the men need to stop attacking that rock face with bloody picks! Chisels and small hammers—like what the women use. I want every diamond in that second tunnel teased out. Once they learn of this, just the thought of shattering a blue will be anathema to our backers—I can assure you of that. And trust me, I won’t have to explain the value of blue diamonds to the likes of them.”
Dubois had focused on Muldoon’s finger.
For Caleb’s money, the mercenary was giving serious thought to breaking Muldoon’s digit.
But then Dubois drew in a breath and shifted his gaze to Muldoon’s face. A second passed, then Dubois shrugged. “It’s all the same to us. You and your backers have paid our retainer, so as long as you keep the weekly payments coming in, we’ll stay and keep the mine running.”
“Excellent!” Muldoon slipped the rock into his pocket, then rubbed his hands with exuberant glee. He glanced around the circle of captives, his expression once more alight. “This find is going to make the history books.”
With that, he turned and strode back to the barracks.
Dubois watched him go, then looked at his lieutenants.
“Blue diamonds,” Arsene said. “I wonder if he’s right about them being worth ten times the whites.”
“Assuming he is...” Dubois’s soft words filtered back to the silent captives, then he shrugged again and started following Muldoon. “I have to say this makes me inclined to view Mr. Muldoon’s arrival in a more favorable light.”
Arsene chuckled. He and Cripps followed Dubois.
The captives exchanged glances. Amazed, almost disbelieving—almost frightened to believe—they remained silent until the mercenaries had reached the barracks and were too distant to hear.
Then, after an audible whoosh as many released the breaths they’d been holding, everyone started talking at once.
Across the circle, Hillsythe caught Caleb’s gaze and raised his voice to be heard over the din. “It’s real, isn’t it? We’ve just got our reprieve.”
Grinning fit to burst, Caleb nodded and called back, “Courtesy of Muldoon.”
“It just goes to show,” Lascelle said, “that you can never tell from which direction unexpected help might come—or who Fate will decide to make her pawn.”
Fanshawe snorted. “Just as well I didn’t kill the bugger when he arrived.”
Others laughed and slapped him on the back.
Kate watched as relief—giddy and overwhelming—took hold. Unable to keep still, some of the children started dancing, and then others—men and women—leapt to their feet and joined in.
So what if the guards saw? They didn’t know rescue was coming.
Didn’t know the true nature of the reprieve the captives had just been granted.
Then Caleb turned to her, and she looked into his face. She smiled, allowing every one of the myriad emotions welling inside her to show. She put a hand to his cheek. “You’re allowed to say I told you so.”
His grin widened into a glorious smile. “Oh, no. I would never do that.” He looped his arm about her waist and hugged her tight, then he dipped his head and whispered in her ear, “Fate’s a female—and one should never take females for granted.”
Her peal of laughter was music to Caleb’s ears. He smiled down at her—at his wife-to-be, at his future.
Then he rose and tugged her up with him, and they joined in the dancing.
Later, when they’d exhausted the exuberance engendered by so much giddy relief, he sat with his arms around Kate and looked around the circle of faces. All the captives, even the youngest children, were still there. The ease in their expressions testified to resurgent hope, to the lifting of immediate care, and the release of the tension that had held all of them in
such a vicious and constantly tightening grip.
Also blatantly evident was a stronger sense of community—a strengthened belief that this community of theirs could and would survive.
Softly, Caleb spoke, his words falling into the gentle dark. “We’re still captives. When the time comes, we’ll still have to fight to survive—to overcome Dubois and his men and reclaim our freedom. But now we have hope. This is what it feels like.”
He paused, then went on, “Fate just stepped in. I told you she would. No matter what hurdles might rise before us, if we look, if we believe, if we continue to cling to hope, we will find a way—a way to be here when the rescue force arrives.”
He paused again and gave conviction full rein. “We will be here come September.”
They didn’t cheer—they didn’t dare. That might have been too blatant.
But if uttered freely, the chorus of “Here, here!” would have been the equivalent of a roar.
* * *
The tide carried The Prince into the wharf at Southampton at eleven o’clock in the morning. Lieutenant Frederick Fitzpatrick, a close crony of Caleb’s from their school days, understood the value of time. Although he’d crammed on every inch of sail, it was already the thirteenth of August. He wasn’t amenable to wasting another minute in getting the documents Hornby had carried out of the jungle into Caleb’s brothers’ hands—but Fitz had to remain in Southampton to sign off on the voyage and explain to Higginson why it wasn’t Caleb fronting the office desk.
Which was why Hornby, in his best suit, was waiting by the railing, a satchel clutched in his arms.
The instant the side of the ship touched the wharf, a midshipman slid the rail aside. Despite his years, Hornby didn’t wait for the gangplank to be rolled out. He leapt for the wharf, landed in an experienced sailor’s crouch, then literally ran for the street and the coaching inn the company patronized.
“Godspeed!” Fitz yelled—and he wasn’t the only one.
Without slowing his stride, Hornby snapped off a salute—and kept running.
* * *
At three o’clock that afternoon, Robert Frobisher, to his mind unfortunately, was relaxing at his ease in his brother Declan’s library. Declan was seated behind the huge desk and pretending to read a news sheet. Robert had given up; The Times lay discarded beside his chair. Neither he nor Declan was particularly good at waiting—interminably, it seemed—for news of an ongoing action, and as they’d both been involved in successive stages of a mission that was presently being prosecuted by their youngest brother, Caleb, but hadn’t heard so much as a peep from Freetown in weeks, neither Robert nor Declan was in any good mood.
Without looking up from his perusal of the printed page, Declan murmured, “What I wouldn’t give for something to happen.”
The words had barely left his lips when a pounding on the front door brought both brothers to their feet.
Robert reached the library door first. He led the way into the front hall just as Humphrey, Declan’s very correct butler, hurried to open the front door.
Belatedly recalling that this was not his house—that this was London and who knew who might be calling—Robert slowed, but Declan, following at his heels, prodded him on.
When Humphrey swung the door wide, Robert and Declan were both close enough to recognize the sailor standing on the stoop.
“Hornby?” Declan pushed forward, shoving Robert before him.
Hornby’s relief at seeing them was intense.
“Where’s Caleb?” Robert asked.
“Captains.” Hornby drew himself up and snapped off a salute. Then he hauled a heavy satchel from his shoulder. “Captain Caleb’s keeping watch on the mining camp in the jungle. In case something happens to the poor souls trapped inside before you and the rest can reach them.”
“He found the camp?” Declan asked as Robert took the satchel and opened it.
“Oh, aye.” Hornby’s gaze went past them, and he paused to bob bows, and Robert realized the pattering he’d heard from behind him had been Aileen Hopkins, his soon-to-be wife, and Declan’s wife, Edwina, rushing to join them. As both ladies had been actively involved in their respective missions, and as both had met Caleb, they were as eager to hear any news as Declan and Robert.
“For goodness’ sake, step back!” Edwina hauled on Declan’s arm. “And let poor Hornby—it is Hornby, isn’t it?—over the threshold.”
Declan obliged, but his attention didn’t shift from the documents Robert was extracting from the satchel. “What has he sent?”
“My damned journal, for a start.” Robert brandished the slim volume, then handed it to Aileen. “And it appears he’s had the sense to draw maps.”
Declan looked at Hornby, now hovering just inside the open door. Regardless of the dictates of social custom, neither Declan nor Robert was about to tamely go and sit down, not before they’d discovered what Caleb had sent—and neither was Edwina or Aileen.
Reflecting that Hornby would understand, Declan left Robert scanning the documents he’d pulled forth and repeated his question.
“Easy as you please,” Hornby said, “once we’d taken Kale’s camp.”
Robert looked up.
Declan stared.
“You took Kale’s camp?” Robert finally asked. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”
Hornby shrugged. “Nasty piece of work, Kale was, but Captain Caleb bested him.”
When Robert and Declan appeared struck dumb, Aileen caught Hornby’s eye and smiled encouragingly. “I note you’re using the past tense with respect to Kale—I take it that means he’s deceased?”
“Dead as a doornail, ma’am, begging your pardon.”
“Oh, you can tell me things like that any time.” Aileen beamed at Hornby. “Kale was the lowest form of scum, and I’m delighted to know Caleb removed him from this earth.”
Edwina professed herself delighted, too. “How did you reach here, Hornby?”
Hornby duly related how he came to be delivering the satchel.
Declan and Robert barely glanced up, then again abandoned Hornby to their ladies in favor of wading through the information Caleb had sent.
Edwina smiled at Hornby and directed Humphrey to make the old sailor comfortable.
Hornby looked uncertain. “I daresay I should get back to The Prince, ma’am. Lieutenant Fitzpatrick will be waiting to hear that I handed the information over.”
“We’ll send a messenger.” Edwina gripped Hornby’s sleeve and inexorably drew the old sailor deeper into the hall. “We can’t let you return to The Prince until these two”—she waved at Declan and Robert—“and the others are certain they have no more questions for you. I take it you were with Caleb when he found the mine?” When Hornby confirmed that, Edwina beamed. “In that case, once we’ve digested Caleb’s news, I’m sure we’ll all have more questions for you.”
With that, she consigned Hornby into Humphrey’s care. “Don’t worry about the door—I’ll get it.”
Robert and Declan were busy with various documents, and Aileen had commandeered the satchel and was examining a map. Edwina started for the door—only to see a carriage and four, the horses lathered, drawing up at the curb before their house. She halted. “Who on earth...?” She glanced at Declan. “Are we expecting anyone?”
Alerted by the sound of stamping hooves, Declan and Robert had looked up. At Edwina’s words, the brothers walked to the doorway and halted on the threshold, shoulder to shoulder, effectively filling the space.
Edwina scowled and pushed to peer around her husband’s arm, while on the other side of the doorway, Aileen stood on tiptoe to look over Robert’s shoulder.
Aileen steadied herself with a hand on Robert’s back. The carriage rocked on its springs, then the door opened, and a man stepped out. Aileen registered the tensio
n that infused Robert’s muscles, but her attention was riveted by the gentleman who, having gained the pavement, looked up—directly at Robert and Declan.
The man was tall—every bit as tall as Robert and Declan, and possibly an inch or so more. His hair was black as night and fell about his well-shaped head like ruffled silk. His features, while clearly hewn from the same mold as his brothers’, were harder, more sharply chiseled, perhaps a touch more finely drawn. His jaw was uncompromisingly square, and there was an understated strength in the way he moved that was nothing short of mesmerizing.
He was dressed fashionably, but with a certain negligent ease, as if clothes were of little importance to him. His figure was long, lean, sleekly yet powerfully muscled, the thighs revealed by his buckskin breeches those of a man who rode frequently.
Aileen watched as, with a graceful elegance that was transparently innate, the gentleman turned back to the open carriage door.
“Royd,” Robert unnecessarily informed her in an undertone.
Aileen reflected that everything she’d ever heard about the impact of the eldest of the Frobisher brothers was, quite evidently, true.
She was still staring at Royd when he straightened, stepped back, and handed a lady from the carriage.
If Royd’s appearance had made Robert—and no doubt Declan, too—tense, then the sight of the lady shocked both brothers into rigidity.
Aileen had to admit the lady was stunning—an eminently fitting visual foil for Royd Frobisher. She was tall, too—her head reached to just below Royd’s eyes—and she possessed the same ineffable grace. Her hair was pure midnight, a wealth of glossy curls frothing over her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in a severely plain carriage dress, but her figure did wonders for the outfit. She was all sleek curves; given the way she raised her head, she reminded Aileen forcefully of a very fine Thoroughbred.
Royd turned to give orders to the driver.
The lady, retrieving her hand from Royd’s, turned to speak with the postboy and pointed to a bandbox lashed to the roof.
Declan shifted. “Wolverstone said he’d written to Royd, telling him about Caleb and asking him to take on the final leg of the mission.”
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