A Thoroughly Compromised Lady

by Bronwyn Scott

  He spoke a single word to the room at large. ‘Gold.’

  ‘Gold?’ Gladstone replied, incredulous.

  ‘You forget, I’ve actually been to the region. I was there in 1830 after I helped Schomburgk on his Anegada expedition.’ Jack smoothly interjected his credentials into the conversation. His work there had laid the grounds for being awarded the viscountcy. ‘The river valleys are too wet and the forests in the interior are too dense for serious farming. Businessmen aren’t looking to put up a plantation community in this region. No profit.’ Gladstone looked like he’d gladly throttle him.

  William broke in to defuse the tension. ‘We want to be certain in regards to what they’re after. We can use that knowledge to grease negotiations if we must. Until then, Wainsbridge, Ortiz is yours. I want to know what has made the area an urgent point of interest and how far they’re willing to go to get it.’

  Dismissed, they took their leave of the monarch and made their way through Clarence House to the front door. Jack was glad he had his coach. He did not want to share a hackney with Gladstone. They stepped out into the night air.

  Jack’s coach waited at the kerb but Gladstone couldn’t resist a final jab as Jack stepped up to the door. ‘I hear we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Dulcinea Wycroft.’

  ‘You hear the most amazing things, Gladstone,’ Jack returned.

  ‘I see them too, some times,’ came Gladstone’s cryptic reply.

  ‘You’ve never got over Lady Dulcinea jilting you.’ Jack’s reply was cool, but inside he was seething. Gladstone must have had men watching the ballroom that night, checking out the Venezuelan delegation on his own even though Jack had been given the job. He would not put it past Gladstone to have forced a meeting tonight simply to drag him away from Dulci.

  Anger clouded Gladstone’s face. ‘Behind those clothes you’re nothing but a scrapper, a no-account country squire’s son. I can only imagine how many boots you had to lick to rise this far.’

  ‘Whereas I am sure you’re quite clear on the boots you’ve had to lick. No imagining there. Your family’s been currying favour since the sixteen hundreds. Dirty business that, two centuries of boot-licking.’ Jack stepped into his coach and held the door open for a moment. ‘Goodnight, Gladstone.’

  He slammed the coach door and sank back against the squabs, less sanguine than he’d let on. This was dicey business with the Venezuelan delegation. Negotiations of this nature were always very covert, hardly ever making the public news, but that didn’t make them less dangerous. Usually, they were more so. Without the check and balance of being in the public eye, there were no rules to govern them. Still, it would be business as usual if Dulci wasn’t involved. But she was—placed right at the centre of the storm because of her connection to the three men most intrinsically concerned. There was going to be trouble. He could feel it in his bones.

  Dulci Wycroft firmly believed trouble found you when you least expected it. She had an antidote for that: she expected trouble.

  Always.

  She’d learned early that collecting artefacts wasn’t exactly an old maid’s safe hobby. Not that she thought of herself as an old maid, although she’d reached the august age of twenty-six, trailing a string of six refusals of marriage behind her. Nor was she looking for safe.

  If she was, she wouldn’t be here, or a lot of the other places she’d been. Her hand flexed and closed around the small gun in her pocket, her sharp eyes alert to any suspicious movements in the dim interior of the dockside warehouse. Warehouses in the dock districts were not foreign venues to her. But this one, set in a rough part of Southwark, was by far the worst.

  She’d been glad she’d decided to bring her own unmarked coach instead of relying on public hansom cabs. She’d noticed that the deeper into the area she’d journeyed the presence of cabs had dried up, a sure testimony to the unsavoury nature of the environs, the noise and com parable respectability of Hays Wharf far behind them.

  A man moved from the shadows. Dulci tensed and then relaxed. She might not completely trust this man, but she knew him. He was her reason for being here in these rather questionable surroundings.

  He strode forwards, well-dressed and olive skinned. ‘Señorita, buenos días!’ he effused, lavishly bowing over her hand, too lavishly. Sweat lightly beaded his upper lip and Dulci noted immediately that the lavish gesture was a mask for the man’s anxiety. The usual self-confidence the man possessed seemed oddly absent today.

  Dulci withdrew her hand as soon as it was politely possible, her tones haughty and clipped. ‘Señor Vasquez, let us dispense with the plea san tries. What do you have for me that is so urgent it could not wait out the afternoon?’ Señor Vasquez’s note had ruled out the chance to catch the Royal Geographic Society’s lecture on the West Indies in its entirety, but with luck she might still make the last part.

  ‘I have artefacts from the Americas.’ He gestured towards an opened crate, but Dulci didn’t miss the quick dart of his eyes.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone else, señor?’ Dulci asked keenly, her own eyes conducting a quick investigation of the warehouse too.

  ‘I have many appointments, señorita. I merely wish you to see these items privately. They’re from Venezuela, your latest area of interest.’

  ‘Really?’ Dulci replied coolly, raising her eyebrows a fraction of an inch to indicate only mild appreciation. A display of unabashed delight would only serve to increase Señor Vasquez’s price.

  Dulci reached into the crate with one hand, parting the straw packing with one gloved hand. The other hand cautiously remained in her pocket, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on Señor Vasquez. Her hand met with stone and she pulled out a carved statue. Vasquez did indeed know her interests well.

  ‘It’s a zemi.’ Dulci fought hard to keep the rising excitement out of her voice, studying the object reverently in the poor light. The idol was devoid of any garments and the stone carving indicated breasts and a rounded belly. ‘It’s an idol of a native god, or goddess in this case. Unless I am completely mistaken, this is a fertility fetish.’ She stared at him in stark contemplation, oblivious to his discomfort at such frank discussion. ‘Did this come with a—?’

  ‘A bowl?’ Vasquez finished for her. ‘But of course, señorita.’ His eyes flashed with a mocking chagrin. ‘I would not give you only part of a set.’

  Dulci set down the carving and with both hands delved beneath the straw packing. She felt the shallow dip of a bowl. ‘Yes, there it is.’ She withdrew a stone bowl and set it in place. ‘There, Señor Vasquez, you can see how it all goes together. The idols are flat headed so that a stone bowl can be placed on top of their heads for worship.’

  ‘Buena, señorita. Name a price, and it shall be yours.’

  He seemed far too eager to get rid of her after the demanding note requiring an immediate meeting.

  ‘I would prefer to see the rest of the contents,’ Dulci said, proceeding to empty the crate and offering an exposition on each piece she extracted. ‘This is likely to be an amulet, this would be a metate, they used it for grinding seeds…’ She spoke absently, more to herself than for the edification of Señor Vasquez.

  Dulci dusted off her hands and surveyed the artefacts, seven in all. She was cognisant of the fact that Señor Vasquez had checked his watch twice while she’d unloaded the crate. He was clearly expecting someone else, or perhaps hoping to avoid the expected visitor. The collection was certainly splendid, but, while it was exciting to her, she had not forgot the urgency of Vasquez’s summons. ‘Is this everything?’

  ‘All but this final item.’ Vasquez handed her a worn leather book the size of a journal.

  She eyed him speculatively. ‘Saving the best for last?’

  Vasquez placed a hand over his heart. ‘I seek only to please you, señorita. I know how much you like to read. Look here, there’s even a few maps, very detailed.’

  Dulci thumbed the pages, noting the drawings of strange plants and places. ‘An explorer’s journ
al? Perhaps a missionary’s log?’ Dulci asked. It was written in English and she immediately thought of Jack. The journal would make a fine gift for him, a remembrance of his own work in that region a few years back. Not that he deserved such a gift after last night, she reminded herself.

  ‘I can only guess, señorita. My English is not good enough for reading,’ Vasquez hedged. ‘I am a mere importer.’

  Dulci was instantly suspicious. There was nothing ‘mere’ about Vasquez. The Spaniard was rich, his wealth made from the lucre of Spanish interests in South America. ‘How did you come by this book?’

  Vasquez shrugged gallantly. ‘It was in the same crate as the statue. It was on the last ship. I unpacked it and thought of you, that is all.’

  Nothing was ever that straight for ward. When it was, it was time to start asking the hard questions. ‘Are the artefacts stolen?’ Dulci cocked her head to one side in an assessing tilt. She’d done business with Vasquez before. He’d proven to be a reliable con tact, visiting London twice a year from Spain. Still, something didn’t seem quite right.

  ‘Of course not, I am a legitimate importer. Such chicanery would damage my reputation,’ Vasquez argued, putting on an offended air at the suggestion.

  ‘If they’re not stolen, then why the urgency? We had an appointment tomorrow morning. What difference can a day make?’

  ‘Ah, yes, señorita, please forgive me for worrying you. I must leave for home on the morning tide instead of leaving later in the week as I had planned. It is a personal matter. I did not want to leave without meeting with you.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘There are others who were interested in the artefacts. I am to meet with them tonight. But I confess I wanted you to have first pick.’

  Dulci nodded, her concern ebbing slightly in the wake of his explanation. The man was a con sum mate salesman. No doubt he’d arranged all this to increase his price. Urgency was a well-proven ploy for adding spice to a negotiation. ‘I’ll pay one hundred pounds for the crate and the journal.’

  ‘One hundred pounds? Madre de dios, but I could not part with them for such a sum.’ He pro tested neatly. ‘Surely you under stand, señorita, the effort to transport such goods across the Atlantic and bring them to London?’

  Dulci’s tone was brisk. ‘Surely you under stand, I am in no mood to haggle like a fishwife in the market. I am late for a much-anticipated lecture and you are fully cognisant of the fairness of my price.’

  ‘Because you are my favourite, I will indulge you.’ Vasquez relented with an exaggerated shrug. ‘A hundred pounds, señorita.’

  Dulci gave a curt nod. ‘Deliver the crate to my town house promptly and you’ll receive instructions for payment. If you are quick, you’ll have no trouble getting your money before you sail. As always, señor, it is a pleasure.’

  Vasquez bent over her hand. ‘The pleasure is most assuredly mine.’

  The pretty señorita had barely exited the building before he began rapidly packing up the artefacts. The sooner this crate was out of his hands, the better. He had not told her any lies: the artefacts were not stolen and he did have an urgent personal need to sail tomorrow—he valued his health. Having those artefacts found in his possession would endanger that health greatly.

  It had recently come to his notice through his vast networks that someone highly placed in the Venezuelan government wanted them in deadly earnest. The artefacts didn’t look particularly dangerous or valuable, just stone and wood carvings, most of them done with a crude skill at best.

  It didn’t matter. They could have been jewel studded and he’d still have wanted to be rid of them. Originally, he’d thought to make a tidy profit on them, but whoever wanted them had not wanted to purchase them. There’d been no interest in a business transaction. Whatever the reason, these items had not been meant to be seen by others. The possessor of these artefacts, for reasons he could not as certain, was as good as dead. The artefacts were out of his hands now. He was safe. He’d been careful to erase any mention of them in his ship’s manifesto and if his London warehouse was searched, they would find nothing that traced the artefacts back to him.

  He didn’t worry overmuch about the artefacts being discovered in the eccentric Señorita Wycroft’s possession. If the artefacts couldn’t be traced to him, they couldn’t be traced to her. He supposed it was entirely possible the objects could be found through other avenues, but that would be a random hap pen stance completely out of his control. In all probability, the artefacts and whatever they hid would fall into obscurity, displayed inside a nice glass curio case in the señorita’s town house. His ethical con science, such as it was, was clear. Señor Vasquez closed the lid on the crate and breathed a much-desired sigh of relief.

  Chapter Four

  Calisto Ortiz aimed a frustrated kick at an empty packing crate and swore in a fluid torrent of Spanish for all to hear. There was inept and then there was outright in competence. His men had bungled the job again. How hard was it to retrieve a map no one knew existed? Yet his men had failed to recover it in Venezuela after the map-maker had mistakenly packed it with his other archaeological finds for shipping back to Spain. Here in London, the map had slipped from their grasp a second time. After having tracked it to an importer named Vasquez, Ortiz had thought his work was nearly done. He simply had to run Vasquez to ground and claim the map. But he was too late. The warehouse was deserted, but only freshly so. The crates were empty and bore the markings of Spanish freight. They also looked new, lacking the dirt and gouges that often accompanied crates over time.

  Calisto Ortiz barked out new orders to his men. ‘Search the docks, maybe the ship hasn’t sailed yet. Search the taverns and inns for Vasquez too.’

  The men rushed to do his bidding, leaving him alone in the warehouse. Calisto upended a crate and sat down upon it, heaving a sigh. He cared less about finding the ship than he did about finding Vasquez. Vasquez was fast becoming a valuable link in this game for two reasons. The first reason was of a practical nature. If he didn’t find Vasquez and hence the map, it would mean the map was loose in London. The search would take on a needle-in-the-haystack quality.

  The second reason was more symbolic. Vasquez was moving fast. By all reports the ship had only been in London a short time ahead of his own arrival and now it was potentially gone, the warehouse cleared out. Vasquez knew he had something dangerous and he’d come to London to pass it on to someone, to unburden himself. It meant the map was no longer a well-guarded secret. The mission had now taken on two goals: retrieve the map and silence those who knew about it.

  Ortiz ran his hands through his dark hair, breathing deeply to calm his racing mind. He had to take one step at a time, one assumption at a time. Until he found Vasquez, he had no way of knowing if Vasquez understood the value of the map. It could be that Vasquez only knew he had something of dubious worth, but didn’t know what it was. Along with the map, there were figurines, zemis and metates. Then of course, he’d have to hunt down whomever Vasquez had sold the items to.

  He had to be prepared for best-and worst-case scenarios, the best being that the map had passed from hand to hand without anyone detecting its importance. The worst was that Vasquez did know the significance of the map and had sold it for a nice profit to someone who’d appreciate the map’s value in the discussions that would soon open up between the Venezuelan delegation and the British government in regards to the questionable border Venezuela shared with British Guiana.

  Calisto knew he played a dangerous double game, not only with the British but with the Venezuelan government as well—not that the latter would mind if they came out the victor. Some would claim the map was a forgery, but Calisto preferred to think of the map merely as potentially biased. He wouldn’t be the first person in history to sponsor a map-maker to tweak the boundaries a bit here and there. In all reality, the interior of British Guiana was so under explored, who could say where the borders really were?

  It would take years to disprove the boundari
es on his map and ownership was nine-tenths of the law, as the saying went. In the meanwhile, Venezuela would be in possession of a very lucrative piece of land containing riches untold and he and his uncle would be wealthy men.

  Everything would work out. He was a man who knew how to cover his tracks and follow all necessary leads. His men were hunting down Vasquez right now. There was nothing more he could do at the moment. He flipped open his pocket watch. He had just enough time to change and dine before the Danby rout. With luck, the delectable Lady Dulcinea would be in attendance without her surly polyglot friend.

  Luck was in short supply all around. The Danby rout was fully engaged by the time Jack arrived. He’d meant to come earlier in hopes of stealing a moment with Dulci before she was surrounded. He’d wanted to set the record straight about their most unfortunate interruption the prior evening. It was not how he imagined their reunion. But business had conspired against him. He’d spent the afternoon discreetly following Calisto Ortiz to an empty warehouse in a seedy part of Southwark.

  The unplanned adventure had been enlightening, posing several interesting questions, such as why a man of Ortiz’s station would be down at the docks. Ortiz’s behaviour had been telling as well. There was no doubt that whatever had taken place in the warehouse upset Ortiz greatly. As to what that might have been, Jack could only speculate. Although he’d explored the warehouse after Ortiz’s departure, he’d found nothing more than the same empty, Spanish-stamped crates that had upset Ortiz. By the time he’d reported his news to Gladstone and picked up his newly tailored waistcoat of deep periwinkle blue, afternoon had swiftly turned into evening, leaving him hard pressed to find time for a much-needed bath and toilette before setting out for the night.

  There was no hope of catching Dulci alone, a fact attested to by the sea of blue surrounding her four men deep. Squaring his shoulders and setting aside the cares of the day, Jack cut through the crowd of admirers to place himself in front of her. He made a courtly leg. ‘It appears I’ve more than fulfilled my commission, Lady Dulcinea.’ Jack gestured to the various hues of blue assembled about her. ‘I do believe I’ve saved the economy for a day.’