A Buccaneer at Heart

by Stephanie Laurens

  Robert halted. “Let’s see what the others turn up.”

  Gradually, the other three drifted back. Harris had found another inn, but was dubious about its quality. “Bit too run down and leery, I’m thinking. We’re supposed to be respectable, right?”

  Robert nodded and jerked his head toward the lane. “Let’s take a look at the place Benson found.”

  Benson’s find proved to be perfect for their needs. Only a few doors from the street connecting with Water Street, the inn was small, unassuming, and run by a stalwart couple, who, by their careful manner, clearly strove for security and respectability, and therefore also offered a degree of privacy to their guests.

  Posing as a trader visiting the settlement to determine what prospects for goods for Europe and the Americas the region might provide, Robert hired three decent-sized bedchambers—one for him and two for his four men to share.

  His men knew how to slip into the supporting roles he’d assigned them, bobbing respectfully to the landlady and dismissing with relaxed thanks the landlord’s offer to have their bags carried up.

  After reassuring the landlady that they wouldn’t be putting her to the trouble of making up a meal for them at such a late hour, Robert accepted a lighted lantern from his host and followed his men up the scrubbed wooden stairs.

  His room was neat and clean, the bed a touch more solid than a cot, with decent linens and a fine net looped over a metal circle suspended over the well-stuffed mattress. The room also contained a simple desk and a single straight-backed chair. Robert swiftly unpacked the few clothes and other items he’d brought with him and tossed his seabag into the narrow armoire.

  After discussing his options with Declan and Edwina, he’d decided to avoid the port and enter the settlement on foot, and subsequently to assume an identity and a purpose that would keep him well away from—essentially out of sight of—all the various local authorities. And even farther from local society.

  Declan had been here mere weeks ago, and too many would recognize the similarity between them. Robert’s hair was a darker shade of brown than Declan’s, and his features were a touch more austere, but they both had blue eyes and in so many other ways echoed each other physically that Edwina had been adamant that even if people didn’t recognize him as Robert Frobisher, they would definitely recognize him as a Frobisher.

  While Declan’s appearance in the settlement, explained by being on a honeymoon cruise with Edwina, would have passed muster well enough not to raise any suspicions, a second Frobisher turning up a month later would certainly make any villain with links to the authorities...twitchy, at the very least.

  Luckily, Robert wasn’t the least averse to what was—compared to where his usual missions landed him—slumming it. Posing as a trader meant he didn’t have to call on anyone, didn’t have to play the gentleman-diplomat-captain—didn’t have to do the pretty by anyone at all. He could simply get on with this mission—get started immediately on picking up the slavers’ trail, finding their camp, then heading back to England.

  In pursuit of that goal, he returned downstairs. His men were waiting just inside the inn’s door. At his nod, they all filed outside.

  Robert paused under the narrow porch that ran along the front of the inn. Looking into the darkness, listening to the distant yet raucous sounds emanating, no doubt, from the taverns lining the docks, he confirmed his bearings, then looked away from the harbor toward the now largely silent streets that terraced the slope of Tower Hill.

  All was quiet up there.

  “Time to learn the lie of the land.” Lips quirking, he glanced at his men and tipped his head toward the quieter quarter. “Let’s take a walk.” At this time of night, they could go all the way up to Fort Thornton itself, then descend and walk the length of Water Street, through the heart of the commercial district.

  In a loose group, they strode down the lane, then up the road to Water Street. They crossed the thoroughfare and started up the slope into the residential streets, dimly lit by flickering flares, beyond.

  They weren’t out to take the air. All of them scanned the streets, taking note of landmarks, occasionally turning to look down at the settlement and the harbor beyond. Sauntering along, Robert slid his hands into his pockets. “We’ll save the docks for last.”

  That was where the greatest danger of him—or even his men—being recognized lay, but by then, most of those sober enough to trust their eyes would have gone back to their bunks, and those remaining would pose no real threat.

  When they reached the precinct of the fort, a jumble of buildings squatting behind a timber palisade, they hugged the shadows, careful to avoid the sentries keeping watch from the flare-lit area before the gates.

  “How they expect to see anyone with all that light about, God only knows,” Coleman muttered.

  “Oh, they’ll see ’em,” Fuller replied. “Just too late to save themselves.”

  Robert’s lips twitched at the sneering comments. Even though his men weren’t navy, they had a seafarer’s contempt for those who served on the land.

  As they headed down the hill again, Robert felt satisfied with the day’s progress. By the time they returned to their beds, they would have a working knowledge of the settlement, enough to see them through their mission.

  Enough to be able to start investigating properly tomorrow.

  The inn would provide a safe base. Undoto’s church and the tavern the old sailor Sampson frequented were a little farther up and around the hill—easy to walk to from the inn. The slum where the priestess Lashoria lived also lay in that general direction, but farther away from the settlement’s center.

  While they ambled down the length of Water Street, noting the shops and offices along the way, Robert reviewed his potential contacts—Lashoria, Sampson, and Babington. Of the three, Babington was the one Robert felt least confident about asking for help. He knew Babington better than Declan did; they’d crossed paths several times. Babington was a shrewd negotiator, more so because he didn’t appear to be outwardly aggressive—much like Robert himself. In Robert’s opinion, Babington was not properly appreciated by his own family. He was largely wasted here, essentially playing nursemaid to Macauley—who, heaven knew, needed, and would accept, no one’s help.

  Babington might prove to be a valuable ally, but attempting to recruit him might also be a big mistake, depending on where his loyalties lay. Robert had no intention of revealing any of the mission’s more pertinent details—such as their belief that there was a diamond-mining operation involved—unless he could first satisfy himself as to what Babington’s priorities truly were.

  Given that dealing with Babington might not be straightforward, Robert decided to call on Sampson first. Declan and Edwina had suggested that interviewing Lashoria would be best done in the evening, so he’d start his day with Sampson and see where the trail took him from there.

  He’d been following the direction his men had been taking without any real thought. Refocusing, he discovered they’d circled around and down to the end of Government Wharf.

  His men halted at the steps leading down to the wharf itself; they glanced his way as he joined them.

  To their left, Government Wharf extended into the harbor. While there appeared to be no navy frigates moored there or anywhere else in sight, Robert studied the long line of merchant vessels tied up and slowly rising and falling on the gentle swell. “Not along the wharf.”

  Too dangerous. Too many merchant captains knew his face.

  He looked ahead, along the main quay and the row of buildings fronting it. Most were government offices, agencies, harbormaster’s quarters, and the like. The now diminishing sounds of revelry drifted from lanes and alleys that ran back from the quay. There were no taverns directly facing the water.

  He started down the steps. “Along the quay to the end. We can get back to ou
r inn that way.”

  And tomorrow he’d make a start on finding the slavers’ trail. The sooner he did, the faster he’d learn where their camp was hidden, and then he would be on his way back to London and the challenge of finding a wife.

  As he imagined was the case for most men, a large part of him instinctively recoiled from even contemplating that final task. Yet as he stretched his legs and strolled through the humid dark, he discovered that one small part of his mind was already cautiously questing, imagining and envisioning his ideal wife.

  * * *

  The morning after the epiphany that if she wanted to discover any nefarious dealings, she would need to watch Undoto in the dark hours rather than in the full light of day, Aileen stood in her bedchamber and surveyed the items she’d spread on the chintz counterpane.

  Clothing came first. She’d left the bulk of her wardrobe with her friend in Russell Square, so she had limited choices. But she’d had time between booking her passage and her departure from London to purchase four simple outfits—skirts with matching jackets—in lightweight cotton. The modistes had only just started to create such garments for the English summer, and they’d cost a pretty penny, but since arriving in the settlement, she’d been glad of her foresight.

  The most useful outfit for any nighttime excursion would be the one in deep blue twill. Although the ensemble was intended to be worn with an ivory blouse, she’d bought a silk blouse in the same shade of dark blue with some thought of possibly needing to pass herself off as a widow.

  She hadn’t had to employ the subterfuge, but that had left her with a dark-colored outfit she’d yet to don; the unrelenting heat of the days had dissuaded her from wearing the darker shade.

  “With a hat and veil...” She grimaced and looked at the bureau, at her one and only hat, a villager style in straw, sitting perched on the bureau’s top. She wrinkled her nose. “Entirely unsuitable.”

  But she’d seen a small milliner’s shop tucked in a side street off Water Street. She glanced again at the clothes she’d laid out, then down at what she was wearing—one of the jacket-and-skirt ensembles in a soft lemon yellow with an ivory blouse. She wouldn’t need the hat or the darker clothes until the evening; if she accomplished what she hoped to by midafternoon, she would have plenty of time to call in at the milliner’s and find something more appropriate. “Along with a good swath of black netting for a veil.”

  She felt sure any milliner would have black netting to hand; no doubt the settlement had funerals enough.

  With her clothes and headgear decided, she turned to her open suitcases, located her gloves, and discovered she’d packed a pair of mid-length black gloves. “Perfect.” Laying the pair aside, she looked down. Raising her skirts, she regarded her dusty half boots. “More than adequate for creeping about in.”

  She released her skirts and smoothed them down. Sartorially speaking, she had everything she needed.

  “Next—equipment.” She reached into one suitcase, underneath her clothes at the very back, and drew out what appeared to be a jeweler’s box, along with a silk roll of the sort ladies used to carry pearls.

  She crossed to the small desk and placed both items on the surface. Smiling to herself, she sat on the stool, opened the jeweler’s box, and surveyed the tiny American-made pistol her eldest brother had given her for her last birthday. She’d already known how to shoot a pistol, but she’d practiced diligently with the smaller weapon and now counted herself an excellent shot, at least at appropriate range.

  Just to check, she untied the cords about the jewelry roll and spread it open, revealing a pair of sharp daggers and a whetstone. Satisfied she had everything she would need, she returned her attention to the pistol; after gently easing it from its velvet bed, she hefted the familiar weight in her hand.

  Carefully, she put it down, lifted out the cleaning supplies that had been nestled alongside it, and settled to clean the weapon.

  The exercise, something she’d done many times in the past, freed her thoughts to wander. She was convinced Will’s disappearance was somehow connected with Undoto; she intended, therefore, to watch the priest, evening and night, until she saw whatever there was to be seen.

  Her lips firmed; her gaze was fixed on the pistol in her hands, her eyes not truly seeing. “There has to be something.” Something about Undoto that had caused Will to haunt his services. Some link that would lead from Undoto to Will.

  After reassembling the pistol, she laid it aside and picked up the whetstone and one of the knives.

  As the sound of the whetstone passing along the blade filled her ears, she forced herself to face the fact that she had no idea if she would find anything—would stumble upon anything pertinent—by watching Undoto, but she had no other clue, no other avenue to follow.

  So she would follow this one and see where it led.

  The resolution had her reviewing the practicalities of what she’d planned. “First—find out where Undoto lives.”

  That would be easy enough, but she would need transportation.

  * * *

  Robert found Sampson exactly where he’d expected him to be—in the taproom of the tavern above which he lived.

  The old sailor was seated at a table in the corner; head down, he was scanning a news-sheet and didn’t look up when Robert and his four men entered the low-ceilinged room.

  Despite the relatively early hour, Robert bought a round of ale for his men, himself, and an extra for Sampson, then carrying Sampson’s drink as well as his own, he crossed to the table at which the old man sat.

  When Robert halted before the table, Sampson deigned to look up. And up.

  When Sampson’s gaze found Robert’s face, the old tar blinked, then sat back, the better to view him.

  Robert smiled and gestured with the mugs of ale. “Mind if we join you?”

  Sampson glanced at the other four hanging respectfully back; he identified them as fellow seafarers and grinned. “Not at all.” He nodded at the four in welcome, then his gaze returned to Robert’s face as Robert placed the mugs of ale on the table and pushed one toward him. “Thank ye. Looks like me mornin’ just became more interesting.”

  He scrutinized Robert as he settled on the stool opposite. “Was it your brother who was here before, then? Cap’n Frobisher?”

  Robert nodded. “Yes. My younger brother.”

  Sampson studied Benson, Fuller, Harris, and Coleman as they pulled up stools, sat, and sipped their ale. He looked back at Robert. “You’re another Cap’n Frobisher, then?”

  Robert dipped his head in assent and took a long pull of his ale. The taste was distinctly different, but it was recognizably ale. Lowering the mug, he met Sampson’s inquisitive eye. “We’re here to follow the trail my brother blazed.”

  Sampson sobered. “Aye. Good thing, too. I’d noticed people not turning up to Undoto’s services even before your brother came, but I don’t go farther afield in the settlement, so I just thought they’d growed bored with it and hadn’t bothered coming back. But your brother and his men said people had vanished, and I gather that’s still true.”

  “Indeed. We’re trying to find out where they’ve gone, with a view to staging a rescue. My brother suggested you’d be amenable to helping us out with information.”

  Sampson nodded. “Happy to help any way I can.” His lips twisted wryly. “And these days, supplying information is about my limit.”

  “Nevertheless, we appreciate your help.” Robert sipped, then said, “What can you tell us about any changes in behavior of those you see regularly? Especially any changes since my brother was here.”

  “Hmm.” Sampson’s brow creased in thought. He lifted the mug of ale and sipped, absentmindedly savoring the taste before he swallowed and said, “The most notable change would have to be her ladyship—Lady Holbrook. She stopped coming to Undoto’s se
rvices some weeks back. Thinking on it, her stopping would have been just after your brother sailed.” Sampson flicked Robert a shrewd glance. “Bit abrupt, that seemed—he and his ship were here one day and gone the next.”

  Robert acknowledged the point with a nod. “He had his wife with him.”

  Sampson nodded readily. “I remember her—pretty little thing.”

  Robert’s lips eased. “In her case, you don’t want to be fooled by the prettiness. But she and my brother ran into strife courtesy of his—their—investigations, and they had to draw back. I’m their replacement—the next stage of the investigation.”

  “Aye, well, there haven’t been any other major changes in those I see, other than Lady Holbrook not coming to Undoto’s services anymore, and for all I know, she might just have lost interest, or taken to her bed ill, or have too much to do.”

  “Do you know if Holbrook himself is currently in the settlement?”

  “Far as I’ve heard—or rather, I’ve heard nothing about him sailing off anywhere.” Sampson grinned. “But I don’t exactly swan about in those circles, so I can’t rightly say what the governor’s been up to.”

  Robert nodded. “I’ll check with others.” He would have to; Wolverstone and Melville would be waiting to learn which way the wind blew with Holbrook. He watched Sampson down a large mouthful of ale. “Have you heard any whispers of people going missing recently, or of any other odd happenings?”

  Sampson pursed his lips. After a moment, he said, “Haven’t heard anything about anyone on Tower Hill being gone, but I did hear about the docks that some navvies didn’t turn up where they were expected. But hereabouts, no one can say if they’ve vanished like those others, or if they just upped stakes and went off to some better prospect, or took work on some ship.” Sampson shrugged his heavy shoulders. “No way to know, is there?”

  “Indeed.” That was half the problem in this case; in this sort of place, so many people were disconnected drifters.