Samantha

by Andrea Kane

  "Why?"

  He started. "Why? Because if you bare your heart before the entire ton, you'll have no protection from the unscrupulous blackguards of the world."

  "As I said yesterday, you'll protect me." Sammy lay her hand on his. "So I feel quite safe."

  She turned to gaze out the window.

  Strangely moved, Rem stared down at the small hand covering his. Her faith was staggering; as astounding as it was misplaced. What the hell was he going to do with her?

  "Oh look, Remington! There's Hatchard's!" Sammy was out of the carriage almost before it stopped, leaving a bewildered footman staring after her.

  Rem helped Millie alight with a sympathetic chuckle. The poor lady's maid looked positively stricken, as if she had no idea what to do next. Not that Rem could blame her. Acting as Samantha's chaperon was a bit like standing in the path of an oncoming tidal wave.

  "Why don't you have a seat, Millie?" he suggested, gesturing toward the row of benches outside Hatchard's, where a line of patient servants awaited their employers. "I'm certain we shan't be long."

  "Oh, thank you, m'lord." Millie curtsied, then darted to the bench like a relieved prisoner whose life had just been spared.

  Still grinning, Rem entered the bookstore, scanning the busy room for Samantha. He met three colleagues with whom he gambled at White's before he spotted her, submerged in a copy of Mansfield Park.

  "Enjoying yourself, imp?"

  Sammy raised glowing eyes to his. "Yes ... immensely. I've already spied four or five new Gothics I have yet to read, and, of course"—she caressed the book lovingly—"this."

  "Don't let me disturb you. I'll select the volumes I need for my library. You'll find me by the fire reading the dailies."

  "Mmm ... I'll just be a minute." Sammy was already reimmersed in her book.

  An hour later Rem was still settled by Hatchard's fireplace. He picked up a copy of the London Times and began scanning the pages containing news. Abruptly, the words:

  BRITISH SHIPS CONTINUE TO VANISH MYSTERIOUSLY sprang out at him.

  "Bloody hell," he muttered, poring over the article.

  It was as bad as he feared. Despite the sketchy details provided, there was enough information to cause alarm among the business community. Concern was escalating proportionately with the number of missing ships. A few more articles such as this, and England's trading partners would balk, her insurance rates soar—and havoc would be wreaked on the English economy. He had to unearth the culprit, and soon.

  "Have you finished your business?" Sammy asked from beside his elbow.

  "No. That is, yes, I'm finished here." Rem slapped down the paper.

  Sammy frowned at his brusqueness. "Did I tarry too long?"

  "No, of course not." He rose. "I was just engrossed in an article."

  Reflexively, Samantha glanced down at the page Rem had been reading. "So many ships lost," she murmured, shaking her head in obvious distress. "It seems that British waters are no longer safe."

  He tensed like a bowstring. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because, as you've obviously just read, quite a few ships have gone down these past months. One of the lost schooners was built by Barrett Shipping. Drake is very concerned and very angry." At the speculative lift of Rem's brows, she explained, "If you know my brother, you know that he is an extremely proud and volatile man. Even the vaguest suggestion that his family's company would produce an inferior quality vessel sends him into a tirade."

  "Has someone actually accused—"

  "No, of course not. Anyone who's had business dealings with Drake knows he's the most honorable, trustworthy—"

  "I agree," Rem interrupted. Nonchalantly, he refolded the newspaper. "Has your brother any clue as to what might have caused his ship to go down?"

  "None." Sammy shook her head. "But all of our colleagues are becoming increasingly alarmed. Barrett Shipping has been lucky—we've lost only one ship. Some of our competitors have suffered more severe losses. Why, I overheard Lord Hartley, an old and dear friend of Father's, telling Drake that three vessels manufactured by his shipbuilding company have been lost in as many months."

  "A significant number," Rem agreed, vividly recalling the detailed list Briggs had given him at Boydry's. Yes, three of the missing ships had been Hartley's, while only one had been built by Barrett Shipping. Samantha's information was indeed accurate—remarkably so.

  An unwanted idea materialized in Rem's brain.

  "You're acquainted with many people in the shipbuilding industry, are you not?" he asked casually.

  "I suppose so ... Why?"

  Rem fought a raging battle with his conscience, and won. A link was a link and had to be taken. "I'm impressed, that's all. I hadn't realized you were so involved in your brother's business."

  "You

  hadn't realized I had grown past the age of six." Her quip broke through the rapid-fire pace of his thoughts, and he smiled—a bone-melting smile. "But you have grown, haven't you, Samantha?" he murmured huskily.

  "Indeed I have," Sammy replied, lifting her chin a notch. "Quite a bit, actually."

  "It seems I have a lot to discover about Lady Samantha Barrett."

  "Then I suggest you begin at once."

  Years of discipline silenced pangs of guilt. "I intend to, imp. I intend to."

  4

  A nearby clock chimed one.

  Rem swung open the door to Annie's, pausing while his eyes adjusted to the sudden burst of gaslight and bustle of activity. As one of Shadwell's few clean, uninfested brothels, Annie's boasted a wealth of decent liquor, continuous music and dancing, and a host of attractive, accommodating women—all of which resulted in a thriving clientele.

  Automatically, Rem peered beyond the sailors whirling their enthusiastic partners about the floor, and the rows of gin-swilling couples occupying the benches on either side of the long room. It never occurred to him to search among the raucous merriment for his men—they knew better than to partake in pleasure before business was concluded.

  Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of Boyd seated at a far corner table mere seconds before Annie sauntered up to him. "Hello, Rem," she greeted him above the drunken din. "It's good to see you."

  Turning his attention to the buxom, flaxen-haired woman be knew to be as sharp in business as any man, Rem grinned. "Annie, my love." Gallantly, he kissed her hand. "You're looking more beautiful than I remembered. It's been far too long."

  Amused awareness twinkled in Annie's shrewd blue eyes. "If I didn't know you so well, I'd believe you, Gresham. But I do know you, ever since you first took to the sea. Flattery passes through your lips more naturally than gin. There's not a woman alive who stands a chance of resisting you. And you bloody well know it."

  Rem chuckled. "I've been properly chastised."

  "Besides, what you're looking for at the moment isn't a willing lady." Hands on ample hips, Annie inclined her head toward Boyd. "They're waiting for you."

  "Thanks, love."

  "Rem." She stayed him with her hand. "As far as later— do you want me to make arrangements? Katrina is free."

  "Katrina is many things, Annie, but never free."

  Annie gave a throaty laugh. "True. But she's beautiful, young, and firmly refusing to entertain any other customers since the last time you were here. Apparently, you made quite an impression; one that's costing me considerable income."

  "Now who's stooping to false flattery?" Rein's tone was dry. "Lest you've forgotten, my sexual prowess is not the cause of Katrina's recent selectiveness. That you can attribute to the ample compensation I provided her—and you— in order to enable her to be more discerning. If I estimated correctly, my payment exceeded what Katrina normally earns in a month."

  "That helped, of course. Without it I'd never be allowing her to remain so particular." Annie gave a frank shrug. "Be that as it may, she wants only you."

  "Then I am flattered. But as you yourself said, my mind is currently cluttered with pressing busine
ss matters. I wouldn't be very good company."

  "That's debatable. But assuming such is the case, what about when those business matters have been resolved?"

  "Let's explore that possibility later, shall we? In the interim"—Rem flashed her one of his dazzling smiles—"I promise you won't go hungry. Between the bottles of gin the lot of us will consume and the temptation your lovely ladies provide to my men, the evening promises to be most lucrative."

  "I'm certain it will be. Believe me, Gresham, much as I adore your devastatingly handsome face, I wouldn't allow you to hoard precious space in my establishment for your mystery meetings if I didn't expect the visits to be profitable. Business is business." Annie tossed him a saucy grin.

  Rem threw back his head and laughed. "You're incomparable, Annie—a constant source of wonder."

  "In more ways than one." She leaned into Rem, her deeply cut bodice tantalizingly exposed. "My long time offer still stands, you know. I never mingle with my customers, but with you ... I'd make an exception." With a wink, she sauntered off.

  Chuckling, Rem weaved his way through the crowd.

  "Rem." Boyd nodded a greeting, handing Rem a mug.

  "Thanks." All traces of amusement gone, Rem slid into an empty chair, his eyes on the two men seated across the table. "Templar. Harris."

  "Hello, Gresham." Templar, a slight, scattered, nervous-looking man was, in truth, the complete antithesis of what his appearance implied. Actually, the wiry fellow possessed nerves of steel and an aptitude for details rivaled by none. "What's this case about?"

  Rem lit a cheroot, then took a liberal swallow of gin. "What has Boyd told you?"

  "The same thing he always tells us before we meet with you. Nothing." Harris, tall and sallow, was nondescript enough to blend into any crowd, and dull enough, once there, to be overlooked. These traits worked beautifully in his favor, for his lightning-quick mind missed nothing, his flawless memory retained it all, and his gut instincts knew just when to act on it.

  As always, Rem had chosen well.

  "Here's the situation. I'm sure it's no secret to you that an unusual number of British ships have inexplicably disappeared. Our job is to find out why."

  "What you really mean, is who," Harris qualified.

  "Exactly. It could be privateers, foreign ships ... or culprits right here in England."

  "Which one do you want us to look into first?"

  Rem regarded the glowing tip of his cheroot thoughtfully. "Let's suppose, for a moment, that the criminal—or criminals—are English. What could they hope to gain?"

  "Money," Templar chimed in at once. "From the booty they take, you mean?" "Or the insurance," Harris added quietly.

  "Precisely." Rem gave Harris a mock salute. "So, while Boyd and I are investigating the possibilities of privateers or enemy activity, you will be exploring more local avenues—a delicate task indeed."

  "How so?"

  "Think about it, Templar. If insurance money is the motivating factor, then who serves to collect?"

  "Whoever has cargo on the lost ship."

  "Or the ship's owner," Harris added.

  "Right. And in the case of the latter, you'll be dealing with wealthy businessmen. Men who would take grave exception to being accused of committing a felony."

  "How are we supposed to get information from these ship owners?"

  "Ask them for it," Rem returned calmly.

  "We can't do that, Gresham." Harris came to his feet. "No matter how discreet we are. We'd need to see their records in order to learn anything. What reason would we give for barging in and demanding to do so?"

  "You wouldn't need a reason."

  "What the hell does that mean? Even your name is not powerful enough to gain us access—"

  "My name is not to be used." Rem's voice cut through Harris's tirade like a lethal sword. "Ever. Under any circumstances." He leaned forward, all coiled fury and suppressed strength. "Just as it never has been ... and as it never will be. Right, Harris?"

  Harris sank back into his seat, "Of course, Gresham. I was merely making a point."

  "Your point is justified." Rem eased back, tossing off his gin. "But as I said, you won't need to fabricate a reason. The magistrate will provide you with a legitimate one."

  "What?" Both Harris and Templar gaped.

  "I'll see to it that the Bow Street Magistrate happens upon a situation that will require his runners to investigate various companies ... these companies, specifically." Rem took a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket.

  "How?"

  "You leave that to me." Smoothing out the page, Rem continued. "Take this list. Once I provide you with the magistrate's order, I want you to call on all these establishments in an official capacity—quickly, before they can be alerted to your forthcoming visit. Some of the names here are of merchants, others are of powerful shipping magnates. I want their records fully examined, with any unusual expenses or income duly noted. Should you discover anything out of the ordinary, report it to me at once.

  "Over and above these scheduled visits, your services will be required to assist Boyd at the docks. I've already hired men to scrutinize the Thames, but I need trained officials to question any unorthodox-looking sailors, sea captains, or dock workers. Use whatever means of persuasion you deem necessary ... and if that fails, let me know. Skeletons lurk in everyone's closet, and I'm quite adept at finding them." Rem flicked his ash carelessly. "So is Boyd. It's amazing how the casual mention of an indiscretion encourages a man to talk freely, isn't it?"

  "Indeed it is." Boyd refilled his mug.

  "As always," Rem added, "the docks are Boyd's turf; he is completely in charge. Follow his orders unconditionally. Is that clear?"

  Harris and Templar nodded.

  "Did I omit anything?"

  It wasn't the Bow Street men Rem was consulting, but Boyd.

  "I see no problems."

  "Good." Rem turned back to the other men. "Any questions?"

  "Only one." Uncomfortably, Templar scuffed the tip of his boot along the wooden floor. "About payment..."

  "Ah, yes, I almost forgot," Rem interrupted. "This is a complicated dilemma that must be resolved swiftly and cleanly with a minimum of public knowledge. If—I should say when—you've accomplished that goal, you'll receive twice your normal amount."

  "Twice?"

  "Yes. Does that suit you?"

  Templar raised his mug in satisfied tribute. "You're a generous man, Gresham."

  "And a determined one." Rem pushed his own drink away. "I'll be in touch."

  "You're leaving?" Known for his ability to remain unruffled at all costs, Boyd now looked positively startled.

  "We're finished for tonight."

  "But. . ."

  Rem grinned. "Enjoy yourselves men." He turned to go.

  "Rem?" Boyd caught his arm, speaking in low tones so as not to be overheard. "Are you all right?"

  "Of course. Why?"

  "You know damned well why. It's not like you to decline a night with a beautiful woman. Do you have other plans?" He shot Rem a look that no one but Boyd could get away with. "With Lady Samantha Barrett, for example?"

  Rem stiffened. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "Did you return her carriage?"

  "Yes."

  "And . . . ?"

  "And nothing. I told you—she's a bloody child, for God's sake!"

  "A child who seems to have the most unusual effect on you. Are you sure you did no more than drop off her carriage?"

  "Yes. Why? Did you think I tumbled her in her brother's Town house?"

  "Testy, aren't we?"

  "Don't push me, Boyd."

  "Don't get in over your head, Rem."

  "I have my reasons."

  "You always do."

  "Not those kind of reasons." Rem shook his arm free. "Look, if you want to hear my motives, I'm on my way home. You're welcome to join me. If you'd prefer to indulge in Annie's entertainment, I understand. But I won't discuss Samanth
a with you while standing in a brothel. So which is it?"

  "I'll get my coat."

  "Do you want another drink?"

  "Thanks, no ... I've had my fill." Boyd folded his arms behind his head and settled himself on a straight-backed chair in Rem's study.

  Rem poured himself a brandy.

  "Evidently, you haven't," Boyd noted dryly.

  "Haven't what?"

  "Had your fill. Is the brandy for pleasure or courage?"

  "I'm not enjoying your barbs tonight, Boyd." Perching on the edge of his desk, Rem raised the glass to his lips. A sudden image flashed through his mind, of Samantha's mortified face when she'd downed half a goblet of brandy in two gulps. Her charming, transparent attempt at sophistication had blown up in her beautiful, disappointed face.

  He'd actually felt her unwarranted shame, and his response had been instant and fierce—he had to restore her smile and resurrect her spirit. Hatchard's had been the ideal solution; seeing her lost in her joyous world of books had given him more satisfaction than—

  "Rem?"

  Boyd's questioning voice yanked Rem from his musings. "What?"

  "Where are you tonight? You're staring at that brandy as I if there were somebody in it."

  "Sorry." Rem sipped his drink, then placed it on his desk. "Templar and Harris will do quite well, don't you think?"

  "You know they will. We're not here to talk about Templar and Harris. In fact, we're not here to discuss business at ail. We're here to talk about Samantha Barrett."

  "I beg to disagree with you, Boyd. Samantha Barrett is business."

  Boyd frowned. "You've lost me."

  Rem extracted his copy of Briggs's list. "Did you read the names of the shipping companies on this list?"

  "Of course."

  "Did you notice that one of them was Barrett Shipping?"

  "You knew Samantha was Drake Barrett's sister. What's the great revelation?"