The second man continued to frown into his glass. “If I’m remembering aright, Frobisher’s ship was in the harbor that night. It wasn’t there the next day—they must have left on the morning tide.”
The first man humphed. “Word is that they—Frobisher and Lady Edwina—were on their honeymoon and were headed to Cape Town to visit family there. If that’s so, then even if it was Lady Edwina who Lady H drugged—God alone knows why the silly bitch would do such a thing, but if she did—I can’t imagine we’ll hear any more about it.”
The third man stared at the first. “But...surely Frobisher will lodge some sort of official complaint with Holbrook?”
The first man grinned. “I doubt it. Lady Edwina’s the daughter of a duke—very highly placed within society in London. I really can’t see Frobisher wanting to draw attention to his wife being in the hands of the likes of Kale’s men, in the night, in the slum, no one else about. Not the sort of thing he’d want known about his wife.”
“I agree.” The second man nodded. “He’s got her back, and by the sounds of it, no harm done. He’ll leave it at that.” He paused, then added, “If Frobisher had wanted to make anything of it, he wouldn’t have sailed without pounding on Holbrook’s desk. He didn’t, so I agree—that’s that.” He cut a glance at the third man. “No need to borrow trouble on that account.”
The first man leaned his chin on one hand. “And I don’t think we need to fear Lady H giving us up to anyone, either. She has far more to lose than we do. The only reason she agreed to Undoto’s suggestion was for the money—that’s really all she cared about. And if it was Lady Edwina she tried to drug and send off to Kale, then once she learned that Lady Edwina had been rescued, I can quite understand Lady H wanting to make herself scarce. I would, too. But if that’s the case, it’s better for us that she’s taken herself off—we wouldn’t want her to be waiting here to be asked any awkward questions if any are ever directed this way.”
The second man grunted. “She doesn’t know enough to point the finger at us, anyway.”
The first man dipped his head. “True. But she might have pointed at Undoto, or given up her contact with Kale, and that might have started things unraveling... No. Overall, we should be glad she’s gone. But if she has done a flit for good and all, then the one thing we do need to work on is how to cover for her expertise.” The first man looked at the other two and raised his brows. “Any notion how we’re to vet those we take to make sure their disappearance doesn’t set off any alarms?”
Silence ensued.
Finally, the second man raked his hand through his thick black hair. “Let’s leave that for now, but keep alert for any possible other way. As of this moment, Dubois has enough men for his needs.”
“But he says he’ll need more,” the first man countered. “He said Dixon’s not far from opening up the second tunnel, and once he does, if we want to increase production like we’ve promised our backers, then Dubois will need more men.”
“So he’ll need them soon, but not immediately.” The second man nodded. “No need to panic. We’ll find a way.”
“What about women and children?” the third man asked.
“Dubois said he has enough of both for now.” The first man turned his glass between his hands. “He won’t need more until they start hauling rock from the second tunnel.”
The three fell silent, then the second man humphed. “I hope Dixon can be trusted to do what’s needed.”
The first man’s lips quirked. “Dubois was very confident that in order to keep Miss Frazier safe and unmolested, Dixon will perform exactly as we wish.”
The second man grinned. “I have to say that Dubois’s notion of using the women’s safety to control the men has proved nothing short of inspired.”
The first man grunted and pushed away his empty glass. “Just as long as the men don’t think ahead and realize that, when we have all we need from them, it’s all going to come to the same thing in the end.”
* * *
A gray dawn was breaking far to the east as Robert steered The Trident down the last stretch of the Solent. The day was overcast and blustery, the waves a choppy gray-green, but the wind gusted from the northeast, which made it damned near perfect sailing, at least to him.
He’d risen in the small hours and had jockeyed The Trident into position to be one of the first ships to heel out on the surging tide. With the way clear before the prow, he’d called up the sails in rapid succession. Ships like The Trident were best sailed hard, with as much canvas flying as possible; they were designed to race over the waves.
The buoys at the Solent’s mouth came into view, rising and falling on the swell. Robert corrected course, then, as the first of the Channel’s rolling waves hit, swung the wheel. He called rapid sail changes as the ship heeled; the crew scurried and shouts flew as the sails were adjusted, then The Trident was shooting into the darker waters of the Channel, prow unerringly on the correct heading to take them out into the Atlantic on the most southerly tack.
Once the ship steadied, he checked the sails, then, satisfied, handed the wheel to his lieutenant, Jordan Latimer. “Keep her running as hard as you can. I’ll be back for the next change.” That would come when they swung even further to the south to commence the long haul to Freetown.
Latimer grinned and snapped off a salute. “Aye, aye. I take it we’re in a hurry?”
Robert nodded. “Believe it or not, The Cormorant made the trip back in twelve days.”
“Twelve?” Latimer let his disbelief show.
“Royd put a new finish on the hull and fiddled with the rudder. Apparently, if running under full sail, it shaves off nearly a sixth in time—Declan’s master reported The Cormorant was noticeably faster even on the run from Aberdeen to Southampton.”
Latimer shook his head wonderingly. “Pity we didn’t have time for Royd and his boys to doctor The Trident before we set out. We’ll never make it in twelve days.”
“True.” Robert turned to descend to the main deck. “But there’s no reason we can’t make it in fifteen, as long as we keep the sails up.”
If the winds held steady, they would. He went down the ladder to the main deck, then paced along the starboard side, checking knots, pulleys, and the set of the spars, listening to the creak of the sails—the little things that reassured him that all was right with his ship.
Halting near the bow, he glanced back and checked the wake, all but unconsciously noting the way the purling wave broke and the angle of the hull’s cant. Seeing nothing of concern, he turned and looked ahead to where, in the far distance, the clouds gave way to blue skies.
With luck, when they reached the Atlantic, the weather would clear, and he would be able to cram on yet more sail.
The ship lurched, and he gripped the rail; as the deck righted, he leaned against the side, his gaze idly sweeping the seas ahead.
As he’d predicted, it had taken three days for The Trident to sail from London to Southampton and to be adequately provisioned from the company’s stores there. Add fourteen more days for the journey south, and it would be eighteen days since he’d agreed to this mission before he sighted Freetown. Fourteen full days before he could start.
To his surprise, impatience rode him. He wanted this mission done and squared away.
The why of that had been difficult to define, but last night, as he’d lain in his bed in the large stern cabin—his cold, lonely, and uninspiring bed—he’d finally got a glimpse of what was driving his uncharacteristically unsettling emotions.
After three full days spent with Declan and Edwina, he wanted what Declan had. What his brother had found with Edwina—the happiness, and the home.
Until he’d seen it for himself, until he’d experienced Declan’s new life, he hadn’t appreciated just how deeply the need and want of a hearth of his own was entrenched
in his psyche.
Put simply, he envied what Declan had found and wanted the same for himself.
All well and good—he knew what that required. A wife. The right sort of wife for a gentleman like him—and that was definitely not a sparkling, effervescent, diamond-of-the-first-water like Edwina.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his wife would be like—he had yet to spend sufficient time dwelling on the prospect—but he viewed himself as a diplomat, a man of quieter appetites than Royd or Declan, and his style of wife should reflect that, or so he imagined.
Regardless, all plans in that regard had been put on hold. This mission came first.
Which, of course, was why he was so keen to have it over and done.
He pushed away from the side and headed for the companionway. He dropped down to the lower deck and made his way to his cabin. Spacious and neatly fitted with everything he needed for a comfortable life on board, the cabin extended all the way across the stern.
Settling into the chair behind the big desk, he opened the lowest drawer on the right and drew out his latest journal.
Keeping a journal was a habit he’d acquired from his mother. In the days in which she’d sailed the seas with his father, she’d kept a record of each day’s happenings. There was always something worthy of note. He’d found her journals as a boy and had spent months working his way through them. The insight those journals had afforded him of all the little details of life on board influenced him to this day; the impact they’d had on his view of sailing as a way of life was quite simply incalculable.
And so he’d taken up the practice himself. Perhaps when he had sons, they would read his journals and see the joys of this life, too.
Today, he wrote of how dark it had been when they’d slipped their moorings and pulled away from the wharf, and of the huge black-backed gull he’d seen perched on one of the buoys just outside the harbor mouth. He paused, then let his pen continue to scratch over the paper, documenting his impatience to get started on this mission and detailing his understanding of what completing it would require of him. To him, the latter was simple, clear, and succinct: Go into the settlement of Freetown, pick up the trail of the slavers, follow them to their camp—and then return to London with the camp’s location.
With a flourish, he set a final period to the entry. “Cut and dried.”
He set down his pen and read over what he’d written. By then, the ink had dried. Idly, he flicked back through the closely written pages, stopping to read entries here and there.
Eventually, he stopped reading and stared unseeing as what lay before him fully registered. Unbidden, his gaze rose to the glass-fronted cabinet built into the stern wall; it contained the rest of his journals, all neatly lined up on one shelf.
The record of his life.
It didn’t amount to much.
Not in the greater scheme of things—on the wider plane of life.
Yes, he’d assisted in any number of missions, ones that had actively supported his country. Most had been diplomatic forays of one sort or another. Since his earliest years captaining his own ship, he’d claimed the diplomatic missions as his own—his way of differentiating himself from Royd and Declan. Royd was older than him by two years, while Declan was a year younger, but they were both adventurers to the core, buccaneers at heart. Neither would deny that description; if anything, they reveled in being widely recognized as such.
But as the second brother, he’d decided to tread a different path—one just as fraught with danger, but of a different sort.
He would be more likely to be clapped into a foreign jail because of an unintended insult exchanged over a dinner table, while his brothers would be more likely to be caught brawling in some alley.
He was quick with his tongue, while they were quick with their swords and fists.
Not that he couldn’t match them with either blades or fists; growing up as they had, being able to hold his own against them had been essential—a matter of sibling survival.
Thoughts of the past had him smiling, then he drew his mind forward, through the past to the present—then he looked ahead.
After a moment, he shut the journal and stowed it back in the drawer. Then he rose and headed for the deck.
Given how boring his recent life had been—more like existing than actively living—perhaps it was a good thing that this mission was not his usual diplomatic task. Something a little different to jar him out of his rut, before he turned his mind to defining and deciding the details of the rest of his life.
A fresh and different challenge, before he faced a larger one.
Climbing back onto the deck, he felt the wind rush at him and lifted his face to the bracing breeze.
He breathed in and looked around at the waves—at the sea stretching forever on, as always, his path to the future.
And this time, his way was crystal clear.
He’d go to Freetown, learn what was needed, return to London and report—and then he would set about finding a wife.
CHAPTER 2
“Good morning.” Miss Aileen Hopkins fixed a polite but determined gaze on the face of the bored-looking clerk who had come forward to attend her across the wooden counter separating the public from the inner workings of the Office of the Naval Attaché. Located off Government Wharf in the harbor of Freetown, the office was the principal on-land contact for the men aboard the ships of the West Africa Squadron. The squadron sailed the seas west of Freetown, tasked with enforcing the British government’s ban on slavery.
“Yes, miss?” Despite the question, not a single spark of interest lit the man’s eyes, much less his expression, which remained impersonal and just a bit dour.
Aileen was too experienced in dealing with bureaucratic flunkies to allow his attitude to deter her. “I would like to inquire as to my brother Lieutenant William Hopkins.” She set her black traveling reticule on the counter, folded her hands over the gathered top, and did her best to project the image of someone who was not about to be fobbed off.
The clerk stared at her, a frown slowly overtaking his face. “Hopkins?” He glanced at the other two clerks, both of whom had remained seated at desks facing the wall and were making a grand show of deafness, although in the small office, they had to have heard her query. The clerk at the counter wasn’t deterred, either. “Here—Joe!” When one of the seated clerks reluctantly raised his head and glanced their way, the clerk assisting her prompted, “Hopkins. Isn’t he the young one that went off God knows where?”
The seated clerk shot Aileen a quick glance, then nodded. “Aye. It’d be about three months ago now.”
“I am aware that my brother has disappeared.” She failed to keep her accents from growing more clipped as her tone grew more severely interrogatory. “What I wish to know is why he was ashore, rather than aboard H.M.S. Winchester.”
“As to that, miss”—the first clerk’s tone grew decidedly prim—“we’re not at liberty to say.”
She paused, parsing the comment, then countered, “Am I to take it from that that you do, in fact, know of some reason William—Lieutenant Hopkins—was ashore? Ashore when he was supposed to be at sea?”
The clerk straightened, stiffened. “I’m afraid, miss, that this office is not permitted to divulge details of the whereabouts of officers of the service.”
She let her incredulity show. “Even when they’ve disappeared?”
Without looking around, one of the clerks seated at the desks declared, “All inquiries into operational matters should be addressed to the Admiralty.”
Her eyes narrowing, she stared at the back of the head of the clerk who had spoken. When he refused to look around, she stated in stringently uninflected tones, “The last time I visited, the Admiralty was in London.”
“Indeed, miss.” When she transferred her gaze to h
im, the clerk at the counter met her eyes with a wooden expression. “You’ll need to ask there.”
She refused to be defeated. “I would like to speak with your superior.”
The man answered without a blink. “Sorry, miss. He’s not here.”
“When will he return?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say, miss.”
“Not at liberty to divulge his movements, either?”
“No, miss. We just don’t know.” After a second of regarding her—possibly noting her increasing choler—the clerk suggested, “He’s around the settlement somewhere, miss. If you keep your eyes open, perhaps you might run into him.”
For several seconds, her tongue burned with the words with which she would like to flay him—him and his friends, and the naval attaché, too. Ask at the Admiralty? It was half a world away!
Thanking them for their help, even if sarcastically, occurred only to be dismissed. She couldn’t force the words past her lips.
Feeling anger—the worst sort, laced with real fear—geysering inside her, she cast the clerk still facing her a stony glare, then she picked up her reticule, spun on her heel, and marched out of the office.
Her half boots rang on the thick, weathered planks of the wharf. Her intemperate strides carried her off the wharf and up the steps to the dusty street. Skirts swishing, she paced rapidly on, climbing the rise to the bustle of Water Street.
Just before she reached it, she halted and forced herself to lift her head and draw in a decent breath.
The heat closed around her, muffling in its cloying sultriness.
The beginnings of a headache pulsed in her temples.
Now what?
She’d come all the way from London determined to learn where Will had gone. Clearly, she’d get no help from the navy itself...but there’d been something about the way the clerk had reacted when she’d suggested that there was a specific reason Will had been ashore.