Boyd blinked. "I see."
"That doesn't surprise you?"
"No. I'm not sure why, but it doesn't. There's something about that woman ... I don't know what it is. All I know is that she doesn't belong at Annie's and that she's more a lady than a whore."
"I agree."
"You do?"
"Wholeheartedly. I also think that the only person Cynthia has entrusted with the true details of her background is Samantha. We could question Annie, but my guess is she knows as little as we do."
"The other night you mentioned that Samantha defended Cynthia to you—I take it that means she's fond of her?"
"Definitely."
Again Boyd hesitated.
"Why don't you pay Cynthia a visit?" Rem suggested casually. "She was quite taken with you that first evening."
"She was polite, nothing more. I assume she treats everyone that way."
Rem chuckled. "A poor assumption. She lambasted me quite thoroughly tonight, with a razor-sharp tongue. No, I should say that your Cynthia leans toward honesty in her treatment of men."
"Still... I wouldn't want to make her uncomfortable or jeopardize her new position."
"From what I witnessed, Cynthia's position is secure. Moreover, I'm certain she's granted a day off."
Boyd nodded. "True."
"Do it."
"You don't think Samantha would mind?"
Again Rein's dimple flashed. "I think Samantha would find it stirringly romantic."
"All right then." Boyd visibly relaxed. "You know, Rem, if I didn't know better, I'd swear Samantha Barrett was converting you to her way of thinking. You're becoming quite the romantic yourself."
"Rem?" Katrina strolled cautiously over to their table. "I thought it was you back here."
"Hello, Katrina." Rem gifted her with a dazzling smile. "It's good to see you."
"Is it?" She fingered the folds of her gown awkwardly. "I was beginning to wonder. It's been ages."
"I'm hardly a stranger. Why, I've been at Annie's twice this week."
"You know what I mean." Katrina's brilliant blue eyes were veiled with questions. "Are you leaving already?"
"Yes, sweet, I am." Rem's voice was gentle.
"Could I convince you to stay?"
Even as Katrina spoke, gazed at him with explicit promise in her eyes—a promise he once would have savored—it was Samantha's face Rem saw, Samantha's words he heard issuing her enchanting request. Remington . . . until we find the time to be alone... until then ... I don't want you with other women.
On the heels of Rem's memory came the irrefutable realization that the reply he'd given her was the truth. He didn't want another woman. Only Samantha.
"Katrina—" he began.
"There's someone special, isn't there?" It was a statement, not a question.
Rem answered anyway. "Yes, there is."
Katrina managed a smile. "She's a lucky woman." Raising up, she kissed his cheek, murmuring, "I'll miss you, Rem." With an audible swallow, she turned away. "Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have work to do."
"Christ, Boyd," Rem shook his head, staring after Katrina's retreating figure and looking more vulnerable than Boyd had seen him in years. "What's happening to me?"
"You know what's happening to you, Rem. But if you need me to say the words, I'll say them for you. You're falling in love with Samantha Barrett."
Sammy was thinking much the same thing. She'd seen the look in Rem's eyes when he'd held her, felt the tremor in his hands on her skin. He was starting to fathom the significance of what was destined to be. And she could hardly wait.
Smiling, she rolled onto her side, savoring the last filaments of night. Alone in her romantic cocoon, Rem was already hers.
She must have slept. The next thing she knew, sunlight was streaming insistently through her bedroom window, demanding that she open her eyes. Sammy ignored it, snuggling back into the covers and tugging a pillow over her head. It was too soon to part with the night's exhilarating dreams.
The commotion from the lower level changed her mind. A series of opening and closing doors ensued, followed by hurried footsteps and anxious, murmuring voices, intruding on Sammy's pleasant reverie. She sat up, the clock beside her dressing table telling her that it was only a few minutes past nine; far too early for visitors or appointments of any kind. Something was amiss.
She slid out of bed, washed and dressed in record time. Cynthia wouldn't be in for at least an hour, and there was no point in summoning her. All Sammy wanted was to get downstairs and find out what was causing the excitement.
Smitty collided with her in the hallway.
"Lady Samantha, forgive me, I didn't see you." His mouth was drawn, his expression grim.
"What's happened, Smitty? What's wrong?"
He hesitated.
"Is it Alex? Is the baby coming?"
"No, my lady. The duchess and her unborn child are well. As of yet there are no signs that the birth is imminent."
"Is it Drake, then?" Sammy tried next. When Smitty didn't answer immediately, she panicked. "Is he ill? Hurt?" She seized Smitty's hands. "Tell me what's wrong!"
"Physically your brother is fine, my lady. It's nothing such as that. It concerns Barrett Shipping."
"Barrett Shipping?" Sammy's focus shifted abruptly. "Did we lose another vessel?"
"We did."
"Which one?"
"A brig. Not one of our fleet, thankfully."
"But one we constructed?"
"Yes."
"Was anyone hurt, Smitty?"
"It doesn't look good, my lady. The crew was small, but none of them has been spotted. Nor has the ship or its cargo been recovered."
"Have we any clue as to what happened?"
"None. His Grace is terribly upset, and determined to find out what occurred. He's launching a full-scale investigation."
"I'm not surprised." Sammy nodded thoughtfully. She felt so helpless, so ineffectual. All her life Drake had been there for her. Now was her chance to be there for him.
Goddfrey.
The name sprang to mind, along with the realization that she'd never found the viscount to question him. "This brig... it didn't by any chance belong to Viscount Goddfrey, did it?" she blurted out.
Smitty looked startled. "Why, no, my lady, it didn't. In fact, it belonged to Viscount Anders."
"Stephen?" Sammy's brows rose in surprise. "Oh, he must be devastated. I'll go to him at once."
"It's barely nine o'clock, Lady Samantha. Hardly a proper hour to call on a gentleman."
"Smitty," Sammy gave him an exasperated look, "the viscount just lost his ship. I'm not paying a social call, I'm offering my support. But if it will ease your mind, Cynthia will accompany me."
"Well..." Smitty frowned.
"Thank you for understanding," Sammy said quickly, already scurrying up the stairs to alert Cynthia. It had just occurred to her that, in the process of comforting Stephen, she might learn something of Goddfrey's whereabouts. "I'll be home before you have time to miss me."
"This Viscount Anders—is he another of your beaux?" Cynthia questioned curiously as their phaeton raced toward the docks.
"Perhaps in his mind. Not in mine." Sammy replied.
"Yet you're rushing to his side."
"No, I'm offering him friendship. Besides," Sammy's eyes sparkled, "I might learn something from him... something that could help Drake."
"Ah, your Gothics again."
Sammy shot her a sidelong glance. "I just happened to recall that it was Stephen I first heard discussing Lord Goddfrey's dilemma."
"Who is Lord Goddfrey?"
Sammy filled Cynthia in on what she'd overheard at her first Almack's ball and subsequently at the dock. "Stephen might know where Lord Goddfrey is. If so, perhaps that will lead us to the truth. Then all would be well and Drake would be out of danger."
Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Samantha—"
"We're here. Come." Sammy sprang from the barely still phaeton,
dragging Cynthia along with her.
"This is even more odious than Shadwell!" Cynthia surveyed London Dock with distaste.
"You'll get used to it. I've been here countless times, so I barely notice the riffraff anymore. Besides, we have no choice. This is where the warehouses are located. Now all we need to do is find Stephen's."
"How do you know he's at his warehouse and not his home ... in his bed, for that matter? It's only mid-morning."
"Because he's just lost a ship. If Drake's received the news, so has Stephen. He'll rush right down to his warehouse to get the full details. There it is!" Triumphantly, Sammy pointed to a corner building with the sign anders shipping company. "I'm going in. You wait here."
"Just a minute." Cynthia stayed Sammy with her hand. "You're not going in there alone."
"It's possible that Stephen will refuse to confide in me ... but he'll certainly refuse to do so if I bring a chaperon. I'll be fine, Cynthia. Just wait here. If I need you, I'll yell." She grinned. "The way you suggested at Vauxhall."
"And we both know how that evening turned out," Cynthia muttered. "Very well. I'll stand guard."
Sammy marched up to the door and knocked.
"Yes?" A ruddy-complexioned foreman opened the door.
"Good morning. I'm here to see Viscount Anders. I realize I haven't an appointment, and it is a bit early, but I do hope he's in and he can see me."
The man scratched his head, drinking in Sammy's delicate curves and earnest expression. "He's here. As for seeing you . . . who are you?"
"Forgive me, sir." Sammy curtsied. "I'm Samantha Barrett, a friend of the viscount's."
"A friend, huh?" The foreman grinned, watching Sammy's formal curtsy as if uncertain exactly how to respond. Ultimately, he shrugged. "Well, come in, little lady. You might be just the medicine Anders needs today."
Sammy's guide led her through the warehouse, stopping before a heavy wooden door. "That's his office. Good luck."
"Thank you, sir." Sammy knocked.
"Who is it?" a slurred voice called.
"Stephen? It's I... Samantha."
Silence, followed by a murmur of male voices and the muffled sound of drawers closing. An instant later Stephen himself opened the door.
"Samantha?" He stared at her from beneath red-rimmed eyes, his rumpled clothing the same attire she'd seen him in at Carlton House. Evidently, he'd been up all night.
"I heard what happened. I came to see what I could do." A movement from inside the office caught Sammy's eye. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"No ... of course not. I appreciate your visit more than I can say. Forgive me for forgetting my manners." He drew her inside. "Arthur, may I present Lady Samantha Barrett. Samantha, Arthur Summerson." He cleared his throat. "Arthur is a fine merchant. . . . He lost valuable cargo on my missing brig."
"Lady Samantha, I'm honored." The stocky, balding man bowed, his eyes meeting Samantha's.
It was all she could do not to cry out her distress.
Arthur Summerson was the man she'd seen chatting with Lord Hartley the morning she'd investigated the docks dressed in her gardener's clothes; the man who'd stared at her as she made her way through the warehouse walls disguised as a boy. She recognized him at once, as well as his name—it was the one Lord Hartley had used in addressing him. The question was, would he recognize her?
If he did, she would die.
"Mr. Summerson." Forcing a smile, Sammy fought the urge to dash back out the door.
For a fleeting instant Summerson's eyes narrowed, a quizzical expression in them. "Have we met before, my lady?"
"I don't believe so ... but it is possible, sir. My brother owns Barrett Shipping."
"Ah ... you're Drake Barrett's sister." Fortunately, that realization seemed to satisfy Summerson's doubts. "I imagine your brother is troubled by this loss. After all, it was his ship that sank."
"Drake is upset by all the losses, whether they involve his ships or not," Sammy defended instantly. "Frankly, however, all the Barrett vessels are constructed with the finest materials and by the most capable men. So it is puzzling indeed that any of our brigs would go down."
Summerson cleared his throat roughly. "Yes... of course, I quite agree. Barrett Shipping is a fine, reputable firm. Well, Anders, I'd best be on my way. Keep me abreast of any news you might hear."
"I certainly shall," Stephen assured him.
"Lady Samantha, it was a pleasure."
"I'm sorry we had to meet under such disagreeable circumstances, Mr. Summerson. I hope you recover all that is lost."
"As do I. Good day."
"Forgive me, Stephen," Sammy apologized when they were alone. "I didn't mean to be so defensive."
Stephen waved away her apology, pouring himself a brandy. "You were defending your family's business. I understand completely." He tossed off his drink, then gave her a measured look. "Dare I hope that your visit means you've changed your mind about us?"
"There is no 'us,' Stephen. You're my friend, nothing more. But friends care about each other. They also help each other, if need be."
"I see. So you're here to offer your assistance?"
"And to elicit yours."
"Mine? In what manner?"
Sammy ran her fingers along the edge of Stephen's walnut desk. "Viscount Goddfrey. What do you know of his circumstances?"
"Goddfrey?" Stephen's brows rose in surprise. "Only that he's endured great financial losses; losses that forced him to flee from London in order to save face. Why?"
"Do you know where he went?"
"No." Stephen frowned. "Why are you so interested in Goddfrey? You're not involved with him, are you?"
"Involved with him?" Sammy blinked. "No, Stephen. I never even met the man. I only thought perhaps he knew something about the missing ships . . . and that what he learned had forced him—or frightened him—away."
The frown faded from Stephen's face. "I see. You're investigating on behalf of your brother, are you?"
Sammy's face fell. "Am I so obvious, then?"
"No, petite fleur, you're not obvious . . . only adorably forthright. I find your family devotion quite touching." He moved toward her. "Now, if I could only convince you to extend that devotion to me."
"Is there anything"—she held up a restraining hand— "other than that, I can do to help?"
He grinned. "You've already brightened my mood considerably with your visit. Despite your maidenly qualms, I shan't give up hope."
"I—I'd best be going." Sammy inched toward the door, wondering where to turn now. She'd gotten nowhere with Anders. And she dared not stay—not when he was looking at her like a hungry lion about to pounce on its dinner. "Well, good-bye, Stephen."
She nearly knocked Cynthia down in her haste to leave.
"Are you all right?" her maid demanded.
"Yes. Just as uninformed as I was prior to my visit, but fine."
"Good. Let's go home." Scarcely had Cynthia taken a step, when she came to a grinding halt.
Curiously, Sammy followed Cynthia's stare, spotting the sandy-haired, powerfully built man approaching them. He stopped, his eyes on Cynthia.
"Hello." He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure if you remember me. We met the other night at"—the slightest of pauses—"a coffeehouse."
The wall of Cynthia's self-protective reserve seemed to waver. "I remember. Boyd, isn't it?"
His entire face broke into a smile. "Yes, Cynthia. It's Boyd." Belatedly, he glanced at Samantha. "Oh, forgive me. We haven't met. I'm—"
"I know. Boyd." Sammy shot him an impish grin. "You're the tavern keeper at Boydry's, my sanctuary from this Season's first storm. You're also a friend of Remington's. I'm glad to meet you."
If Sammy didn't know better, she'd swear Boyd already knew who she was. She'd also swear he was fighting back laughter. But he'd have no way of knowing her, and a man as rugged as he wouldn't find a green girl like her amusing. "My name is Samantha Barrett," she offered.
"Rem speaks of you
often. I'm delighted to meet you."
"He does?" Sammy lit up like a ray of sunshine.
"He does." Boyd's chuckle was genuine. "He also mentioned that Cynthia had sought employment with your family."
"I'm sure Lord Gresham had a few other choice words to say about me," Cynthia interjected dryly. "None of them flattering."
"You're wrong."
"Not necessarily." Rem's voice cut through the morning air. With barely leashed fury, he stalked over, his anger a palpable entity that loomed closer with each step. "What the hell are you doing alone at the docks at this ungodly hour?" he demanded without preliminaries. His steely gaze was fixed on Samantha.
It was Cynthia who answered. "Samantha had an appointment. I accompanied her."
"An appointment." His eyes bore into Sammy's soul. "With Anders? Before noon? You didn't mention it a few hours ago when you were in my arms."
"Christ, Rem ..." Boyd's head snapped around at Rem's unprecedented display of jealousy.
Rem ignored his friend. In fact, he didn't even see Boyd, or Cynthia for that matter. All he saw was Samantha ... with that bloody bastard Anders.
"Stephen lost another ship, Rem. One of ours." Sammy's heart pounded wildly in her chest. Rem was jealous. Jealous, livid, and harshly possessive. She was ecstatic.
"Really? And did the two of you console each other?" Rem's tone was lethal.
"No, as a matter of fact, we had a business meeting."
"A business meeting." He repeated the words with the same utter contempt as if she'd just confessed to a heinous crime.
"Yes." Sammy was playing with fire and she knew it. Yet something propelled her forward, some innate knowledge of the man she loved. "A business meeting... much like the one Cynthia overheard you directing your coachman to a few hours ago, at Annie's."
A charged silence surged between them.
"Samantha ..."Cynthia lay a hand on her arm. "Perhaps we'd best go home...."
"No." Rem reached forward and seized Sammy's elbow. "I want to talk to you. Now." Without waiting for a reply, he dragged her off to a private spot a short distance away from the others. "What the hell was that all about?"
"Which 'that'? My visit to Stephen's warehouse or your visit to Annie's brothel?"
"It was a business meeting, Samantha."