Where the hell was the bastard? True, he might already have returned to sea, but Rem's instincts said not. He knew the minds of these sea wolves. Having just returned, jubilant, from his capture of the Bountiful, and with no notion that Captain Towers was alive and restored to England, the pirate would doubtlessly be enjoying the funds Summerson had already paid him, while plotting to collect more before leaving English soil on his next pillage.
No, Rem was willing to bet the culprit was still in London.
And damn him to hell, he'd be found.
Flexing his muscles, Rem began the return trek to Barrett Shipping, scrutinizing all the shrouded corners of the docks that, as experience had taught him, were meeting points for scum.
He was just rounding Anders Shipping, when a shadowy figure slipped through the narrow alley leading to the warehouse. Quickly scrutinizing the area, Rem ascertained that he was undetected, then walked soundlessly in pursuit. Flattening himself against the warehouse wall, he inched along, praying he wasn't wasting his time stalking a street urchin whose intentions were merely to steal a shilling for food.
"That's the last payment for now. You'll get more after you've completed your next task."
The muffled words obliterated Rem's doubts. The voice belonged to Arthur Summerson. Heart pounding in anticipation, Rem waited. "A pleasure t' do business with ye." The answer was uttered in a low, harsh rasp: Towers's exact description of the privateer's voice.
"I'll say farewell now, Fuller. You'll be taking to sea by week's end."
Fuller.
Rem slid his hand into his pocket until it closed around his pistol's cool handle. Gripping it tightly, he silently maneuvered back to his original path, nonchalantly resuming his watchman's rounds.
A moment later Summerson emerged from the path beside the warehouse, walking right by Rem and disappearing into the night. In the aftermath of his fading footsteps, a husky form followed suit, striding into the open and moving directly past the innocuous-looking watchman.
In the blink of an eye Rem's arm was around the privateer's throat. "What the—"
"Listen to me, Fuller," Rem instructed in a cold-blooded whisper. "You have two choices. You can either come quietly with me to a private place where we can talk, or I can break your neck here and now and throw your body into the Thames as food for the gulls. It's up to you."
"I'll ... come ..." Fuller wheezed.
"Good." Rem extracted his pistol, shoving it in Fuller's ribs. "Now turn around and start walking. If any passerby should spot us, let's just pretend we're having the friendliest of strolls together. If you choose to elaborate on that explanation, I'll have no compunction about putting a bullet in your back. Is that also clear?"
"Who th' hell are ye?"
"I asked if that was clear, Fuller?" Rem dug the pistol deeper into the pirate's back.
"Damn." Fuller winced. "All right. Ye win."
"Fine. Let's go."
Ten minutes later Rem thrust Fuller into Barrett Shipping's darkened warehouse and locked the door behind them.
"We have a great deal to discuss." Rem's fingers tightened on his pistol. "Sit down ... where I can see you."
"Ye can't see anything in 'ere."
"You'd be surprised. For example, I can see your hand creeping toward your boot. Continue," Rem ordered, when Fuller halted. "Then toss your knife onto the floor ... along with any other weapons you have." Rem lowered his gun a tad. "Let me give you some advice, Fuller. Even if I were unarmed, you'd be dead less than a minute after coming at me. Therefore, why not spare your life and my energy? Forego any idea you have of slitting my throat. It's not going to happen. And maybe, just maybe, if you tell me what I want to know, I might let you live."
Hearing the chilling resolve in Rem's tone, Fuller swallowed audibly and complied, sending two ugly knives clattering to the warehouse floor. He didn't sit, but stood warily against the wall.
"Good." Rem scooped up the weapons, tucking them, and his pistol, into his pocket, keeping his hand securely beside them. "Now, I want to know everything about the assignments you've been receiving from Mr. Summerson."
Fuller blanched. "Who are ye?" he whispered again. "What do ye want?"
"Fortunately for you, you're a very small part of what I want, else I would have shot you down days ago. Now, tell me about Summerson, his partners, and your role in sinking their ships."
"I don't know what yer talkin' about."
"I'm not certain you understand me, Fuller." Rem drew out one of the pirate's knives, fingering the blade thoughtfully. "I'm not a patient man. In fact, my patience is rapidly ebbing. If you continue to avoid my question, I'll cease being a gentleman and resort to other methods of persuasion." The blade glinted ominously.
"All right! I do work fer Summerson now and again. And I do 'elp myself to a bit of 'is cargo."
"His cargo? Don't you mean his men?"
"I don't 'urt his bloody men."
"You just sell them." Rem advanced menacingly at the pirate. "Who do you work for?"
"Ye said it yerself. Summerson."
"Who else?"
"I don't know."
In an instant the knife was a hair's breadth from Fuller's throat. "Don't insult me, Fuller. I get angry when I'm insulted."
"I'm not lyin' t' ye. I've 'eard 'im mention 'is partners ... but never by name."
"You're trying to tell me the only one you've ever seen, the only one you get your money from, is Summerson?"
"That's right." Fuller nodded, wincing as the blade nicked his skin. "I meet 'im at the same spot each time. 'E pays me. That's all."
"The same spot? Funny, you met him in the open a few days ago to collect your money after capturing the Bountiful."
Sweat trickled down Fuller's cheek, soaked into his beard. "I 'ad no choice. I needed my money and I was late gettin' back. We were supposed t' meet the night before. I couldn't make it."
"Why not?"
"Th-The weather . . ."
"The skies were fair all week long."
"We were f-farther out than I expected. ..."
"More likely you were searching the waters for the crewman who escaped before you could sell him—Captain Towers. Tell me, were you relieved not to find him? Did you assume he'd perished in the Channel?"
Fuller's eyes were wide with fear. "I didn't 'urt 'im. 'E disappeared. If 'e drowned, it's not my fault."
"Then you'll be pleased to know he didn't drown. He's alive, well, and restored to England. Isn't that splendid news, Fuller?"
"Ye're lyin'," the privateer whispered.
"I must say. Captain Towers's description of you was remarkably accurate. Good enough to hang you the moment I turn you in to Bow Street."
"Is that what ye're gonna do t' me?"
"As I said, if I wanted you dead, you'd be buried by now. No, what I want from you, Fuller, is a favor."
"A favor?"
"Yes. Send a message to Summerson. Make it sound like you're running completely amok, frenzied with worry. Tell him you've all been found out—you, him, and his partners. Tell him you received an ominous missive, threatening to expose all of you and send you to Newgate. Convince Summerson that an immediate, urgent meeting must be called for tomorrow night. Make sure you tell him it's crucial for everyone involved to be present, that one of you is actually an informant. Demand to see all his partners face-to-face. Make your writing as unstable as possible, so that even if Summerson is unconvinced he's been found out, he'll do as you ask simply to calm you down and keep you from doing something foolish."
"Where do ye want us t' meet?"
"At Anders Shipping, half after four tomorrow ... in the wee hours just before dawn."
"I guess ye plan t' be there."
"Another word of advice, Fuller." Rem lifted the knife, flattening his palms against the wall on either side of Fuller's head. "Don't even consider alerting anyone or fleeing prior to the meeting. In either case, I'll hunt you down within the day and kill you where you stand. My me
n are everywhere; they know what you eat, where you sleep, who you talk to. There's no escaping me. So don't try." Rem leaned closer, his eyes boring into Fuller's scarred face. "I assume I've made myself clear."
A shaky nod.
"Good."
"What about after the meetin'? Then what are ye gonna do with me?"
"I repeat, you're insignificant in this matter. If you do as you're told, I'll throw you back to sea to rejoin the slime from whence you came. However," Rem gripped Fuller's shirt, "I'd better never hear about you pilfering another ship. Understood?"
"I don't 'ave a choice, do I?"
"No. You don't." Rem straightened. "Now, I'll produce a quill and paper and we can begin composing that letter. It's been a pleasure chatting with you, Fuller."
"Did you have a good time? Or need I ask?" Sammy placed her current novel facedown on the bed, grinning at the telltale flush staining Cynthia's cheeks.
"Yes. Thank you for allowing me the day off. Boyd and I really needed to talk. We rode for hours." Cynthia hovered in the doorway. "I told him, Samantha."
"And?"
"And he believed me—truly believed me. He was enraged ... murderous, in fact. Not at me, as I'd feared, but at the nobleman who'd forced himself on me. Had I not begged Boyd to let it go, I believe he would have ridden to Surrey and killed the man himself. To defend my honor. Me, Samantha. Boyd actually feels I'm worthy of defending." There was wonder in Cynthia's eyes.
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"
A genuine laugh erupted from Cynthia's chest. "You may gloat as much as you wish. You were right—and thank God for it."
"Did you discuss the aftermath of your horrid experience?"
"If you mean, did I tell Boyd about my fear of intimacy, yes. Do you know what he said?"
"No. What?"
Cynthia sank down on the bed beside Samantha, clutching her friend's hands. "He said that it was natural for me to be afraid since, after all, it would be my first time. I reminded him that it was far from my first encounter, and he disagreed adamantly, saying that I'd been violated and used ... but never made love to. So, in all ways that mattered, I was a virgin. Samantha, he looked into my eyes and told me he was determined to be the first, the only man, who would ever make love to me. He told me he loved me and that he would wait as long as it took—forever, if need be—for me to return his love. And that once I did, he intended to marry me and spend the rest of his life showing me how special I was."
"Oh, Cynthia, I'm so happy for you." Sammy flung her arms around her friend's neck.
"He wants to invest in a coffeehouse, to close Boydry's," Cynthia murmured in a dazed tone. "He said that Boydry's is tied to a past he no longer needs, whatever that means."
Sammy blinked back tears, knowing precisely what Boyd meant. "What a marvelous idea. The two of you can create the most splendid coffeehouse in all of London ... Hayword's, in honor of the new Mr. and Mrs. Hayword."
"Samantha ... " Cynthia drew back. "I haven't said—"
"But you will." Sammy dashed away her tears. "I shall miss you, of course. You are quite splendid at arranging hair. Ah, well. I'll just have to wear my unruly tresses in a simple style until a new lady's maid can be engaged. As for helping me dress, I'm certain Remington will be more than willing to take on my gowns' troublesome buttons ... permanently, in fact. So you can feel free to marry the man you love. My only condition is that you accompany Boyd to Gresham on all his visits ... which, from what I understand, number two or three times a week. Then, on alternate days, we shall visit you. You see, I have no qualms about relinquishing you as my lady's maid, but I could never bear losing you as my friend." Sammy's voice quavered. "I love you, Cynthia. And so does Boyd. He's going to make you ecstatically happy."
Abruptly, Cynthia stood, averting her head and dabbing discreetly at her eyes. "I believe our friendship has taken an unexpected turn. Rather than hardening you to the realities of life, I fear I've become as sentimental and softhearted as you. I weep, I glow like an innocent schoolgirl, I allow myself to fall in love." She turned to meet Sammy's gaze. "Thank you."
Sammy didn't trust herself to speak. She merely nodded, her heart in her eyes.
"Oh, before I succumb to an entirely inappropriate emotional display ... " Cynthia reached into her pocket and extracted a folded slip of paper. "Boyd asked me to give you this. It's from Lord Gresham."
"Oh, thank you!" Sammy bolted to her feet and snatched the note.
"I have some tasks to tend to," Cynthia added tactfully. "Summon me when you need me."
Already immersed in her reading, Sammy didn't reply. Nor, knowing her friend, did Cynthia expect that she would. Smiling, Cynthia closed the door behind her.
Sammy dropped back onto the bed, frowning. This note was different from its two predecessors. Rem's other letters had spoken of his love, of the ache he felt being apart from her, and of the frustration he was encountering as a result of his unsuccessful endeavor, which Sammy understood was a cryptic way of stating that his disguise at Barrett Shipping had, as of yet, yielded no results.
This missive, however, was terse, stark, impersonal—it was Remington Worth, special agent to the Crown:
The moment of reckoning is upon us. I'll come for you tomorrow night. Until then, remain securely at Allonshire with your family.
Thoughtfully, Sammy read between the lines. Then, refolding the note, she began to pack.
Anders Shipping was deserted.
The lone figure unlocked the door and entered, lighting an oil lamp in preparation.
He'd scarcely completed his task when the door hinge squeaked, and another silhouette stepped inside. "Anders? Is that you?"
"Of course it's me!" the viscount snapped, turning down the lamp as low as he could without casting the room in total darkness. "Who the hell were you expecting?"
The Marquis of Hartley rubbed the back of his neck with a shaking hand. "Summerson, perhaps."
"Summerson will be here any minute. I came early to unlock the door."
"Do you know what this is about?"
"I only know what you do: Summerson got a frantic note from his privateer friend. As a result, he ordered us to meet here at half after four to find out if Fuller is really being threatened by someone who can expose the whole lot of us, or if it's just his way of bleeding us for more money."
"What if someone really has discovered our plan?" Hartley began to pace. "God, I wish I'd never agreed to this. I should have lost my company rather than keep it alive with stolen funds."
"It's a little late for regrets, isn't it, Hartley?" Summerson strode into the room. "Now stop this nonsense. We have enough to contend with—we certainly don't need one of your attacks of conscience."
Hartley had no chance to reply. The door banged open and Fuller entered, leaving the door ajar. "Are ye all 'ere?"
"Yes. We're all here," Summerson snapped. "Now, what's this about? Who wrote you that letter?"
"That's what I want t' know." Fuller scratched his beard, "It could be one of ye, now couldn't it?"
"That's preposterous!" Hartley burst out. "Why would we thwart our own scheme? If one of us is imprisoned for theft, we'd all be close behind!"
"Maybe ye was gettin' cold feet."
"Or maybe you were getting greedy." Anders whipped out a pistol. "Isn't that truly the case, Fuller?"
Fuller's eyes bulged. "I thought ye said they were all soft but ye, Summerson. Ye told me they'd never even 'eld a weapon in their 'ands!"
"Shut up, Fuller," Summerson ordered.
"How interesting." Anders tossed Summerson a look. "Pray continue, Fuller." He cocked his pistol. "What else did Mr. Summerson tell you?"
"Nothin'."
"Why don't I believe you? Why do I suddenly get the distinct feeling something is transpiring that I know nothing about? Tell me, Fuller," Anders advanced toward the pirate, "do you and Summerson speak of us often?"
"I didn't even know 'ow many of ye there was until now."
; "Well, now you not only know how many of us there are, but you've seen our faces. Convenient, wouldn't you say? Now the truth, Fuller—there is no letter, right? There's only your greedy little mind ... and perhaps a special arrangement with Mr. Summerson here?"
"Cease this absurdity, Anders!" Summerson fired out. "I assure you, there is no conspiracy between me and this privateer."
"Fine. Then why don't I correct his false impression of our ineptness by blowing off his head?"
In a flash Fuller's knife was out, whizzing through the air and striking Anders in the arm. The pistol thudded to the floor.
"I've 'ad enough of this, Summerson!" Fuller rasped over Anders's cry of pain. "Keep yer bloody money—I don't want it! Ye'll have to find someone else to peddle yer men in the West Indies. I'm through workin' with ye—ye're all crazy!"
"Shut up, Fuller!" Summerson thundered.
"Peddle our men?" Hartley managed, wrapping his handkerchief around Anders's bloody wound, "What men? What does he mean, Summerson?"
"I mean yer friend 'ere 'as been cheatin' ye," Fuller taunted, his eyes blazing. "Ye really think 'e's been satisfied with the meager sums ye've been collectin' on the cargo that ain't there? Ye believe 'e 'ad me attack the ships that wasn't yers just to throw everyone off-track? Think again, ye fools! The bastard's been paying me extra to sell the sailors from those ships ... made a pretty penny, too. Enough fer me t' take more than my 'alf without 'is knowing it. 'Ow's that, Summerson? Ye're being cheated, too!"
Summerson's pistol emerged in a glint of steel. A shot rang out. Fuller gasped and fell to the floor, dead.
"Dear God!" Hartley had gone white. "Are you mad? You just murdered a man!"
"Obviously human life isn't a priority of our partner's." Anders spat out the word, blood seeping slowly through his handkerchief. "Nor is loyalty." A vein throbbed at his temple. "You swindled us, you filthy son of a bitch."
"Anders, do you realize this means we're implicated as well?" Hartley interrupted, his breathing irregular. "Condemning those sailors to lives of bondage is now our crime as well. We could hang—" He broke off, unsteadily loosening his cravat.
"Neither of you would have had the backbone to do what I did. You were both content believing Atlantis was some two-bit insurance fraud." Summerson stepped unconcernedly over Fuller's lifeless body. "Look at you." He gestured toward Hartley. "You're a quivering nervous wreck, old man; more trouble than you're worth. And you," he pivoted toward Anders. "You're the lowest form of hypocrite. You want it all—but you don't want to dirty your aristocratic hands. So I did it." Summerson threw Anders a contemptuous look. "I did the work. I took the risk. All that Atlantis truly signified was through my doing, my plan. So why the hell shouldn't I keep the money for myself? Besides, you'd only squander it away on your weaknesses—gambling and women. You're of little more use than Hartley."