A Buccaneer At Heart

Remembering that, she felt certain he’d never been to Undoto’s church before.

She hadn’t forgotten Sampson’s mention of a Captain Frobisher who had come to ask questions about those missing; it was tempting to speculate that this man was Frobisher, come back to take up the hunt, but if he hadn’t previously attended the church, that seemed unlikely.

Although courtesy of the distance, she hadn’t been able to note anything specific about the man’s face and features, she had to admit he’d made an impression.

She realized her lips had curved appreciatively, but there was no harm in such idle admiration. It wasn’t as if he and she were likely to meet face to face.

The warmth of the sun lay heavy on the land; the distant hum of the settlement’s center and port droned almost below the level of hearing.

Lulled, she felt her lids drooping. After a second, she allowed them to fall.

Her mind wasn’t empty; the image of the unknown man still lingered. He hadn’t been wearing a uniform; she recalled Sampson’s description of Captain Frobisher—not navy, but authorized. Most likely, Sampson had meant that the man had some degree of backing from the authorities; despite his lack of uniform, the unknown stranger had exuded the ineluctable sense that he possessed such authority.

So a captain, but almost certainly not of a naval vessel.

The memory of the clipper-style ship she’d seen so gracefully gliding up the estuary the previous evening swam across her mind’s eye.

The unknown captain’s ship?

Her attention shifted to the ship. Truth be told, she could admit to feeling a certain attraction to the vessel, too—a wish to see her, to examine her, to sail on her. To stand on her deck and experience the sensation of flying over the waves.

Aileen had long known she was no more immune to the siren song of the sea than her brothers.

And it was probably a good deal safer to explore an attraction to the ship than to the ship’s captain, even in her mind.

She grinned, then the sound of voices spilled into the forecourt. She opened her eyes and saw that the service was finally over. Undoto stood at the door, farewelling his parishioners.

Aileen sat up, then stretched her arms, easing her spine. She leaned closer to the window, then, realizing she might be seen, sat back in the shadows of the carriage once more.

She watched the congregation leave. She saw the intriguing stranger again. After exchanging words with four sailors—members of his crew?—and apparently dispatching them ahead, the stranger left with Sampson, pacing more slowly beside the one-legged sailor as they followed the winding street down the hill.

There was a courtesy there, in the stranger’s attention to Sampson, of which Aileen approved—a recognition that old men like Sampson were by no means worthless.

The stranger and Sampson soon passed out of sight.

She returned her gaze to the church itself and, counseling herself to patience anew, watched and waited while the congregation dispersed. When all were gone, Undoto and one of the older men who helped with the church pulled the doors shut, while two other older men set the woven-rush window panels back in place.

Aileen shifted her gaze to the side door. The altar boys and choristers had already left. The old men came out; calling to each other, they waved and went their separate ways.

Finally, Undoto emerged, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Again, Aileen was tempted to lean forward, but she held herself back; she hadn’t yet got her hat and veil.

She watched as Undoto walked along the side wall of the church and into the forecourt. He saw her carriage, but barely gave it a glance and continued across the gravel to the street.

Aileen crossed her fingers, praying he would return to his home and not go wandering elsewhere in the settlement.

Undoto reached the street and turned up it, heading back in the direction from which he’d earlier come.

She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d chosen this carriage because it had a small window set beneath the coachman’s seat through which she could look out over the horses’ backs and see what was happening in front of the carriage. Through that window, she watched Undoto stride up the dusty street. She waited as long as she deemed she could, then rose, stretched up, and lifted the small trapdoor in the carriage’s roof.

For all she knew, her driver might have been snoring for the past hour. “Driver?”

The carriage shifted as the driver started. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I was hoping to meet my friend here, but she didn’t attend the service. I must have dozed off. I’ve only recently arrived in the settlement, and as we are here, I would like you to drive slowly—just rolling very slowly along—up the street before us, the one heading up the flank of the hill.” The one Undoto had taken; he was almost out of sight. “Just carry on, and I’ll tell you when I’ve seen enough, and we can then return to Water Street.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

Aileen swayed, then sat as the carriage rocked into motion. The driver followed her instructions well enough and kept their pace nice and slow. Through the small forward-facing window, she could see Undoto well ahead, but as he was striding along at a good clip, the distance between him and the carriage was only slowly decreasing.

The area the street ran through was neither a slum, nor was it Tower Hill. The houses were modest, but neatly kept; most were situated on their own small block. Few plants graced the gardens, but rocks and stones marked entrances and paths. From the few people she glimpsed, it appeared this was the area populated by the equivalent of the lower middle class.

There were still a good fifty yards between the carriage and the priest when Undoto crossed the road, went up a short path, climbed a few steps to a house’s porch, then opened the door and disappeared inside.

Aileen shifted to the window on that side and, as the carriage rolled closer, studied the house the priest had entered. As the house neared, she again drew back into the concealing shadows, but with her eyes fixed on the building, she cataloged every identifying feature she could spy.

The carriage rolled on, and the house fell behind. Satisfied, she sat back. She would recognize the house, even by night.

Her afternoon’s work—laying the groundwork for her evening’s endeavors—was done.

She let the driver steer his horses on for a full minute more, then she lifted the trapdoor again. “I’ve seen enough for today. Back to Water Street. You can let me out near the middle of the street.”

She had a milliner to visit.

And then...

She couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that the house Undoto had entered was his own abode, yet there’d been a lack of concern, of even the slightest hesitation, in the way he’d walked up the front path and had opened the door and gone inside. If it hadn’t been his house, surely he would have knocked?

Still, tonight would tell. If Undoto was still there when night fell...that was really all she cared about.

As the carriage rocked slowly down the hill and turned toward the center of the settlement, she reviewed her preparations. Once she bought what she needed from the milliner, there was one last issue to address.

To keep watch on Undoto’s house, she would need the concealment of an anonymous carriage, much like the one she was presently in. But she couldn’t risk hiring just any coachman and trusting him to keep his mouth shut about her peculiar excursions, much less the address from which he picked her up.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way around trusting the driver she hired. “Which means,” she murmured, “that I’ll have to make sure the driver I hire is, indeed, trustworthy.”

Hat and veil first; carriage and trustworthy driver second.

Once she’d succeeded in securing both... “Then I’ll be ready to keep watch and see who comes calling on Undoto.”

CHAPTER 4

Darkness had fallen. The slum area in which Lashoria lived had no lighting to illuminate its winding alleys.

Robert paced steadily up the passageway that Declan had told him led to the priestess’s red door. Somewhere in the shadows behind him lurked Benson and Coleman. Both men were past masters at trailing others. Even though he knew they were there, Robert couldn’t hear or in any way sense them; if he glanced around, he knew he’d see nothing.

It was a slow climb. Long enough for him to feel the atmosphere of the slum—of such a density of close-packed humanity—close around him. The smells and sounds rifled his senses, tickling and pricking them to higher awareness. The smothering heat, a solid warmth from which there was no escape, didn’t help. As most locals did, he’d dispensed with his coat. Unfortunately, in the gloom of the slum, the relative whiteness of his linen shirt made him feel like a walking target.

To distract himself, he thought back to his afternoon, to Undoto’s service. Admittedly, he was predisposed not to approve of Undoto, but the man’s belligerent, overconfident—almost bellicose—delivery had set his teeth on edge. At least he and his men would now be able to recognize the priest.

After taking a thorough look at the congregation, noting especially the Europeans attending, he’d confirmed via Sampson that Hopkins’s sister hadn’t been present. Once that was established, he’d spent the rest of the hour thinking of various ways in which he could send the overinquisitive lady packing.

He glimpsed a flash of bright red ahead on the right.

A minute later, he stood facing what was patently Lashoria’s door.

Neither Declan nor Edwina had said anything about the brilliant red being splotched with black.

The black looked recent.

There was no light showing through the thick material covering the window of the front room. Neither Declan nor Edwina had mentioned curtains, either; instead, Declan had said he’d been able to look into the alley while seated on the love seat inside that room.

The fine hairs at Robert’s nape stirred.

He drew in a breath, climbed the two steps to the front door, and rapped sharply.

He had to knock a second and a third time before he heard shuffling footsteps—too light to be a man’s—approaching from deeper inside the house.

Then the door was flung open, and he found himself facing an old woman, her face haggard and worn.

“What do you want?”

The demand was aggressively made, but the woman’s voice sounded rusty, scratchy.

Before Robert could reply, her dark eyes drifted over him—then flicked back to lock on his face.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “You...no, your brother. He was here before. With his pretty wife.”

Robert nodded. “Yes. He and his wife spoke with Lashoria. I need to speak with her, too.”

The old woman’s eyes widened. For two seconds, she stared at him.

Then she glanced furtively down the alley as she reached out, gripped his sleeve, and tugged. “Come inside. Quickly.”

Robert needed no further urging. He stepped over the threshold and past her. He watched as she shut the door, then wrestled two heavy bolts across.

She turned and slipped past him. She beckoned. “Come. To the back.”

She led him down the corridor Declan and Edwina had described, but instead of going into the room at the end—Lashoria’s consulting room, as Edwina had termed it—the old woman turned left and led the way down a flight of crude steps cut into the earth. Robert had to duck to pass under the lintel at the bottom of the steps; straightening, he found himself in a small chamber carved into the ground. A wood oven built into one wall marked it as the kitchen. It was transparently the old woman’s domain.

She perched on a stool at one end of the narrow wooden table that took up most of the floor space. “Here.” She pushed a low stool his way. “Sit.”

A single candle in a holder on the table cast a small circle of golden light.

As Robert complied with her order, taking the place to her left, the old woman folded her hands on the table and met his gaze. “They killed her—the beasts. They killed my Lashoria.”

Robert had suspected as much—why else the black on the door?—but the wealth of emotion in the old woman’s voice, the virulent hatred he could see burning in her eyes, made him still. Then he drew breath and asked, “Who?”

“The slavers who work with Undoto.” The old woman’s fingers gripped tight. “They killed her because she spoke of their evil to others.”

“Their evil?”

Robert didn’t have to ask more questions; just that was enough to fracture the dam wall. The old woman poured out her hatred of those she termed “the beasts.” Robert let her rave, let her sob and rail; she remained dry-eyed throughout, as if she had no more tears to shed.

He waited silently, unjudging, just being there. When she finally fell silent and simply breathed, he quietly said, “My brother and his wife had nothing to do with Lashoria’s death. They were attacked when they left here.”

The old woman waved dismissively. “You think I don’t know that? That I would speak to you if I believed...?” She shook her head. “I know it was not them. I was here.” She pointed over their heads. “I was in my room upstairs when Lashoria showed your brother and his wife out of the back door. I peeked out and saw them go down the hill. But then there was a pounding on the front door, and Lashoria...she went and opened it. They came in—the beasts. I could hear, but not see. They struck her, then pushed her into her room. They beat her.” The old woman exhaled a shuddering breath. “They did not stop until she was dead.”

The simple words held a weight of helpless fury.

The old woman’s gaze had grown distant, her hands once again gripping tight. “There was nothing I could do to save her—my lovely Lashoria. The beasts did not know I was here, under the same roof, or they would have killed me, too.”

Robert heard the guilt. He wondered if he was wrong to do so, yet... “There was nothing you could have done then.” He met the old woman’s gaze. “But if you know who did this, tell me. I cannot promise swift justice, but justice can be served in many ways.”

She considered him in silence for a full minute, then she nodded. “Lashoria spoke, and they killed her. I am a very old woman—now that they have killed her, I have little to live for. So why not speak?”

Robert said nothing; he was far too old a hand at negotiating to push.

The old crone regarded him for several more moments, then she nodded again, this time decisively. “It was Kale and his men. I heard his voice, and I am sure it was he.”

“Who is Kale?”

“He is the leader of one band of slavers. I know him from long-ago days. Many years ago now, my husband, he was one of them, so I know of Kale, although he was only a young one then.”

“Do you know where Kale’s camp is?” Robert held his breath. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy.

The old woman shook her head. “Not now. Now Kale is in charge, and he is an arrogant beast. Everything is his way. New ways.”

“Tell me what you know of this Kale. What does he look like?”

“He is English, but not just Anglo. A mix. He does not look that much different from many others, not until you look into his eyes or hear him speak. His voice was damaged in the fight in which he killed the last leader of their band. But Kale...he is a snake of a man, quick with his fists and blades, and cunning and clever, too.”

“How do the slavers operate? Lashoria told my brother that Undoto was involved.”

“Yes!” The word was hissed. “He is a snake of a different skin, that one. But he is not the leader—that is Kale, without any doubt. Undoto is his...procurer. Yes, that is the word. Undoto points and says, ‘That one.’ And Kale and his men, they take that one. That is how it works.”

Robert recalled the point Declan and Edwina had made about those taken being selected, not chosen at random. Facts shifted in his brain. Lady Holbrook had known the background of virtually every English person in the settlement. She told Undoto which ones would fit his bill, and Undoto then pointed Kale their way. But who had told Lady Holbrook or Undoto which types of people were needed?

With no answer to that, Robert set the point aside and turned his mind to the other end of the slavers’ operation. “You said your husband used to run with the slavers. What are the steps the slavers take once they seize someone in the settlement?”

“They will take them first to their lair.”

“Lair?”

The old woman huffed out a breath. “The slavers do not usually walk the streets during the day. That would be inviting too much attention, and snatching people in daylight is more difficult. More risky. So they wait for the darkness to hunt their prey. But their camps are too far out in the jungle”—the old woman flung out a hand—“for them to come in every night from there. So they have a lair—a place where they can wait during the day. And they gather any they snatch in one night there before taking them out to the camp.”

“Do you have any idea where Kale’s lair is?”

“No. It will be in one of the slums somewhere. I do not think it is in this one, but I cannot be certain.”

Robert reviewed what he now knew, then he looked at the old woman. “What can you tell me about Kale’s camp? Anything at all will be helpful.”

She pulled a face. “Few who visit a slavers’ camp return to tell of it. All I know is from my husband, and that is from years ago. The camps must be out in the jungle a long way. They have to be beyond the areas your soldiers patrol, and also outside any villages’ or chieftains’ boundaries, or the chiefs will cause trouble.” She met Robert’s eyes. “The villagers around do not hold with slavery—very few in this area do.”

Robert nodded. He knew that some tribes from the north were wont to assist slavers who preyed on natives from deeper in the interior, but with the West Africa Squadron sailing out of Freetown, he’d assumed this area was less troubled by the scourge.

The old woman had been studying his face. “For what it is worth, this business of stealing English men and women is very different from the usual trade.”

“How so?” Robert tipped his head, inviting her to explain.

She took a moment to order her thoughts. “Kale has been a slave trader for years and years, yet only now, in this business with Undoto, has he started to take Europeans. That has never been normal anywhere, but especially not here. With the fort so close and the ships, too, why risk the wrath of the governor and his men? So that is one mystery. And the care to pick the people—this one and not that one—is also unheard of. A man is a man—why do they need to choose so carefully?”

So that they took only those whose disappearance would be unlikely to raise any, or at least not too much of, an alarm. Robert didn’t say the words, but he was sure enough of that.

The old woman straightened from the table and raised her hands. “There is no rhyme or reason to this. No sense in it at all. It is very peculiar to choose to play this game right under the English governor’s nose.”

A nose that had been singularly unresponsive to date, but that, Robert was starting to realize, had been very carefully arranged.

He was starting to believe that Holbrook was entirely innocent of any complicity in the scheme.

The old woman looked tired, even more worn out. Robert could think of no more to ask her. He rose. When she looked up at him, he half bowed. “Thank you for speaking with me.” He hesitated, then reached into his pocket. “If you will not take it amiss...” Hauling out three sovereigns, he laid them on the table. “For your help.”

The old woman’s gaze had fallen to the coins. She studied them for a long moment, then she reached out a hand and covered them, and drew them to her. “Beggars cannot be choosers. Thank you.”

Robert hesitated. “I don’t expect it will be any real consolation, but the help you and Lashoria have given will, in the end, save many lives.”

The old woman’s head came up. Some of her earlier hate sparked in the darkness of her eyes. “Kale. Be careful of him. He is like a rabid dog—do not take your eyes from him. But if you and your people can end Kale’s life, I will die happy.”

Robert held her gaze for a moment more, then nodded. “I’ll see what we can do.” He stepped back from the table. “I’ll show myself out, but please bolt the door once I’m gone.”

She nodded.

He didn’t wait for more but climbed the rough steps, strode along the corridor, slid back the bolts, opened the door, and stepped outside. He pulled the black-blotched red door closed behind him, then went down the steps.

In the alley, he paused, breathing deep of the air that, although still cloyingly humid, felt much less smothering than the air in that kitchen, weighted as it had been with so much helpless emotion—powerful emotions that had no outlet. When he caught the scrape of the bolts sliding home again, he straightened his shoulders and set off to walk back down the long passage.

He felt nothing more than a stir in the air at his back as Benson and Coleman fell in at his heels.

“Learn anything?” Benson murmured.

“Enough to be going on with.” As he strode down the slope, Robert used what he now knew to construct what he thought must be the slavers’ operation. Some of the slavers would be waiting in their lair. Undoto, or perhaps Lady Holbrook when she’d been there, would send to summon them, directing them to this victim or that. The slavers waited until night, then seized their victim. They returned to the lair—possibly to report, also possibly to combine their victims—then either on the same night or the next, the slavers ferried said victims out of the settlement and took them to their camp.

It was the location of the camp Robert needed. But clearly, the first step toward finding the camp was identifying the slavers’ lair.

* * *

Night had fallen hours ago.

Seated in the small and entirely plain black carriage she’d finally chosen and hired for the duration of her stay in the settlement, Aileen fidgeted, impatient and restless.

She’d had her new driver, Dave—a cockney who, of the dozen coachmen she’d interviewed, had struck her as the most trustworthy—call for her at the boardinghouse at sunset. She’d directed him to drive on a roundabout route to eventually pull up in the tiny lane that joined the street above Undoto’s church almost directly opposite Undoto’s house.

From their position in the lane, through the forward-facing window beneath the coachman’s bench, she could look across the street. The entire front façade of Undoto’s house was within her field of vision, along with the extension of the narrow lane that ran down the right side of the house. She suspected—hoped—that meant she would see anyone entering or leaving from either the front or rear of the house.

The tiny lane was the perfect spot from which to observe all comings and goings from the priest’s abode. Well and good. But the waiting was getting on her nerves.

She shifted on her seat. She lifted her reticule, feeling the weight of the pistol inside it, then set it back down on the seat beside her. She had no idea if anything would come of this covert surveillance. If she was asked to explain what she expected to happen and what she hoped to achieve, she wouldn’t be able to formulate any real answer beyond that this was something she could do, and she had no other viable avenue to pursue.

And, deep down, some instinct—that conviction of the emotions her mother called a woman’s intuition—insisted that this was the way to go, the path to follow if she wanted to find Will.

Everything revolved about Undoto. Surely, through watching him, she would see something and learn something more.

Thus far, all she’d seen had been an old woman who had come out of the side gate into the narrow lane and fed table scraps to the neighborhood dogs.