A Buccaneer At Heart

Stifling a sigh, Aileen fixed her gaze on the front of Undoto’s house and lectured herself for the umpteenth time to be patient.

She heard the men approaching before she saw them; the tramp of heavy feet coming down the dusty street reverberated through the quiet and reached through the open carriage windows. Eagerly leaning forward, she peered out through the small window; she prayed Dave was following her instructions and pretending to be asleep on the box.

As it happened, the image Dave projected mattered not at all. The four large armed men who appeared from the left and turned off the street onto the path to Undoto’s front door didn’t spare even a glance toward the carriage. Their arrogant confidence was absolute, demonstrated unequivocally in their swaggering gaits, in the soft laugh they shared as the leader reached out to thump a meaty fist on the door.

The moon was high, casting a silvery light over the scene. Aileen studied the four men. Although all were deeply tanned, the leader appeared English, the others of mixed European heritage. They were at ease, relaxed, transparently at home. This was their territory, and in it, they reigned supreme; they didn’t expect to be challenged.

She had the sudden thought that if they’d known she was watching, they would merely have leered and shrugged it off as of no account.

The door opened, and Undoto stood framed in the doorway. Even though the narrow porch was poorly lit, she could make out his smile of welcome. He shook hands with the leader and stood aside to wave him and his three cohorts into the house, beaming and exchanging comments and claps on the shoulders with the men as they filed past.

Close acquaintances, at the very least. Almost brothers-in-arms.

Undoto stepped back and shut the door.

Aileen sat back.

Now what?

She was tempted to get out of the carriage, sneak across the street, and crouch beneath the single window of Undoto’s front room. But the house was long and narrow; there was no reason to assume Undoto was conversing with his guests in that particular room, and the risk...

Was too great.

Quite aside from the danger of being discovered by those inside the house, she would be readily visible to anyone in the street and in the houses opposite. Even in her dark clothes, she would stand out.

She huffed and forced herself to remain where she was. In the dark, looking out of the small window at Undoto’s uninformative front door.

Impatience and impulsiveness were abiding weaknesses; she had to hold against both.

In search of distraction, she directed her mind back to what she’d actually seen, to replaying the images and studying them for clues.

The four men. What could she deduce about them?

They’d come from farther up the hill. She’d noticed the street looped over and around the squat hill’s flank, dipping away into an area of the settlement into which she’d yet to venture. That was the direction from which the four had appeared.

Was that where they lived?

Certainly, nothing she’d seen suggested that they lived with Undoto or even in this quieter neighborhood; they certainly wouldn’t have fitted in.

She’d got the impression they were brothers-in-arms. Colleagues, at least. Reviewing the interplay between them only strengthened that conclusion.

So what enterprise did Undoto share with these men?

Other than his ministry, she knew very little of Undoto. Sampson hadn’t known much about the priest, either.

That brought her back to the four men. They’d been large, but most of their size had been muscle. Quite a lot of it.

Undoto was tall, well built, and had a commanding presence, but that presence relied more on the force of his personality, not merely his physical size.

In contrast, the armed group’s leader was taller by several inches and was significantly more physically overwhelming. That, too, was not simply due to size but to the menacing way the man moved, the intimidating way he stood.

Adding to the image of danger, each of the four men had carried at least one long-bladed weapon strapped to his side or back, and all four had bristled with smaller knives; she hadn’t had to look hard to see that. They wore their weapons openly...

Mercenaries?

The more she thought of it, the more the description fitted.

What connection might lie between a priest and a group of mercenaries?

Was stumbling on the mercenaries why Will had disappeared? And Dixon before him?

Undoto’s front door opened. The mercenaries trooped out. The leader was the last to leave. He turned on the narrow porch to speak with Undoto.

Aileen watched the exchange like a hawk. She strained her ears; although she couldn’t make out the words, the tone of both men’s voices reached her.

The mercenaries weren’t happy, but it didn’t seem that they were angry with Undoto. For his part, the priest appeared—and sounded—resigned. He didn’t seek to appease the hulking mercenary leader, but his responses were grave, as if he shared their...disappointment?

That was the impression Aileen received. That the mercenaries, and Undoto, too, had hoped for something, but had been denied.

The mercenaries turned away from Undoto with no exchange of smiles, waves, or any farewells. They strode up the short path and turned into the street—heading back the way they’d come.

Aileen gave a little jig on the carriage seat. If her luck held...

The trapdoor in the coach’s ceiling lifted.

“You want me to follow them, miss?” Dave’s disembodied whisper floated down.

“Please,” she whispered back. “But entirely unobtrusively. Hang well back.”

“I’ll do me best, miss.”

The trapdoor fell shut. The carriage moved forward, then halted. Aileen realized Dave had stopped where he could see up the hill, but he hadn’t yet turned the carriage into the street.

He waited, waited, and eventually gave his horse the office and slowly, ponderously, rolled around the corner and on up the street. Like most streets outside the settlement’s center, this one was potholed and rutted, forcing any driver to ease their conveyance over dips and bumps; a very slowly moving carriage wasn’t as suspicious a sight as it would have been in London.

Aileen peered out of the forward window. There were no streetlights, and clouds had now veiled the moon; she could just pick out the four dark shapes as they moved through the shadows.

The street continued to climb. There was a flare burning at the side of the road at the crest. Beyond lay nothing but the blackness of the night sky as the land dipped on the other side of the ridge.

“Miss.” Dave’s voice reached her. “The street narrows just over that crest ahead. It quickly becomes too tight for me carriage. ’Nother of the slum areas starts about there. Must be where those four are headed.”

Aileen considered their situation. “How far can we go before turning back?”

“Well, there’s a side street ahead, a little way below the crest—we can take that, and it’ll carry us back to the streets of Tower Hill. I wouldn’t want to go over the crest—it’ll be hard to turn the carriage if’n I do. I’ll have to get down to manage it, and if you don’t mind, miss, that’s not something I want to do at this hour in this area with the likes of those four hanging about.”

“No, indeed.” Aileen bit her lip. She didn’t want to pull back, to give up this odd chase, but the danger...and it wasn’t just her involved but Dave, too.

Ahead, the four dark shapes walked into the circle of light cast by the flickering flare. The first three trudged on and over the crest, but the leader halted. And looked back.

Directly at the carriage.

He stood bathed in the light from the flare.

Less than thirty yards away, Aileen saw his face—saw the scar slashing across one cheek. Saw the hard, merciless gaze he trained on the carriage.

Even though she knew he couldn’t see her, she felt herself freeze like a rabbit before a rabid dog.

“Miss?”

Dave’s urgent whisper jerked her into action. Into speech. “Take the side street!”

Smoothly, as if that had been his direction all along, Dave angled his horse slowly to the right, away from the watching mercenary and on into the quiet street leading across the hillside.

Shrinking back into the deepest shadows in the carriage, Aileen stared at the mercenary as the coach turned.

Her second look didn’t improve on her first. Instinctive fear closed chill fingers about her throat.

She couldn’t take her eyes from the threat. As the carriage continued, she shifted, keeping the mercenary in view.

But with the carriage turning aside, he appeared to lose interest. He turned and continued over the crest, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Aileen exhaled. She slumped back against the seat, only then realizing her hand had risen to her throat.

She lowered her hand and dragged in a huge breath. Her heart was still pounding.

Minutes later, the carriage reached better-surfaced streets, and Dave urged his horse to a faster pace.

As her breathing returned to normal, Aileen reminded herself that the mercenary wouldn’t have been able to see her, that he wasn’t following her.

Despite the reassurance, her heart continued to thump faster than it had before.

* * *

Robert returned to the inn, but couldn’t settle; thinking of Lashoria’s death at the hands of the slavers left him restless—wanting, needing, to act.

On diplomatic missions, he rarely had to cope with situations like this—when an unnecessary and violent slaying provoked him.

Sleep wasn’t going to come soon. Remembering his earlier plan, he told Benson where he was headed, then left the inn.

Cloaked in deep night, he walked to Water Street and on to the office of Macauley and Babington. As befitted the holders of the lucrative trading license between the colony of West Africa and England, the company’s office was in a relatively new stone building in the middle of Water Street—in business terms, the beating heart of the settlement. A foray down the alley running alongside the building revealed an exterior staircase leading to an apartment above the rear of the office.

The door on the landing at the top of the stairs was locked, and Babington didn’t respond to Robert’s knock.

After deciding Babington was most likely out socializing, Robert picked the lock and went in.

The door opened into a living room. Robert stepped inside, quietly closed the door, then listened. Half a minute sufficed for his senses to confirm that he was the only person there.

He relaxed and looked around.

Two well-stuffed armchairs with a small round table between faced a sofa set against one wall. A bureau bearing a tantalus graced the wall opposite the sofa, while a desk stood against the wall a little way from the door. The fourth wall, opposite the door, played host to four long windows; the central panes were French doors giving onto a narrow balcony.

Sufficient moonlight washed through the uncurtained windows for Robert to see well enough. A door in the wall against which the sofa sat stood ajar; a glance beyond showed a bed and the usual appurtenances of a bedchamber.

Robert walked to the bureau, checked the decanters in the tantalus, then helped himself to a glass of whisky. Drink in hand, he angled one of the armchairs toward the door, sat, sipped, and settled to wait.

As the whisky slid down his throat, he found himself pondering his lack of hesitation in breaking into Babington’s rooms. Perhaps he had more of his brothers—and his father—in him than he knew.

Or perhaps it was simply his impatience to get on, further fueled by learning of Lashoria’s murder.

An hour later, he heard footsteps steadily climbing the outer stair. A key slid into the lock.

Babington didn’t realize the door was unlocked, but carelessly opened it and sent the door swinging wide.

He immediately saw Robert sitting in the chair, outlined by the light from the windows at his back.

Babington froze.

Robert remained where he was, but realizing that Babington couldn’t see his face, said, “Robert Frobisher.” When Babington blinked and the tension that had tightened his frame eased, Robert held up the half-empty glass. “Not a bad drop, but the Glencrae is better.”

“Frobisher.” After a further second’s hesitation, Babington stepped inside and walked to the small table. He lit the lamp upon it; the light flared, and he glanced at Robert—a sharp glance confirming his identity. Satisfied, Babington turned down the wick, set the glass on the lamp, then returned to the door and closed it. He set his cane in the rack beside the door, then went to the tantalus and poured himself a drink.

Only when he had it in hand did he look at Robert. Babington raised his glass, sipped, then asked, “Why are you here?”

Robert sent him an unamused grin. “As you rightly suspect, it’s connected with Declan’s visit. But as you’ve already realized, my visit is quite deliberately more...private.”

“Covert, in other words.” Babington crossed to the sofa and sat at his ease, stretching out his long legs. The lamplight played equally over them both. Babington studied Robert, then asked, “I presume you want my help with something. So what’s going on?”

Robert had had plenty of time to decide how he wished to proceed. “I understood from Declan that you might have an interest in people who’ve gone missing.”

Babington was too experienced to shift, but he stilled.

Over the rim of his glass, Robert scrutinized Babington’s expression, then quietly asked, “Is that so?”

Babington’s features didn’t give him away, but his color had ebbed. He remained frozen, staring at Robert. After several seconds, in a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “Why do you want to know?”

Robert shifted his gaze to the glass in his hand. “Because if you do have such an interest, then, presumably, it would predispose you to assist me in my quest.” He paused, then glanced at Babington. “However, if you don’t have such an interest...then I fear I would be unwise to share with you the details of why I am here.”

Babington remained sprawled on the sofa, staring through the lamplight and studying Robert’s face.

Then, slowly, Babington sat up. Moving deliberately, he set his glass down on the small table. Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he scrubbed both hands over his face. He stared blindly across the room for several seconds, then he met Robert’s gaze. “All right.”

Robert fought to keep his expression impassive, unresponsive. Babington looked almost tortured, his eyes shadowed.

“There’s—there was a young lady, a young woman in our terms. A Miss Mary Wilson. Her family was down on its luck, and she came out here for a fresh start, helping her uncle in his store. She was more than an assistant. More like her uncle’s heir—a co-owner.” Babington drew in a tight breath, then went on, “She and I...we were courting, but of course, I haven’t told anyone in the family that. They’d have an apoplexy if they knew I wanted to marry a shopkeeper—that’s how they’d see it. See her. They wouldn’t even want to meet her.”

Robert came from much the same background; he understood Babington’s familial situation.

Babington had paused as if ordering his thoughts. He continued, “One day, I called at the shop, and when he saw me, her uncle was furious. He tried to throw me out, but then he realized I hadn’t come to tell him that I’d persuaded Mary to give up her place with him and become my ladybird. That I didn’t have any more idea of where she was than he.

“We were frantic—the pair of us. We searched. I hired men to hunt high and low through the settlement—but she was gone. Vanished.” Babington gestured helplessly. “As if into thin air.”

Babington looked at Robert, and now anger lit his eyes. “So if you want to know if I have an interest in people going missing from the settlement, the answer is yes. Yes! I’d give my right arm to know what has happened to Mary.”

Robert set down his glass and crisply stated, “Then obviously, you’ll do all you can to further any venture that might—just might—result in getting her back.”

Babington snarled, “Anything. I’ll do anything to get her back.” He lifted his glass and tossed back his drink, then looked again at Robert, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think there’s any chance of that? That she’s even alive?”

Robert held his gaze, then sighed. “I won’t lie to you—I can’t be certain. But there is a chance that she’s been spirited away by those who’ve been taking a range of other Europeans, picking them off—men, women, and, it seems, even children—and taking them out of the settlement. The reason behind the kidnappings is a mystery, but as far as we’ve been able to make out, there’s a definite chance those taken are still alive.” Robert paused, then went on, “We’re proceeding on the basis that they are still alive, and that whatever we do in pursuing them must be done in such a way as to not alert the perpetrators.”

Babington was by no means slow. He figured it out in seconds. “So said perpetrators won’t risk covering their tracks by killing those they’ve taken.” He nodded. “And you think someone in the settlement is involved.”

“Some people, yes. More than one person, but exactly who is involved we can’t say.” Robert paused, reading what he could now see in Babington’s face—stripped of the man’s usual debonair mask—and made the decision to trust him. “Pour yourself another drink, and let me tell you what we know.”

Babington cut him a glance, then complied. Once he’d resettled on the sofa, a glass of whisky in his hand, Robert proceeded to lay out the entire scenario as they knew it, starting with Declan’s mission.

When he got to the part about Edwina being drugged by Lady Holbrook and then passed on to men they believed to be part of the slavers’ gang, Babington swore.

“She’s gone, you know. Took ship...it must have been a few days after Declan sailed. Holbrook told Macauley she went to help a sister in need, but I later heard the ship she’d sailed on was headed to America.” Babington’s face hardened. “That seemed odd at the time. Now...”

“Indeed. One thing you can confirm for me—Holbrook’s still here?”

Babington nodded. “On deck as usual. No change that Macauley or I have noticed—and the old man would have said if he’d sensed anything amiss.”

“So it’s likely Holbrook is innocent in all this—but he’s not likely to be much use to us, either. Until we know the identity of all those involved, alerting Holbrook might see him react in a way that will alert the villains, which, again, is the last thing we want. Also, as the focus of the investigation lies outside the settlement, it’s unlikely Holbrook will be able to provide the kind of help required. That makes telling him a large risk without much chance of reward.” Robert cocked a brow at Babington. “At least that was Declan’s assessment.”

Babington grimaced. “I wouldn’t disagree. Holbrook is paranoid about keeping the colony calm, and any hint of white slavers operating within the settlement would cause a panic—and send Macauley’s blood pressure soaring.” Dryly, he added, “Never a good thing. Especially not for the political classes. And Holbrook’s no great poker player. If he knew something disturbing—let alone something as threatening to his well-being as this—he wouldn’t be able to hide it.”

Robert humphed. After a moment, he resumed his recitation of events—Declan’s return to London, his report to Melville and Wolverstone, and Robert’s subsequent recruitment to undertake the next leg of the mission.

Babington arched a brow. “Not your usual sort of escapade.”

“True, but I’m not averse to the occasional challenge.” Robert realized that was, indeed, the truth. “It keeps me on my toes.”

“It’ll do more than that if there are slavers involved. Normally, they don’t operate in the settlement—they give it a wide berth—but I’ve heard tales aplenty. Enough to know the locals both despise and fear them with good cause.” Babington looked at Robert. “So you’re here to pick up the slavers’ trail.”

Robert nodded. “My task is to locate their camp, which I’ve learned will be out in the jungle somewhere, sufficiently far out to avoid the patrols out of Thornton, and also to steer clear of the surrounding villages and their chiefs.”

“That makes sense.” Babington met Robert’s gaze. “Whatever help I can give, you can count on it.”

Robert inclined his head in acknowledgment. “My orders are to learn the camp’s location, then take that back to London. I’ve been expressly forbidden to follow the trail of the captives any further.” He looked Babington in the eye. “In trusting you with the details of this mission, I expect you to abide by the restrictions, too.”

Babington thought, then grimaced. “As you say, locating the enterprise—the mine, if it turns out to be that—without alerting whoever the villains have in their pockets here is absolutely vital. If news that London is conducting an investigation leaks out...” He took a swig of his whisky, then bleakly finished, “All the captives will be dead sooner than you can blink.”

“Just so.” Robert felt his face harden.

“So what do you need me to do?”

Robert reviewed his options. “At present, my men and I are quietly tucked away in an inn in the merchants’ quarter. Far enough from the docks that it’s unlikely we’ll run into anyone who would recognize me—or my men.”

Babington frowned. “Where’s The Trident?”

“At anchor farther down the estuary.” Robert paused, then added, “We have false name boards up, and with the squadron at sea, there’s no one around likely to recognize her lines.”

“Except me.” Babington drained his glass. “And I won’t tell.”

“Exactly.” Robert paused, then asked, “Do you have any inkling of who in the settlement might be involved in this? Anyone acting suspiciously?”

Babington snorted. “I hadn’t a clue Lady Holbrook was involved, and I met with her and Holbrook regularly.” He shook his head. “On the one hand, I can still barely believe it, but on the other, I can. She was always so much more...grasping than he.”

Robert returned to his earlier line of thought. “At the moment, I have all the help I need. My orders more or less forbid me to engage, so having an extra sword isn’t going to make a difference. But thinking ahead, having you on the ground here, keeping your eyes and ears open...at some point, once we have the location of the mine, I imagine a force will be sent in to liberate it. And given the issues in the settlement, that force will almost certainly arrive direct from London. They’ll need help—the sort of help you will be perfectly positioned to give.”

Babington nodded. “Very well. I’ll keep my head down, eyes open, and ears flapping. However...” His eyes narrowed. He tapped one fingernail on the now empty glass in his hands. Slowly, he smiled, although there was no humor in the expression. “One thing I can do that would be entirely in character—all but routine, or at least I could make it appear so—is to run checks on the cargoes being loaded into certain holds. Even when a ship is sailing for some port not in England, we will occasionally run a spot check, just to make sure there are no goods marked to be shipped on.”

Babington met Robert’s gaze. “I agree with Declan that the most likely enterprise at the bottom of this scheme is a diamond mine. And if it’s diamonds, the shipments will be headed to Amsterdam. I can search all ships bound for that area. I’ll disguise it as some sort of crackdown due to something or other—easy enough for me to fabricate a cause.”

“What about Macauley?”

“He tends to leave the day-to-day business to me, while he massages the politicians and the relevant authorities.” Babington’s lips twisted. “It’s an arrangement that works for both of us and, in this case, leaves me free to make it harder for our villains to clear their ill-gotten goods.”

“Interfering with their logistics in such a way...” Robert narrowed his eyes as he contemplated that, then he nodded decisively. “As long as you can make it seem entirely due to some other unconnected reason, putting that sort of pressure on the villains’ plans might well unsettle them, might even force them to act in some way they haven’t planned, which can only be to our advantage.”