Worse, they’d overheard Muldoon telling Dubois to get in more strongboxes so they could send two or even three to the ships at a time.
“And we have another problem with Muldoon.” Phillipe met Caleb’s eyes. “He’s not in the least nervous about going into the mine. Even after the collapse, he was oblivious to any danger. He’s going to keep coming in and examining the rock face, which means we’ll have to keep removing diamonds from it at a reasonable rate—and he’s going to see when they run out.”
“The truth,” Fanshawe put in, “is that one of the critical factors that has allowed us to stretch things out this long is the guards’ dislike of going deep into the mine. That, and Dubois’s, Arsene’s, and Cripps’s aversion to going in at all, with them only venturing in when they’re forced to it. If it hadn’t been for that, we’d never have been able to pull off all the delaying tactics we have.”
“But now,” Phillipe said, “with Muldoon monitoring both the rock face and the stones going out in the strongbox, he’ll notice if we try to slow things down.”
The final blow fell when Dixon, Hillsythe, and Hopkins finally joined the circle. Earlier, the three had left Caleb, Phillipe, and Fanshawe to work with the carpenters over what timbers were needed to reshore up the last third of the tunnel and had gone to assess the stockpiles.
Caleb looked at Dixon’s face and knew he wasn’t going to like what they’d found. A glance around the circle showed that everyone else was also expecting bad news. How swiftly the upswing generated by their successful engineering of the collapse had dissipated. Their confidence, Caleb reflected, had become a very fragile thing.
He looked at the three latecomers, and accepting that no one else was going to, he baldly asked, “How long do we have?”
Across the pit, Hillsythe met his gaze. “We made as accurate an estimate as we could of the stones still in the rock face, plus those in our four stockpiles—in the mine, at the discards, outside the cleaning shed, and inside it. With Muldoon monitoring the ultimate output as he looks set to do...our best guess is somewhere between ten and fifteen days.”
It was the tenth of August.
Caleb nodded. Ten days, or even fifteen, wasn’t good enough—that wouldn’t get them to September. He wanted to say something—the impulse to try to lift everyone’s spirits rose inside him—but for once, he couldn’t think of anything that might work.
Beside him, Kate shifted. Then he felt her hand come to rest on his thigh, and she lightly gripped. Simply a reminder that she was there, that whatever was to come, they would face it together...
And they would never give up.
He filled his lungs, then he raised his head and looked around the circle. “Obviously, that’s not good news. Several negative things happened today that, acting together, have left us in what appears to be a hopeless situation.” He swept the circle again, taking in the now-familiar faces. “However, I would like to remind you all that we are not dead yet.”
Several snorts and brief smiles greeted that pronouncement, but he wasn’t finished. “I know it’s easier said than done, but we need to cling to hope. That’s the one element we must never let slip through our fingers.” He paused, then went on, “Around this circle sit quite a few who have sailed with me for more than a decade. They know that I, and they with me, have been in even worse straits than this. We’ve always come through—we’ve always survived. Because we never relinquished hope.”
Something stirred inside him, and without pause he went on, “Often—even though some believe it to be a fantasy—yet often in the darkest hours, that’s when Fate steps in and shines a light. Just like a lighthouse light, shining through the darkness to steer a ship to safe harbor. And like ships’ lookouts, we have to remain alert, with our eyes wide open so we see the light. So that when Fate shines for us, we notice and take the right tack.”
He looked around the faces and met all the eyes now trained on him. “We’re not dead yet and we still have hope. And clinging to that hope is our only way forward.”
* * *
On the evening of the eleventh of August, Lord Peter Ross-Courtney summoned the five gentlemen he’d recruited to his latest venture to a meeting in a private room at The Albion, a highly select gentlemen’s club favored by the king’s closest associates. As a Gentleman of the Royal Bedchamber and a close confidant of the king, Lord Peter definitely figured among that august tribe.
Somewhat to Lord Peter’s surprise, the first of the five to arrive was Mr. Frederick Neill, a gentleman several branches down an aristocratic tree. Neill had bartered his birth and connections for significant wealth through not one but two advantageous marriages. Said wealth had also enabled him to acquire significant political influence, which was why Lord Peter had approached him; in Lord Peter’s estimation, one could find wealth easily enough, but one could never hold too much political capital.
At fifty-five years old, three years younger than Lord Peter’s fifty-eight, Neill was a stocky man not much given to social chitchat. He accepted a glass of brandy, sank into one of the plush leather armchairs, sipped, then asked, “What news?”
Lord Peter merely smiled. “Let’s wait until the others get here. There is news, but it’ll be easier to relate it once.”
Lord Hugh Deveny chose that moment to walk in.
Lord Peter greeted him. Another scion of an ancient house, well connected and supposedly wealthy, within certain circles, Lord Hugh was known to be a heavy gambler, and many suspected him to be deep in debt. Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t lay his hands on significant cash.
Lord Hugh was followed by the Marquis of Risdale, a nobleman who was widely regarded as having no real thought in his head beyond the next fad on which he could spend money. Risdale gave the word profligate new meaning. He, too, was a close acquaintance of the king, a connection that had only encouraged Risdale in his belief that whatever he wanted should be his.
Having Lord Hugh and Risdale present made Lord Peter feel more comfortable; although both men were several years younger, they were of a type Lord Peter understood well. A type he felt confident of controlling.
Not so the last two gentlemen to arrive. Mr. Frederick Clunes-Forsythe was, quite simply, a powerbroker. He was an extremely wealthy man of excellent birth and nonexistent morals. While Clunes-Forsythe had been an obvious candidate to tap on the shoulder for this venture, Lord Peter knew better than to imagine Clunes-Forsythe could ever be trusted. Not unless his own position, his own best interests, were at stake.
With respect to this venture, Lord Peter had taken steps to ensure that the last criterion would always be met.
The last man to join them was a bluff, outwardly hearty, rather choleric gentleman of significant stature—Sir Reginald Cummins, a close crony of Neill’s. He was a man of similar ilk to Neill, with an aristocratic background and significant accumulated wealth, and despite his superficially genial façade, Cummins was every bit as shrewd as his friend.
Shrewd and ruthless; Lord Peter had decided that combination was a virtue.
Once everyone was settled in the armchairs and adequately supplied with drinks, Lord Peter dismissed the self-effacing waiter with a wave. After the door had shut behind the man, Lord Peter surveyed his coconspirators. “Obviously, I have news. Some of it good. Some of it...potentially disquietening.” He sipped, then went on, “First, to the good. We’ve received the latest report from our man in Amsterdam.” Lord Peter reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a folded sheet, and handed it to Neill. “He’s given us prices for the latest shipments, and the profit is totting up very nicely—as nicely as we could wish.”
Neill had scanned the sheet. He humphed and handed it on to Cummins, then he looked at Lord Peter. “As we all know, return is a function of amount and time. The amount is good, but the time? I thought we’d agreed that they needed to speed things up.”
“Indeed.” Lord Peter inclined his head. “And we’ve dispatched several letters to that effect.” He paused as Cummins handed the sheet to Clunes-Forsythe. “We also made it clear that, from the first, this venture was essentially running on borrowed time. That there was only a finite window during which our involvement could be guaranteed.”
“It’s been eight months since we invested.” Clunes-Forsythe handed the sheet to Risdale, then looked Lord Peter in the eye. “We’ve been receiving dividends via Amsterdam for the last four months, but at a rate just enough to whet our appetites and with constant promises of an increase in production.”
“And we’ve reminded our agents in the settlement that that increase needs to eventuate, and soon. However”—Lord Peter nodded at the sheet that Risdale was passing to Lord Hugh—“you will have seen Herr Grendel’s postscript noting that the last three shipments have arrived closer together, suggesting an increase in production. But even more heartening is his comment that the quality of the stones has improved significantly. To the point where he, at least, seems rather excited at the prospect of more.”
“So you’re saying”—Lord Hugh handed the sheet back to Lord Peter—“that it looks like we’re onto a good thing, with the supply of stones increasing and the quality as well. Consequently, now would not be the time to fold.”
“Succinctly put.” Lord Peter tucked the folded sheet back into his pocket.
“You said there was some disquietening news.” Neill arched his brows. “What?”
Lord Peter frowned. “Potentially disquietening—what’s worrying is that I can’t be sure if it’s anything to be concerned about at all. But in the interests of frank disclosure, at least between us—one of the captains we’re using to ferry the stones from Freetown to Amsterdam reported that his ship was searched under orders from Macauley and Babington.”
“They were looking for diamonds?” Risdale’s eyes flew wide.
“No. I understand it was a general search for goods that might be destined for England. Macauley and Babington hold an exclusive license for England-bound trade out of West Africa, hence their interest.”
“So it was a non-specific search?” Neill queried. “Something Macauley and Babington routinely do?”
Lord Peter tipped his head from side to side. “Apparently, they conduct such searches from time to time, but our captain reported that Babington himself was at the wharf, which isn’t something that would normally occur. The captain himself wasn’t sure how much weight to place on the event, but felt he should report it.”
“They didn’t find any of the diamonds, did they?” Cummins asked.
“No.” Lord Peter’s smile was smug. “Our agents have their wits about them—the ships don’t pick up the diamonds until after they leave the harbor.”
“So”—Neill turned his glass between his fingers—“this is one of those—as you correctly phrased it—potentially disquietening situations one occasionally encounters. It could mean nothing, or it could be a harbinger of more serious trouble.”
Clunes-Forsythe nodded. “On the one hand, we’ve finally seen evidence that the profits we went into this venture hoping to realize have a real chance of materializing.” He dipped his head to Neill. “Not just in amount but over a reasonable period of time. On the other hand, we have a potentially worrying report, one that might or might not have any actual connection to or impact on our venture.” Clunes-Forsythe glanced around the circle of faces. “We’re all looking for an El Dorado out of this venture, and we’ve caught our first glimpse that such a return might soon come our way. Against that, however, we have to weigh the risk of our involvement becoming known. Ever.”
He looked at Neill. “We’ve discussed the return on our investment. That’s one aspect we all have an interest in. Another is the risk—not to the investment so much as to ourselves.” Again, Clunes-Forsythe looked around the circle, his gaze, as always, cold. “None of us need to be reminded that we each of us stand high enough that a fall will be...quite simply, the end.”
Neill snorted. “Quite aside from enslaving Englishmen and the host of other laws we’re breaking, both the Crown and His Majesty’s government will take a very dim view of our illicit profits.”
Risdale huffed. “That may be so, but one report from a nervous captain about something that might have nothing to do with our venture hardly seems sufficient reason to hike our skirts and run away from the best part of said profits.”
“And,” Lord Hugh put in, “if we do withdraw now, we’re not going to recoup any of our investment beyond what we’ve already received.”
“An excellent point.” Lord Peter uncrossed his legs and sat straighter. “Gentlemen, I believe we’ve reached a point in this venture when in order to best protect our interests, both financial and personal, we need better and more reliable intelligence. Intelligence on the ground, as it were.”
There were murmurs of agreement all around.
“So what do you suggest?” Cummins asked.
“I propose,” Lord Peter said, “that I travel to Freetown and thence to the mine myself.” He smiled. “I rather fancy a break from town, and I could assess the positions of our agents in the settlement—and I would point out that, from the first, we’ve accepted all they’ve told us about themselves and their various abilities. Although their performance overall has been satisfactory to this point, verifying their claims wouldn’t go amiss. But it’s the mine and its potential that I feel we really need eyes we can trust to reliably assess, especially in terms of how long we keep the venture going. Even more so should any threats emerge.” Lord Peter’s smile took on an edge. “After all, no one outside this room has the same degree of vested interest in this project that we do.”
While his suggestion had, at first, met with some surprise, no one seemed inclined to argue.
Lord Peter was mentally congratulating himself with having so smoothly carried off his stratagem when Neill set down his glass and said, “If I might make a suggestion?”
All eyes turned Neill’s way.
He looked around the circle. “Two pairs of eyes will be better than one.” He brought his gaze ultimately to rest on Lord Peter. “So, my lord, if you’re agreeable, I suggest we travel to Freetown—and thence to the mine—together.”
Lord Peter thanked his maker that he’d been blessed with the ability to maintain a poker face. He did so now as his mind whirled, recalculating, reassessing.
The others were no help; Cummins and Clunes-Forsythe were all for Neill’s inclusion—no doubt sensing that Neill would be more likely to react in ways better aligned with their needs. And Risdale and Lord Hugh had no reason to oppose Neill.
So Lord Peter smiled and dipped his head to Neill. “I would be delighted to have your company, sir.” Lord Peter raised his glass and looked around the circle. “To Freetown. To our mine.”
“To diamonds,” Neill said, and drained his glass.
* * *
For the captives, the bad news continued to pile up—along with the rough diamonds that all but fell out of the rock face at the veriest tap.
“It’s shattered.” Dixon stepped back from examining the ore bed through the jeweler’s loupe he’d borrowed from, of all people, Muldoon. In something close to despair, Dixon raked a hand through his hair, then waved at the rock. “It’s as if the shearing pulverized the ore—as if it shook it almost to pieces. Instead of the rock holding in the diamonds, it’s now the diamonds holding the rock in place.”
In the face of such disaster, it was exceedingly difficult to hold on to hope. To even find any hope to cling to.
They were a subdued and quiet company as they gathered around the fire pit that evening. Someone had started counting the days. Caleb heard several whispers of “It’s the twelfth.”
He looked around the circle. When his gaze reached Kate, se
ated beside him, and she met his eyes, he saw the same certainty he felt—in life, in love—reflected back at him. That, he knew, was the sort of fundamental strength—the sort of elemental belief that reached beyond all logic—that everyone needed to fall back on.
He’d wracked his brains throughout the day, but had yet to find any new path forward.
He could only hope he would.
And there it was again—hope. He—they—had to keep hoping.
They were all quietly eating when footsteps suddenly thudded on the barracks’ porch.
Most glanced across—and saw Muldoon striding swiftly their way. Dubois, looking puzzled, was following more slowly, Arsene and Cripps trailing behind him.
But Muldoon...the man appeared elated. Excited, in alt—all but jumping out of his skin with joy.
His face alight, Muldoon strode straight to Kate. Halting beside her, he thrust out his hand. “Where did this stone come from?”
When she blinked at the raw diamond in Muldoon’s palm, then, baffled, looked up at him, he made an obvious effort to rein in his excitement and clarified, “From the first tunnel or the second?”
Kate frowned and reached for the stone. For a second, Muldoon tensed, and she wondered if he would allow her to take it, but then he forced himself to stillness and let her lift it from his palm.
She turned the cleaned stone between her fingers. “Harriet—I think this is one of yours.” They each had their own way of approaching the cleaning, and Harriet was left-handed, which made her work easy to spot.
Harriet glanced warily at Muldoon. When he curtly nodded, she took the stone Kate held out. Harriet examined it. “Yes. I did this one today.”