Lord of the Privateers

  “The best way to do that,” Dearne said, “is to tell them of the avenues we’re pursuing—perhaps lead them to think that the staff at the Albany are not quite as deaf as Ross-Courtney imagined.”

  Trentham nodded. “And that the diamond merchant guild in Amsterdam is proving most helpful. In fact, it’s the opposite, but our backers won’t know that.”

  “Their banker is a key weakness for them,” Gabriel Cynster said. “He most likely knows their names and that the money he or his institution is funneling to them comes from a particular diamond merchant.” Cynster looked at Hendon and Lostwithiel. “You might mention we’re closing in on the banker.”

  Lostwithiel nodded. He looked at Wolverstone. “My only concern in going that route is that if they do, in fact, succeed in walking free, even for a short time, the first thing they’ll do is move to obliterate all potential evidence—and we know they’re of the ilk to order men killed without a blink.”

  Wolverstone grimaced fleetingly, then, slowly, he arched his brows. “It’s almost like a challenge—with time running out, can we hold our nerve better than they can?”

  Seated beside Royd, Isobel stirred. “It’s a risk and reward situation. If we don’t take the risk, we’ll lose the prize.”

  Heads nodded all around the room.

  Once again, silence fell, this time with everyone wracking their brains, trying to define any lever or other avenue to move forward with speed.

  Eventually, Wolverstone said, “We’ve come so far. We’ve rescued the captives, shut down the illegal enterprise, and have the three local villains in our hands, ready to talk and accept their punishment. Unlike the six backers—and it’s the backers we want, and that the government truly needs to convict. We have four backers in our hands, and the prospect of evidence enough to convict them given several weeks...but to get those weeks, we’re relying on no one alerting their families, agents, or supporters, who will then start asking questions.” Wolverstone looked at his wife. “Neill and Cummins are married. Are their wives likely to start agitating over their disappearances?”

  Minerva shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so.” She glanced at Honoria.

  Honoria stated, “Neill’s wife lives permanently in the country, and as far as she or anyone in his household would know, he’s still in Africa.”

  “As for Cummins,” Minerva said, “his wife hasn’t come up for the season, and he keeps no house here, merely lodgings. So only his staff would know he hasn’t returned home. I suspect it will be days, possibly even a week, before Cummins’s manservant might think to notify his mistress of his master’s non-return...in short, it’s unlikely anyone will come looking for Cummins for a few weeks at least, and even then, only if Lady Cummins bestirs herself.”

  “It seems,” Devil Cynster somewhat grimly said, “that the more immediate threat is the other two backers. They’ll have no idea Ross-Courtney and Neill have been seized, but they’ll notice Lord Hugh and Cummins have mysteriously vanished, most likely within a few days. And then they’ll raise hell with the authorities.”

  Dearne nodded. “Especially if they’ve discussed what to do in the event official interest is shown.”

  “I suspect you won’t have even two days,” Lady Clarice Warnefleet dryly opined. “Not with the tales sweeping through the ton of a fabulous blue diamond necklace appearing at the Wolverstone House ball.” She regarded the gathering with a steady gaze. “Assuming they weren’t at the ball last night, the other two backers will have heard about the necklace by now. The first thing they’ll do is contact each other—including Cummins and Lord Hugh. When they don’t hear back from Cummins and Lord Hugh within a day or so...”

  Honoria nodded. “They’ll start asking questions.”

  “And given their ilk,” a gentleman by the name of Delborough put in, “they’ll be clever enough to raise those questions via avenues that disguise their involvement. We won’t be able to identify the backers by tracing the questions back to the source.”

  “We need to identify the remaining backers as a matter of urgency.” Wolverstone spoke decisively. “Without getting the last two into our hands as well, the odds stacked against us are too high, and we’re unlikely to be able to pull this off.” He looked at Isobel, seated beside Minerva. “My dear, are you willing to act as lure again?”

  “Yes—of course.” Isobel glanced at Honoria. “I assume we’re speaking of the St. Ives ball?”

  Royd clenched his jaw and forced down the protest that, instinctively, had risen to his lips. The smoothness of their operation at last night’s ball should have been reassuring, yet his instincts—those prickling feelings he’d long ago learned not to ignore—were stirring, unhappily fermenting.

  As discussions over repeating their ploy the following evening rolled on, he listened with half an ear while trying to identify the specific source of his unease. Yet he couldn’t see any reason Isobel behaving tomorrow evening as she had last night, surrounded—as it seemed she would be—by an even larger contingent of “guards,” should pose any greater danger than had been the case last night.

  The only excuse he could advance for his lack of enthusiasm was a craven quibble that trying the same tack twice was akin to tempting Fate that critical one step too far.

  As he listened to Isobel and heard her resolution—her determination to do all she could to ensure the backers were brought to justice—ring clearly in her tone, and saw his brothers and their ladies equally committed, then looked further and saw so many others ready and willing to stand with them, he could do nothing other than, by his silence, agree.

  And so it was decided. As a group, they would attempt one last throw of the dice.

  Isobel would wear the blue diamond necklace at what was expected to be the biggest crush of the season—the St. Ives’ ball tomorrow night. If they succeeded in identifying the remaining two backers, no further hurdle would stand in the way of, one way or another, seeing justice done.

  If they failed to reel in the last two backers...they would be no worse off than they were now, but their ability to secure what had become the ultimate goal of the mission would remain under threat, their grasp on success uncertain, and likely to grow more tenuous with every passing day.

  * * *

  Royd and Isobel strolled back to Stanhope Street with the other three Frobisher couples.

  They arrived to discover that Duncan had been taken out for a drive in the park by his grandmother and great-grandmother. Fergus, however, was waiting and insisted on being told the state of play. Edwina ordered tea and cakes, and the eight of them sat with the patriarch of the family and ran through the recent deliberations leading to their latest tack.

  Edwina fixed her gaze measuringly on Isobel. “The second of your new gowns should have been delivered while we were at the meeting. We should go up and check that it will look as well with the diamonds as we’d thought.”

  “That it will show them off as spectacularly as we’d hoped.” Aileen rose, bringing the others to their feet.

  “Indeed.” Isobel threw an inviting glance at Kate.

  Kate smiled and joined the exodus.

  The instant the door shut behind the ladies, Declan stated, “These days, quiet moments have to be seized. I’m for the library.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Robert followed Declan to the door.

  Caleb looked at Royd. “You’ve heard of this picnic the ladies are organizing for next Monday?” When Royd nodded, Caleb went on, “I’ve been deputed to take the official invitation to the office for dissemination to our crews.” He pulled out a folded sheet and held it out. “If you approve, I’ll take it around there now—it’ll need one of us to authorize it.”

  Royd took the sheet, opened it, and swiftly scanned the lines; Fergus read over his shoulder, snorted, and grinned. Royd handed the “invitation” back to Cale
b. “It reads more like a summons, but I have no inclination to tamper.”

  Caleb grinned, tucked the sheet away, saluted, and headed for the door.

  Fergus tapped Royd’s arm. “Join me in the garden. I wouldn’t mind a stroll.”

  Royd followed his father out into the rear garden. They ambled down the path, with him shortening his stride to match his father’s gait.

  To Royd’s surprise, Fergus made no move to initiate a conversation; his father simply walked down the path, apparently noting and approving the greenery.

  Eventually, entirely of its own accord, a question rose to his tongue. “How did you manage it with Mama?” He waved widely. “Letting her swan into danger? I assume she did so several times over the years she sailed with you.”

  Fergus laughed. “Oh, indeed. Many times more than several. How did I cope?” His father turned his piercing gray gaze—a gaze Royd had inherited—on him. “Much as you are, I warrant.” Looking forward, Fergus added, “It’s not easy, but you have to hold it all in and just stand ready in case your fears come true. It’s the price we pay to have them by our sides, in our lives.”

  Royd pulled a face and kept walking.

  “Actually,” Fergus said a moment later, “I would think you, of us all, would have the easiest road. You’ve known Isobel for so long, and she always was fearless.”

  “That was then,” he grumped. “This is now.”

  “Unarguably, but the quality of fearlessness doesn’t change. Any more than her intellect, and that’s never been in doubt. No ninnyhammer there.”

  “No.” After a moment more of studying the gravel, Royd sighed. “I know it’s me and not her—that it’s my reaction and I have to deal with it.”

  Fergus chuckled. “If you understand that, you’re at the head of this class. Unless I miss my guess, Edwina is still bludgeoning that lesson into Declan’s hard head and will be for some time. If I understand what happened on his leg of the mission, Robert wasn’t given much choice, but he’ll still try to resist if he thinks he can get away with it—not that he will. Aileen will set him straight. As for Caleb...it appears he’s going to get off lightest. His Kate is much more amenable to being protected, but even there, as I take it she plans to sail with him often, I foresee he’ll be tested, too, but as we both know, and he’s so recently proved, Caleb can adjust to damn near anything and thrive.”

  “Hmm. Speaking of which, I wanted to discuss a change in our roles.” Royd explained what he had in mind.

  Fergus asked several pertinent questions, then gave his blessing. He halted and waved toward the house. “Let’s seize the chance while Caleb’s out to run this past Robert and Declan. Not that I think they’ll argue, but then we—you and I—can make the announcement at this picnic the ladies are planning.”

  Royd returned with his father to the library and spent the next hours discussing the shipping business and, when Caleb returned, breaking the news of his new position to him.

  “His reaction,” Royd told Isobel as, after a restful and reassuring evening, they walked down the corridor to the room they now shared, “was something to see. His legs literally gave out, and he collapsed in a chair.”

  “He still thinks of himself as so much the youngest—the baby none of you realize has grown up.”

  “I think what shocked him most was Declan’s and Robert’s patently sincere agreement.”

  Isobel smiled. “This mission opened their eyes. Until then, I think only your parents and you—and me—saw Caleb as he truly could be. I don’t think even he truly comprehended his abilities, his strengths, not until this latest adventure.”

  They reached the room two doors before theirs. Isobel opened the door and looked in. Royd looked over her shoulder.

  Moonlight poured in, striking the carpet and shedding enough diffused light for them to make out the lump that was Duncan curled up in the big bed.

  Still smiling, she closed the door. “Your mother and Iona wore him out. They took him to the Serpentine to feed the ducks, and they’re both perfectly content to encourage him to talk and question nonstop.”

  Royd followed her into their room. “He’s learned a lot since leaving Aberdeen.”

  As have I.

  One of his major realizations was that secrets between them never ended well.

  She walked to the dressing table and started unpinning her hair.

  He shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, laid both aside, and started unraveling his cravat. Thinking.

  “Help me with these laces.”

  He dragged the cravat loose and glanced her way. Hands on her hips, her back to him, she stood before the dressing table. When he didn’t reply, she glanced over her shoulder.

  That look—half sultry siren, half expectant innocent—would draw him until he died. He tossed the cravat to join his coat and walked to her.

  She faced forward again. He set his fingers to her laces and tugged. He kept his eyes on the task.

  “What is it?” Her tone suggested she was perfectly aware he was harboring some...inner turmoil.

  As usual, she waited—teasing answers from him was one of the few occasions when her patience seemed limitless.

  He dragged the last lace loose, and her gown gaped all the way down her slender back. He slipped his hands inside the garment; his fingers and palms against her silken skin, he slid his hands around to the front of her waist and drew her against him.

  In the mirror, over her shoulder, he met her eyes.

  He wanted to tell her, but getting the words out wasn’t easy. Closing his eyes, he drew in a breath, his chest swelling against the curves of her back. “I feel as if, after eight years of emptiness, I’ve only just got you back, just long enough to glimpse heaven again—my version of it, at least—and here I am happily or, as it happens, not at all happily risking you and everything between us, and all hope for our future, again.” He let his chin drop to her shoulder; from beneath his lashes, he watched her face in the mirror. “I know it’s what needs to be—that you need to do it, and all the reasons why—and yet...” He closed his eyes, fractionally shook his head.

  Isobel heard the words he didn’t say; she felt the tension in him, through his body at her back, in his hands as they held her.

  She slid her arms free of her sleeves and turned in his hold. Instantly, he straightened, raising his head and opening his eyes. She met his gaze, searched, and saw what he allowed her to see in the roiling gray. “What do you think I felt knowing you would lead the attack in the compound? That you would be the first of our men to drop inside an enemy-held perimeter? And that I could be nowhere near—not even within sight of you, let alone close enough to step in should anything unexpected occur...” Her eyes on his, she tilted her head. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  He held her gaze, then bluntly said, “It might be, but you’re a woman—you handle it better.”

  She battled a laugh—as he’d intended; having brought up the subject and said his piece, he was intent on distracting her. When he tried to draw her in, she put a hand on his shirt-clad chest and held him back. “That might be so, but that wasn’t what I meant.” She waited until he stilled, until she could capture his gaze again. “What I meant was that you don’t need to hide this side of yourself from me—I understand what you feel because I feel the same. But doing the sorts of things we do—going into danger perhaps, but as far as possible with control in our hands—that’s a big part of us. Of both of us. It’s who we are and what we do—and that’s one of the links in the chains that bind us.”

  She paused, trying to read his face, but seeing only that he was listening. “We shouldn’t—we can’t—limit ourselves, can’t turn aside from doing what we might when there’s a need. We can’t cut this out of ourselves—we’ll always be like this. But now we both can see it”—she tilted her head, her eyes
still on his—“perhaps we can manage things better. Or, at the very least, with greater experience, the moments will become less...fraught.”

  He studied her face for several heartbeats. “You’re saying we have to get used to this?”

  When she nodded, he sighed. “That’s what I said—you’re better at that than I am.”

  She laughed and reached for his face to draw his lips to hers.

  He obliged and bent his head, but before their lashes lowered, he murmured, “Just for my record, tell me plainly—you’re not just willing but you actively want to play the lure again.”

  His face framed between her palms, she held his gaze. “I want to do this. For the captives we freed, for those we didn’t, for all who helped us, for Kate, and yes, I want to do this for you and me. Tomorrow is our last roll of the dice—we need to let the wind fill our sails and see where chance takes us.”

  When he sighed and fractionally nodded, curious now, she asked, “What if I’d said I wasn’t truly willing?”

  His lids rose, and his eyes searched hers.

  “I’m just curious. Would you have backed me then—supported me if I’d cravenly said no? Even if it meant we might fail to catch the backers?”

  His gaze hardened; he frowned as if her question was close to idiotic. “If you didn’t want to do it, I’d whisk you away so fast your head would spin. Catching the backers is important to you, me, my family, an army of friends, the captives, and if Wolverstone and Melville have it right, the government and the country—but you, your safety, transcends all of that, at least for me. To me, you are paramount—keeping you safe...for me, there is no higher imperative.”

  She wasn’t sure her heart, swelling so dramatically, would remain in her chest.

  Any lingering niggle over setting aside her concerns over the quality of his love and instead letting herself be guided by hers for him had just cindered and blown away.