CHAPTER 8
Macauley House stood on Tower Hill, only a few minutes from Declan and Edwina’s rented bungalow. When, several hours later, they descended from their carriage and, garbed and gowned for the evening, walked through the well-tended garden and into the sprawling house, they discovered a select company gathered in the drawing room. All those who had been present when Macauley had issued his invitation were there and had been joined by three more couples, the most notable of whom were the Governor and Lady Holbrook.
Edwina exchanged greetings with Mrs. Macauley—“Do call me Genevieve, my dear”—then moved on to offer her hand to Macauley.
He grasped her fingers in a gnarled paw. “I hope you’ll excuse me for not bowing, my dear, as I fear were I to attempt it, I would land in an ungainly sprawl at your feet. Most unsettling for us both.” Releasing her, he grimaced. “Not as steady as I used to be¸ sadly. But allow me to congratulate you on your marriage, and to say how pleased I am that at least one of Fergus’s offspring has been moved to tie the knot. Can’t have the breed dying out, what? Regardless of our rivalry, England needs more men like me and Fergus—aye, and into the next generation, too. If the likes of us aren’t around to make things happen, who knows what will become of the Empire, heh?”
Edwina couldn’t help but grin. She detected no hint of hypocrisy or hidden agendas in Macauley’s words. She judged that his personality combined with his age meant he no longer felt the need for obfuscation; he said what he thought, consequences be damned. Which, she reflected, as she parted from him and moved on to exchange hellos with the other guests, must make life in Freetown, in this circle at least, more interesting than it otherwise would be.
Soon, they were seated around a well-polished dining table, with silverware gleaming and crystal glinting in the light from a large chandelier. Seated in pride of place at Macauley’s right hand, Edwina monitored all the conversations she could, but heard nothing more about any missing people—men, women, or children. She did, however, hear several comments from ladies extolling the delights of Obo Undoto’s services. Only vaguely interested in the entertaining priest, she ignored such distractions and, instead, concentrated on absorbing all she could from Macauley and the others seated around her regarding the settlement and how it functioned.
On the journey to the house, Declan had explained what Macauley’s position was and what that in turn meant. The conversations she overheard confirmed that, as head of the company holding the sole trading license to England, Macauley was closely involved in all major decisions. Holbrook, as governor, held ultimate authority, but it was Macauley who controlled the settlement’s purse strings, and as in any other sphere, money talked.
Edwina debated mentioning the missing people just to see how Macauley reacted, but remembering Wolverstone’s orders not to trust anyone in the settlement—and given the shrewd and sharp mind that lurked behind Macauley’s hazel eyes—she held her tongue. First and last, Macauley was a businessman, and as they had no idea what was behind the disappearances, better not to alert him to their interest in even a vague way.
Finally, the covers were drawn, and Mrs. Macauley looked up the table. “Lady Edwina.” She glanced to either side. “Ladies. Shall we retire?”
The gentlemen all rose and drew out the ladies’ chairs, and the company separated. The ladies dutifully followed Mrs. Macauley and Edwina back to the drawing room while the gentlemen rearranged themselves about the table, sitting in a group to either side of Macauley.
Being something akin to a guest of honor, Declan wasn’t surprised when Macauley—damn the man’s weathered hide—waved him to take the seat Edwina had vacated. As he’d expected, as soon as the decanters had gone the rounds, his host launched into an interrogation designed to lure him into revealing the details of his “rumor”—the rumor that had proved sufficiently alluring to make him turn aside from his honeymoon cruise.
All welcome aside, from Macauley’s point of view, this was what the dinner had been about.
Macauley might be old, but he had a mind like a steel trap and the mentality of a battering ram. He probed, occasionally assisted by Charles Babington, who had claimed the chair on Declan’s other side. Declan knew better than to let them rattle him or to rush into his replies. He took his time, returning answers that, on the surface, responded to their questions, but that in reality revealed nothing. Or at least nothing specific—nothing that would allow them to get any clear idea of the nature of what he was purportedly there to look for, or even in which direction his interest lay.
He’d played the same game countless times throughout his career; as the adventurer-explorer of the family, he was the one who ventured into the jungles and trekked the savannahs of the world, who plunged into all the wild and dangerous places in pursuit of nature’s richest bounties. Gold, diamonds, emeralds, silver, and nickel—he’d found them all in his time, although he preferred the first two in terms of return.
Old Macauley and Charles Babington—currently the local representative of the other half of the company—knew Declan’s history. Which, of course, was what had them so convinced that his fiction of being there in pursuit of a rumor of riches was true.
Somewhat to his surprise, he found himself enjoying the challenge of surviving their inquisition without being driven to concoct further details of his supposed find. If his rumor had been true, he wouldn’t have felt anywhere near as entertained, and the secrecy Wolverstone and Melville had insisted upon for his real mission absolved him of any guilt over hoodwinking Macauley, Babington, and the other gentlemen about the table, all of whom, despite their occasional attempts at low-voiced conversation, were avidly hanging on his every word.
Finally, Macauley sat back and regarded him with a mixture of disgruntled disgust laced with respect. “Damn if you aren’t more closemouthed than your father.”
Declan considered that, then said, “Have you spoken with Royd lately?” His eldest brother had perfected the art of saying only what he deemed needed to be said.
Macauley’s gaze grew distant, then he grunted. “Haven’t seen him in years, but now you mention it, he might just trump you in that department.” Suddenly, Macauley grinned. “Perhaps it’s your mother’s influence. Now there was a lass with fire. To this day, I’m not sure if Fergus was lucky to have won her, or if the luck was with the rest of us who escaped her eye.”
Declan couldn’t help but smile as he shook his head. “I’m sure I wouldn’t want to venture an opinion.”
“Huh!” Restored to good humor, Macauley pushed back his chair, gripped his walking stick, and got to his feet. “Right, then, gentlemen—I believe it’s time we rejoined the ladies, or my good wife will have my head.”
Chairs scraped as they all rose. The others stood back and allowed Macauley to lead the way. Declan dawdled until, together with Charles Babington, he ambled in the others’ wake.
Babington was in many ways like Declan—similar height, similar build, but with fairer hair. Also like Declan, he was a younger son of a sea-trading family and captained his own ship, but for the last year or so he had been stationed in Freetown; as Declan understood it, his family had sent him there for the good of the joint firm to support the aging Macauley.
The parade ahead of them slowed as the gentlemen funneled through the door into the drawing room.
Pausing beside Babington at the rear of the group, Declan seized the moment to say, “I picked up a bit of talk on the wharf when we came in. Something about men—and possibly others—going missing.” He glanced at Babington—and to his surprise, saw a ripple of emotion cross the man’s otherwise uninformative face. Pain? Declan frowned. “What is it?”
Babington stared at the backs of the gentlemen ahead of them. He hesitated, then he dragged in a tight breath and in a low voice murmured, “I know of a young lady who seems…to have vanished.” Confusion laced his tone, then he shook himself, raised his head, and more crisply said, “But you know what it’s like out here—she ma
y have left to go”—he gestured—“somewhere. People are called away and leave in a rush all the time.”
And Babington didn’t believe a word of that.
But then the gentlemen ahead of them moved on into the room, and they followed. Declan looked around for Edwina. With a mumbled word, Babington left him and headed for Macauley’s side—the one place he could be reasonably certain Declan wouldn’t follow. After accepting that this was neither the place nor the time to further pursue whatever Babington could tell him, Declan located Edwina seated between Mrs. Macauley and Lady Holbrook on the sofa. He considered the sight for a full second, then he strolled to where several gentlemen stood by the open windows.
From the corner of her eye, Edwina saw Declan join the other men and was relieved he had chosen to leave her to her own devices. To her own investigative tack. While some of the ladies, including Mrs. Hardwicke, had risen and joined their husbands, there were six still gathered on the sofa and on the chairs angled before it.
Earlier, she’d tried steering the general conversation to the subject of the disappearances that were apparently plaguing the settlement, but, once again, had run into the wall of an “it’s just something that happens in settlements like this” refrain. Mrs. Macauley had seemed genuinely unaware of anyone going missing, but from the ensuing discussion—which should have assisted Edwina’s search for information, but had revealed nothing new—it appeared that the Macauleys were so absorbed with managing the complex trading in the colony that such things as the occasional missing person passed entirely beneath their notice.
That said, once Mrs. Macauley heard the dismissive reasoning put forward by the others, she accepted the situation as being “just one of those things.”
Edwina was growing increasingly irritated by the ladies’ constant “it’s not something we need to bother our heads with” attitude, but she could see no benefit in openly dissenting. Instead, having noted that neither Mrs. Sherbrook nor Mrs. Hitchcock had joined in the dismissive refrain but, once again, had appeared distinctly self-conscious and uncomfortable, she set her sights on speaking privately with the pair, individually or together.
And the perfect opportunity had just fallen into her lap, at least with respect to Mrs. Sherbrook.
Edwina had continued to play the bored social butterfly, openly encouraging the local ladies to tell her all and everything about their lives in the settlement. Eventually, the talk had turned, again, to the local priest-cum-entertainer, and several ladies had exclaimed that they’d heard that he’d scheduled a service for the following day at noon.
Lady Holbrook and four others, including Mrs. Sherbrook, had immediately decided to make an excursion to the event.
Mrs. Quinn had turned and appealed to Edwina, “Do come with us, Lady Edwina. Obo Undoto’s sermons are a real delight. Such passion! Such delivery. It’s better than a Shakespearean play, which is why we attend well-nigh every event. Trust me.” She waved at the others. “Trust us. You’re sure to find the experience worthwhile.”
Five pairs of eyes regarded her eagerly.
“It will be no difficulty to pick you up in my carriage as we go past,” Lady Holbrook said. “At the very least, you will be diverted from the ennui of the day, although to be fair to the man, most of us consider our visits to Obo Undoto’s church rewarding, and I’m sure you’ll find the same.”
Edwina hoped so. With nary a thought for the priest’s performance, she smiled and inclined her head. “Thank you. If it’s no trouble, I should like to accompany you.”
* * *
Several hours later, Declan lay slumped on his back in the middle of their bed. One arm around Edwina, half-sprawled over him—despite the sultry warmth of the night, he craved the sensation of holding her close—with his other arm raised and bent and his hand behind his head, he stared up at the netting- and shadow-shrouded ceiling.
With his free hand, he found a lock of Edwina’s hair and absentmindedly fingered the silk, letting it slide again and again through his fingers.
On the journey back from Macauley House, she’d told him of her plan to attend the local priest’s service tomorrow. She intended to use the opportunity to seize a private moment with Mrs. Sherbrook, who, Edwina was convinced, knew something pertinent about the missing young women.
His initial reaction had been one of internal scrambling—not exactly panic but rather the impulse to rush to action in order to negate panic. The idea of her going out without his men to guard her had made his mind seize, his thoughts stall.
Then he’d reminded himself that she would be traveling to and fro in Lady Holbrook’s carriage. If he couldn’t trust Lady Holbrook to keep a noble lady guest of hers safe, then who could he trust? Nevertheless, after several minutes—minutes in which Edwina’s satisfaction with her plan and her determination to learn more about the troubling disappearances had flooded his awareness—he’d cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps, just for safety’s sake, you could take Billings with you as your footman.”
She’d softly snorted, a scoffing sound, no doubt at the thought of the long and lanky Billings as a fashionable footman.
Declan had tensed, anticipating having to argue for a concession that, having voiced it, he’d realized he truly needed, but to his surprise, after several seconds, Edwina had nodded. “All right.”
She’d turned her head and, her blue gaze clear, had studied his face, searched his eyes; after a long moment, she’d given an infinitesimal nod and faced forward. “If it’ll make you happier, I’ll take Billings. Given I am the daughter of a duke, no one will question me feeling the need for additional routine protection.”
He’d been so damned grateful—something he’d taken pains to communicate over the last hour.
Now, however, his thoughts had swung to Charles Babington.
It had been pain he’d glimpsed in Babington’s face, but not just any pain. It had been the pain of loss—of having lost someone.
Babington had cared for the young woman who had vanished.
Declan had recognized the reaction because he understood it, all the way to his marrow. More, to his soul.
Instinctively, his arm tightened.
Edwina stirred.
He forced his muscles to relax, to ease.
Forced his senses to recognize that nothing had happened to her—and therefore to him.
Not yet.
He would do everything in his power to keep it that way. That was another fact he now knew to be immutable, set in stone, utterly ineradicable. If it ever came to it, he would fight to the death for her.
In the past, he’d actively enjoyed the edge danger had lent his excursions into the unknown. Now…he’d already started to consider how to rearrange his activities for Frobisher and Sons to minimize the dangers inherent in his quests so that she could travel with him. If not on all his voyages, then on most of them.
He knew it could be done, but he’d never before felt moved to protect even himself. He’d trusted in fate, in his luck and his wits, to keep him and his crew safe.
He wouldn’t—didn’t—trust fate, his luck, and not even his wits when it came to Edwina’s well-being.
She now meant more to him than—meant so much more to him than—any frisson of excitement being in danger might bring.
Perhaps he’d simply grown older.
Perhaps, with her beside him, he’d seen a future beyond his recent past, a future so rosy, so alluring that he was now determined that future would be his. A home of their own—a family, children—with her forever by his side.
Both she and he had to live to make that happen.
Which was why he lay evaluating how much more information they needed to unearth before he fell back on Wolverstone’s orders and took them racing home.
The four men who had gone missing were still missing, and no one seemed concerned, nor, as yet, had they found anyone who knew anything at all as to why, to where, or how the men had vanished.
In addition, it seeme
d young women and children were also disappearing—again without their disappearances raising any great furor.
What could possibly lie behind all these disappearances?
Everything hinged on that. If they could gain some inkling of the reason behind the disappearances, learning the rest would be a great deal easier.
As sleep crept nearer, he reviewed their plans. Tomorrow, while Edwina extracted what she could from Mrs. Sherbrook, he would plunge into the investigations he’d intended to start that afternoon. He would amble up to the fort and see what he could learn about Captain Dixon and his movements prior to his disappearance. Meanwhile, he would send a few of his crew—those with experience in gathering information without triggering any alarms—to chat with the patrons of the taverns the navy officers frequented and see what they could learn about Lieutenants Hopkins and Fanshawe.
Once he left the fort, he might turn his attention to Hillsythe, although his instincts warned him away from inquiring at the governor’s office. But Hillsythe must have billeted somewhere—in someone’s house, most likely. Searching his room might turn up something.
Who knew? By tomorrow evening, they might have enough facts in hand to shake the dust of Freetown from their boots and be back on the sea, breathing in the bracing air.
The vision was so attractive, the last of his tension faded.
He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes when sleep rolled over him and dragged him down.
CHAPTER 9
“What time is this priest’s service?” Declan glanced across the breakfast table at Edwina.
“The service is at noon. I imagine Lady Holbrook will come by in her carriage sometime before that.” Meeting his eyes, she pulled a face. “I didn’t think to ask the location of Undoto’s church, although given the number of ladies attending, I assume it’s somewhere in the settlement.”
“It would have to be.” He sipped his coffee. “Immediately beyond the boundaries of the settlement, the jungle crowds in. In this area, the growth is dense, all but impenetrable except for the few tracks leading to outlying villages, and no European would venture that far, not without an armed escort.”