by Betina Krahn
“I was thinking too small. I believe we could do all of London.”
* * *
Upon taking Lauren home and helping her explain what had happened at St Ambrose School, Rafe was relieved to see that she was able to talk about it with greater composure. It was her aunt Amanda who needed to be talked out of both vapors and vengeance. At length Lauren called for tea and sandwiches to help calm her aunt’s nerves. He could certainly see where Lauren got her feisty sense of right and wrong. Amanda Perrix was something to behold when it came to her beloved niece’s reputation.
A resilient English matron, Amanda recovered enough to insist on presiding over the teapot herself. But several times as she poured and passed sandwiches and cakes, outrage got the better of her.
“How dare the holier-than-thou bastards accuse you of such things? After all you’ve done for the school and that money-grubbing hypocrite of a rector! Care for another cream cake?”
Rafe looked to Lauren with widened eyes, and she could only shrug.
“The bishop must hear about this. He’ll have a word or two for that blathering arse. And I have a nine-inch hatpin I’d love to introduce to the sanctimonious prat’s bum. A warm-up for your tea, dear?”
When Lawrence Alcott arrived home to the news of his daughter’s removal from the church’s school committee, he was just as outraged as his sister. He would call the bounder out . . . he would sue . . . he would take that den of hypocrites apart brick by brick! But in the end Lauren’s determination not to seek redress finally penetrated his anger... as did the fact that she was seated close to Rafe Townsend and he held her hand through it all.
Something had happened between the two of them, he realized. Whatever it was, it seemed to steady his daughter and help her weather what had to have been a tremendous blow. For the first time in weeks Lawrence felt the knots of tension in his gut loosen. His hope that the pair would see the good in each other and come together willingly was rekindled. He invited Rafe to stay for dinner and they spent time afterward telling stories about their family and Lauren’s mother. Lawrence was pleased to give the fellow both his hand and his heartfelt thanks as he departed.
* * *
Afterward, as Rafe headed for Townsend’s main warehouse, he thought about Aunt Amanda’s shocking words. By the time he arrived he was trying to recall whether his father still played cards with that fellow he always called “that sneaky son-of-a-bishop.”
He had the cab let him off at the front door and used his key. As soon as the door closed behind him, he turned and found himself facing a tall, hard-looking fellow with one ear missing.
“Cavender.” The shock of Jake Cavender’s sudden appearance set Rafe’s heart pounding. “What are you doing here?”
“Your father called me and some o’ the lads to watch the wares.”
Rafe frowned and leaned to look past the imposing fellow to where their “salvaged” goods were stacked. The places where coppers had stood guard were empty. Further on he glimpsed another face he recognized, Willie Evers.
“What happened to the harbor police and Customs men?”
Cavender shook his head. “Yer pa said they just up and left. He sent a runner for me and I called my lads.” His grin showed a big, healthy set of teeth. “Good to be back at work.”
Rafe nodded. “Good to have you back. Where’s Bullsworth?”
“Makin’ coffee.” Cavender chuckled. “He says it’ll be a long night.”
“Likely it will.” Rafe gave a wry smile. “Just not for him.” The old watchman would soon be having a nap somewhere on a stack of burlap bags and packing straw. Rafe gave the big man’s arm a clasp conveying confidence and headed through the stacks to the stairs leading up to the warehouse office.
His father was dozing on the couch and there was an open hamper on the desk with the residue of lamb stew, soft rolls, and berry buckle visible inside. The situation in the warehouse certainly hadn’t put his father off his feed. And the old boy hadn’t seemed overly concerned about the Customs hearing scheduled for the following morning . . . as evidenced by his snoring.
“Father,” Rafe said as he stood over Horace’s unconscious form. Repeating it was not effective, so Rafe shook his father’s arm and barked his given name. How many times had Horace awakened him the same way over the years? Turnabout was fair play.
“Wha–what?” Horace shot up with eyes wide open and hair practically on end. “What’s happened?”
“That is what I want to know. The coppers are gone.”
Horace swung his feet to the floor and sat rubbing his face. “I went down to the floor at about six o’clock to see if your mother had sent some dinner and found them gone. My first thought was that the lawyers got Customs to call it off. But when Boswell came by this morning he didn’t say anything about such a possibility. I got a bit concerned and sent Bullsworth to the tavern to find Cavender and collect a few of our men to secure the place. Just in case.”
Rafe went to the inner window and stared down into the warehouse. “Why would they pull their men off now? With the hearing tomorrow?”
“I have no idea. It made me uneasy, the coppers leaving without a word, just up and disappearing. Can’t say as I’ll miss them, but still . . .”
Horace rose and gave his chest a good scratching. “How about a brandy?” He poured and Rafe perched on the side of the desk while his father took the chair behind it.
“Boswell came this morning? What did he have to say?”
“No one seems to know the identities of the members of the syndicate that purchased Consolidated. Which is truly strange. But he did find the location of their warehouse . . . one was listed under ‘assets.’ And where do you think it is?” He nodded meaningfully. “Cutter Lane.”
Rafe lowered his glass without taking a sip. “Our Cutter Lane?”
“The very same.” Horace looked thoughtful. “Explains how they knew about our ‘old wooden warehouses.’ They’re settled within spitting distance of them.”
Was that a coincidence? Rafe considered that for a moment. It bore investigating.
“Who do you know at the Bank of England?” he asked his father.
“I have an acquaintance or two. Why?”
“Someone there has been passing confidential information to Ledbetter. Given the things he said at the Drummonds’, he knows more than he should about Lauren’s inheritance. He couldn’t have gotten that information anywhere but Alcott’s lawyers or the trust officials at the bank.” He paused, thinking. “Why is he so intent on disrupting the merger?”
“Who knows? He’s always been angry that he wasn’t born to a life of wealth and privilege. Even at school he was always jealous and greedy,” Horace said. “It beats me why anyone would choose him for a post in government. The man’s a weasel.”
“There’s your answer,” Rafe said with a wry expression. “Weasels are useful in government. They do things cabinet ministers and party leaders won’t sully their hands with.”
Horace conceded that with an unhappy nod and then recalled Rafe’s request and scoured his memory. “Let’s see . . . Silas Hedgeman is head of commercial accounts at the old girl on Threadneedle. Reliable man. After the hearing tomorrow I’ll pop by and have a word with him. You need to be at the Customs House to give your side of the story. The lawyers told Alcott to have his daughter there as well. She seems to have a way with people—being an angel and all.”
Rafe ignored the sarcasm to think about that. Would their latest notoriety help or hurt the case? Interestingly, she hadn’t mentioned her inheritance today—too distracted by the pain of being accused of things she hadn’t done by people she cared about and respected.
“I meant to ask,” he said as his father added to the brandy in his glass, “do you still play cards with that ‘sneaky son-of-a-bishop’?”
Nineteen
Barclay Howard’s elegant town house was unnaturally quiet as Rafe let himself in through the front door later that night. The servants had retired and the ga
slights were turned low in the main hall. The only other illumination came from the book-lined study, where he found Barclay in shirtsleeves and sock feet, reclining on a tufted leather couch. He was so absorbed in a book that he didn’t notice Rafe’s approach.
This was certainly new, Barr Howard reading something besides racing forms and sporting news. Rafe bent to look at the book’s title and snapped upright with a scowl.
“Ivanhoe?” He growled, startling his friend into dropping the book and lurching up to a sitting position. “Tell me you aren’t reading that.”
“You damn near gave me a heart attack,” Barclay said, clutching his chest. “And I can’t tell you that because I am reading it.” He grabbed the book and drew a deep breath. “Cracking good story. Top-notch writing.”
Rafe glowered, flipped back his coat, and planted his fists on his waist. “Is that my copy?”
“I assumed because you weren’t reading it . . .”
Rafe shook his head. He could never quite predict Barclay Howard. One minute his friend was a threatening mass of muscle that made people step out of his way on the street and the next he was teary-eyed over a piece of music or an abandoned puppy.
God only knew what reading novels might do to him.
“Put on your shoes and grab a coat and cap. I need your help.”
“Now?” Barclay winced, clutching the book to him. “But Ivanhoe is just striking a deal to raise the king’s ransom.”
“Damn it, Barr, there are fortunes at stake here.”
“Whose?” Barclay straightened, suddenly serious. “Miss Alcott’s?”
“Hers. And mine.”
“Oh.” The book was tossed aside and Barclay began scrambling into his shoes. “Why the hell didn’t you say that?”
Rafe fidgeted as Barclay tied his shoes and reached for a coat hanging on the back of a nearby chair “Oh, and you wouldn’t happen to have any weapons? Knives, truncheons, guns?”
Barclay shot him an insulted look.
“Of course not,” Rafe muttered as they headed for the door. “Why would you need a weapon?”
Moments later they were on the street and striding for a nearby cabstand as Rafe explained their mission . . . investigating a warehouse at the docks that belonged to a competitor who had made veiled threats against Townsend’s storehouses.
“Where did you get this information?” Barclay wanted to know as they climbed into a two-seater and Rafe called their destination.
The driver insisted he’d go no further than one of the main intersections leading to the Docklands. There was no need to ask the reason. The Dockland streets and alleys were dangerous, and cabbies often refused to venture into those unlit precincts at night.
Once they were underway Rafe explained that the information came via a woman Lauren knew. Barclay frowned, and Rafe realized he’d have to explain the connection.
“All right—a woman she rescued from drowning.”
“The widow in the river?”
“The same,” Rafe said, bracing for a ribbing.
Instead, Barclay produced a small, satisfied smile.
“So it really does have something to do with the Angel.”
“Would you not call her that?”
“Why?” After a moment’s thought Barclay gave a low, annoying chuckle. “Oh, the lust thing. Feeling guilty, are we?”
“Bugger off,” Rafe snarled.
That brought a full-out laugh. “Touchy, too. Fine. Then tell me what we’re going to do once we get to this worrisome warehouse.”
Before long they were being let out beside the last glowing lamp post on the largest street leading into the Docklands.
They headed on foot toward Cutter Lane, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched the way men did on these mean streets. In the darkness, caps drawn low over their eyes and coat collars up to cover their white shirts, they could have passed for “any man” in the shadows of the harbor district. They skirted occasional taverns and the bung-eyed patrons the drinking establishments belched onto the street at such an hour.
The streets grew narrower and darker as they progressed and they kept to the shadows of the buildings crowding the pavement. After a while Rafe grabbed Barclay’s arm to halt him beside a looming wooden structure with large, padlocked doors. He pointed up, and Barclay flashed a grin when he made out the faded white lettering that said it belonged to Townsend Imports. They moved farther down the lane, and near the end of it they spotted activity at a brick-and-wood structure that backed onto a dock where a ship was berthed. It was hard to see what was happening inside until a door opened briefly, and the light inside gave them a glimpse of men moving crates and barrels toward the dock and vessel beyond.
Rafe signaled for Barclay to follow and led him to a narrow alley several buildings back. There was a set of rusty iron steps leading up to a flat roof and they were soon climbing across rooftops to look down on what had to be the Consolidated warehouse. They lay down on the roof, and from that vantage point the ship was mostly visible. The rear doors of the warehouse were open and a gangway had been laid between the dock and the ship.
Rafe studied the vessel. “Smaller than the Clarion, but large enough to carry a decent size cargo,” he whispered to Barclay.
“Why are they loading in the dead of night?” Barclay whispered.
“Only one reason I can think of,” Rafe said. “They don’t want their cargo to be seen.”
They watched and listened, though it was hard to hear what the men said. It became even more difficult to hear with the arrival of a big wagon heaped with containers and covered with canvas. Who covered a wagon filled with crated goods unless it was pouring rain? The night sky was overcast but not threatening.
They shifted position to watch the wagon roll right up to the warehouse’s open door and stop partway inside. There was cursing and grumbling as the workers blamed the drivers for stacking the wagon’s contents too high. While the irritable drivers unhitched the horses and led them out into the street, men from the warehouse rolled back the canvas cover and set about removing the crates and barrels that wouldn’t clear the opening.
After a while the men were able to roll the wagon into the warehouse and close the doors. There were scuffling, sliding sounds and the clap of wood thudding against a stone surface. Activity shifted to the dock and Rafe and Barclay shifted, too, venturing closer to the edge of the roof than they had previously dared.
“They’re loading it straight onto the ship,” Rafe said quietly, scowling. “Must be some of that ghost cargo the widow spoke about.”
“Ghost cargo?” Barclay looked puzzled.
“Goods that appear and disappear without papers or taxation—like ghosts in the night.”
Barclay nodded, then tried to read the ship’s name. “Cor-man-dant ?”
Rafe squinted and followed his gaze to the lettering on the ship.
“Cormorant,” he said. “It’s a bird. Big, hooked beaks and webbed feet. They dive into water to fish. I saw them do it when I was stationed aboard old Stringer’s cutter. Old sea dog knew every waterbird there is.”
Below, on the Cormorant, a man in a frock coat and top hat appeared on the ship’s deck to give orders and enforce them with snarls and shoves. He was dressed like a gentleman, but no one could mistake his behavior for belonging to a genteel class.
“Bet you a fiver that bloke is Murdoch,” Rafe said. “The man the widow said is the owners’ agent.”
Barclay watched the fellow closely. “Whoever he is, he’s in charge down there.” He tilted his head, observing. “He stays on his toes and pivots with his fists ready—I’d bet he’s been in the ring.”
Rafe wagged his head in wonder. Barclay was a true observer of humanity, as well as a knowledgeable patron of bare-knuckle fighting. Because of his size and muscular frame he had been entreated to step into the ring himself. He always declined, saying he only fought when he couldn’t do anything else.
After a while the activity in the warehouse slowe
d and the lights dimmed. Several of the workers departed, talking loudly about ale and wenches as they headed for the taverns.
“You think that was their last load?” Barclay looked to Rafe.
“Could be.” Rafe looked up at the moon peeking through the clouds. “We’ll give them some time to settle in, then go down and have a look.”
Barclay nodded and they watched in companionable silence until the light from the dockside doors disappeared. Later, the man they supposed to be Murdoch came out the front doors and stood talking to another fellow for a few moments, then he strode off down the lane while the man he had spoken to went back inside and closed the big doors. Still they waited, watching the light from a pair of small, high windows gradually grow dimmer.
“So, you are going to marry the Angel, right?” Barclay said out of the blue.
“It will save the business and both our reputations. It seems the rational thing to do.”
“Lauren Alcott deserves more than the ‘rational thing.’” Barclay stared off into the darkened street. “An angel like that comes along . . .”
“Not your concern,” Rafe said sharply, shutting off the unsolicited advice he sensed was coming. He did not need advice in romance and marriage from a man who frightened off every woman he looked at. Literally. Barclay Howard was the big bad wolf of London’s eligible bachelors.
Besides, his feelings for his bride-to-be were his and his alone to deal with . . . once he sorted them out. What he did know just now was that he was furious at how she’d been turned into a spectacle by some ha’penny news hack and was treated like a tart on a street corner because of it. She deserved better. A hell of a lot better.
Whether she’d be getting “better” if she married him was the question cycling relentlessly in his head. He didn’t much like the answers it raised.
Too many things had gone wrong these last few weeks. Newspapers sniping at his character, a stream of ridiculous stories about them, kidnapping, a burning ship, rescued cargo that embroiled them in legal proceedings, and Ledbetter poking around in his bride’s financial situation. Now the gossip rags had plumbed a new low— spreading hints of a premarital dalliance that sullied Lauren’s name and got her barred from working at the school that was one of her heart’s passions. It was just one bloody calamity after another. And what had he done about any of it?
