by Betina Krahn
He pointed across the way and she spotted two burly fellows disappearing around the warehouse beside Townsend’s with wrecking bars in their hands. A moment later she heard glass breaking and looked to Jims.
“Did that come from Rafe’s warehouse?” she whispered, flattening back against the wall as the men headed down the street.
“I ken slip b’tween the buildin’s and see,” Jims declared. Before she could quash the idea he darted across the street and her hushed command to “stop” and “come back” fell far behind him.
She muttered about the stubbornness of the male sex from cradle to grave and then hurried across the street after him. As thin as he was, Jims slipped down the narrow space between the warehouses with ease.
“Jims! Come back here!” she whispered as loudly as she dared.
“Jims!” But she was forced to stop at the opening between the buildings and watch Jims negotiate the narrowing way. Out of frustration she tried to fit herself in the passage, too, turning first one way, then another. Her hat, bustle, and draped skirt prevented every approach she made. She would choose today to wear one of her most feminine, frilly, and incapacitating dresses!
She squeezed her way back onto the lane and scowled at the front doors. Her gaze focused on the old-fashioned padlock and she had an idea. She pulled her hatpin and stuck it into the drape of her skirt while removing her hat. It didn’t take long to find a sturdy hairpin in her upswept coiffure. It was a big lock, so to be safe she extracted another hairpin and mashed the two together. They were a surprisingly good fit in the old lock, though she had to shove hard several times to get them past the rusty levers inside. She chewed her lip as she concentrated on working the lock. She was running out of length when something inside the mechanism broke free and allowed her to turn the hairpins and open the lock.
She squealed in victory before clamping a hand over her mouth and sliding the lock out of the metal fittings on the doors, which creaked as she opened them, and slipped inside. The place seemed larger on the inside than it did from the street. It went back quite a way and the windows, set high in the walls, admitted enough light to show a dusty floor and stacks of empty crates and rusted barrels. There was little stored at the front, but she knew that the business end was always at the rear, near the warehouse dock. She moved farther in and began seeing footprints in the dust . . . a few at first, then more as the number of dust-free crates and newer barrels increased. She paused to listen and heard the creak of floorboards that seemed to be coming from behind—she whirled and gasped.
Two beefy, hard-looking dock workers stood behind her with their arms crossed. “Where did you—how did you—” she stammered.
“Thanks fer workin’ that lock fer us, yer laidyship.” A tall man with a flattened nose and a number of scars on his chin and eyes spoke. “It were givin’ us trouble.”
He and his companion were scrutinizing her face and frame with suggestive grins. She read menace in those expressions and realized she was in trouble.
“This is my fiancé’s property and I was just checking on a report that it had been disturbed. I have sent for him and strongly suggest that you depart before he arrives. He is quite particular about who enters these premises and you wouldn’t want him to mistake your presence for anything untoward.”
The shorter, stockier fellow with a severe case of “boozer’s nose” looked at his mate. “Hear that? ’is Lordship Towns-send won’t be happy wi’ us in his pre-miss-es.” Their chuckles contained no humor.
She started around the pair, but Scarface moved to block her way with a nasty half smile. “Where you goin’, Miss Too-Fine?” He dropped his gaze to her breasts. “He buy you them silks?”
A sudden crash shook the aged walls and filled the rear of the warehouse with dust, sunlight, and the smell of burning gunpowder. She whirled to find the rear doors had exploded inward and a number of men stood outside with sledgehammers, wrecking bars, and what looked like cargo nets.
“Too late, Miz Totty-Swell.” They seized her and despite her furious resistance clamped her arms behind her back and tied her wrists. “Yer comin’ wit’ us.” She tried to scream but got a slap across the face that left her dazed enough to allow them to stuff a kerchief in her mouth. They shoved her past the wrecked doors and dragged her down the dock to a ship berthed there. It was two-masted and painted black with a yellow band between the deck and the waterline.
Men were rolling barrels across a gangway, and when they reached it they hoisted her and carried her across like another bit of potential merchandise. They were met by a glowering man wearing a top hat and an old-style frock coat.
“What the hell is this?”
“Th’ twitch caught us at th’ warehouse. Says she’s Townsend’s promised wife,” Scarface said with an edge of defensiveness.
“Does she indeed?” The Top Hat looked her over, recognizing the quality of her clothing and the sense of privilege present in her defiant bearing. He grabbed her face and forced it up with a punishing grip. “An unexpected problem.” He looked her over with a dawning smile. “But problems sometimes turn out to be opportunities. I think we can find a use for you, Fancy.” He leaned close enough that she could smell the absinthe on this breath. His voice lowered to a ragged sneer. “There’s always a way to use a woman.”
The pressure of his hold on her jaw remained even after he released her. If it weren’t for the nasty cloth in her mouth, she would have spat in his face. Her heart pounded as he ordered her taken below and bound properly, hand and foot. As they pushed her toward the main hatch she heard a yelp of pain and managed to turn her head enough to see a sailor give Jims a smack across his face.
“’At’s the last time ye’ll bite me, ye little shite!”
Her spirits sank as they prodded her down the stairs and into the captain’s cabin. No matter how hard she fought, she couldn’t keep them from binding her feet and throwing her onto the captain’s bed. They managed to handle her body thoroughly in the process and laughed as they described in detail what Murdoch had in mind for her.
She lay on the wide bunk, shamed by what she had just endured and horrified by what was yet to come. And Jims—they had Jims, too. No one would know where they had gone or what had happened. They’d have no idea that the vile Murdoch held her on a ship in the harbor. Murdoch. . . the man Mrs. Trimble identified as the agent for Consolidated’s owners. Then it struck her that she had glimpsed sailors checking rigging and sails and calling for the longshoremen to hurry with the cargo. They were preparing to depart? If they did, what would happen to her and Jims?
For the first time in her life she had no way out, no help, no options. As she lay there, all she could think was that she had wasted so much time being stubborn and judgmental with Rafe. Would she ever see him again?
She remembered the way he had held and comforted her in the carriage, the tender way he’d kissed her, the eager way he had listened to her family’s stories as a way of learning about her. Tears slid back into her hair.
If she ever saw him again, she would tell him what he meant to her, how much she cared for him. How much she had come to respect and . . . love him.
If.
Twenty-One
There was turmoil on the floor of the Townsend warehouse as accusations flew. The magistrate bellowed for silence and ordered the harbor police present to arrest the next man who spoke without permission. Tense silence fell over the group and the arbiter of justice leaned heavily on his cane as he stalked to where Jake, Willie, and the other Townsend workers sat nursing their injuries.
“You two”—he pointed to Jake and Willie—“what did these men who assaulted you look like? Did you recognize them?”
Jake shrugged. “Whoever they was, they knew how to handle ’emselves in a fight. Some wore kerchiefs over their faces. Most didn’t talk. They come busting thru th’ door the minute Willie opened it.”
The magistrate turned to Willie, who winced as he shrank back, clearly still in pain.
“Can’t say fer sure, but one sounded like a bloke what used to work wi’ us. A big fellow. Mean. Liked to talk big.” He looked to Jake. “You remember. You got in a dustup wi’ him once. The guv fired his arse for stealin’.”
“Morris?” Jake said.
“That’s the one. Morris—they called him Mo.”
“So, we have a start at figuring out who is responsible for this theft.”
“Really, Your Honor.” Ledbetter stepped forward, now choleric at the turn the legal proceeding had taken. “It’s clear enough what happened here. Surely you aren’t gullible enough to be taken in by such a pretense. This whole debacle was engineered by Townsend to—”
“Constable, arrest this man.” The magistrate pointed at Ledbetter.
The shock on Ledbetter’s face was almost worth all the trouble he had caused that day. Rafe looked to his father and tried not to grin.
Held physically by harbor police, Ledbetter sputtered, “H-how dare you treat a member of Her Majesty’s Government with such disregard? The secretary himself will hear of this.”
“You may depend upon it.” The magistrate swayed over to Ledbetter. “But right now I want to know how you knew the cargo was missing here. You knew about it early this morning. I want to know who told you and when. I warn you, I will have the truth or nothing. You already tread on thin ice.”
“It is you who treads on thin ice.” Ledbetter raised his chin. “I am not on trial here—I will not be questioned like some lowly civil servant. I have connections in the Inns of Court . . . all through the government. I can see you stricken from the rolls of the bar. After witnessing your inept conduct in this matter I am surprised that has not already occurred.”
There was a quiet intake of breath all around as they watched the clash between the powers of the government and the judiciary. No one could have predicted that the magistrate would break out in a laugh.
“So you believe you have influence and you wish to spend it prosecuting Townsend over a few crates of God-knows-what. My old mentor once said a man should choose his enemies wisely. You clearly were not mentored as well as I.” He edged closer to Ledbetter.
“You should know, Undersecretary, that as a retired high justice, I can choose what manner of hearings I wish to conduct. I chose this one because it was suggested to me by the secretary of Commerce himself. He was most curious about your valuation of cargoes, the rising tariffs, and the unrest they are causing. When you are released from custody—eventually—you may find you have more to answer for than your reprehensible performance in this matter.
“Take him to your station,” the magistrate ordered the officers, who seemed uneasy in the face of such conflict. “Enter his full name and the nature of his employment into the arrest rolls. He is not to be released without my express permission.”
Ledbetter looked as if he might explode as they forced him through the doors. They could hear him protesting and threatening as he was taken away.
Rafe grabbed his father’s arms and glared at him to keep him from celebrating. There was more to the situation than Ledbetter’s abuse of power and his puzzling vendetta against Horace. They needed a clear and impartial assessment of facts and they could only get that by showing respect for the inquiry. The magistrate was not a man to be trifled with, and he clearly intended to get to the bottom of the matter.
For the first time in over an hour Rafe looked around for Lauren and didn’t see her. His attention was forced back to the matter at hand as the magistrate went over the evidence and demanded to know where the cargo might have been taken. Rafe thought for a moment and decided this was the time to mention . . .
“There have been threats against our warehouses,” he said, drawing the magistrate’s keen gaze. “An acquaintance brought word to us of danger posed by a competitor with murky connections. We discovered that their operations are located near our old warehouses on Cutter Lane. I am reluctant to make accusations . . . but . . . Consolidated Shipping bears looking into.”
The magistrate nodded, acknowledging both the information and his reluctance to name the company on such hearsay.
“Take me there. Let’s see what this competitor has to say.”
The magistrate insisted on taking his coach there, and soon Horace, Rafe, and Lawrence were leading several customs men and harbor police to Cutter Lane. They pointed to the first of their old warehouses, but they stopped dead when they approached the second. The door was open and the padlock used to secure it lay on the ground.
Rafe rushed through the doors and halted halfway to the rear of the warehouse, staring at the sight of the wrecked doors on the dock side.
His father soon joined him, panting from the run, and stopped dead just behind him. “What the bloody hell?”
Behind them came customs officers and harbor police, who hurried past them to examine the damage. Rafe ran out onto the dock and looked down the way to their other warehouse and found those doors similarly damaged. Rafe watched the constables moving about, checking the damage and making notes.
When the magistrate stepped onto the dock Rafe spoke his thoughts aloud. “Why would anyone break into this warehouse and take things stored here? This is where we keep goods that moved slowly or haven’t proved profitable enough to keep at hand.”
The shattered rear doors of both warehouses had charred and blackened edges that smelled like burned gunpowder. Clearly they had been blown open with a small and expert explosion . . . an unheard-of tactic in the annals of burglary. An officer came from the dock with something white in his hands. As he approached, the sight of a hat trimmed with bright coral ribbons was like a punch to Rafe’s gut.
“Where did you find this?” he demanded, grabbing it.
“Just down the dock,” the fellow said, pointing.
Rafe turned to his father and Lawrence, who looked as if he’d been impaled. “Lauren was here. Whoever broke down these doors has our goods . . . and her.”
“Not so fast, Son,” Horace said. “There could be another explanation.”
“What other explanation?” Rafe demanded, aware of the magistrate watching them. “She was here, in this warehouse, and now she’s gone. I don’t know why she would come here, but she had to have been here.” He held up the hat. “This is proof.” When Lawrence reached for the hat he surrendered it and watched her father clutch it tightly.
“I saw ’er talkin’ to that other boy . . . the one on th’ ship with ye.” The Clarion crew members clearly had been listening and Little Rob now spoke up.
“Jims? He came to get her?” Rafe didn’t know whether that made her prospects better or worse. Jims and the other lads were watching out for trouble, and from the looks of things, trouble was what they’d found.
He rushed out onto the dock to look where the ship he and Barclay had watched last night had been docked. The empty berth behind Consolidated’s warehouse sent a chill through him.
He ran down the quay behind the warehouses only to find the Consolidated facility locked and silent. Banging on the doors failed to raise anyone. Wasn’t there supposed to be a manager overseeing the place? He went around to a window they had looked through last night and climbed up on the barrel they had placed beneath it. Inside, the storerooms seemed dark and silent, but he had to be sure no one was there.
He ran back to the dock, grabbed a loose stone, and climbed up on an old barrel. The crash of glass threatened to bring the harbor police running, but he quickly climbed inside. He heard their whistles and smiled grimly. What were the penalties for breaking and entering under a magistrate’s nose?
After his eyes adjusted to the light he prowled the dimness looking for an office. There was none, just a desk in a corner and some shelves holding mismatched bits of crockery, frayed tariff tables, and yellowed bills of lading. A few papers lay in a bin on the desk, but the drawers contained only dust, a dried inkwell, and scraps of blotting paper. If this company kept regular books they weren’t here, and he found no hint of where the ship migh
t be headed.
He stood with his fists clenched. There was no trace of Lauren here, which could mean only one thing . . . she was on the ship, the Cormorant. If she was aboard, the ship had to have left the dock within the last hour or two. How long would it take them to reach the Thames, head for the tidal waters, and then out into the Channel?
There was forceful banging on the rear doors as he pulled over a well-worn ladder to climb out the roof hatch. From the flat, tarred roof, warehouse workers could watch for ships headed for their berth with cargoes to unload.
He shaded his eyes and scoured the cluttered harbor for movement. Most of the ships were anchored off the docks, still locked in a stalemate with the Customs House. There was precious little movement among the forest of masts until he glimpsed something a bit farther on . . . maybe in the Channel leading from the docks to the Thames. It was hard to be sure, but he could have sworn he’d spotted the tops of two masts with mains and mizzens deployed. It was close to the turning into the Thames. He felt his gut tighten and clenched his fists. When the thought came a stream of others quickly followed.
He needed a ship.
* * *
Lauren was miserable, feeling the bunk sway softly beneath her but scarcely capable of feeling anything else. Her arms and legs were numb and her shoulders ached from the way her arms were bound behind her. But the worst of it was knowing the vessel was carrying her away from her home, her family, and Rafe.
How long would it take for them to realize she was gone? And how much longer after that for them to make connections to the boys watching the warehouses and finally the man Murdoch?
The whole thing was her fault. It was her idea to liberate herself and Rafe and the Clarion’s cargo with the same stroke. She thought she was being so clever, putting it all together, convincing Rafe to be a party to it . . . then enlisting Jims . . . Fosse, Gus, and Little Rob . . . the rest of the crew . . .
Now look at them. Rafe’s family business was on the edge of legal ruin while poor Jims was stuffed in a dank hole somewhere on a ship taking them both away from home and hearth. Heaven knew what the magistrate had in mind for Fosse, Gus, and Little Rob. And she was slated for ravishment and degradation by a crew of thieves and cutthroats run by a man who stole from widows and orphans. It couldn’t have turned out worse for them if she had planned it.
