The Lady's Command (Adventurers Quartet #1)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Picking up her teacup, she nodded. “So it must be in town, which means it can’t be far.”

  Declan glanced at Henry, standing by the sideboard and doing his best butler imitation. As usual, Declan had come down to breakfast before Edwina. Henry had seized the chance to whisper in his ear that he’d overheard enough about the local priest to have developed a curiosity to see Undoto’s performance himself. Declan had—no surprise—given his permission for Henry to hire the local equivalent of a hackney and follow Lady Holbrook’s carriage to the priest’s church. Henry would watch the performance from the rear of the crowd, keeping a more distant eye on Edwina.

  If there was any unexpected and potentially dangerous disruption at the event, Henry would be better placed to observe and to direct Billings, who knew Henry would be present, in how best to protect Edwina.

  All in all, Declan now felt more comfortable over her plans for the day.

  “So.” Setting down her cup, she looked at him. “Where do you intend to start?”

  “As we discussed yesterday, with Captain Dixon.” He paused, then, frowning over his thoughts, went on, “I keep coming back to the fact that Dixon was the one who unexpectedly disappeared. The others were tracking him when they vanished, which suggests that following Dixon is most likely the reason they disappeared. But why did Dixon—he in particular—disappear? As I understand it, until he did, there had been no reports of soldiers or sailors going missing.”

  He stopped to think, then mused aloud, “I should check, but as far as I’ve heard, there have been no disappearances of soldiers or sailors other than Dixon and those sent after him.”

  For a full minute, silence reigned while they both thought through what they knew and what they didn’t.

  Eventually, Edwina refocused on his face. When he met her gaze, she stated, “Assuming Dixon didn’t willingly leave the settlement, and assuming that some unknown entity is behind all these disappearances, then I can think of only two alternatives for why Dixon—he in particular—might have vanished. Either he was following the trail of someone else he knew had vanished—a young woman, for instance—and like those who followed him, got captured, too. Or he knew something, had some information perhaps, that our unknown entity wanted and actually needed for whatever they’re doing, so they had to risk seizing Dixon, even though they’ve otherwise avoided taking soldiers and sailors—presumably because if enough of them got taken, the authorities would be forced to pay attention and, ultimately, act.”

  Declan replayed her words, assessed her logic, then inclined his head. “That’s an excellent summation.” He pushed back from the table and rose. “Let’s see if I can turn up something today that will point to which of your alternatives is correct. I’ve already sent to the ship and set some of my crew to work through the taverns about the docks and see what they can turn up about Hopkins and Fanshawe.”

  Edwina rose, too, and came to meet him under the archway giving onto the front hall. “What about Hillsythe? He’s the most recent of our disappearees. Won’t information about him be freshest in people’s minds?”

  “Yes.” He halted beside her and looked into her upturned face. “But please promise me you won’t so much as breathe Hillsythe’s name.”

  She studied his eyes and read the seriousness behind his request. “All right—I promise. But why?”

  He hesitated, then inwardly sighed and said, “Because Hillsythe was one of Wolverstone’s operatives”—she’d already known that much—“and Wolverstone’s operatives aren’t…”

  When he paused, searching for the right words, she suggested, “Easy to overpower, much less capture?”

  He nodded; he had reason to know. “And that says something about the people who accomplished that feat.”

  Studying the vibrant blue of her eyes, he wondered how much she comprehended, how much she’d guessed.

  Wondered how much he wanted her to know.

  But she surprised him by not questioning him further. Instead, she stretched up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. He savored the sweet caress; for an instant, they both lingered.

  Then she drew back, sinking down to her heels. “I imagine I’ll return by midafternoon. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  His fingers had found hers and twined, lightly gripping; slowly, he forced himself to let her go. “Be careful.”

  She met his eyes, her gaze direct. “You, too.”

  With that, she headed for their room. He watched her go, then regathered his wits, focused, and turned to the front door.

  * * *

  As per his plan, Declan went first to Fort Thornton. He approached the gates openly and, when challenged to state his business, transparently in no hurry he slouched against the guards’ station and settled to chat with the pair on duty. He told them who he was, spinning his tale about why he was in Freetown and ultimately weaving a yarn of having agreed to ferry a message for a friend to the friend’s cousin, a Captain Dixon presently stationed at the fort.

  He asked to speak with Dixon.

  Both guards shook their heads. “He’s not here,” one replied. “Don’t know where he’s got to, but he hasn’t been around for months.”

  Declan feigned surprise. A second later, he frowned. “You mean he’s just gone off? Are such unexplained absences common?”

  Again, the guards shook their heads, this time with a certain grimness. One volunteered, “No one else has gone absent without leave—just Dixon.”

  A discussion of the lack of enticements in the neighborhood ensued.

  Eventually, Declan straightened. “Is there anyone here—any other officer—who knew Dixon? Someone with whom I could leave this message I have for him in case he turns up?”

  The guards chewed that over, then the older one said, “Don’t actually know what his officer friends think of him vanishing as he has. We all know he’s been gone for months, but although there’ve been plenty of opinions as to where he’s gone, it’s all just supposing. No one’s come around asking official questions, like, so we’ve all been left to our imaginations.”

  His hands in his pockets, Declan shrugged. “Can’t hurt to ask his fellow officers.” He met the older guard’s eyes. “If I learn anything definite, I’ll let you know on my way out.”

  The second guard nodded. “As you say, can’t hurt to ask.”

  Between them, the guards supplied several names and directed him to the officers’ mess.

  Declan dropped his slouch as he entered the building, resuming his normal captain’s bearing. That, and his carefully presented story, got him introduced to the right group of officers in the mess, but as he quickly discovered, although they’d all been Dixon’s peers, each officer had his own troop to manage; in reality, they spent only their off-duty hours in each other’s company, and then only when those hours coincided.

  Yet all were surprised, if not shocked, at Dixon’s apparent desertion.

  “Absolutely wouldn’t have thought it of him,” one junior lieutenant opined.

  An older captain with graying hair shook his head. “Whatever happened to him, it’s bad business all around.”

  The others rumbled agreement. Declan waited until the rumbles faded to ask, “Did Dixon have any particular expertise?”

  “Sapper,” the older captain replied. “Well, he was in charge of that company, not that they’ve had much to do out here. But if you wanted to tunnel under a wall, or bring down a wall or bridge, Dixon was your man. Built quite a reputation during the Spanish campaign.”

  Declan nodded his understanding. He bided his time, buying the men ales and playing up his connection to Dixon’s supposed cousin. Finally, he succeeded in inveigling the older captain, Richards, into showing him Dixon’s quarters.

  The small room was scrupulously neat. At first glance, Declan discarded any thought of finding a clue there—then what he was looking at registered.

  Dixon’s brushes, his comb, and his shaving kit were neatly lined up on the top of the
small dresser.

  Frowning, Declan glanced at Richards; he waved at the dresser. “Are all his belongings still here?”

  His expression grim, Richards nodded. “Everything. And if anyone were to ask me—not that they will—I’d say it was bleeding obvious that wherever Dixon went, he expected to return that day.”

  Declan let that sink in—both the observation and Richards’s unvoiced implication—then he thanked the man and left.

  The pervasive blindness of those in charge toward the disappearances was growing increasingly hard to excuse.

  After spending another few minutes with the guards, reporting that no one, not even the officers closest to Dixon, had any clue where he’d gone, Declan headed down the hill to the harbor.

  He’d arranged to meet Higgins, Martin, and Upshaw—the three experienced sailors he’d sent to scout in and around the dockside taverns—at one of the more reputable establishments.

  They were waiting when he got there, gathered around a table in one corner.

  “Anything?” he asked as he joined them.

  All three rather despondently shook their heads.

  Martin explained, “Most o’ those who sailed with Fanshawe and Hopkins are out with the squadron, so those here only know what they’ve heard.”

  “Howsoever,” Higgins said, “sounds like there’s been plenty of grumbling going on. Both Hopkins and Fanshawe were respected and well-liked. None of the lads think either of ’em would’ve gone absent without leave, no matter what the higher-ups say.”

  Upshaw nodded. “Seems like even the other officers aren’t too pleased about nothing being said or done—that it’s simply been assumed that the pair went off just like that, no word to anyone and all their kit still in their quarters.”

  “Is that so?” Declan tapped his fingers on the table. “Dixon’s belongings are also in his room. He obviously hadn’t expected to disappear.”

  Higgins humphed. “Seems to me there’s something havey-cavey going on when not one, not two, but three officers up and vanish, and no one bats an eye.”

  Declan agreed. He debated, then reluctantly revealed, “There’s another man gone missing—name of Hillsythe. He was a relatively recent arrival attached to the governor’s office. He was sent here to investigate the other three disappearances—Hillsythe’s disappearance is what triggered us being sent from London to see what we can ferret out.”

  Upshaw’s eyes rounded. “Gads! Hope we don’t disappear, too!”

  “Let’s try to avoid that,” Declan dryly returned.

  After a moment’s cogitation, he said, “I need to learn more about Hillsythe—I need to find where he was staying and check if all his things are there, too. It’s not inconceivable that he didn’t disappear, but that he’s gone off following some trail…” He grimaced. “Possibly.”

  He thought, then he pushed away from the table. “Let’s scatter and ask at the places a single gentleman might have gone to eat. Hillsythe wasn’t with the army or navy, and he wasn’t living with the governor and his lady, so he had to have found somewhere to dine.”

  Rising, he glanced at his men. “It’s nearly midday—all the eateries will be open. Higgins, you take the docks. Upshaw and Martin—split up and cover the commercial district. I’ll go to the streets higher up the hill. Let’s meet here in two hours and see what we’ve managed to learn.”

  * * *

  When Lady Holbrook’s carriage finally rocked to a halt, Edwina looked out on a large, low, rectangular hall constructed around a framework of polished logs, with walls made up of panels of woven rushes, all topped by a roof of coarse thatch. The hall sat in a wide clearing bordered on all sides by rough dwellings; not far from the rear of the building, thick jungle pressed in, dark and faintly menacing.

  It appeared that Obo Undoto’s church lay almost at the edge of the settlement.

  They’d traveled for about twenty minutes, heading east from the enclave of European settlers on Tower Hill and the commercial district around the harbor on Kroo Bay. Tower Hill, it transpired, was one of a range of minor mountains that ran parallel to the coast; they were now on the lower slopes of the next mountain to the east.

  Lady Holbrook descended from the carriage first, handed down by Billings, who had traveled on the box with the governor’s coachman. Edwina followed; she grasped the hand Billings offered and joined Lady Holbrook at the edge of the dusty forecourt in front of the hall.

  Instinctively, Edwina looked north, toward the sea. Instead of the clutter of large ocean-going vessels that clogged Kroo Bay, she saw a motley collection of fishing boats bobbing on a gentle swell. There was no evidence of a commercial district here; a shantytown of crude dwellings filled the area between the church and the shore.

  Mrs. Quinn and Mrs. Robey had also traveled in the Holbrooks’ carriage. They, too, accepted Billings’s help, climbed down, then shook out their skirts.

  Lady Holbrook waved at the building. “Behold—Obo Undoto’s church.” She cast a smiling glance at Edwina. “While it’s a far cry from St. George’s, in terms of native churches, it’s relatively luxurious.” She started toward the building.

  “The seats at least are comfortable.” Mrs. Robey raised her hems, and she and Mrs. Quinn followed in Lady Holbrook’s wake.

  Edwina paused to take in the church’s façade. The hinged woven panels that formed the main doors had been propped wide, creating a framed archway through which a steady stream of people, natives and Europeans both, was filing inside. Flanking the doorway, other panel sections had been lifted out of their frames in the walls, creating windows. It looked like a native meetinghouse—the equivalent of a town hall, perhaps; the only church-like feature was a large white-painted wooden cross set on the apex of the low-pitched roof.

  After glancing around and failing to spot Mrs. Sherbrook, Edwina stepped out briskly to catch up with the other three ladies. Billings followed a respectful pace behind her; she was aware he was there, and as they merged into the press of bodies shuffling through the doorway and she clutched her reticule a little tighter, she owned to being glad he was.

  Keeping her gaze trained on Lady Holbrook’s gray head, Edwina followed the other ladies to one of the front pews to the left of the central aisle.

  Lady Holbrook sat, then looked up, saw Edwina waiting to join them, and patted the space beside her. “Come and sit beside me, Lady Edwina. You’ll have an excellent view of proceedings from here.”

  Edwina was happy to comply. As she settled her skirts, she looked around curiously. A raised pulpit, much as she might have seen at home in England, loomed directly ahead—doubtless the view to which Lady Holbrook had referred. A recognizable altar sat on a dais that ran across the width of the hall. The altar played host to a handsome silver cross and four candlesticks, yet behind the altar, where in most churches the main window would be, there was nothing but woven rushes.

  Twisting in her seat, Edwina looked behind her. A phalanx of people in gowns, coats, and uniforms met her gaze. It seemed this half of the church was reserved for Europeans; the natives congregated on the other side of the aisle.

  She spotted Billings. He’d tucked himself into the corner of the pew behind the one in which she sat; he was no longer behind her, but wasn’t far away. She scanned the crowd, searching for Mrs. Sherbrook to no avail. The church was already quite full; the sounds of a multitude of chattering conversations filled the air.

  Edwina was distantly following the conversation between Mrs. Robey and Lady Holbrook; she was starting to wonder if Mrs. Sherbrook had changed her mind about attending the event when, just as the congregation started to quiet and look expectantly toward the front of the church, a small disturbance occurred at the rear of the hall. It resolved as several gentlemen standing behind the last pews stepped aside, and Mrs. Sherbrook appeared. Looking decidedly harried, she came hurrying down the aisle, scanning the packed pews.

  Having deliberately left space between herself and Lady Holbrook, Edwina waved at Mrs
. Sherbrook, then shifted closer to the governor’s wife, creating just enough space for Mrs. Sherbrook to squeeze in.

  “So kind of you, Lady Edwina—thank you.” With her gloved hand, Mrs. Sherbrook fanned her face; her color was a trifle high. “My youngest is still fractious over being left with our new nanny—I wasn’t sure I would make it in time.”

  Edwina bestowed a bracing smile. “But you did.” She lowered her voice and added, “I had hoped to have a chance to speak with you again. Perhaps at the end of the service, we might find a moment out of the crowd. There’s something I would like to ask you.”

  Mrs. Sherbrook’s eyes widened, but she nodded readily. “Yes, of course. I would be happy to assist you in whatever way I can.”

  The opening of a door to one side of the altar heralded the commencement of the service. Edwina faced forward. As the congregation rose, she counseled herself to patience and, for the moment, gave her mind over to being entertained.

  Draped in ceremonial robes similar to those of any Christian priest, a large and imposing African man she presumed was Obo Undoto led a small procession of altar boys and choristers into the church. The priest proceeded with a firm and stately tread to the pulpit and climbed to the raised platform, while the altar boys, each swinging a censer, took up positions flanking the altar, and the choristers formed up in ranks on the side of the hall opposite the pulpit.

  Studying Obo Undoto, Edwina had to admit he looked the part. He was tall—she estimated somewhere over six feet—and was well built, with heavy shoulders and a broad muscled chest. His skin was a deep, dark, burnished brown, reminiscent of polished mahogany. He was either bald or, more likely, deliberately shaved his head; the result made his strong features all the more striking.

  Undoto placed his hands on the lectern and looked out over his congregation, then he smiled, raised his hands, and spoke—and Edwina understood why Lady Holbrook had labeled him charismatic.