The Lady's Command (Adventurers Quartet #1)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Not wanting to disrupt her ladyship’s direction, Edwina inclined her head in acceptance; indeed, it was dreadfully humid, and a refreshing cordial sounded rather nice.

  Lady Holbrook glided to the tantalus by the wall. “By all means, tell me the names as I pour.”

  Edwina relaxed against the sofa. “Katherine Fortescue is one—a governess who I believe took a position with Mrs. Sherbrook. I meant to ask Mrs. Sherbrook when I had the chance, but it completely slipped my mind. Then there’s Rose Mallard…” She named the other three women who had been on Mrs. Hardwicke’s list.

  “Hmm.” Lady Holbrook busied herself at the tantalus, then returned with two sherry glasses containing a golden liquid, similar in color to sherry. With a frowning, absentminded look on her face, she handed Edwina a glass, took a sip of her own, then returned to her armchair. “If you will give me a minute…”

  Edwina took a small sip of the cordial; it tasted very similar to ginger wine, of which she was fond. She swallowed a larger mouthful, then airily said, “I forgot to ask how long each young woman has been here, but perhaps you might have seen them about town—perhaps at Obo Undoto’s services? Such a sighting alone would ease the minds of their families at home.”

  Lady Holbrook met her eyes.

  Her ladyship’s gray gaze had sharpened, and her expression had grown strangely watchful. Rather than frown or show any other sign of awareness, Edwina smiled unaffectedly, took another sip of the cordial, then asked, “Do you recall seeing those young women at any of Undoto’s services?”

  Lady Holbrook’s gaze unfocused.

  Edwina assumed she was consulting her memory. She sipped the cordial; as soon as she had her answer, she would take her leave.

  Finally, her ladyship refocused. She looked directly at Edwina, then nodded. “Yes. All of them attended at one time or another.” A second elapsed, then Lady Holbrook added, “Just as you did.”

  Edwina blinked. “Are you sure?”

  Great heavens! Was she slurring?

  Lady Holbrook’s lips stretched in a slow smile.

  Edwina studied that smile—and felt a chill run down her spine.

  “I’m quite sure, my dear.” Her ladyship held out her hand. “Now perhaps you had better give me that glass before you drop it—it is one of a set, you see.”

  In utter stupefaction, only just managing to move her suddenly weighted limbs, Edwina held up the almost-empty glass. She stared at it in mounting horror. Then, moving with increasingly unnatural slowness, she turned her head and looked—really looked—at Lady Holbrook. “You…?”

  Her ladyship’s smile grew edges. “You’re a fool, my dear. You ask too many questions.”

  Edwina blinked, then blinked again. With one last Herculean effort, she shifted her hand and forced her fingers apart. The glass slid from her grasp and shattered on the tile floor.

  A ripe curse—one no lady should even know—fell on her ears.

  The sight of Lady Holbrook’s face contorting with rage briefly filled her ever-decreasing field of vision.

  Then her lids fell and remained down, and she knew no more.

  CHAPTER 13

  Stuck in the carriage outside the governor’s house, Declan couldn’t even stand up, much less pace. “What the devil is taking her so long?”

  He’d muttered the question several times, with increasing frustration.

  He felt helpless, powerless, and he didn’t like the feeling. He’d even contemplated going over the wall and skulking through the garden to see if he could catch sight of Edwina in the house… Only the thought of what she would think if she saw him had made him reject the idea.

  He’d barely been able to stifle his instincts enough to allow her to walk into the plainly guarded house. Now, as the minutes ticked by and she didn’t reappear, he was considering leaving the carriage, striding across the street, and going inside to fetch her. The guard would presumably realize he’d been waiting in the carriage all along, but what did Declan care what the man thought, or that he might later mention Declan’s strange behavior to Holbrook…

  Damn! He shouldn’t—couldn’t—call attention to himself in such a manner. He had no idea who Melville and Wolverstone would send to investigate here next, and if it was one of his brothers or cousins…no.

  Yet the itch beneath his skin to find Edwina and reassure himself that she was safe and well was growing minute by minute more intense.

  His gaze remained locked on the gate of the governor’s residence. He filled his lungs and reminded himself that he’d been paranoid enough to set watchers around the house. After the carriage had halted, making use of the shadows, he’d slipped out and, with Billings and Carruthers, had done a quick reconnoiter around the compound; until then, he hadn’t realized that the house was the very last house in this neighborhood—it backed onto the slum that straggled down the flank of Tower Hill. He’d left Billings to watch the rear wall and the entrance to the alley that led into the slum, and Carruthers was lounging not far from the gate they’d discovered down one side of the large property. There was no other exit bar the front gate, so she was still in there and presumably—

  Billings came pelting out of the narrow walkway that led to the rear gate. The midshipman flung himself at the open carriage window. “Capt’n—you’ve got to come! They’ve taken her out and into the stews. Carruthers is following.”

  Declan had flung open the door, leapt to the street, and was racing for the walkway before he’d even thought. “What happened?”

  Reaching the walkway’s entrance, he glanced back and saw that Dench had tied off the reins, dropped to the street, and was pounding after them. Declan turned and plunged into the dark passage.

  “A local boy slipped out about twenty minutes ago,” Billings huffed from behind Declan. “He went into the slum, then returned, bringing along three burly locals. They went in through the side gate, then came out again—one leading the way, one following, and the middle one carrying your missus rolled up in a rug.”

  Fury, fear, and incipient panic roiled in Declan’s gut. “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Aye. Not many women around here with such white skin and hair of pale gold. Carruthers saw, and he followed ’em. They passed me by. As soon as they had, I came for you.”

  “Good man.” Declan reached the end of the property; he stepped aside and waved Billings on. “Take point, but keep it quiet.”

  Billings slipped past, running almost without sound through the shadows along the rear wall of the garden. Declan fell in at his heels, with Dench close behind.

  Five paces more, and Billings turned into the alley that plunged and twisted down through the slum. The alley was barely wide enough for two men to move abreast, and its floor was of earth beaten flat by the passage of countless feet. Winding between ramshackle dwellings constructed of timber, daub, rushes, canvas, and woven fabric, this particular alley was merely one of a spider’s labyrinth of paths that spread like the veins of a living beast and carried people—the slum’s lifeblood—through its heart.

  The sensations of close-packed humanity pressing in all around them assaulted Declan’s senses; luckily, that very density of life, combined with the composition of the buildings and the dusty path, muted and masked the sounds of their passing.

  There was no light save that shed by the moon. Tonight, that was faint, but enough to illuminate their way; eyes accustomed to the blackness of oceans at night had no difficulty piercing what to others would be disorientating gloom.

  It was late; most of the slum dwellers rose with the dawn and by now were in whatever passed for their beds.

  Declan’s paramount fear, the one that had closed claws of iron about his heart—that they wouldn’t be able to catch up with Carruthers and the men who had Edwina, that they would lose the trail and he would lose her—escalated as they descended the hill in a series of looping switchbacks.

  Then Billings glanced over his shoulder. “I can see Carruthers ahead. They’re still
moving.”

  Thank God. Declan’s mind had been stalled, absorbing sensory information, but too strangled by imminent panic to make any plans. As the constriction about his heart eased a fraction, his customary faculties kicked to life. After a moment, he asked Billings, “How far?”

  “Around the next bend,” Billings flung over his shoulder.

  His long legs allowing him to easily keep up with his midshipman, Declan seized several moments to plot the action in his mind, then he tapped Billings on the shoulder and leaned nearer to say, “Signal Carruthers—let him know we’re here, then I want you and he to stand aside and fall in behind me and Dench.”

  Billings nodded. He put on a spurt of speed as they rounded the next curve. A few seconds later, he slowed to a cat-quiet stride.

  Declan looked past Billings and saw they were coming up on Carruthers. The older man was slouching along, hands in his pockets, his gaze apparently on the ground as he followed seven or so unthreatening yards behind a large armed local thug.

  The thug was following another heavyset man who was carrying a rolled rug hefted over one shoulder. A tangle of pale ringlets and one small, very white hand dangled below the edge of the rug.

  Fury flared, then turned to icy rage in Declan’s veins.

  Beyond the two men, Declan caught sight of another armed man in the lead. None of the men seemed in any hurry. They were striding along at an easy pace, heading for the harbor—not for the main wharves but angling toward the cove where local fishing boats were moored.

  Carruthers heard them approaching; he glanced swiftly back, and relief etched his face. Billings gave him the sign, and Carruthers stepped to the side, as did Billings, allowing Declan, followed by Dench, to move into the lead.

  Declan immediately fell into the same slouching walk as Carruthers had employed. If any of the thugs thought to check behind them, all they would see was four sailors ambling along, no doubt returning to their ship after spending some recreational hours with the female denizens of the slum. That was a common enough sight in that area to raise no alarm.

  Swiftly, Declan revised his plan. He leaned closer to Dench. “Change places with Carruthers.”

  Once that was done, Declan beckoned all three men closer. In case their targets looked back, he kept a smile on his face and occasionally gestured as if he was merely sharing some joke as they rolled home, while in reality he ran down the orders for this battle—one he had to win. They needed surprise on their side, and more than anything else, they needed to get Edwina into their hands unharmed.

  When he reached the end of his orders, he drew breath and met Billings’s, Carruthers’s, and Dench’s gazes. “Ready?”

  The grim looks in their eyes belying their vacuous unthreatening expressions, the three nodded.

  Declan faced forward. He lengthened his stride and, apparently unhurriedly, closed the distance to the last thug in the line of three. As he drew near, he went onto cat-feet, silently placing his boots in the helpfully soft dirt.

  The thugs’ confidence as they sauntered down the hill hadn’t escaped him; this was their territory, and they expected no challenge within it.

  Silently, Dench moved into place beside Declan. Carruthers lurked on the far right, while Billings was a step behind.

  Declan quietly eased his sword from its scabbard, slowly drawing the blade free with not a whisper of a telltale hiss.

  Then he cut his eyes to Dench and nodded.

  Dench pounced, going for the nearest man’s head, locking his palm over the man’s mouth before he could utter a sound.

  Declan struck, one single thrust ensuring the man was incapacitated.

  As the thug slumped in Dench’s embrace, without even a split-second’s pause, Declan and Carruthers flowed around Dench and his captive and with rapid strides closed on the man carrying Edwina.

  The man’s head came up, no doubt sensing the disturbance behind him.

  Before he could turn and glance back, a slash of Declan’s sword did for the man’s hamstrings.

  Startled, he yelled. Even before the man’s legs folded under him, Carruthers had grabbed the rolled bundle that was Edwina and hauled her free of the man’s slackened grasp.

  From the corner of his eye, Declan saw her scooped safely into Carruthers’s arms. He forced himself to trust her to his men.

  Leaving the felled thug for Billings to dispatch—which the midshipman promptly did—Declan stepped into the center of the alley and faced the last thug, the group’s point man.

  He’d whirled at his mate’s cry. In his right hand, the man held a machete, the long wide blade glinting evilly in the weak light.

  Declan felt his lips lift in a smile that promised retribution. Sliding his second blade—a long knife—free of his boot, he beckoned the thug on. “Please. I’d like nothing better.”

  The man’s eyes widened. His gaze dropped to his comrades, sprawled silent and unmoving in the dirt, then rose to take in Dench and Billings as they lined up on either side of Declan.

  The man sucked in a breath—then he turned and fled as if the hounds of hell were after him.

  Declan actually felt disappointed. He listened for an instant, but no sound of imminent attack reached him. He glanced questioningly at Billings.

  The midshipman shook his head. “Can’t hear anything.”

  Declan resheathed his blades and stepped back to lift the flap of rug that covered Edwina’s face as, rolled up in a fine silk carpet, she lay supported in Carruthers’s brawny arms. Her lids were down, her features slack; she appeared to be deeply asleep. Declan slid two fingers beneath her chin, searched, and found her pulse throbbing soundly, the beat strong, the rhythm steady.

  “Drugged, I’d say,” Carruthers offered.

  Declan nodded, then met Carruthers’s eyes. “Can you carry her all the way to the wharf?”

  “Aye.” Carruthers hefted his precious burden, resettling her more securely in his arms. “She’s a slip of a thing—she don’t weigh more’n a handkerchief.”

  Declan nodded and turned to the others. They weren’t safe yet, and while he would infinitely prefer to have Edwina’s warm weight in his arms, soothing and reassuring his abraded emotions, he needed his hands free, needed to be able to defend her. He was the best fighter they had.

  He set Billings to scout ahead and put Dench, a blade now in his hand, to guard their rear. Sacrificing stealth for speed, guided by the glint of moonlight on water and the ever-present scent of the sea, they strode swiftly through the rest of the slum, along several narrow lanes bordering the lesser commercial wharves, then stepped onto the solid planking of Government Wharf.

  They made it to where The Cormorant’s tender was waiting, pulled in close to a set of water stairs, without challenge. They’d discussed the logistics of their departure earlier; the carriage had been hired—it would be found and returned to the stable the next day. Henry, all their baggage, and all his other crewmen had already been ferried to the ship; the tender with its crew of four was waiting to carry them—the last of their party—to where The Cormorant bobbed well out in the harbor.

  Declan had had Caldwell and the crew move the ship farther out from shore—closer to the open sea—in case anything had gone wrong and they needed to beat a hasty retreat.

  As he took Edwina’s limp form from Carruthers, then went quickly down the stairs and stepped into the tender, he blessed the instinct that had prompted him to move the ship.

  He sat in the bow with Edwina cradled across his lap and tried to think—to imagine what had gone wrong. Clearly something had, but no matter how hard he studied her face, he had to agree with Carruthers. She’d been drugged, but whatever had been used seemed to have merely put her to sleep. Her cheeks were still rosy, her lips soft and full, still their usual luscious pink, and there was no sign of strain or pain about her eyes.

  As far as he could see, she was still dressed precisely as she had been when she’d gone through the governor’s gate. The strand of South Sea pe
arls he’d given her as an engagement gift was still about her throat, and the matching earrings still dangled from her lobes. There was no sign she’d been attacked, and she hadn’t been robbed. She’d simply been…

  Taken.

  Frowning, he resettled the rug about her, protecting her face from the droplets flung off the oars. Then he lifted his gaze and stared at the dark but oh-so-comforting bulk of his ship as they steadily drew nearer.

  What if he hadn’t rescued Edwina? Would she have gone the way of the other young women who had disappeared?

  His instincts returned a definite affirmative.

  She’d been drugged by someone in the governor’s house, then passed on to whoever was spiriting Europeans out of the settlement.

  Who in the governor’s house?

  Edwina almost certainly knew.

  She was a duke’s daughter; one word from her, and Holbrook would be tossed into shackles and whisked back to London to face his superiors.

  But she hadn’t intended to see Holbrook.

  Regardless…

  They reached the ship. Declan settled Edwina over his shoulder and went quickly up the ladder.

  He stepped onto the deck, then eased her back into his arms. Instead of heading directly for the companionway, he strode to the stern.

  He halted before the ladder to the poop deck and the bridge; Caldwell was at the wheel, with Johnson standing by—both men’s gazes had lowered to Edwina. “Mr. Caldwell—with all due caution and as quietly as possible, up anchor and all hands to the oars.”

  Caldwell snapped to attention. He knew that tone of voice, understood what the order for caution and silence meant. “Aye, aye, Captain.” Immediately, he started issuing quietly spoken orders that Johnson relayed in similar fashion to Grimsby, down on the main deck. The bosun in turn passed the instructions on to the men who, alerted to Declan’s return, were streaming up from the bowels of the ship.

  The order for silence passed swiftly through the crew; lips were buttoned and footsteps muted. On receiving the order to man the oars, most of the ship’s company descended to the lower deck.