Against that, of course, lay the undeniable fact that the three women were fast connecting in a way that would forge them into a formidable supportive force; Royd knew all about the power that females in plural could bring to bear—witness Isobel’s grandmother and her largely female clan.
Yet when he considered what the outcome would likely be, it wasn’t concern he felt but an odd form of contentment. Anything that helped bind Isobel into his family was to be encouraged.
He sat back and smiled at Edwina. He was appreciating his sister-in-law more and more.
CHAPTER 2
Early the following afternoon, Isobel found herself seated on an elegant sofa in the large drawing room of Wolverstone House. Beside her sat Minerva, Duchess of Wolverstone, who had welcomed them and, somewhat to Isobel’s surprise, had remained to hear Caleb’s report; although Minerva was only a handful of years older than she, Isobel hadn’t expected the calmly serene duchess to have any involvement in her powerful husband’s intrigues.
In that, she’d erred; judging by Edwina’s response to the duchess, Minerva was of a similar mind to Edwina regarding a wife’s role in her husband’s business, which left Isobel feeling unexpectedly at ease. Edwina had introduced her to the duke and duchess, blithely explaining that she hailed from Aberdeen and was sailing with Royd to Freetown in pursuit of a cousin they now knew to be among the captives held at the mine. Both duke and duchess had accepted the explanation at face value, but Isobel had seen Minerva’s gaze divert to Royd in a considering fashion—Royd on whose arm Isobel had arrived.
He was seated in a straight-backed chair to her right; Edwina sat on Minerva’s other side, and Declan, Robert, and Aileen were in possession of the sofa opposite.
The two key figures sat in armchairs angled away from the hearth to face the company. Wolverstone wielded stillness like a weapon; with coloring much like Isobel’s own—dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin—neither his expression nor any movement of hands or body indicated his thoughts, much less his feelings.
In sharp contrast, Melville, a corpulent figure with his corsets over-laced and his balding head sheening, fidgeted and fussed, his pudgy hands rarely still. He had the pasty-pale complexion of someone who spent all his life indoors. Despite his ancestry, his features were coarser than those of any other in the room, and the expression on his face was overtly fretful. The expression in his washed-out brown eyes was, Isobel considered, closer to hunted.
She listened while Royd presented Melville, Wolverstone, and Minerva with a concise summary of Caleb’s findings. He concluded with “Armed with Caleb’s and Lascelle’s information, as well as the reports from Dixon and Hillsythe, we have all we need to seize the compound.”
His fingers steepled before his face, Wolverstone nodded. Although his gaze remained on Royd, Isobel got the distinct impression it was Melville Wolverstone addressed when he said, “To adequately lay this matter to rest, we need to achieve three distinct objectives. The first must be to rescue the captives, to preserve their safety and return them to Freetown, with whatever compensation is feasible. We also need to dismantle the mine and subsequently ensure such an enterprise cannot flourish again—the latter will require changes to the settlement’s governance, along with consequent oversight, neither of which is of immediate concern. Of more relevance to all here is the capture of those involved—the three local instigators and, through them, the mysterious backers.”
Wolverstone finally glanced at Melville. “I believe we’re in agreement that the backers are almost certainly English and of an ilk that means their exposure will provoke considerable scandal.” Wolverstone’s voice didn’t rise, but his tone hardened. “In the current circumstances, it’s imperative we gather sufficient evidence to convict the backers—identifying them alone will not be enough to take them down, and unless we do, the populace will howl.”
The First Lord’s expression had grown almost petulant, his fingers agitatedly plucking his sleeve. When Wolverstone spoke again, his voice was milder, yet his tone remained implacable. “I suggest that the government’s best way forward will be to give Captain Frobisher whatever he needs to successfully complete this mission.”
Melville frowned peevishly and irritatedly waved. “Yes, yes—whatever is necessary. We have to have this settled—have to have those damned backers in our hands with evidence enough to convict—before the infernal news sheets learn of it.”
Royd and Wolverstone exchanged a glance, then Royd calmly stated, “I need a directive from you to Decker.”
Melville’s frown turned confused. “I gave a letter to your brother here.” He waved at Declan.
“Caleb kept that letter in case of need—the correct decision in the circumstances. But even if he’d sent it back, it wouldn’t be enough.” Royd met Melville’s gaze. “I don’t need a letter directing Decker to give me all assistance. I need a directive placing Decker under my command. In order to complete this mission, it’s imperative that I be able to give Decker orders that I can have confidence he will obey without question.”
Melville looked aghast. “You’re asking me to give you—a privateer—command of a naval squadron? Over a vice-admiral?”
Royd let a heartbeat go past. “Yes.” When Melville huffed, Royd said, “It’s essential that I be able to give Decker one particular order, and that he obeys immediately and without question or alteration. If he doesn’t—if he vacillates—it will put the success of the entire mission at risk.”
At that, Melville’s gaze turned wary. After a second, he glanced at Wolverstone.
The duke met his gaze imperturbably and arched one dark brow as if to say: What did you expect?
Melville looked down, then he humphed. From beneath his pale brows, he shot a look at Royd. “Very well. I’ll have the orders prepared and sent over this evening.” Melville glanced at Declan. “Stanhope Street, isn’t it?”
Declan nodded. “Number twenty-six.”
Melville swung his gaze back to Royd. “Anything else you need?” The First Lord’s tone was sarcastic.
Royd nodded. “I’ll need a similar letter from the Home Office, sufficient to guarantee Governor Holbrook’s compliance with any orders given to him by whoever presents it, and another such missive from the War Office for the Commanding Officer at Fort Thornton. Don’t make the latter specific. We need to ensure whoever’s in charge at the time acts as required.”
Melville’s jaw had fallen slack. Again, he looked at Wolverstone; again, he received no support from that quarter, leaving him to shut his mouth, humph, and fidget, and ultimately agree with a terse, tight-lipped nod.
Wolverstone took pity on the First Lord and asked Royd, “When will you sail?”
“The Corsair will have reached Southampton this morning. She’ll already be provisioning. Once she’s ready, she’ll stand off, and The Trident and The Cormorant will provision as well—we’ll send orders down tomorrow. After that...we’ll need a day or so to get out further orders and complete our preparations.” Royd met Wolverstone’s dark gaze. “I’ll be taking at least two other Frobisher ships down in support—so, all told, five ships’ complements to join with Caleb’s and Lascelle’s. At this point, I anticipate departing on Monday’s tide.”
“Monday?” Melville grumped. “This is urgent. Can’t you set out sooner?”
“I could,” Royd calmly replied. “But because The Corsair is faster than the other ships, there’s no point me setting out in advance—after initiating Decker’s action, I would have to skulk close to Freetown, waiting for the others to arrive before going farther down the estuary, and the more prolonged that stage, the greater the risk of one of the instigators learning of our presence and guessing our intentions. I need Robert and Declan to get into Freetown as soon as possible after I arrive and deal with Decker. That timing works best if we leave on the same day.”
Melville�
�s face tightened. “Very well. The more important question is when you’ll be back.” His voice strengthened. “When can I expect this all to be over, everything resolved and finished with, heh?” Agitated aggression colored the demand.
Royd held the First Lord’s gaze for several seconds, then stated, “This will end when we have the backers in our hands and evidence enough to send them to the gallows.”
The meeting broke up after that. Melville left first. As Wolverstone walked with Royd and Isobel to the front door, he murmured, “As you saw, the prospect of political ramifications has the First Lord rattled. He knew this matter was a grave threat to the government the instant it came to his attention—that was why he called me in. For all his fluster and bluster, his instincts are sound. But he didn’t expect it to be this bad.”
Isobel leaned forward and, across Royd, fixed Wolverstone with her gaze. “Exactly how bad is it?”
Wolverstone slowed. The three of them halted a little way from the front door. Wolverstone held her gaze as he considered his answer, then said, “It’s not this incident in isolation but the compounding effect of this coming on top of last year’s disaster with the Black Cobra cult. While the Black Cobra and her associates were finally tracked and brought to justice—public justice—the ramifications continued long after. The government is struggling to maintain order—we have an ostentatiously profligate king, while the coffers are low, and the country as a whole has yet to emerge from the dark days after the war. Against that background, the demands for reparation from the colonies over the atrocities of the Black Cobra cult fueled anti-government fury on several fronts. In response, the government adamantly promised such a situation would never be allowed to occur again—and now they have this.” He paused, and they resumed strolling toward the door. “The only saving grace is that the news and scandal sheets have yet to get wind of it. If we can end the situation in the settlement and deliver the backers to public justice, it will avoid an incendiary public reaction and demonstrate the government’s resolve to no longer turn a blind eye to those of the elite who believe they are above our laws.”
The butler had opened the door, and the others had gone ahead. Royd paused on the threshold to arch a cynical brow. “And is the government so resolved?”
Wolverstone’s lips quirked in an equally cynical expression. “For the moment, yes. Let’s take what we can get.”
Royd grunted. He and Isobel exchanged farewells with the duchess, then he escorted Isobel down the steps.
* * *
They elected to stroll back to Stanhope Street. Her arm looped with Royd’s, Isobel was glad of the chance to stretch her legs and breathe. While the smells of the city and the bustle and constant noise were a far cry from crisp sea air and the quiet shush of waves, she was equally at home in the clatter and clang of the shipyards, with the smell of tar and the tang of sawn wood and varnish surrounding her.
By the time they turned the corner from South Audley Street into Stanhope, she had heard enough of Edwina’s and Aileen’s comments—floating back from where the other two couples walked just ahead of her and Royd—to appreciate the slightly grim, resigned expressions on Robert’s and Declan’s faces. It appeared they’d finally accepted that their ladies would be sailing with them.
Isobel wasn’t so certain that Declan and Robert had as yet agreed to what would happen when they reached Freetown, but she had every confidence that when it came to the point, Edwina and Aileen would carry the day.
Royd was also watching the interplay between Declan and Edwina, and between Robert and Aileen. He knew his brothers were pinning their hopes on persuading their respective ladies to remain in relative safety in the settlement while they led their men to meet with Royd’s forces. He didn’t give much for Robert’s and Declan’s chances, but he’d resolved to say nothing to burst their bubble; he had no intention of calling attention to, much less inviting questions about, his own tack with Isobel.
In the not so distant past, he would have been the one most rigidly holding the line against allowing the women to endanger themselves in even the most minor way. But not this time. Not with Isobel.
Sharing all with her was too vital to his long-term goal.
They reached Declan and Edwina’s house and trooped up the steps. In the front hall, Royd caught Robert’s and Declan’s eyes. “Now we’ve got Melville’s agreement, we need to get all our orders out, then put our minds to anything extra we might need.” They’d spent the previous afternoon and all of that morning working through lists of men, stores, weapons, and munitions; they didn’t expect to have to use any cannon, but that didn’t mean they would sail unprepared.
The other two nodded and followed him to the library. The ladies, he noted, already had their heads together as they headed for the drawing room.
In the library, he, Declan, and Robert sat around Declan’s big desk—Declan had surrendered the chair behind it to Royd—and wrote detailed orders to their lieutenants. Declan had already requested Humphrey to call in two couriers; as soon as all the orders were complete, they were sealed and on their way to the Frobisher Shipping Company offices in Southampton and Bristol.
With the most crucial aspects of their preparations in train, they settled to scan their lists again and work through the details.
* * *
Royd retreated with his brothers to change for dinner. The ritual gave him a few minutes alone in which to review his plans—all his plans.
Everything to do with the mission itself was as it needed to be.
As for his plans for Isobel...
He could hear movement in the room next door, the one she’d been given; the sounds focused his senses as well as his mind. He didn’t need much thought to conclude that, with respect to reclaiming her, he needed to continue as he’d started. He harbored no doubts that the surest way to win her to his side again—to confirm her as his wife in all ways—was to treat her as if she occupied that position.
In many ways, she did, and always had. That was why their handfasting had come about, and why she remained so very definitely the only wife for him.
The reality of them was that the position of his wife was uniquely crafted for her; she slipped into it instinctively, entirely without thinking, and the more she grew accustomed to doing exactly that and the more comfortable with him she became, the better.
That was already happening in the social sphere and in their day-to-day life. But there was one aspect of their relationship neither had yet broached, even though the mutual impulses remained active, very much there.
As he settled the fresh cravat he’d tied and anchored it with his gold pin, he thought back to all that had gone before, how that particular aspect had come about before...
He frowned at his reflection in the mirror.
He’d never wooed her. He’d never seduced her—they’d fallen into each other’s arms as naturally as rain falling from the sky, without any effort whatsoever on either of their parts.
“Huh.” He stared into his own eyes, then softly stated, “But that was then, and this is now, and that’s not going to happen again.”
Especially not when she was watching him so closely and keeping such a tight guard on her senses—over all her responses.
He refocused on his face and slowly smiled. They had one day and two nights more in London before they reboarded The Corsair—before they returned to more limiting surroundings and the inhibiting presence of their son.
“Obviously, it would be wise to engage on that front now.”
* * *
Isobel was instantly aware of the change in Royd—not in him, himself, but in his focus. The intensity in his gray gaze was back, along with a certain calculation in his expression and a speculative glint in his eyes.
If she had any sense at all, she would pull back and erect a barricade of haughty, chilly polite
ness beyond which he couldn’t reach; she was perfectly capable of doing that...with any other man.
With Royd...there had always been something about him that called to her. Inevitably, invariably, she would join him in any game.
Even one as potentially dangerous as she knew this particular game might be.
She knew from the outset where it would lead. Did she really want to go there again?
To her inner befuddlement, no clear answer to that question appeared in her brain.
Meanwhile...she allowed Royd to lead her in to dinner. That was hardly surprising given the other two couples went ahead, and just as they had the previous night, the pair of them brought up the rear. But this time, he closed his hand over hers where she’d rested it on his sleeve, and his thumb stroked over the sensitive skin on the back of her hand.
Her breath hitched. Her diaphragm tightened. Her heart thudded just a touch harder.
They reached her chair, and he released her; he waved the footman back and drew the chair out for her. She sat, and he pushed the chair in, then he moved on to the chair beside hers.
His fingertips trailed over her bare shoulder, lightly tracing a path from the outer tip of her collarbone to her nape.
She had to clamp down hard to stop herself from shuddering.
She still felt the shivery sensation to her marrow.
She waited until he sat, then she slowly turned her head—and smiled into his eyes.
After that, the dance was on. And it was a dance of sorts, something like a cotillion, with them metaphorically circling each other, choosing to let their hands and fingers touch—here, there—accompanied by glances that were apparently innocent, but in reality were anything but.
She’d forgotten how heightened her senses could become, how those glances and the flaring sexuality investing each otherwise mundane little touch could provoke her. Could wind her nerves tight and ratchet anticipation to such a degree it was a battle to breathe, let alone maintain any semblance of rational conversation.
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