“Indeed.” Wolverstone looked back at Carstairs. “Any suggestions for them?”
Carstairs considered, then said, “I wouldn’t suggest keeping them in London—one never knows where a connection of Satterly’s, or even Winton’s, might pop up. But there are holding cells in Cardiff that might do. Out of the way, and also unlikely to have many Englishmen or Irish nearby.”
Wolverstone looked at Royd, who nodded. “We can discuss transporting them later—by sea might be best.”
Carstairs inclined his head. “As for the backers...again, not in London, yet we don’t want them too far away. There’s an old barracks in Essex Forest with a skeleton staff. The place has holding cells. I could give the usual staff a holiday and send in a select troop to guard our precious pair—and any others we catch—until charges are laid and we can transfer them to a civilian prison.”
That suggestion found immediate favor. The men fell to discussing how best to move the prisoners from the Pool of London to their selected destinations.
Minerva glanced at Isobel. “What say we leave them to it, retire to my private parlor, and put our minds to the question of getting this fabulous necklace made?”
Isobel agreed. She rose with Minerva, who waved the gentlemen back to their seats. “When you’ve finished, we’ll be in my parlor.”
With that, the duchess looped her arm in Isobel’s and steered her out of the room. As they started up the stairs, Minerva said, “I have to admit that I wasn’t looking forward to the next few weeks—ton events can be such a bore, yet it’s expected we host at least one in this season.” She glanced at Isobel and smiled. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be able to turn a ball of mine to such a good cause.” She arched her brows. “And, of course, there are the blue diamonds.”
Isobel laughed.
By the time she and Royd departed the ducal residence, she’d been inducted into the circle of Wolverstone’s duchess—one of the most influential hostesses in the haut ton.
CHAPTER 15
After spending her morning at Wolverstone House writing and addressing invitations, early the following afternoon, Isobel pushed open the door to Rundell, Bridge, and Rundell, jewelers to the ton and favorites of the Crown. Located on Ludgate Hill not far from St. Paul’s Cathedral, the store was a fashionable oasis of soft light, discreet murmurs, and display cases loaded with sparkling gem-studded pieces, any of which would be suitable to grace the throat, wrist, or finger of a queen.
Her head high, Isobel glided confidently forward. Minerva and Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives and Minerva’s friend, followed close behind. In such august company, Isobel needed no introduction. Long before she’d reached the wide counter at the rear of the shop, one of the younger assistants had spotted them. The young man’s eyes had flown wide, then he’d turned and dived behind a long black curtain concealing an archway in the rear wall.
Isobel reached the counter just as a gentleman of middle years and discreetly elegant style emerged from behind the curtain. His smile already in place, he bowed low to the duchesses. “Your Graces. We are delighted to receive you.” As he straightened, his smile included Isobel. “Might we help you with something?” He spread his hands. “As ever, we are entirely at your service.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bridge.” Minerva stepped to the counter beside Isobel. From the corner of her eye, Isobel saw the duchess glance around, confirming no one else was close. Turning back to the gentleman—presumably one of the owners—Minerva lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “My good friend Miss Carmichael has a very special commission. We wondered if we might discuss it with you in more private surrounds.”
Bridge was intrigued. His nose all but quivered. “But of course, Your Grace.” He gestured to a small antechamber. “If you will come this way, we may be entirely private.”
He led them into the antechamber and through a door cleverly disguised in the paneling. The room beyond was of a decent size and luxuriously appointed. Bridge held the door for them. “His Majesty was here just last week—a new snuffbox.”
“He does seem quite partial to the things.” Honoria paused on the threshold of the room and said to Bridge, “It would be helpful if you would summon Mr. Rundell to attend us as well. The commission in question will require his particular skills.”
Bridge bowed low. “Indeed, Your Grace.” He followed Honoria into the room and shut the door. “If you will be seated, I will ask Mr. Rundell to join us.” With another bow, Bridge departed through a second door.
A highly polished oval table sat in the center of the room, with six straight-backed chairs with rose-velvet-covered seats arranged around it. The room had no windows; it was certainly private. Light fell on the table from an elegantly ornate gold-and-crystal chandelier. The ladies sank onto the chairs, Isobel at one end of the table, with Minerva to her left and Honoria on her right.
They’d barely settled when the door through which Bridge had departed opened again, this time to admit a heavyset man of acerbic mien. He shut the door, then bowed, but there was nothing of servility in his manner. “Your Graces. Miss Carmichael.” He came forward. “I regret Mr. Bridge has been called to the counter. The Marchioness of Dearne and Lady Clarice Warnefleet have arrived, and they’re insisting they’ll see no one else.” His hand on the chair at the other end of the table, Rundell—from the duchesses’ descriptions, Isobel knew it was he—paused and studied them through shrewd blue eyes overhung by shaggy brows. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose?” When Minerva and Honoria widened their eyes in all innocence, Rundell humphed and drew out the chair. “It’s just that I recall they’re friends of yours.”
“They are, indeed. Be that as it may,” Minerva said, “Miss Carmichael has something to show you, and then we, collectively, have a request we would like you to consider.”
Rundell set his large hands on the table and waited—a man of few words.
From her reticule, Isobel drew out the brown-paper-wrapped parcel the women had given her in the mining compound. She hadn’t even unwrapped it; she was no expert on uncut stones. She placed the parcel on the table. “This contains raw gems from a mine. I have no idea of their state.”
She pushed the parcel down the table.
Rundell reached out and, a frown on his face, accepted it. He turned the parcel over, then drew a pocket knife from one capacious pocket. He held up the knife. “May I?”
“By all means.” Isobel watched as he cut the thin string securing the packet, then carefully unfolded the paper.
What lay revealed when he smoothed the paper flat were about twenty-five gray-, brown-, and black-streaked pebble-sized rocks. Their surfaces were chipped, all angles. They looked like unpretentious gravel except that, here and there, the light from the chandelier struck sparks—flares of intense blue-white light—from the otherwise unremarkable stones.
Phillip Rundell, reputed to be the best judge of gemstones in England, stared down at the stones, then he sucked in an audible breath. He cast a piercing glance up the table. “Where did you get these?”
Isobel replied, “From a mine in Africa.”
Rundell studied the stones for a moment more, then pulled a loupe from his pocket. He fitted the magnifier to his eye, picked up the largest stone, and examined it. After setting it down, he examined three more stones before removing the loupe.
He stared at the stones. Isobel could read nothing from the severe expression on his craggy face. Eventually, he said, “Are these for sale?”
“No.” When Rundell looked up at her, she added, “At least, not yet. The intention is to sell them after they’ve served their purpose.”
“Purpose?”
Minerva held up a hand. “Before we go further, we need to tell you what we require, and you need to tell us whether you can do what we need.”
Rundell nodded.
Between them, they described the necklace they needed made and the time constraints. “And,” Isobel concluded, “we need a guarantee of absolute secrecy.” She held Rundell’s gaze. “This mission is of importance to the entire country and, even more, the government and the king.”
Rundell held her gaze, then humphed. He looked down at the stones his fingers had been constantly playing over. After a moment, he grimaced. “How can I turn away a commission like this? Stones like this?” From under his shaggy brows, he sent a look approaching a glare at Minerva and Honoria. “But Your Graces knew that, I’m sure.”
Again, Minerva and Honoria attempted to look innocent.
“All right.” Rundell pushed away from the table. “I’ll—we’ll—do it. When did you say you needed it by?”
“By the night of my ball.” Minerva rose. “Wednesday the twenty-ninth.”
Rundell pulled a face as he got to his feet. “We’ll need to work all hours, but we’ll do it. It won’t be ready until that afternoon, mind.”
“That’s quite acceptable,” Honoria informed him. She patted his shoulder as she passed him. “Now get to work—we’ll see ourselves out.”
Rundell grunted and turned back to the table. As she left the room in the duchesses’ wake, Isobel saw him reverently wrapping up the stones in the plain brown paper.
* * *
Six evenings later, all four Frobisher brothers and their ladies strolled into the drawing room of the Stanhope Street house, which had become their de facto headquarters. They had dined well and were now intent on catching up with each other’s news.
Declan and Edwina had sailed into the Pool of London three days after Royd and Isobel had reported to Wolverstone. Declan had sent a messenger to inform Royd of their arrival, and Royd had subsequently alerted Rafe Carstairs as well as Wolverstone.
Carstairs had accompanied a troop of experienced soldiers to the docks and taken charge of Declan’s prisoners.
“They’re apparently to be held in Cardiff.” Edwina settled on the sofa beside Isobel. Duncan, loath to miss anything, scrambled up to sit between the two ladies. Edwina smiled and patted his arm.
Royd pulled up a straight-backed chair. “We decided that, while it might have been less difficult to transport them by sea, fewer were likely to know of their final destination if we used a single carriage. Carstairs was sure he could spirit them out of London without anyone being the wiser.”
“It helped that The Cormorant didn’t actually dock.” Declan set a chair beside Edwina. He looked at Robert, who had settled in an armchair beside Aileen, who was seated on the second sofa opposite Edwina. “Where did you leave The Trident?”
Robert and Aileen had sailed into London thirty-six hours after Declan and Edwina. “She’s alongside The Cormorant now, but as we’d discussed, I initially dropped anchor off Limehouse.” Robert looked at Royd. “After I sent you word, Carstairs appeared and came aboard, and we docked at Limehouse long enough to off-load our prisoners. Carstairs had a troop of older soldiers waiting with a small closed carriage—he said they were taking the precious pair into Essex.”
“Did you have any trouble from Ross-Courtney and Neill?” Isobel asked.
“They gave up shouting and trying to suborn the crew after the first day at sea.” Aileen shuddered. “Dreadful men.”
Robert reached across and squeezed her hand. “Carstairs tied their hands and gagged them before dragging them off the ship. And they did have to be dragged. I seriously doubt Carstairs untied and ungagged them until he had them safely secured in Essex.”
Royd briefly explained the reasoning behind their prisoners being held in out-of-the-way military prisons, then all eyes turned to Caleb and Kate. They’d arrived just that morning.
“I didn’t see any reason to hurry.” Caleb grinned. “You lot had everything in hand. So we laid over for a day in Las Palmas with Phillipe. Kit and Lachlan sailed on for Bristol. Then we came on to Southampton.” He looked at Royd. “The Corsair was still there, but Stewart said he was leaving tomorrow for London.” When Royd nodded, Caleb asked, “Do you want The Prince here or in Southampton?”
“Send orders to reprovision there, then sail up to the Pool.” Royd glanced around. “I suspect we’ll all be headed to Aberdeen once this is over.”
When Declan looked at Edwina and arched a brow, she brightly replied, “Well, we do have weddings—plural—to arrange.”
Declan chuckled and looked at the other couples; each pair was looking at each other. “So when is the grand finale?”
Isobel drew her eyes from Royd’s and briefly described the plan to flush out the remaining backers, including the involvement of the two duchesses and her trip to the jeweler.
Robert looked at Royd. “So we’re running this exercise in a crowded ton ballroom. How do you see the action panning out?”
Royd didn’t really want to think about what might happen in Minerva’s ballroom; whenever he did, he saw holes the size of galleons in any protective net they might place around Isobel. And there was a very large part of him that didn’t like that.
Having just got her back, more or less in his keeping, to risk her, and their future, and his heart, again...
No, he didn’t like their plan at all.
But it was the only viable plan for rapidly luring the other four backers into the open, so he put aside his concerns and anxieties and ran through the various gentlemen and ladies who had volunteered to be a part of the protective crew revolving around Isobel as she swanned about the Wolverstone House ballroom four nights from then.
“And if we still haven’t learned all four names, the Duchess of St. Ives’s ball on Friday will give us a second chance.” Isobel glanced down at Duncan. The talk of prisoners, army troops, and ships had held his interest, but when the talk had turned to jewelry and balls, his head had started to loll. “Come along. Let’s get you to bed.” She eased him up. As she rose to leave with him, she glanced at the others. “At the moment, everything’s in hand, and we have a few days of peace and calm.”
Royd got to his feet. “There’s nothing we need do until Wednesday.” He looked around at the others. “Until then, we’re free.”
* * *
They might have been temporarily free of the mission, but there were other demands they’d overlooked.
The following afternoon, Edwina, Isobel, Aileen, Kate, and Duncan were in the upstairs parlor playing a rowdy game of spillikins. On hearing heavy carriage wheels halt before her door, Edwina got to her feet and went to peer out of the window.
She frowned. “How odd.”
“What?” Isobel went to join her. She looked down on a large, ponderous traveling carriage drawn up before the house and caught a glimpse of a footman climbing the steps to the house’s front door. “I take it you aren’t expecting more guests.”
“No,” Edwina replied. “And I don’t recognize that carriage or the coachman.”
The others had come to look, too, peering over Edwina’s shoulders.
Duncan pushed his way in front of Isobel. He leaned his forehead on the glass and stared down. “That’s Great-Grandmama’s carriage.”
“Iona?” Kate said.
“Oh, my heavens. He’s right.” Isobel stared. “That’s her John Coachman on the box.”
Duncan cheered and dashed for the door.
In a flurry of skirts, all four ladies rushed after him.
They reached the front hall and, as one, paused to draw breath, smooth down their skirts, and then raise their heads.
Duncan had dashed outside, followed more circumspectly by Humphrey.
Royd—presumably alerted by the thunder of feet on the stairs—looked out of the library where he and his brothers were lurking. “What’s happening?” He looked at Isobel.
“Iona’s here.” Isobel
paused only long enough to say, “Tell Caleb he can’t run and hide,” before sweeping forward.
She and Edwina reached the open front door—and discovered Iona wasn’t the only unexpected guest Humphrey, a footman, and Duncan were helping to the pavement.
Edwina turned to call back into the house, “Frobishers—your parents are here!”
Isobel looked down on the scene below; Duncan had already greeted Iona. As Royd joined her, she watched their son and his grandfather meet for the first time.
Fergus was smiling. He offered his hand, and Duncan bowed, then placed his hand in his grandfather’s. Duncan’s smile was bright, his usual confidence shining, while the smile wreathing Fergus’s face held joy, delight, satisfaction, and not a little pride.
“Iona’s already told them about Duncan,” Isobel whispered.
Royd grunted in agreement as his mother, Elaine, descended from the carriage, her eyes, for once, not searching for her sons but fixed in nothing short of wonder on her grandson.
Iona stumped up the steps on Humphrey’s arm. She halted on the porch and looked at them—first at Royd and Isobel, standing to one side of the entrance, then at Declan and Edwina, just behind them. Then her gaze traveled to Robert and Aileen, before finally coming to rest on Kate and Caleb. “Well,” Iona said, “it appears several of you have interesting things to tell me.”
Isobel stepped forward. “Grandmama.” She bent to kiss Iona’s cheek. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Iona humphed.
Released from her shock by Isobel’s action, Kate came forward to kiss Iona’s other cheek. “Great-aunt Iona.”
Isobel took charge before Iona could. She took her grandmother’s arm. “Come in.” She waved at the others. “You know all the Frobishers, and this is Lady Edwina, Declan’s wife.” She paused while Edwina brightly welcomed Iona. “And this”—Isobel gestured to Aileen as she drew Iona on—“is Miss Aileen Hopkins. She’s to marry Robert.”
With Kate, Isobel guided Iona into the drawing room, cravenly leaving Royd to deal with his parents. Then again, he had his brothers, and Edwina and Aileen, not to mention Duncan, to help distract them.
Lord of the Privateers Page 37
