A Buccaneer at Heart

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Sadly, yes. If that weren’t so, perhaps their disappearances would have attracted more attention, but...”

  Aileen frowned. “Those who have vanished—did they hail from the same area of the settlement?”

  Mrs. Hardwicke sat back. From her expression, no one had previously asked her that question, and she was re-examining what she knew. After several moments, she slowly said, “You know, I believe you may be right.” She met Aileen’s eyes, then glanced to her left. “Let’s have a look at the map.”

  She rose and led Aileen to a framed map that hung on the wall to one side of the door. “This was given to my husband earlier this year, so it’s reasonably up to date.”

  She raised a hand and trailed her fingers over the various streets of the settlement. Aileen looked closer; the harbor was easy enough to locate, as was the fort and Tower Hill. The slums were equally easy to pinpoint due to the density of the streets and alleys.

  Mrs. Hardwicke’s finger descended, and her lips firmed. “Here.” Slowly, she traced a circle around the slum to the southeast of the eastern end of Water Street. “All the children who’ve vanished lived in this area. In the warren between the shore and the eastern end of the commercial district.”

  “I see.” Aileen glanced over her shoulder. Frobisher looked tense, as if wishing that he could see, too, but although he’d stood when she and Mrs. Hardwicke had risen, he’d remained in the shadows.

  Mrs. Hardwicke’s hand lowered. She continued to stare at the map. “You know, I never thought to look at the disappearances that way. The adults who’ve gone hail from all over the settlement, but the children...they all come from that area.”

  “Do you have any idea whether the children there go to some special place or gather anywhere in particular?” When Mrs. Hardwicke glanced at her, patently puzzled, Aileen explained, “If they don’t go to school, and presumably they’re too young to work, then what do they do all day?”

  Mrs. Hardwicke gave the matter some thought, then offered, “I really don’t know, my dear, but I assume they play.”

  A moment later, Mrs. Hardwicke shook herself from her thoughts. “My dear—I’ve been dreadfully remiss. Would you and... Mr. Aiken, is it?—care for some refreshment?”

  Aileen smiled, thanked Mrs. Hardwicke, but declined her offer, and immediately excused them on the grounds of having learned what they’d come to find out and having taken up quite enough of Mrs. Hardwicke’s time.

  “I plan to return to London in the not overly distant future,” she told Mrs. Hardwicke as that lady showed them to the front door, “and I promise to bring up the matter of the missing children with those I know will have an interest in the case.”

  Mrs. Hardwicke smiled resignedly. “Thank you, my dear. I pray every day that, whether it be through your agency or someone else’s, this matter will be investigated and no more children will vanish.”

  Aileen nodded and clasped Mrs. Hardwicke’s proffered fingers.

  Robert nodded to Mrs. Hardwicke, then took the resourceful Miss Hopkins’s arm and escorted her down the path.

  She waited until they were in the carriage and rolling down the hill before stating with evident satisfaction, “So now we have a definite place to start.”

  Robert wondered precisely what she meant, but rather than inquire, he complimented her on her performance and her insightfulness.

  In any shared endeavor, it was always good policy to give a junior partner their due, and he was, in truth, distinctly impressed.

  He hid his smile when she all but preened.

  * * *

  As he’d assumed he would, he all too soon learned exactly what his newly recruited partner had meant by “having a definite place to start.”

  She initially suggested they quarter and search the entire slum, from the rim of warehouses at the border of the commercial district all the way to the shore of the cove east of Kroo Bay.

  Luckily, he’d foreseen her likely start. As they’d left Mrs. Hardwicke’s parlor, he’d trailed behind long enough to note the name of the maker of the map she’d been studying. Dave knew the mapmaker’s shop, tucked away on a side street not far from the docks. He drove them there, and Robert escorted Miss Hopkins inside.

  Fifteen minutes later, they climbed back into the carriage with a map of the settlement finalized in the previous month and including the slums in helpful detail.

  Detail enough to engross Miss Hopkins. What the devil is her first name?

  Robert folded the other map he’d bought, one of the coast and interior extending well beyond the bounds of the settlement. That map was far less definite, but contained more information than any map of the area he’d yet seen. He slipped it into an inner pocket of his coat.

  “Perhaps you might ask Dave to drive us to the end of this street.” She angled the map, pointing with a gloved fingertip. “From there, we can walk into the slum to the areas in which children most likely gather.”

  He saw where she was pointing, then rose, lifted the trapdoor in the ceiling, and did as she’d asked. He sat again; the carriage started rolling, and he trained his gaze on her.

  She continued to frown at the map she’d taken charge of and didn’t seem to notice.

  He wasn’t accustomed to working with anyone other than his crew; working with Miss Hopkins as a partner was going to demand several degrees of adjustment. He decided he might as well make a start. “As it seems we’re destined to work together in this business, I can’t continue to think of you as Miss Hopkins. I’ve already given you my first name—what’s yours?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then simply stated, “Aileen,” and went back to studying the map.

  Aileen. He looked at what he could see of her face beneath the rim of her bonnet—at her bright hair and determined expression—and decided the name suited her.

  “Very well, Aileen. Why do you believe the slum children will gather in any particular area?”

  She looked up at him. Faint surprise showed in her eyes. Then she straightened and folded her hands on the map. “You have siblings, as do I. When you were children, if you’d been left for any time unsupervised and with nothing to do, what would you have done?”

  “We would have gone out looking for...well, adventure. Our version of adventure back then.”

  “Exactly. And if you knew of a place where other like-minded children gathered, you would have gone there, would you not?”

  He grinned faintly as memories rolled over him. “There were four of us, so we didn’t always need others, but at times, yes. We joined the local packs.”

  She nodded briskly. “From what Mrs. Hardwicke told us, the children of the families who live in the slums, those who are as yet too young to find work, have no school or any other formal daytime occupation. So in the way of children everywhere, they’ll congregate in groups to play. But”—she lifted the map, tipping it so he could see the close-drawn lines—“the alleys of the slums aren’t wide enough to even toss a ball. So they’ll gravitate to the areas that are.”

  She smoothed the map over her lap. “That’s why I was so pleased the cartographer had a very recent edition.” With a fingertip, she pointed. “He’s marked the places where fires, or buildings simply falling down, have created spaces between the houses. In lieu of any real playground or common, that’s where the children will play.”

  He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, and studied the map, drawn in by her rationale and infected by her enthusiasm. He saw the areas she meant, considered, then nodded and sat back. “We’ll start by sweeping across the slum, working steadily from the warehouses to the shore, checking all those areas and any others we find.”

  He sensed her approval. When she raised her head, he met her eyes. “We’ll check all the likely areas within the slum itself, but for my money, we’ll find the places we wan
t along the shore. More possible adventures, more features likely to catch a boy’s interest, at least.”

  She considered, then inclined her head regally. “You may well be right.”

  The carriage slowed, then rocked to a halt. Dave’s voice came from above. “Far as I can take you, miss, sir. D’you want me to wait here?”

  Aileen reached for the door handle, but Frobisher beat her to it. She was forced to wait while he descended first, blocking the doorway while he cast an apparently idle yet alert glance around. Finally, presumably satisfied that no danger lurked, he stepped aside and offered her his hand.

  She stifled a humph—he was the one people might recognize, not her—but she had little choice beyond mentally gritting her teeth, placing her fingers in his, and letting him assist her to the ground. Immediately after he released her, she looked down and shook out her skirts. As she straightened, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was surveying their surroundings; she could only hope that he hadn’t noticed any sign of the leaping of her pulse, the catch in her breath, or the tension that gripped her every time they touched.

  Every time he drew near.

  Mercifully oblivious, he turned and looked up at Dave. “Yes. Wait here.” He paused to glance at her, then looked back at Dave. “Or rather, meet us here later. We’re likely to be several hours.”

  Dave nodded. “I’ll go and get me lunch, then. I’ll come back in two hours and wait for you just here.”

  With a crisp nod, Frobisher closed his hand about her elbow. Aileen paused to send an approving nod of dismissal to Dave before allowing Frobisher to steer her across the street and into what, according to the map, was the main alley running across the slum.

  As the dimness of the alley engulfed them, he released her, and she realized she’d been holding her breath. She had to conquer her reactions to him, but she couldn’t think of that now, not with him pacing by her side.

  “Where to first?” he asked.

  With her reticule dangling from her wrist, she flicked the map out and held it between her hands.

  She blinked at it for several seconds, looking at the streets...

  Frobisher reached across, tugged the map from her grip, rotated it through one hundred and eighty degrees, then returned it to her fingers. She managed to force out a “Thank you.”

  Then she concentrated. A second later, she pointed to their right. “Turn at the next lane—it should lead us to the first of the cleared spaces.”

  He nodded and strolled on, his pace one she could easily match.

  Head high, she reminded herself that when she kept her mind focused on what they were doing—on the details and execution of the segment of his mission she’d decided to take on—she managed well enough. As long as her wits were fully engaged, her senses remained, if not unaware of him, then at least sufficiently quiescent to conceal what was, in reality, an avid, not to say rabid, interest in him.

  She’d never had to deal with such a disruptive, distracting, and potently impulsive compulsion before. While one part of her definitely did not approve, far too much of her found him—and even more the reaction he evoked in her—intriguing and utterly fascinating.

  But as long as she kept her mind under control, her wits focused on what was at hand, and did not under any circumstances allow her senses to slip sideways and wallow in memories of that kiss in the night...

  A piece of flapping washing lightly slapped her on the cheek.

  She jumped, realized what had happened, and felt color rise in her cheeks—not from the slap but from realization of how far from reality her senses had led her.

  “Are you all right?” He dipped his head to look under the rim of her bonnet.

  “Yes. Quite.” She looked ahead and marched on. “I was absorbed and didn’t see it.”

  She forced herself to make the comment true and turned her attention to the houses—dwellings that passed for such—that they were passing. More specifically, she noted the people.

  She’d traveled to India when David had been stationed there and had also visited cities along the Mediterranean and European coasts. Her previous experiences had given her the knowledge of how to book passage from London to Freetown; where other ladies would have stumbled, she’d known what to do.

  Her exposure to cities in many countries had left her aware that it wasn’t only London or Edinburgh that had slums. Every city had them. More, as in London, while some slum areas might be inhabited by natives, other slums—like those of the East End and around the London docks—were home to a predominately immigrant population.

  That was the case in this particular slum. Virtually all those she saw were of European origin. The English were most plentiful, but the French, Spanish, Italians, Greeks, Dutch, even Russians and those of the Scandinavian countries were also represented. In terms of occupation, among the men, she noted sailors, fishermen, navvies, carpenters, and land-based laborers moving through the narrow alleys; among the women, she saw tavern wenches and housewives, washerwomen and fishwives, craft workers of several types, and, of course, the painted ladies.

  Several of the latter, lounging in doorways like cats in a spot of sun, cast sleepy yet distinctly come-hither looks at Frobisher as he and she walked past. Surreptitiously, she checked, but as far as she could tell, he didn’t even register the women’s interest; his attention was directed farther out, beyond the immediate space through which they moved, as if he was constantly scanning for any hint of approaching danger.

  As if he was intent on detecting it long before it had any chance of reaching them.

  That was confirmed when they reached the first open space on their map. When she would have marched out of the alley into the area, he put a hand on her arm and halted her in the alley mouth.

  Surprised, she glanced at him.

  “Careful.” His gaze was focused into the open area—and up.

  Up wasn’t a direction in which she often glanced. She followed his gaze—and saw a pendulum-like contraption dangling from the rough framework of a new construction already being put up in the soon-to-be not-empty space. A makeshift crane of sorts, it swung a load of wood, more or less at head height, across the path along which they’d been walking.

  She lowered her arm away from his touch and frowned. “That’s hardly safe.”

  The glance he cast her was faintly amused. “There’s little that’s safe in a slum.”

  She swallowed a humph and consulted the map. “There might be danger, but there are no children lurking. We may as well make for our next potential spot.”

  They did—and discovered the locals had turned the area into a fire pit, apparently for burning refuse.

  Aileen tried not to breathe as they hurriedly walked on.

  Two stops later—at an open space that was empty for the simple reason that it was filled with a large extrusion of jagged rock—she looked around in mounting exasperation. “I’ve seen plenty of babies and very young children, but none beyond the age of toddlers still clinging to their mother’s skirts.”

  Surveying the area, he nodded curtly. “The others have to be somewhere.” He met her gaze. “That only vindicates your thesis—all the older children must be gathering to play somewhere. We just haven’t yet come across the spot.”

  She met his gaze, then narrowed her eyes at him. “By which you mean to say I’m being impatient.”

  He shrugged. “I’m impatient, too, but”—he flicked the map she still held in her hands—“we still have several spots to check, and my money was always on the areas by the shore.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Do you want to skip the other spots within the slum and go straight to the shoreline?”

  He shook his head. “Our current strategy means we’re being thorough, and who knows what attraction—meaning ruin or potential game—one of the other
spots might hold?” He glanced at the map. “So where to next?”

  They checked three more areas shown as open spaces on the map. Two had been turned into impromptu marketplaces full of sharp-eyed adults, and the third was a dank and rather fetid hole even a rat might have thought twice about entering.

  Finally, more than an hour after they’d commenced their hunt, they turned toward the shore of the cove. A smaller indentation in the coastline immediately to the east of the wide-mouthed Kroo Bay, the cove lacked the busy wharves and the large commercial ships. Instead, its rough sands played host to a range of fishing vessels. Some were anchored out from the shore, bobbing on the waves, while others had been hauled up on the sands and lay tilted on their sides like beached whales.

  A ragtag group of children ranging in age from about six to perhaps twelve years old, girls as well as boys, were swarming over two upended fishing boats; they were playing some game that involved much clashing of sticks that were clearly meant to be swords.

  Robert only had to halt ten yards away and fix his gaze on the children for them instantly to become aware of him.

  To his surprise, instead of their faces lighting with innocent expectation and curiosity, instead of the boys, at least, racing up to swarm around him and badger him with questions—as always happened when he appeared among children at home—these children fell silent, shifting to face him and eying him warily.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Aileen taking note. She had come to stand beside him; she glanced from the children to him, then she looked back at the children, smiled in an easy, reassuring fashion, and walked forward.

  The children’s gazes shifted to her. Their expressions eased; curiosity lit their eyes.

  Interesting. Men are dangerous. Women are not.

  Perhaps understandable, given where these children were growing up.

  Resigning himself to guard duty—distant at that—Robert turned and pretended to survey the beach so that he wasn’t looking directly at Aileen and the children as she crouched before them.