“Which naturally left you with a list of those who were both. Very nice.” Charles looked back up the table.
“The list comprised twenty-three companies,” Christian continued. “We eliminated those we know lost cargoes, assuming no merchant is going to send a precious cargo to France just to cover his tracks. That took twelve names out—some of the sixteen ships carried cargoes for the same merchant.”
“Poor beggars,” Jack Hendon said. “Knowing how close some of them sail to the wind, I’d be surprised if none have gone bankrupt.”
“Some have,” Gervase answered. “Yet more damage to add to A. C.’s account.”
Tony stirred. “So that left us with eleven companies.”
Christian nodded. “Courtesy of you all and your chameleon like talents, passing yourselves off as potential coffee-shop proprietors and the like, not to mention your ability to tell barefaced lies, by focusing on who had stock after the last A. C.-induced shortage, we’ve ended with three names—three merchants. All had stock to sell
when the price last soared, and even though that incident was nearly a year ago, we have enough corroboration to conclude that only those three had stock to sell at that time.”
A general hubbub ensued, centering on whether there was any easy way to narrow the list further.
Tony didn’t contribute; reaching out, he took the sheet lying in front of Christian and read the names. “So,” his voice fell into the lull as the prospect of a simple next step faded, “A. C. is associated with one of these three.”
“Yes, but,” Christian stressed, “two of the three are not involved. Given what we’ll need to do to ferret out a hidden partner, we need to be absolutely certain which of the three it is before we move in.”
Tony nodded. “If we get it wrong, we’ll alert A. C., and given his record in covering his tracks, all we’ll find is another corpse.”
Jack Warnefleet sat forward. “So how do we pinpoint the right merchant?”
“The right merchant landed cargoes before each prize was taken.” Tony looked across the table at Jack Hendon.
“You said once we had a merchant’s shipping line, we could verify the safe landing of A. C.’s cargo via the records at Lloyd’s. We have three merchants—if we learn which shipping lines they use, could we check all three lines for safe landings in the relevant weeks preceding each prize-taking, and check the cargoes landed?”
Jack held his gaze for a long moment, then asked, “How much time do we have?”
“By my calculation, not a lot. A. C.’s been quiet for nearly a week, but he must know we haven’t given up. He’ll try something else to deflect the investigation—he won’t succeed, but the faster we can conclude it, the better.” Tony paused, then added, “Who knows what he might do next?”
It was a point on which he tried not to speculate, yet it hovered in his mind, a constant threat. To Alicia, to him, to their future.
Jack was thinking, calculating—glancing around the table, he nodded. “Given our number, it’s possible. And it might be the best way. The first thing we need to learn is which shipping lines those three companies use, but to do that without alerting the companies, you’ll need to ask the shipping lines.”
“Can you do that?” Christian asked.
“Not me. As the owner of Hendon Shipping, the instant I start asking questions like that, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“No matter.” Charles shrugged. “You tell us what answers we need, and what questions will best elicit them, and leave it to us.”
“Right.”
“Easy enough.”
The others nodded. It was Tony who asked, “How many shipping lines are there?”
Jack met his gaze. “Seventy-three.”
When the others stopped groaning, Jack continued, “I’ll put a list together tonight—we can meet here first thing tomorrow. If we push, we should get the information by evening, and then”—he met Tony’s gaze again—“we’ll first need to get access to the shipping registers and get the ships’ names, then we’ll revisit Lloyd’s. We’ll be able to find the answer—which company A. C. is behind—there.”
Tony returned Jack’s gaze, then nodded. “Let’s do it.”
NINETEEN
THE NEXT DAY WAS CHAOTIC.
Six members of the Bastion Club attired as no gentleman would normally be met with Jack Hendon in the club’s meeting room at eight o’clock. Over breakfast, they divided his list on the basis of the location of the shipping lines’ offices, then each took a section and set out. They were masquerading as merchants, all appearing older and a great deal more conservative than they were.
Whoever discovered a link between any of the three merchants and a shipping line would send a messenger back to Jack at the club. They’d decided against calling a halt until all seventy-three shipping lines had been assessed; there was always the possibility that a merchant used more than one, especially if that merchant had something to hide.
Tony had taken a group of fourteen offices congregated around Wapping High Street. Charles, who had drawn the area next to that, shared a hackney down to the docks. They parted, and Tony began his search for a reliable shipping line to bring tea from his uncle’s plantations in Ceylon. Once he had a shipping manager keen to secure his fictitious uncle’s fictitious cargo, it was easy to ask for references in the form of other tea merchants the line had run cargoes for in the last few years.
By eleven o’clock, he’d visited six offices, and scored one hit. One line which, so the manager believed, had an exclusive contract with one of their three merchants.
Tony stopped in a tavern to refresh himself with a pint. Sitting at a table by a window, he sipped and looked out. He appeared to be watching the handcarts and drays and the bustling human traffic thronging the street; in reality, he saw none of it, his mind turned inward to more personal vistas.
Things had started to move; the pace always escalated toward the end of a chase. They’d soon have A. C., or at least his name. Dalziel would have his man; Tony would take great delight in delivering him personally.
He needed to keep his eye on the game, yet the very fact it was nearing its apogee had him thinking of what came next. Of Alicia and him, and their future life.
The closer the prospect drew, the more it commanded his attention, the more sensitive to threats to it he became. Last night in the hall, he’d been touched by premonition, by an unfocused, unspecific belief that something was wrong, or at least not right. Something in the way Alicia had reacted had pricked his instincts.
Yet when he’d returned home just after midnight, it was to find the others already back, and Alicia waiting for him in her bed. Explaining that they’d all wished for an early night, she’d encouraged him to tell her all he’d learned; she’d listened, patently interested, to their plans.
Then he’d joined her under the covers and she’d turned to him, welcomed him into her arms, into her body with her usual open and generous ardor. No hesitation, no holding back. No retreat.
When he’d left this morning, she’d still been asleep. He’d brushed a kiss to her lips and left her dreaming.
Perhaps that was all it was—that the social round, now frenetic, combined with the stress of watching over Adriana, was simply wearying her. God knew, it would weary him. When he’d returned to her last night, there’d been no sign of whatever he’d detected earlier, that slight disjunction that had seemed to exist between them.
He spent another five minutes slowly sipping his ale, then downed the rest in two swallows. He had eight more shipping lines to investigate. The sooner they could bring A. C.’s game to a conclusion, the better for them all.
Tony got back to the Bastion Club just after three o’clock. He was one of the last to return; the others were lounging around the table in the meeting room with Jack Hendon waiting impatiently for his report.
“Please say you’ve found a line working for Martinsons,” Jack demanded before Tony could even pull out a chair.
He sat and tossed his list on the table. “Croxtons in Wapping have, so the manager assures me, an exclusive contract.”
“Thank God for that.” Jack wrote the name down. “I was beginning to think our plan would go awry. We’ve identified two shipping lines for Drummond, one from the east, one from the west, reasonable in the circumstances, and four—two in each direction—for Ellicot. Croxton runs ships both east and west, so Martinsons can indeed use them exclusively. Now”—he looked down his list—“all we need is for Gervase to confirm none of the three—Martinsons, Ellicot, or Drummond—use any other line.”
But when Gervase came striding in fifteen minutes later, it was with different news. “Tatleys and Hencken both carry goods for Ellicot.”
They all looked at him; Gervase slowly raised his brows. “What?”
“You’re sure?” Jack asked. When Gervase nodded, he opened his eyes wide. “That’s six shippers who carry Ellicot’s goods, and two of those lines run ships to both the East and West Indies.”
Tony caught Jack’s eye. “Is it wise to place any great emphasis on that?”
Jack grimaced. “No, but it’s tempting. If you wanted to disguise any pattern in shipping around the dates the prizes were taken, then the use of multiple lines and therefore different ships for each safe cargo brought in would totally obscure any link.”
“The most likely people to check any connection would be the Admiralty,” Gervase said, “yet their records show only the ships and shipping lines. There’s no way to detect a link that exists at the level of cargo.”
Tony frowned. “Customs and Revenue have records of the cargoes, but even there, the records are sorted by ports, and different lines use different home ports.”
“So,” Charles said, “this was an extremely well-set-up scheme. It’s only because we used Lloyd’s that we’ve been able to put things together.”
“Which leads one to conclude,” Christian said, “that the scheme’s perpetrator knows the administrative ropes well. He knows how the civil services work and which avenues to block.”
“We’ll still get him.” Jack had been reexamining his list. “We have nine shipping lines—more than I’d like, but seven are small. We now need a list of all the vessels each has registered.”
“Can we get that before tonight?” Tony asked.
Jack glanced at the clock on the sideboard, then pushed back his chair. “We can but try.”
“I’ll help.” Gervase rose, too. “I know the business well enough to deal with the intricacies of the registers.”
“You two concentrate on getting a list of the ships’ names,” Tony said. “We’ll take care of the rest.”
Jack and Gervase left, conferring as they went. The others turned to Tony.
“Once we have the list of ships,” he said, “we’re going to have to search Lloyd’s records. We need to identify which merchant consistently brought in a cargo in, say, the week before a prize was taken. Searching in the weeks before three separate incidents should give us one name and one only. If not, we can look at a fourth incident, but chances are three incidents will give us only one merchant who fits our bill.”
The others nodded.
“Once we know the particular merchant involved, we should confirm that in each case they did indeed bring in tea or coffee.”
“Can we do all that via Lloyd’s?” Charles asked.
“Yes. If Jack and Gervase get the ships’ names by this evening, I’ll revisit Lloyd’s tonight.”
“I’ll come, too” Charles said. “There’s this horrendous ball my sisters want to drag me to—I’d much rather hone my filing skills.”
“You can count me in,” Jack Warnefleet said. “I’ve never had to track anyone through such a maze before.”
They made arrangements to meet later that night.
Only Tristan demurred. “I’ll keep a watch on things in the ballrooms. Having had the good sense to get married, I, at least, am safe from the harpies.”
Charles grimaced. “Half your luck. I don’t know how you managed it so quickly—and now look at Tony. You’re both safe. What I want to know is how long I’m going to remain dead center in the matchmakers’ sights. It’s deuced harrowing, I’ll have you know.”
Both Tony and Tristan made sympathetic noises. The mood of teasing camaraderie disguising their implacable resolve, the meeting broke up and they each headed home.
Tony found Alicia in the garden.
Admitted to the house by Hungerford, he’d slipped upstairs and changed into more normal attire before setting out to search for her.
She was walking alone; Hungerford had told him the boys were in the park—it was a perfect day for kites. It seemed odd to find Alicia by herself; pensive, head down, deep in thought, she slowly, apparently aimlessly, wandered the lawn.
He watched from the terrace—Torrington House was centuries old, the gardens stretching behind it extensive—then went down the steps and set out to join her. She didn’t hear him; not wanting to frighten her by suddenly appearing beside her, he called her name.
Halting, she swung around and smiled. She straightened as he neared. “Did you learn anything?”
He would have taken her in his arms and kissed her, but she held out a hand; the swift glance she cast at the house was a warning.
Reluctantly bowing to her wishes, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. Kissed it, then, noting that her smile had faded, an expression he couldn’t read taking its place, he tucked her hand in his arm, anchored it with his. He let a frown show in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She blinked her eyes wide. “Wrong? Why… nothing.” She frowned lightly back. “Why did you think there was?”
Because…
He felt confused, not a normal feeling, not for him. The expression in her eyes assured him she honestly didn’t think anything was wrong, yet…
She shook his arm and started to stroll again. “Did you learn anything? What has Jack been up to—I met Kit at Lady Hartington’s luncheon, and she said he was out, too, looking for A. C.’s connections.”
He nodded. “We’ve all been out for most of the day.”
He explained. Alicia listened, put a question here and there, and continued to reiterate to herself: You are his mistress, his lover, not his wife.
That, she’d decided, was the only sane way forward, to keep their relationship on a fixed and even keel. If she let herself get seduced—emotionally seduced by her emerging dreams—she’d end hurt beyond measure. She’d accepted the position; if she adhered strictly to that role, she and he could continue as they were. That would have to be enough.
If she was forced to make the choice between being his mistress or not being with him at all, she knew which she’d choose. She never wanted to lose him, to forgo those golden moments when they were so close, when each breath, each thought, each desire was shared. If to hold on to that closeness she had to remain his mistress, so be it. It was, she’d decided, worth the price.
The news he had was exciting; they were clearly closing in on A. C. As they discussed their findings, she was conscious of Tony’s gaze on her face, black as ever but not so much intent as keen, sharp. Observant.
Finally, she felt forced to meet his eyes and raise her brows in mute question.
He searched her eyes, then looked forward, steering her along a path leading to a fountain. “Given I need to visit Lloyd’s tonight, I won’t be able to escort you to whatever entertainments you’re scheduled to attend.”
She forced herself to smile easily; she patted his arm. “Don’t worry—I’m perfectly capable of attending by myself.” Even though, in his absence, there was nothing at such events to hold her interest. She didn’t even need to watch over Adriana anymore.
She’d learned there were indeed couples, noblemen and their wellborn mistresses, of whose relationship the ton was patently aware, but to which it turned a blind eye. Her and Tony’s situation wasn’t unusual. However, one relevant and undoubted
ly important aspect was that those involved in such accepted affairs never drew attention to their relationship in public.
Such couples did not spend time together in ballrooms or drawing rooms; she should undoubtedly grasp this opportunity to ease their interaction into a more socially acceptable vein.
“You find the balls a bore.” She looked ahead at the circular fountain set in the lawn. “There’s no reason you need dance attendance on me there. Not anymore.”
She glanced at him. There was a frown gathering in his eyes. She needed to discourage him from acting so overtly possessively. She smiled, trying to soften the hint. “And tonight, you need to be elsewhere searching for A. C.—there’s no need to feel it’s necessary to escort me, or that your absence will bother me—that I’ll be in any way discomposed.”
Her words were gentle, clear, her expression as always open and honest; Tony heard what she said, but wasn’t sure he understood. She was explaining something to him, but what?
His brain couldn’t seem to function as incisively as usual. The odd feeling in his chest, a deadening, dulling sensation, didn’t help. Halting, he drew in a breath, glanced, unseeing, at the fountain. “If you’re sure?”
He looked at her face, into her eyes—and saw something very close to relief in the green.
Her smile was genuine, reassuring. “Yes. I’ll be perfectly content.”
The assurance he’d asked for, yet not what he’d wanted to hear.
A babel of youthful voices spilled down from the terrace; they both looked and saw the three boys and two girls come tumbling down to the lawns.
Turning, they headed toward the children. As they reached the main lawn, Tony felt Alicia’s gaze, glanced down, and met her eyes.
Again, she smiled reassuringly, then patted his arm as she looked ahead. “I’ll be here, waiting, when you get home.”
He’d accepted the arrangement because he’d had little choice. Yet the suspicion—now hardening to conviction— that something was going awry between them grew, fueled by that part of him that had heard her words as something approaching a dismissal.
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