by Andrea Kane
Eyes gleaming, the mongrel snatched the bread and bolted.
Sammy rolled her eyes skyward. How could she solve a critical mystery when she couldn't even deduce that a half-starved dog would be lured by a stale piece of bread?
"How much ye drink last night, Grady?"
The voice made her jump. Whirling about, she spied two staggering workmen en route to the wharf.
"Not as much as ye did!" The other man laughed heartily. "But we'd better be sober enough t' make sure all that cargo gets on the right ship ... and that th'ship checks out okay."
"What d' ye mean?"
"This one's Allonshire's, and his foreman says if anything goes wrong, our jobs might go with it. 'E's even sendin' another carpenter around to check out the ship before she sails."
The first man looked startled. "What's up?"
"They're all gettin' nervous, what with th'ships goin' down one after th'other. I'll tell ye, I wouldn't want t'be sailin' on one of these ... rather be loadin'. 'Tis safer."
"Yer right about that. Did ye 'ear about Goddfrey? 'E's disappeared since 'is last ship went down."
"Disappeared?"
"Mm-hum. They say 'e couldn't take it—all the questions, and the guilt. Lost a full crew, 'e did. And 'is best cap'n."
"So 'e took off?"
"That's right." The workman leaned closer to his friend. "Although I don't think it was only 'is conscience what made him bolt. Between ye and me ..."
Sammy strained her ears, inclining her head as far in the men's direction as she could without toppling over.
". . . rumor 'as it that until 'e gets some insurance money, 'e's in trouble. And I've seen 'is wife—she's one who likes 'er men plump in the pocket."
"Goddfrey's been 'it bad," his companion agreed. '"Is customers are all lookin' elsewhere to ship their cargo." He snickered. "Maybe 'is wife's arrangin' for 'is ships to go down as an excuse to get rid of 'im."
Howling with laughter, the workmen made their way to the dock.
An interesting thought, Sammy speculated, sidestepping a crane preparing to load. Could one person actually be the target for all these disasters, with the other disappearances merely diversions employed to cast aspersion elsewhere?
It was a high price to pay for profit, but perhaps profit alone was not the motive. Perhaps it was vengeance. Or jealousy. Or power. Not to mention the measures a criminal might take to avoid discovery.
Sammy's eyes sparkled. Yes. It made sense. She would find this Goddfrey and interrogate him. His name sounded vaguely familiar, which could only mean she'd heard it from Drake. And, since Drake was at Allonshire, she'd have to question his right hand, trusted friend, first mate and valet.
She could hardly wait to get back to the Town house and grill Smitty.
All caution cast to the wind, Sammy took off at a dead run, dodging crewmen and equipment alike, darting toward the warehouses.
The drone of voices accosted her an instant before she saw the two gentlemen conversing alongside the warehouse wall. Normally, their appearance wouldn't have troubled her at all. Given the view she had of the gray-haired gentleman facing her, it did.
"Lord Hartley," she muttered under her breath. Now what was she going to do? There wasn't a doubt that, if the marquis saw her face, he'd recognize her. As one of her father's oldest friends, he'd known her since birth.
Sammy cursed her timing. Lord Hartley owned a shipbuilding company, yes, but why did he have to pick this morning to visit the docks? And how on earth could she explain her ridiculous garb?
Desperately, Sammy tugged the brim of her cap lower, ducking into the receding shadows of dawn. The other gentleman glanced up, and for a fleeting instant before the shadows concealed her, Sammy felt his quizzical gaze on her. Poised against the warehouse wall, she held her breath, aware that Lord Hartley had stopped speaking.
"Summerson?" she heard him ask questioningly. "What is it?"
"Nothing. Just an odd-looking lad. Probably prowling about looking for food. Now, what were you saying?"
The rest of the conversation was lost to Sammy. Weak with relief, she sagged against the brick wall. The marquis hadn't spied her. As for the man called Summerson, she'd never seen him before in her life, so it mattered not that he'd spotted her nor that he thought her odd-looking.
Gratefully, she inched her way around the warehouse and headed away from the dock.
The ton was still deep in slumber when Sammy trudged down Abingdon Street an hour later. In truth, she envied them their repose. Her feet ached, her head throbbed, and her breeches were sliding down her hips. The thought of sleep sounded distinctly appealing.
Smitty was nowhere to be found—a further incentive for her to take to her bed. Even Millie hadn't ventured into her room, evidently having been told that her mistress would be sleeping late after her first Almack's ball.
Sammy placed her pilfered clothing in the hallway. A chambermaid was bound to come by and assume the clothes had been erroneously delivered to Lady Samantha's chambers, at which point she would promptly return them to the servants' quarters.
The bed felt wonderful—better than wonderful, Sammy thought, snuggling into the pillows. There would be plenty of time for heroism later. . . .
Rem closed the file he'd been reading and leaned back in his chair. He'd memorized the damned thing anyway. And, thus far, it had provided him with no new insights.
He came to his feet in a rush. Who was he kidding? He'd stayed up all night, but it wasn't the lost ships that had dominated his thoughts. It was Samantha.
Why the hell did she affect him the way she did? It was bad enough she elicited protective urges he'd never known he possessed—urges to shelter her, not only from physical harm, but from emotional harm, as well. But the rush of passion she invoked in him, the downright trembling need to absorb her into himself—it was unthinkable, unacceptable, untenable. Undeniable.
If he doubted it the first time they kissed, his doubts were put to rest the second time she was in his arms. Not to mention the overwhelming desire to beat Anders senseless when the viscount turned his skillfully polished charm on Samantha. That bloody bastard would only use her, then cast her aside.
Rem inhaled sharply. And what was he doing? Wasn't he also using Samantha, planning to discard her when he'd acquired the information he sought? Damn. Damn. Damn.
He'd never before had trouble concentrating on his work, never felt guilty for the means he'd used to gather his information.
He could still see the crestfallen pain and accusation on Samantha's face when she'd spotted him with Clarissa, making him feel like a reprehensible bastard. The irony of the situation was comical. For the first time in aeons, his motives for charming a beautiful woman had nothing to do with the thrill of conquest. Oh, he'd been delighted to see the lovely marchioness. But not for the reasons Samantha suspected.
Who better to probe for tidbits of confidential data than a woman who spent most of her time in various noblemen's beds; the place where men's defenses were at their lowest, and secrets, normally hoarded, were often divulged? The marchioness's paramours consisted of at least four major shipping magnates, making her a potential wealth of information.
But from Samantha's perspective, he'd been cavorting with a married woman.
And what if he was?
Lord knew, it wouldn't be the first time. Why the hell did he care what Samantha Barrett thought of his behavior? She was a romantic, innocent child.
A child who so thoroughly ravaged his control that he'd almost made love to her on the floor of the bloody anteroom at Almack's.
She'd tasted her first kiss in his arms. He wanted more ... her first touch, her first sigh ... her first time.
Rem raked his fingers through his hair, more off balance than he could remember being since he left the navy.
Was he mad?
Emotions had no place in his life. They were dangerous to his missions, a threat to his sanity.
Yet, he'd gone to Almack's for a purpose, accomplishe
d absolutely nothing of value, and come home mentally besieged by thoughts of an unquestionably unattainable young woman.
Seven days was far too long.
Four days would have to suffice. Yes, he'd allow himself four days to grill Samantha. Then, for both their sakes, he'd walk away.
"Pardon me, my lord."
Rem glanced wearily at his butler. "Yes, Peldon?"
"Mr. Hayword to see you, sir."
"Send Boyd in. And Peldon, bring some coffee into the study. I need it."
"Yes, my lord."
Boyd and the coffee arrived simultaneously. Once Peldon had taken his leave, Boyd looked closely at Rem and whistled. "You look like hell."
"Thanks. That's much the way I feel. Sit down." Rem gulped down some coffee, then began prowling restlessly about the room.
"Who do you suspect?"
"What?" Rem halted.
"The only time you pace like that is when you're on the verge of some unpleasant discovery. So what is it?"
Rem gave a hollow laugh. "You couldn't be more right... and more wrong." Seeing Boyd's questioning look, he continued. "I've made an unpleasant discovery, all right, but it has nothing to do with our case. As far as that goes, I didn't learn a damned thing. Not that I didn't have opportunity; I did. Clarissa was at Almack's. I managed to steer the conversation in the right direction—not a difficult feat, considering Henry apparently commissioned Barrett Shipping to build his precious bride a yacht—but various intrusions interfered and I never got to the heart of the matter."
"I see." Boyd stared intently into his coffee. "Do these intrusions have anything to do with your unpleasant discovery?"
Rem grunted an affirmation.
"And does this unpleasant discovery relate in any way to Samantha Barrett?"
Rem shot Boyd a look. "I don't want to discuss it."
"You're drawn to her."
"She's a child."
"You spoke with her."
"Not about what I should have."
"She's refreshing and beautiful."
"She's Drake Barrett's sister."
"You want her."
"She's a virgin, for Christ's sake."
"But you still want her."
"Yes ... I want her."
"And that's it?" Boyd prodded.
"No, God dammit, that's not it!" Rem exploded. "She arouses me like hell, all right? I wanted her so much last night, I forgot all the reasons I'd gone to Almack's. I was shaking like a bloody schoolboy and I wanted her under me more than I wanted to breathe! Are you satisfied now?"
"Evidently, you're not." Boyd's lips twitched.
"That's not even faintly amusing."
"Aren't you overreacting a bit, Rem? Is it so terrible to be reminded you're not just a machine? That you do have feelings?"
"Since when does passion require feelings?"
"We're not talking solely about passion, and you know it. You've had an army of women over the years. Not one of them has affected you this way."
"Then perhaps I should continue in that vein."
Boyd made a wide sweep with his hand. "Go ahead. You can have virtually any woman you want. What's stopping you?"
"Shut up, Boyd."
"No, I don't think another woman would be your solution," Boyd continued, unbothered by Rem's warning scowl. "Not any longer. I think it's this particular woman you want. . . and I think you want her in more than just your bed."
"This conversation is pointless." Brusquely, Rem cut Boyd off, his expression fierce. "Whether or not I want Samantha Barrett—in bed or out—is irrelevant. It's not going to happen. She has her fanciful dreams, and I have a job to do."
"But what if—"
"Enough, Boyd! I mean it." Rem rubbed his temples. "Did the Bow Street Magistrate come through?"
"I just left Harris. The magistrate will have the order prepared by morning. Harris and Templar will begin visiting the shipping companies on their lists tomorrow."
"Fine. Unless something happens sooner, let's meet with them on Monday night at Annie's."
Boyd nodded. "I stopped by the docks. No news yet. But it's still early."
Early. The word clicked in Rem's head, bringing to mind the data he'd acquired from one of his informants just prior to last night's ball. He should have taken care of it first thing this morning, but he'd been so bloody preoccupied with thoughts of Samantha. "What time is it?" he demanded.
"A little after ten. Why?"
"I've got to change clothes. I'm off to see Goddfrey; I want to surprise him by noon."
"Goddfrey ... I thought he fled after that last ship of his went down?"
"He did. I've tracked him down in Bedfordshire. I have some questions for him before he bolts for parts unknown."
"Such as?"
"Evidently, Goddfrey's business reverses are severe, and have been steadily worsening for some time. Coincidentally, more than a few of his ships have been among those lost—enough to collect a substantial amount in insurance." "A possible motive," Boyd commented, "Indeed. And his sudden attack of conscience makes me want to chat with him before he vanishes into thin air." "Understood. But why by noon?" "Because I need to be back in London by late afternoon," Rem replied offhandedly. "I'm taking Samantha for a ride in Hyde Park at five."
"I see."
"Wipe that smug look off your face, Boyd. I arranged the outing to discover exactly what Samantha knows about Barrett Shipping."
"I don't doubt it." Boyd came to his feet. "I'm certain you can unearth numerous truths from Lady Samantha—and possibly from yourself in the process." He grinned, placing his empty cup on the desk. "You know, Rem, it is a bit chilly during the fashionable hour. Might I suggest you abandon your phaeton in favor of your coach? It affords a good deal more warmth … and privacy."
"You're treading dangerously, Boyd, very dangerously."
Unconcerned, Boyd chuckled. "You'll have to fill me in later; on Goddfrey ... and on your fruitful outing in the park."
"Oh! I beg your pardon."
The Viscount Goddfrey recovered his balance in the inn entranceway, glancing up quickly to see if the person with whom he'd just collided was unhurt. "Gresham?" He paled.
"Goddfrey, whatever are you doing here?" Rem smoothed his coat, his brows lifting in apparent surprise.
"I'm ... that is ..." Goddfrey swallowed audibly. "I'm meeting someone."
"As am I. Quite a coincidence." Impatiently, Rem glared up and down the quiet street. "However, my colleague is late." He frowned. "And yours?"
"Late as well."
Rem's eyes widened as if a brilliant notion had just occurred to him. "Being that both our associates have evidently been detained, can I interest you in joining me for a glass of claret?"
"C-Certainly."
Seated in the inn's coffee room, Rem casually crossed one leg over the other and savored his drink. "I'm pleased to see you looking so well, Goddfrey. I was terribly sorry to hear about your recent misfortune."
Goddfrey started. "Pardon me?"
"Your ship. A terrible loss."
"Oh, yes ... my ship." Goddfrey seemed to relax. "Well, 'twas far from the first that's gone down."
"True, but I gather that you've been particularly hard hit. Isn't this the fourth ship you've lost?"
"Yes."
"Thank goodness there is insurance to cover such devastating mishaps. Have you collected already?"
"No, Gresham, I haven't." Goddfrey gulped down his drink and ordered another, polishing it off in record time. He signaled for a third glass of claret. "Who did you say you were meeting?"
"An old navy chum, actually. We haven't seen each other in years. It doesn't surprise me that he's yet to arrive— Broderick is notoriously late." Abruptly, Rem leaned forward. "Forgive my presumptuousness, Goddfrey, but if a snail loan would help make things easier until the insurance is paid, I'd be happy to—"
"No!" Goddfrey leapt to his feet. "I'm not taking another cent!" Sweat dotted his forehead. "Who sent you, Gresham? Wh
y are you offering me money?"
Rem blinked, "What do you mean? I'm only proposing-"
"Are you working with Knollwood? Did he pay you to track me down? Is that what this chance meeting is all about?"
"Sit down Goddfrey," Rem said quietly. "No one sent me. But perhaps it's fortunate we did run into each other. Your drink has arrived. Finish it. Then tell me who Knollwood is and why he so desperately wants to find you."
Goddfrey sank back down, shaking. "How do I know I can trust you?"
"I don't recall cheating you in the past." Rem grinned. "Not even at whist; and you are perhaps the worst card player I've ever met. I think you also know me to be extremely discreet—with my reputation, I have to be." Rem's grin faded. "Besides, it appears to me that you have to trust someone."
The viscount didn't smile, but he did toss off his drink. "He's a parasite, Gresham. A filthy bastard who makes his living off pathetic souls like me. I owe him a bloody fortune . . . and I can't pay it."
"How much do you owe him?"
"Two hundred thousand pounds. I kept praying for a miracle. . . . None occurred."
Silently, Rem studied Goddfrey's bent head. "Certainly your insurance pays enough—"
"Not in time. Knollwood wants his money now." Goddfrey laughed bitterly. "The ironic thing is, I dispatched that last ship posthaste because the merchant whose cargo it carried was willing to pay me an exorbitant sum of money to do so. It held three English-built carriages, and evidently, the American importer for whom they were destined had a very urgent, very rich customer awaiting their arrival," Goddfrey buried his head in his hands. "I should have checked the ship more thoroughly... had a carpenter go through it, especially in light of all the sea disasters. But I didn't. I needed that money so badly, I silenced my own conscience. Dozens of men are dead now because of my greed, and I've lost the finest captain I ever had."
"Who is this merchant?"
"Hayes."
A dead end. Rem knew Hayes well. He was as decent a man as they came. A sudden possibility gnawed at the edges of Rem's mind. "This Knollwood—did he know you hadn't the time to check your ship?"
"I assume so ... why?"
Because,
Rem thought, perhaps the bloodsucker's crimes are far more sinister than extortion. "I was just wondering if he expected you to bolt—the combination of guilt and pressure would be too much for many men to handle." "I cannot go back, Gresham." Tears filled Goddfrey's eyes, "I have nothing to offer him in terms of payment... nothing."
