Samantha

by Andrea Kane

  Nor to preserve the purity of her faith.

  In Allonshire's gilded sitting room, the duke clasped Lord Hartley's hand.

  "I appreciate your riding all this way to congratulate me on Bonnie's birth."

  "She's a beautiful infant, Drake. Your father would be proud."

  "Yes, I rather suspect he would." Drake smiled fondly. "He always had a special place in his heart for Sammy. I think he would be pleased for me to have at least one daughter of my own to spoil." Chuckling, Drake headed toward his sideboard. "What can I offer you for refreshment? Brandy?"

  "Actually ..." Hartley shifted uncomfortably. "Now that you've brought up Samantha ... I did have one other reason for visiting Allonshire."

  Drake came to a dead halt. "What about Samantha?"

  "Probably nothing. Certainly none of my business. Still, I do feel some sense of responsibility toward the child—she is Grayson's daughter."

  "You're alarming me, Hartley. What's wrong with Samantha?"

  "Nothing is actually wrong. And I don't mean to question your judgment. If you believe Remington Worth is the sensible person to look out for Samantha's well-being, I suppose you know what you're doing. But I wonder if you've considered his reputation... ."

  "What the hell are you talking about? What has Gresham got to do with my sister?"

  Hartley blinked. "He's doing what you asked of him: escorting Samantha about Town in order to keep her from falling prey to various disreputable blackguards. What concerns me is—"

  "I asked no such thing!" Drake thundered. "I'm working with Gresham, building a ship for him. But that's as far as our association goes. I'd have to be out of my mind to entrust my sister to a womanizer like him—hell, he's been in every bed in London!"

  "Oh dear." Hartley ran his fingers through his hair. "Then why would he say ...?" A relieved thought suddenly illuminated the elderly marquis's face. "Perhaps Gresham's intentions are truly honorable. Perhaps he invented that story in order to discourage Anders from pressing such a determined suit."

  "Anders?"

  Drake's eyes flashed emerald fire. "That accomplished blackguard is pursuing Samantha, too? Dammit!" "I didn't mean to upset you—"

  "You didn't." Drake was already halfway across the room. "If you'll excuse me, Hartley, I have some business to attend to. Urgent business."

  Leaving Hartley gaping in his wake, Drake took the steps two at a time, exploding into Alex's bedchamber, his powerful body quaking with rage.

  Alex put down the novel she'd been reading, curiously assessing her husband's rigid stance.

  "I'm going to London," he bit out.

  "What's happened?" With the innate understanding of Drake that only Alex possessed, she confronted his violent outburst, perceiving instantly that his tirade was rooted in distress as well as anger.

  "I'll kill him—them."

  "Who? Why?" Climbing out of bed, Alex marched up to face her husband. "Drake, tell me."

  He frowned. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

  "I feel fine. Now who is it you plan to kill?"

  "Anders. Gresham. Both."

  "Does this involve Barrett Shipping?"

  "Worse than that. It involves Samantha."

  "Samantha!" Alex sucked in her breath. ""You'd better explain."

  "I can't. All I know is that Hartley was just here, questioning my decision to place Gresham in charge of Sammy's welfare and adding that Anders was avidly pursuing her."

  "But you didn't place Gresham—"

  "I know that. Evidently, Gresham doesn't." Drake shoved his fingers through his hair. "When I think of how that man stood here not three days past, proclaiming that he'd only seen Sammy under the most casual of happenstance, never even flinching when I vowed I'd kill any man who touched her." Striving for control, Drake cupped Alex's face. "Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a day or two, princess?"

  "I'm hardly alone, Drake. We have scores of servants, Molly is constantly by my side, Gray pops in and out all day, and Humphreys spends so much time in the nursery with Bonnie and me, he doesn't even bother to listen for arriving guests. Eventually, they give up knocking and go home." Alex caressed the taut lines of worry on Drake's face. "Go to Samantha."

  As always, Alex was the only one capable of easing his anguish. "Thank you, princess."

  "Just promise me one thing. Promise me you'll listen to Samantha. All you've heard thus far are rumors and speculation, all of which could be totally false. And even if Samantha has been receiving the viscount or the earl, give her a chance to explain before you explode."

  Drake scowled. "I'll try."

  "She's growing up, Drake," Alex added softly. "We must let her do so."

  "I know. All right... I'll control myself." Thunderclouds darkened Drake's face. "Then I'll kill Gresham and Anders."

  18

  "Where the hell is Harris?"

  Rem's mood was blacker than black. None of his men ever kept him waiting, and Harris had picked one hell of a time to begin.

  "He should be here by now, Gresham." Nervously, Templar rose, wiping sweat from his face and scanning Annie's for a sign of his colleague.

  "Yes, he should." Rem set his mug of ale down on the table with a loud thud. "And he'd better have one bloody good reason for being late."

  "Rem, did you hear from Briggs?" Boyd asked quietly, attempting to calm Rem's unusually harassed state.

  "Yes. The Admiralty found no record of any English ship by the name of the Atlantis; not currently sailing, not under commission to be built, not even recently retired. None."

  "Another dead end." Boyd took a deep swallow of ale. "Then what was Anders talking about? What's 'Atlantis'?"

  "Templar, who checked out Anders Shipping?" Rem demanded abruptly. "You or Harris?"

  "I did." Templar shifted uneasily, then dropped back into his chair, rubbing his palms together. "Why? Did I miss something?"

  "No. How did Anders behave while you were reading through his records?"

  "Calm as death. Never even flinched."

  "Interesting." Rem leaned forward, a coiled assailant ready to strike. "I want you to find something on that bastard. I don't care what it is, just find it."

  "But I scrutinized every damn page of—"

  "Not at his office. At home. Anders is involved in something illegal. I'd stake my life on it. Do you understand what I'm saying, Templar? Get into his bloody house and find something to implicate that son of a bitch."

  "What about Summerson?" Boyd interjected.

  "I'm willing to bet that whatever Templar finds on Anders will incriminate our friend Summerson as well. If I'm wrong, Templar can check Summerson's house next. But if I'm right, there's no need to put Templar at risk twice."

  Boyd nodded, then gestured toward the front of the brothel. "Harris just got here." A long silence followed. Suddenly Boyd's eyes narrowed. "He's not alone, Rem."

  On the heels of Boyd's announcement, Harris made his way over to their table, a ruddy-faced man with thinning gray hair by his side. "Sorry I'm late," Harris began, guiding the older man forward. "But under the circumstances, it was unavoidable."

  "So I see." Rem kept his expression carefully unreadable. But the piercing look he shot Harris clearly stated that the Bow Street man had best know what he was doing.

  "Are you with Bow Street as well?" the stranger blurted out to Rem, his voice and hands shaking.

  "No." In one unblinking second, Rem assessed the obviously terrified newcomer. Ruddy complexion, work-roughened hands, rope and wind burns. "My name's Gresham. This is Hayword and Templar. Templar works with Harris at Bow Street. My friend Hayword and I are ex-navy men. We help Bow Street out when we can."

  A spasm of relief crossed the other man's face. "So you're working with Harris on this case?"

  Rem had guessed right. This man was a sailor running from danger. "We are." He indicated a chair. "Have a seat, sir. I'll have Annie bring you a mug of ale. You look like you need one."

  With a terse
nod, the stranger sat, rubbing the back of his neck fitfully until his ale arrived. He tossed it down in two swallows. "I could be killed for what I'm about to tell you." He gave a harsh laugh. "Unfortunately, I was almost killed anyway. So I have little to lose."

  "You've been aboard a ship for ... let's see, ... a fortnight, possibly more. For whatever reasons, you've returned. Why?" Rem finished his ale and lit a cheroot.

  The sailor's mouth fell open. "How on earth did you know that?"

  Rem shrugged. "By your color. You've been exposed to sun. And wind—your face is raw from its force. Also I recognize the signs of a man who's recently handled rigging. I assure you, it takes neither a mind reader nor a genius to notice obvious clues such as those. Now, are you prepared to tell me your name?"

  "My name's Towers." As he spoke, Towers inclined his head in Harris's direction. "No wonder Bow Street calls on your friend Gresham. I would, too."

  "Lucas Towers," Rem realized aloud, visualizing Briggs's list in his mind's eye. "Captain of the merchant ship the Bountiful, reported missing from the English Channel, together with its cargo and crew, three weeks ago."

  "That vessel, as I recall, was en route to the West Indies," Boyd added.

  "It was also part of Anders's fleet." Rem exhaled wisps of smoke. "Good to have you back, Towers."

  First amazement, then panic, flashed on Towers's face. Anxiously, he scrutinized the crowd milling about Annie's brothel, as if to ascertain that he was not being overheard. At last he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You're astoundingly accurate, gentlemen. I am—was—the captain of the Bountiful. My ship did vanish and she did belong to Anders Shipping."

  "Now, the next question is, did Arthur Summerson have cargo aboard that vessel?"

  "No." Rather than pondering the question, Towers shook his head immediately. "He didn't."

  "How can you be so certain so quickly?" Rem demanded.

  "Because there was no real cargo aboard my ship."

  "What?" Harris's eyes widened.

  "The records indicated that there were valuable goods being carried: furniture and jewelry. But as I later learned, the boxes in my hull were filled with stones and rags."

  "And whoever the alleged cargo belonged to collected an enormous amount of money for goods he never sent," Rem concluded, grounding out his cheroot "Now all we need to know is, which merchant's name was on those records?"

  "I have no doubt it was Summerson's," Towers replied, again without hesitation.

  Rem started. "No doubt? Why?"

  "Because Summerson visited the Bountiful every day for a week before we sailed, and stayed for hours. Because he met with Anders three or four times behind closed doors. Because every time they emerged, they were discussing the cargo he'd be transporting aboard my ship." Towers drew a slow breath. "And because Summerson just exchanged a fortune of money with the bastard who sold my crew."

  "Sold your . . ." Suddenly it all clicked in Rem's mind. '"You're telling me that Summerson paid a privateer not only to dispose of your ship and its fictitious cargo, but to sell your crew?"

  "I am."

  "And are you also saying Anders is involved?"

  "That I don't know. I never actually saw Anders do anything illegal, and I can't prove he knew the cargo was phony. Summerson was alone when he and the privateer met at the dock."

  "When was that?"

  "An hour ago. Just before I saw Harris and realized from his uniform that he was with Bow Street. Summerson and his pirate friend didn't notice me ... not that they were looking. They assumed I was long since on my way to wherever I was being sold to. My escape was pure luck ... and thank God for it."

  "Damn ... there's got to be something to implicate Anders," Rem muttered, his brain going a mile a minute. "Keep talking, Towers. Tell me about the attack on your ship; where it happened, how it was done, where you and your men were taken and how you got away."

  "It was just south of the Goodwin Sands, sometime between midnight and one a.m. The privateer ship was shielded by the Dover cliffs; we never even saw them coming. They just rowed alongside the Bountiful in their longboats, bound and gagged us, and dragged us back to their vessel. From there we were blindfolded, taken to a deserted island in the middle of nowhere, and informed that we were about to be sold as slaves. I preferred drowning. When I saw my chance, I slipped into the water. I managed to unbind my ropes and stay afloat long enough to signal a passing English ship. Here I am."

  "What did you tell the captain who rescued you?"

  "Only that I'd been thrown from my ship during a storm. I didn't have to explain further. My uniform had been seized. I wore only these." Towers indicated his faded shirt and pants. "The captain had no reason to believe I was anything other than what I claimed to be. He transported me back to England."

  "You arrived tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "And when you docked and left the ship, you saw Summerson?"

  "Summerson and his privateer."

  "You actually saw them exchange money?"

  "I did."

  "That's enough evidence to hang Summerson," Boyd proclaimed, triumph lighting his eyes.

  Rem nodded, still deep in thought. "What about the privateer?"

  "I could identify him in a minute."

  "I'm sure you could. But tell me, did he say anything during the time he held you captive? Anything specific or memorable?"

  "He didn't do much talking. All he did was taunt us."

  "What did he say?"

  Towers shrugged. "That we were going to vanish without a trace, that no one would ever see us again, that we'd be swallowed up, forgotten, like the lost isle of Atlantis. He muttered the same thing to Summerson just now on the dock—something about Atlantis being a success. It must be his sick idea of humor."

  Rem's eyes met Boyd's. "That's it," he said quietly. Turning back to Towers, he added, "Captain, just one more thing. During the week prior to your sailing, did you overhear any conversations between Summerson and Anders?"

  "Nothing unusual." Towers's brow furrowed. "Just snatches here and there. All the usual prattle: the number of boxes in the cargo, the weather, that sort of thing."

  "Anything else? Think, Towers. It could be important."

  "They boarded the ship the morning we sailed, said they wanted to check it out together," Towers recounted slowly, thinking aloud. "Anders was concerned about something, because Summerson kept telling him to stop worrying, that he'd calm their nervous partner down. Then they left."

  "Partner?" Rem gripped his mug with both hands. "Summerson used that word?"

  "They both did. That didn't strike me as odd; businessmen often deal with more than one partner, don't they?"

  "Anders referred to a partner, too? You're sure?"

  "Of course I'm sure! Anders was the one who said their partner made him uneasy because he was so skittish about his investment. Is that significant?"

  "There's someone else working with them," Rem said aloud.

  "But who?" Boyd rubbed his chin.

  "I intend to find out." Rem rose. "Harris, why don't you take Captain Towers home with you? It will give him a safe, comfortable place to stay while we're gathering our facts."

  An unspoken message passed between Rem and Harris. Towers's life hung in the balance; it was up to them to keep him alive.

  "No problem." Harris stood. "Come, Captain. You must be exhausted."

  Towers cleared his throat. "I owe you all a great debt of thanks, which I'm unsure how to repay."

  "No thanks are necessary." Rem's stance stiffened, his gaze locked with Towers's. "But you never saw Hayword and me before in your life, so you certainly wouldn't recognize us if you saw us again. Isn't that correct?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Good." The tension eased from Rem's body as quickly as it had come. "Thank you for talking to us. You're in good hands."

  "Obviously, so is England," Towers murmured in an awed tone.

  Rem glanced at Harris. "Nice work." With
that, he was gone.

  "Your Grace?" Hatterly, the Barrett's Town house butler, rubbed his eyes and tightened the belt of his robe. "Forgive me, sir, I had no idea you'd be arriving."

  "Nor did I." Drake swung off his greatcoat. "I apologize for disrupting your sleep. I assume my sister is abed?"

  "Why, I assume so, sir."

  "Good. I want to see her." Drake was already halfway to the steps.

  "Your Grace?" Smitty made his way down the hall, not only awake, but fully dressed and alert at half after four in the morning. Serving by Drake's side, Smitty had grown accustomed to arising before dawn, both at home and at sea. "We had no idea you'd be visiting... what a wonderful surprise!"

  "I doubt you'll feel that way in a few minutes, Smitty," Drake muttered for his valet's ears alone. "May I see you in the sitting room?" he said aloud.

  "Of course." With a cordial nod, Smitty followed. Drake closed the doors behind them. "We're alone now. Let's dispense with the pretense and the formalities. What the hell is going on here?"

  A corner of Smitty's mouth lifted. "Why I do believe you've missed me."

  "Very funny." Drake didn't smile. "As a matter of fact, I find getting along without you extremely difficult. After all these years, I rely upon your friendship, your insight, and your skill. In fact, there are very few situations that could convince me to part with you, even for a short while." Drake folded his arms across his chest. "One of those situations, however, happens to be my sister's coming out. So, I'm asking you again—what the hell is going on here?" "I heard you the first time, Your Grace. What specific aspect of Lady Samantha's Season are you referring to?"

  "The Viscount Anders. The Earl of Gresham. Am I being specific enough for you?"

  Smitty paled a bit. Loyalty to Drake warred with loyalty to Samantha. "I do recall informing you that Lord Gresham came to our rescue when that horrendous storm suspended our trip to London."

  "And I recall informing you that I'd thanked Lord Gresham in person when he came to Allonshire. What about since then? Have either Gresham or Anders been pursuing Sammy?"

  "Lady Samantha has attended so very many balls...." Smitty hedged. "It's hard to recall all the gentlemen who have made a favorable impression on her."