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Babington might prove to be a valuable ally, but attempting to recruit him might also be a big mistake, depending on where his loyalties lay. Robert had no intention of revealing any of the mission’s more pertinent details—such as their belief that there was a diamond-mining operation involved—unless he could first satisfy himself as to what Babington’s priorities truly were.
Given that dealing with Babington might not be straightforward, Robert decided to call on Sampson first. Declan and Edwina had suggested that interviewing Lashoria would be best done in the evening, so he’d start his day with Sampson and see where the trail took him from there.
He’d been following the direction his men had been taking without any real thought. Refocusing, he discovered they’d circled around and down to the end of Government Wharf.
His men halted at the steps leading down to the wharf itself; they glanced his way as he joined them.
To their left, Government Wharf extended into the harbor. While there appeared to be no navy frigates moored there or anywhere else in sight, Robert studied the long line of merchant vessels tied up and slowly rising and falling on the gentle swell. “Not along the wharf.”
Too dangerous. Too many merchant captains knew his face.
He looked ahead, along the main quay and the row of buildings fronting it. Most were government offices, agencies, harbormaster’s quarters, and the like. The now diminishing sounds of revelry drifted from lanes and alleys that ran back from the quay. There were no taverns directly facing the water.
He started down the steps. “Along the quay to the end. We can get back to our inn that way.”
And tomorrow he’d make a start on finding the slavers’ trail. The sooner he did, the faster he’d learn where their camp was hidden, and then he would be on his way back to London and the challenge of finding a wife.
As he imagined was the case for most men, a large part of him instinctively recoiled from even contemplating that final task. Yet as he stretched his legs and strolled through the humid dark, he discovered that one small part of his mind was already cautiously questing, imagining and envisioning his ideal wife.
* * *
The morning after the epiphany that if she wanted to discover any nefarious dealings, she would need to watch Undoto in the dark hours rather than in the full light of day, Aileen stood in her bedchamber and surveyed the items she’d spread on the chintz counterpane.
Clothing came first. She’d left the bulk of her wardrobe with her friend in Russell Square, so she had limited choices. But she’d had time between booking her passage and her departure from London to purchase four simple outfits—skirts with matching jackets—in lightweight cotton. The modistes had only just started to create such garments for the English summer, and they’d cost a pretty penny, but since arriving in the settlement, she’d been glad of her foresight.
The most useful outfit for any nighttime excursion would be the one in deep blue twill. Although the ensemble was intended to be worn with an ivory blouse, she’d bought a silk blouse in the same shade of dark blue with some thought of possibly needing to pass herself off as a widow.
She hadn’t had to employ the subterfuge, but that had left her with a dark-colored outfit she’d yet to don; the unrelenting heat of the days had dissuaded her from wearing the darker shade.
“With a hat and veil...” She grimaced and looked at the bureau, at her one and only hat, a villager style in straw, sitting perched on the bureau’s top. She wrinkled her nose. “Entirely unsuitable.”
But she’d seen a small milliner’s shop tucked in a side street off Water Street. She glanced again at the clothes she’d laid out, then down at what she was wearing—one of the jacket-and-skirt ensembles in a soft lemon yellow with an ivory blouse. She wouldn’t need the hat or the darker clothes until the evening; if she accomplished what she hoped to by midafternoon, she would have plenty of time to call in at the milliner’s and find something more appropriate. “Along with a good swath of black netting for a veil.”
She felt sure any milliner would have black netting to hand; no doubt the settlement had funerals enough.
With her clothes and headgear decided, she turned to her open suitcases, located her gloves, and discovered she’d packed a pair of mid-length black gloves. “Perfect.” Laying the pair aside, she looked down. Raising her skirts, she regarded her dusty half boots. “More than adequate for creeping about in.”
She released her skirts and smoothed them down. Sartorially speaking, she had everything she needed.
“Next—equipment.” She reached into one suitcase, underneath her clothes at the very back, and drew out what appeared to be a jeweler’s box, along with a silk roll of the sort ladies used to carry pearls.
She crossed to the small desk and placed both items on the surface. Smiling to herself, she sat on the stool, opened the jeweler’s box, and surveyed the tiny American-made pistol her eldest brother had given her for her last birthday. She’d already known how to shoot a pistol, but she’d practiced diligently with the smaller weapon and now counted herself an excellent shot, at least at appropriate range.
Just to check, she untied the cords about the jewelry roll and spread it open, revealing a pair of sharp daggers and a whetstone. Satisfied she had everything she would need, she returned her attention to the pistol; after gently easing it from its velvet bed, she hefted the familiar weight in her hand.
Carefully, she put it down, lifted out the cleaning supplies that had been nestled alongside it, and settled to clean the weapon.
The exercise, something she’d done many times in the past, freed her thoughts to wander. She was convinced Will’s disappearance was somehow connected with Undoto; she intended, therefore, to watch the priest, evening and night, until she saw whatever there was to be seen.
Her lips firmed; her gaze was fixed on the pistol in her hands, her eyes not truly seeing. “There has to be something.” Something about Undoto that had caused Will to haunt his services. Some link that would lead from Undoto to Will.
After reassembling the pistol, she laid it aside and picked up the whetstone and one of the knives.
As the sound of the whetstone passing along the blade filled her ears, she forced herself to face the fact that she had no idea if she would find anything—would stumble upon anything pertinent—by watching Undoto, but she had no other clue, no other avenue to follow.
So she would follow this one and see where it led.
The resolution had her reviewing the practicalities of what she’d planned. “First—find out where Undoto lives.”
That would be easy enough, but she would need transportation.
* * *
Robert found Sampson exactly where he’d expected him to be—in the taproom of the tavern above which he lived.
The old sailor was seated at a table in the corner; head down, he was scanning a news-sheet and didn’t look up when Robert and his four men entered the low-ceilinged room.
Despite the relatively early hour, Robert bought a round of ale for his men, himself, and an extra for Sampson, then carrying Sampson’s drink as well as his own, he crossed to the table at which the old man sat.
When Robert halted before the table, Sampson deigned to look up. And up.
When Sampson’s gaze found Robert’s face, the old tar blinked, then sat back, the better to view him.
Robert smiled and gestured with the mugs of ale. “Mind if we join you?”
Sampson glanced at the other four hanging respectfully back; he identified them as fellow seafarers and grinned. “Not at all.” He nodded at the four in welcome, then his gaze returned to Robert’s face as Robert placed the mugs of ale on the table and pushed one toward him. “Thank ye. Looks like me mornin’ just became more interesting.”
He scrutinized Robert as he settled on the stool opposite. “Was it your brother who was here before, then? Cap’n Frobisher?”
Robert nodded. “Yes. My younger brother.”
Sampson studied Benson, Fuller, Harris, and Coleman as they pulled up stools, sat, and sipped their ale. He looked back at Robert. “You’re another Cap’n Frobisher, then?”
Robert dipped his head in assent and took a long pull of his ale. The taste was distinctly different, but it was recognizably ale. Lowering the mug, he met Sampson’s inquisitive eye. “We’re here to follow the trail my brother blazed.”
Sampson sobered. “Aye. Good thing, too. I’d noticed people not turning up to Undoto’s services even before your brother came, but I don’t go farther afield in the settlement, so I just thought they’d growed bored with it and hadn’t bothered coming back. But your brother and his men said people had vanished, and I gather that’s still true.”
“Indeed. We’re trying to find out where they’ve gone, with a view to staging a rescue. My brother suggested you’d be amenable to helping us out with information.”
Sampson nodded. “Happy to help any way I can.” His lips twisted wryly. “And these days, supplying information is about my limit.”
“Nevertheless, we appreciate your help.” Robert sipped, then said, “What can you tell us about any changes in behavior of those you see regularly? Especially any changes since my brother was here.”
“Hmm.” Sampson’s brow creased in thought. He lifted the mug of ale and sipped, absentmindedly savoring the taste before he swallowed and said, “The most notable change would have to be her ladyship—Lady Holbrook. She stopped coming to Undoto’s services some weeks back. Thinking on it, her stopping would have been just after your brother sailed.” Sampson flicked Robert a shrewd glance. “Bit abrupt, that seemed—he and his ship were here one day and gone the next.”
Robert acknowledged the point with a nod. “He had his wife with him.”
Sampson nodded readily. “I remember her—pretty little thing.”
Robert’s lips eased. “In her case, you don’t want to be fooled by the prettiness. But she and my brother ran into strife courtesy of his—their—investigations, and they had to draw back. I’m their replacement—the next stage of the investigation.”
“Aye, well, there haven’t been any other major changes in those I see, other than Lady Holbrook not coming to Undoto’s services anymore, and for all I know, she might just have lost interest, or taken to her bed ill, or have too much to do.”
“Do you know if Holbrook himself is currently in the settlement?”
“Far as I’ve heard—or rather, I’ve heard nothing about him sailing off anywhere.” Sampson grinned. “But I don’t exactly swan about in those circles, so I can’t rightly say what the governor’s been up to.”
Robert nodded. “I’ll check with others.” He would have to; Wolverstone and Melville would be waiting to learn which way the wind blew with Holbrook. He watched Sampson down a large mouthful of ale. “Have you heard any whispers of people going missing recently, or of any other odd happenings?”
Sampson pursed his lips. After a moment, he said, “Haven’t heard anything about anyone on Tower Hill being gone, but I did hear about the docks that some navvies didn’t turn up where they were expected. But hereabouts, no one can say if they’ve vanished like those others, or if they just upped stakes and went off to some better prospect, or took work on some ship.” Sampson shrugged his heavy shoulders. “No way to know, is there?”
“Indeed.” That was half the problem in this case; in this sort of place, so many people were disconnected drifters.
Sampson shifted on his bench. “Howsoever, in terms of odd happenings, there was one I hadn’t expected.” His voice had grown stronger, more definite. “A young lady—well, not that young, I suppose, but young enough, if you catch my drift. She turned up...ooh, must be going on two weeks ago now. Showed up at one of Undoto’s services and spent the whole time looking sharply about. She spotted me, and after the service, she came up and asked to speak with me. She was searching for her brother—a naval lieutenant by the name of Will Hopkins. I’d seen him at the services, months back. And she—the lady—was right. Young Will had come up and had a jaw with me. He liked to hear my stories.”
Robert frowned. He was acquainted with the older two Hopkins brothers. “This lady. Did she mention her name?”
Sampson’s brow furrowed as he clearly thought back, but then he shook his head. “No.” He met Robert’s eyes. “I suppose she’d be Miss Hopkins, but she was more than old enough to be married, and widowed, too, so she might have another name now.”
Before Robert could comment, Sampson continued, “Anyways, she was asking questions, obviously trying to figure out what had brought her brother to the services. Asked if it were some young lady, but I put her straight about that. But she was right—a lad like Will Hopkins had to have had some reason to come to the services. He wouldn’t have just wandered up to waste his time, not on three occasions at least.”
“He was sent to track Dixon, the army engineer who had already vanished.” Robert saw no reason to conceal that fact.
“Aye, well—Miss Hopkins, or whatever her name is, hadn’t tumbled to that, but she knew as well as I did that there had to be something behind Will coming to the services. She was asking questions, trying to learn what.” Sampson drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t think that was wise, and I tried to warn her off.” He met Robert’s gaze. “I told her about your brother and how he’d been asking questions about the officers who’d gone missing, including her brother, most like. I also told her that your brother had to withdraw quickly—that he’d sailed from the settlement and just might have headed back to London—and I pointed out that people who asked questions about people who’ve gone missing tended to wind up missing, too. I did me best to get her to back off and leave the investigating to those qualified to do it.”
Robert arched a cynical brow. “Did you succeed?”
“I’m not hopeful. She’s been back to two more services, and anyone who thought to watch her would know she weren’t paying attention to Undoto’s thunderings.”
Robert grimaced; the last thing he needed was a gently bred but determined female complicating his simple and straightforward mission. “Do you have any idea where she’s staying?”
“Not precisely. She’ll be up on Tower Hill somewhere, would be my guess.”
“What did she look like?” It was Benson who asked.
Sampson took a moment, plainly calling up a picture in his mind. “Brassy-brown hair—sort of bright brown and glossy, not dark. Hazel eyes. Average height. Good figure, but well laced. Very English looking, and if I had to guess, used to getting her own way. Wouldn’t say spirited so much as forceful.”
Unease trailed tauntingly down Robert’s spine. Damn! He was going to have to act to effectively deflect the woman. He couldn’t risk her popping up at some crucial moment and interfering with his mission. More, if she was Hopkins’s sister, then given his acquaintance with her older brothers, he should definitely do his best to send her packing all the way back to England.
Sampson humphed. “I made it clear she was dabbling in dangerous waters, and while she listened, I’m damned sure she’s not going to pay my warning much heed.”
For a moment, all were silent. Sipping the last of his ale, Robert considered what would have brought a lady like Miss Hopkins all the way to Freetown. Sibling devotion, clearly, but it would have to be strong to have driven a gently bred lady to take ship and brave the dangers of a place like Freetown, a settlement on the outer fringes of civilization. That Hopkins’s sister was in the settlement at all, let alone determinedly asking questions, argued that convincing her to meekly step back, return to England, and leave the investigating to him wasn’t going to be any easy task.
That she’d found her way to Undoto’s services and Sampson—and it sounded as if she was concentrating her efforts around Undoto and his church—suggested she was intelligent, too.
Robert drained his mug. He would need to remove the lady from the situation, and soon. Before matters became any more complicated.
He set his mug on the table and glanced at his men, then looked at Sampson. “I need to speak with the vodun priestess, Lashoria. My brother told me she lives in the slum on the hillside to the east of here—is that still the case?”
Sampson nodded. “Far as I know.” He drained his mug.
“There’s a gentleman by the name of Babington—Charles Babington. I’ll probably need to speak with him, too. Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s the one that’s Macauley’s junior partner, aye?” When Robert nodded, Sampson said, “That’s easy, then. He lives in the apartment above the company’s office. On Water Street, that is. You can’t miss it.”
Robert nodded. He’d noted the Macauley and Babington office during their walk the previous night.
He’d call on Lashoria that evening and decide what he wanted to do about Babington after that.
He refocused on Sampson. All the men had finished their ales. “Our landlady mentioned that Undoto is holding one of his spectacles at noon today.”
“Aye.” Sampson nodded his shaggy head. “I planned on heading up there about now.”
“Do you mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Sampson grasped his cane and levered himself to his feet. He beamed at Robert and his men. “Glad of the company.”
They rose and left the tavern. Robert waved his men ahead and adjusted his pace to Sampson’s halting one. Robert looked about him as in companionable silence they progressed slowly up the hill.
He doubted he needed to ask Sampson to point out the notables in the congregation; if Robert was any judge, the old man thoroughly enjoyed having his knowledge plumbed, his observational skills put to use.
But when they halted at the edge of the forecourt before what was obviously the church, Robert murmured, “If you see Hopkins’s sister...”
Sampson nodded. “I’ll point her out.” He surveyed the people streaming toward the open doors. “Can’t see her, but she might already be inside.” With his cane, he waved toward the door. “Let’s go in.”
The forecourt stretched across the front of the rectangular church and extended down both sides, wider to the left than the right. To the left, several benches sat beneath a row of trees large enough to cast some shade. Carriages were drawn up in a long line opposite the front façade; ladies and gentlemen descended and strolled across the forecourt to the doors, most smiling and chatting, nodding to each other as if they were attending a social event.
As they walked forward and Robert refocused his attention on the church itself, a frisson of awareness—the sort of awareness he recognized very well—swept tantalizingly across his senses.
Glancing around, he looked back at the carriages. Most were simply black. Dusty, anonymous, and unremarkable.
Anyone could be sitting inside one and looking out.
It was hardly the first time he’d been the recipient of an assessing glance. If the lady had noticed his reaction, she probably wouldn’t show herself until after he’d gone inside.
Mentally shrugging—he certainly wouldn’t have time to follow it up, distractions of that ilk being indisputably the very last thing he needed—he returned his attention to those before him.
As they joined the throng streaming inside, Sampson added, “I hope you’ll be able to make the lady see sense.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Robert hadn’t expected to have to use his diplomatic talents on this mission, but he could be very persuasive when he wished.
Curious, he looked around as they moved into the church, noting the disposition of people to cluster in their own groups. His men had gone in ahead of him and Sampson and had sat in the last pew. Robert followed Sampson to a stool in the rear left corner.
The old man settled on the stool, his peg leg braced at a comfortable angle. Then he surveyed those seated.
Robert remained standing, leaning against the wall as several other men had elected to do.
Sampson grunted. “I can’t see her. She’s not here yet.”
His gaze sweeping the room, Robert shrugged. “Let me know when you spot her.”
As soon as he got a bead on her, he intended to seize the first chance that offered to warn her away from the investigation—and he was prepared to be a great deal more definite and effective than Sampson had been.
He had no intention whatever of allowing anyone—male or female—to interfere with his mission. For once, he had a mission whose path was blissfully clear and defined—learn the location of the slavers’ camp, then race the information back to London. The lady might be determined, but so was he; he was determined to allow nothing to get in the way of him finishing this mission in the shortest amount of time.
He wanted it done so he could put it behind him and concentrate on following the lure that, increasingly, drew him.
The need for a hearth. The need for a home. The need for a wife who would be his anchor.
* * *
Aileen leaned back against the squabs of her hired carriage as the last stragglers made their way into the church.
She’d debated joining the congregation, but she couldn’t imagine that she would see or learn anything she hadn’t already by subjecting herself yet again to Undoto’s version of fire and brimstone. Much better to sit and conserve her energies. She’d rolled up the flaps on the carriage windows, and a breeze as faint as an exhalation stirred wisps of hair at her nape.
Her strategy had already yielded one piece of information—the direction from which Undoto approached the church. After leaving Mrs. Hoyt’s, she’d walked down to Water Street and had hired a driver for the rest of the day; she’d had him drive her up to the church at just after eleven o’clock and draw his carriage to a halt at a spot toward the end of where the line of carriages would form. She’d been inside the carriage watching when Undoto had come walking down the street that curved up the flank of the hill.
Most of the congregation came from either below the church or, in the case of the European contingent, along the road from the west. The area from which Undoto had come was not one she’d previously explored.
But she would. Later, when she followed the priest back to his home. For the next hour, however, she had nothing to do but sit in the carriage and cling to her patience.
She’d chosen this spot from which to watch because it allowed her an unobstructed view of the church’s forecourt and also the smaller door along one side toward the rear of the building. That was the door through which Undoto had entered the church; others—the choristers and altar boys and several older men—had followed. One of the older men had later opened the front doors.
Patience wasn’t really her long suit, but she could, she told herself, manage an hour. In pursuit of Will, she could manage more than that.
With nothing else to do, she reviewed all she’d seen to this point, cataloging those of the congregation she’d seen previously, searching for anything odd or different.
Her mind snagged on the man—a newcomer, at least to her—who had arrived with old Sampson.
There was something about the man that had snared her attention, then effortlessly held it. In the privacy of the carriage with nothing else to occupy her, she could admit that and, via a distinctly vivid memory, indulge in a long, mental perusal.
He was the sort of gentleman commonly described as well set up. Tall with broad shoulders, but lean with the length. Strong, but flexible, too, exuding an aura of reined physical power. That he’d arrived with Sampson, chatting with the old man and clearly accepted by him, suggested the unknown was a sailor, but she would have guessed that anyway. She was accustomed to dealing with seafaring men, and the way he held himself, balanced in a certain fluid way, had instantly registered.
As had the sword at his hip. It wasn’t the type of weapon your average sailor sported. If she had to guess, she would say the intriguing stranger was a captain, one who commanded; an ineffable air of command had hung like a cloak about him, something innate that showed in the way he’d stood, in the manner in which he’d looked about him, scanning the surroundings, taking note of the people as well as the place.