Stephanie Laurens - A Buccaneer At Heart

In pursuit of that goal, he returned downstairs. His men were waiting just inside the inn’s door. At his nod, they all filed outside.

Robert paused under the narrow porch that ran along the front of the inn. Looking into the darkness, listening to the distant yet raucous sounds emanating, no doubt, from the taverns lining the docks, he confirmed his bearings, then looked away from the harbor toward the now largely silent streets that terraced the slope of Tower Hill.

All was quiet up there.

“Time to learn the lie of the land.” Lips quirking, he glanced at his men and tipped his head toward the quieter quarter. “Let’s take a walk.” At this time of night, they could go all the way up to Fort Thornton itself, then descend and walk the length of Water Street, through the heart of the commercial district.

In a loose group, they strode down the lane, then up the road to Water Street. They crossed the thoroughfare and started up the slope into the residential streets, dimly lit by flickering flares, beyond.

They weren’t out to take the air. All of them scanned the streets, taking note of landmarks, occasionally turning to look down at the settlement and the harbor beyond. Sauntering along, Robert slid his hands into his pockets. “We’ll save the docks for last.”

That was where the greatest danger of him—or even his men—being recognized lay, but by then, most of those sober enough to trust their eyes would have gone back to their bunks, and those remaining would pose no real threat.

When they reached the precinct of the fort, a jumble of buildings squatting behind a timber palisade, they hugged the shadows, careful to avoid the sentries keeping watch from the flare-lit area before the gates.

“How they expect to see anyone with all that light about, God only knows,” Coleman muttered.

“Oh, they’ll see ’em,” Fuller replied. “Just too late to save themselves.”

Robert’s lips twitched at the sneering comments. Even though his men weren’t navy, they had a seafarer’s contempt for those who served on the land.

As they headed down the hill again, Robert felt satisfied with the day’s progress. By the time they returned to their beds, they would have a working knowledge of the settlement, enough to see them through their mission.

Enough to be able to start investigating properly tomorrow.

The inn would provide a safe base. Undoto’s church and the tavern the old sailor Sampson frequented were a little farther up and around the hill—easy to walk to from the inn. The slum where the priestess Lashoria lived also lay in that general direction, but farther away from the settlement’s center.

While they ambled down the length of Water Street, noting the shops and offices along the way, Robert reviewed his potential contacts—Lashoria, Sampson, and Babington. Of the three, Babington was the one Robert felt least confident about asking for help. He knew Babington better than Declan did; they’d crossed paths several times. Babington was a shrewd negotiator, more so because he didn’t appear to be outwardly aggressive—much like Robert himself. In Robert’s opinion, Babington was not properly appreciated by his own family. He was largely wasted here, essentially playing nursemaid to Macauley—who, heaven knew, needed, and would accept, no one’s help.

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.”