Bronwyn Scott - A Thoroughly Compromised Lady

‘Yes. He’s the flamboyant charmer of the group. He’s also there as an ombudsman, so the rules he must follow are much more lax than the other two. His English is excellent, and his connections even more so. He’s a nephew to one of the regional Venezuelan viceroys with family connections to the governor. He’s a likely choice.’

‘We’ll start putting together a more detailed dossier on him now that we know what to look for,’ Gladstone said. ‘If he’s so well connected, British intelligence surely has information on his family. Perhaps he’s organising a plantation movement. Plantations are big business in that part of the world.’

‘Not that big,’ Jack scoffed at the theory. Gladstone scowled at him, the old antagonism between them rising.

‘I’d love to hear your ideas,’ Gladstone retorted.

Choosing to ignore the slight, Jack returned to the map and stared thoughtfully at the outlined area, an idea forming in his mind. Businessmen weren’t interested in the natural beauty of a land. There was something lucrative in the river valley, a valuable resource.

He spoke a single word to the room at large. ‘Gold.’

‘Gold?’ Gladstone replied, incredulous.

‘You forget, I’ve actually been to the region. I was there in 1830 after I helped Schomburgk on his Anegada expedition.’ Jack smoothly interjected his credentials into the conversation. His work there had laid the grounds for being awarded the viscountcy. ‘The river valleys are too wet and the forests in the interior are too dense for serious farming. Businessmen aren’t looking to put up a plantation community in this region. No profit.’ Gladstone looked like he’d gladly throttle him.

William broke in to defuse the tension. ‘We want to be certain in regards to what they’re after. We can use that knowledge to grease negotiations if we must. Until then, Wainsbridge, Ortiz is yours. I want to know what has made the area an urgent point of interest and how far they’re willing to go to get it.’

Dismissed, they took their leave of the monarch and made their way through Clarence House to the front door. Jack was glad he had his coach. He did not want to share a hackney with Gladstone. They stepped out into the night air.

Jack’s coach waited at the kerb but Gladstone couldn’t resist a final jab as Jack stepped up to the door. ‘I hear we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Dulcinea Wycroft.’

‘You hear the most amazing things, Gladstone,’ Jack returned.

‘I see them too, sometimes,’ came Gladstone’s cryptic reply.

‘You’ve never got over Lady Dulcinea jilting you.’ Jack’s reply was cool, but inside he was seething. Gladstone must have had men watching the ballroom that night, checking out the Venezuelan delegation on his own even though Jack had been given the job. He would not put it past Gladstone to have forced a meeting tonight simply to drag him away from Dulci.

Anger clouded Gladstone’s face. ‘Behind those clothes you’re nothing but a scrapper, a no-account country squire’s son. I can only imagine how many boots you had to lick to rise this far.’

‘Whereas I am sure you’re quite clear on the boots you’ve had to lick. No imagining there. Your family’s been currying favour since the sixteen hundreds. Dirty business that, two centuries of boot-licking.’ Jack stepped into his coach and held the door open for a moment. ‘Goodnight, Gladstone.’

He slammed the coach door and sank back against the squabs, less sanguine than he’d let on. This was dicey business with the Venezuelan delegation. Negotiations of this nature were always very covert, hardly ever making the public news, but that didn’t make them less dangerous. Usually, they were more so. Without the check and balance of being in the public eye, there were no rules to govern them. Still, it would be business as usual if Dulci wasn’t involved. But she was—placed right at the centre of the storm because of her connection to the three men most intrinsically concerned. There was going to be trouble. He could feel it in his bones.

Dulci Wycroft firmly believed trouble found you when you least expected it. She had an antidote for that: she expected trouble.

Always.

She’d learned early that collecting artefacts wasn’t exactly an old maid’s safe hobby. Not that she thought of herself as an old maid, although she’d reached the august age of twenty-six, trailing a string of six refusals of marriage behind her. Nor was she looking for safe.

If she was, she wouldn’t be here, or a lot of the other places she’d been. Her hand flexed and closed around the small gun in her pocket, her sharp eyes alert to any suspicious movements in the dim interior of the dockside warehouse. Warehouses in the dock districts were not foreign venues to her. But this one, set in a rough part of Southwark, was by far the worst.

She’d been glad she’d decided to bring her own unmarked coach instead of relying on public hansom cabs. She’d noticed that the deeper into the area she’d journeyed the presence of cabs had dried up, a sure testimony to the unsavoury nature of the environs, the noise and comparable respectability of Hays Wharf far behind them.

A man moved from the shadows. Dulci tensed and then relaxed. She might not completely trust this man, but she knew him. He was her reason for being here in these rather questionable surroundings.

He strode forwards, well-dressed and olive skinned. ‘Señorita, buenos días!’ he effused, lavishly bowing over her hand, too lavishly. Sweat lightly beaded his upper lip and Dulci noted immediately that the lavish gesture was a mask for the man’s anxiety. The usual self-confidence the man possessed seemed oddly absent today.

Dulci withdrew her hand as soon as it was politely possible, her tones haughty and clipped. ‘Señor Vasquez, let us dispense with the pleasantries. What do you have for me that is so urgent it could not wait out the afternoon?’ Señor Vasquez’s note had ruled out the chance to catch the Royal Geographic Society’s lecture on the West Indies in its entirety, but with luck she might still make the last part.

‘I have artefacts from the Americas.’ He gestured towards an opened crate, but Dulci didn’t miss the quick dart of his eyes.

‘Are you expecting anyone else, señor ?’ Dulci asked keenly, her own eyes conducting a quick investigation of the warehouse too.

‘I have many appointments, señorita. I merely wish you to see these items privately. They’re from Venezuela, your latest area of interest.’

‘Really?’ Dulci replied coolly, raising her eyebrows a fraction of an inch to indicate only mild appreciation. A display of unabashed delight would only serve to increase Señor Vasquez’s price.

Dulci reached into the crate with one hand, parting the straw packing with one gloved hand. The other hand cautiously remained in her pocket, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on Señor Vasquez. Her hand met with stone and she pulled out a carved statue. Vasquez did indeed know her interests well.

‘It’s a zemi .’ Dulci fought hard to keep the rising excitement out of her voice, studying the object reverently in the poor light. The idol was devoid of any garments and the stone carving indicated breasts and a rounded belly. ‘It’s an idol of a native god, or goddess in this case. Unless I am completely mistaken, this is a fertility fetish.’ She stared at him in stark contemplation, oblivious to his discomfort at such frank discussion. ‘Did this come with a—?’

‘A bowl?’ Vasquez finished for her. ‘But of course, señorita .’ His eyes flashed with a mocking chagrin. ‘I would not give you only part of a set.’

Dulci set down the carving and with both hands delved beneath the straw packing. She felt the shallow dip of a bowl. ‘Yes, there it is.’ She withdrew a stone bowl and set it in place. ‘There, Señor Vasquez, you can see how it all goes together. The idols are flat headed so that a stone bowl can be placed on top of their heads for worship.’