Andrea Kane (11 page)

Sammy intended to ensure he remained that way.

The West End of London was predictably quiet, as the
haut ton
slept on, at least until noon. The faint sounds and smells of Covent Gardens drifted to her senses, strangely comforting, as they reminded her that others were up and about. Relief was short-lived, for the soothing sounds of the new day faded as Sammy hurried along the very dark, very deserted strand that led to London Bridge.

There, she rested, leaning her head against a wooden pier, wondering why her plan no longer seemed quite so brilliant as it had on the carriage ride home from Almack’s. After all, if the Admiralty itself hadn’t determined the cause of the ships’ demises, what made her believe she could?

It was too late to turn back now. Just beyond that curve was London Dock. Perhaps the fates would smile down on her.

She approached the wharf, slowing her step as she cautiously inched through the rows of warehouses, peeking around to watch the docks come to life.

Activity abounded, cargo being readied for boarding, cranes hoisting wooden crates onto waiting ships, workers calling out to each other as they scanned the skies to assess the day’s sailing conditions. A normal daybreak at London Dock.

How precisely did one perceive an unusual occurrence? Sammy wondered, chewing her lip. Her heroines all seemed to possess innate instincts for sizing up danger. Why didn’t she?

Evidently, she had to plunge right into the heart of things.

“Outta th’way, boy!” A craggy-faced sailor nearly knocked Sammy over, stifling her determined approach to the wharf. Giving her a thoroughly irritated look, he continued hauling his load to the pier’s end. “If ye ain’t workin’, clear out! Ye’re in th’way.”

“Sorry,” Sammy muttered in as deep a voice as she could muster. Pulling the cap lower on her face, she scampered off to find a more discreet spot to begin her covert observations. The warehouses afforded no access; the pier afforded no privacy.

Blend in. That’s what she had to do.

Stooping over, Sammy retrieved an empty bottle of ale and a dried scrap of bread from the ground. Moving unsteadily about, she kept her full attention riveted on the bottle, periodically raising it to her lips for a fictitious swallow. Better, much better, she congratulated herself.

A scraggly dog slithered up to her and yanked her breeches with his teeth.

“No!” she hissed under her breath. She shook her leg free.

The dog sniffed her and barked.

Sammy was certain all eyes were upon her.

“Please,” she whispered fiercely. “Go away.”

The dog nipped at her foot and howled.

By now everyone on the dock must have figured out her disguise. Including this odorous mongrel.

Slowly, she raised her eyes.

Not one person had even glanced her way.

Sammy sagged with relief. “What do you want?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

The dog sat and wagged his tail, his eyes glued to her hand.

The bread. She had completely forgotten about the bread. “Here.” She thrust the bit of crusty food at him. “Take it.”

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, accomplished 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.”