Andrea Kane (3 page)

“And?”

“And it seems that not a single foreign vessel has been spied encroaching on British waters, nor have any of our missing ships appeared in enemy territory after their disappearance. Hence, if the British ships are falling prey to a hostile nation, that country is covering its tracks most brilliantly.”

“Indeed.” Rem lit a cheroot.

“We’ve also ruled out foul weather,” Briggs added, anticipating Rem’s next query. “In more than half the cases, the voyages were accompanied by fair skies and moderate winds … posing no threat to the safety of the ships or their crews.”

Rem exhaled, wafts of smoke drifting into the already murky room. “What about the ships themselves? Were they built to specification? By whom?”

“Another impasse. The vessels were built, not by one, but by several different companies, all of them renowned and reliable.”

“So,” Rem mused thoughtfully, “if it wasn’t our enemies, the elements, or inferior construction, then what—or who—caused the ships’ disappearances?”

“Precisely the question. Of course, as we both know, the seas are swarming with smugglers. Perhaps—”

“Smugglers take booty; they don’t seize vessels.”

“I agree.”

“Which leaves us with the ugly probability that our culprit is right here in England.” Rem regarded his glowing ash with unruffled detachment. “Do you suspect anyone in particular?”

Briggs sighed. “To be frank, Remington, we are at our wits’ end. Fear is growing, not only at the Admiralty, but throughout Parliament, to the Crown itself. With each lost vessel, the intelligence reports reaching Lloyd’s grow more ominous, forcing our merchants and shipping companies to pay higher and higher insurance rates for their cargoes and the vessels that transport them.

“Should this atrocity continue, many merchants will be unable to meet the escalated insurance costs. Even those who can will find their goods too expensive for foreign buyers. In any case, the delicate balance of British trade will be threatened; trade that is the very backbone of the British empire. We cannot afford that risk—I needn’t tell you that.” With a quick, furtive look around, Briggs withdrew folded papers from the lining of his coat. “This is a list of the ships that have vanished, the companies who built them, their captains, cargo, and crew, and the dates and locations they were discovered missing. There’s also a detailed accounting of the Admiralty’s findings thus far.”

Gravely, Briggs slid the documents over to Rem. “The Crown would like you to undertake your own investigation. The Admiralty will, of course, continue to employ conventional methods.” Briggs gripped the table and leaned forward, his message clear, his urgency palpable. “We are counting on you to explore
unconventional
avenues. It is vital we locate the anonymous foe who is destroying our merchant fleet, and rid our country of this growing menace as soon as possible.”

Rem brought his cheroot to his lips, inhaling for one long, thoughtful moment. Then he drew the papers toward him, perusing them quickly and efficiently. “Any limitations, land or sea?”

“None.”

“My methods, my men.”

“Agreed.”

“I assume the Admiralty will disavow any knowledge of my actions?”

“As always.”

With a chilling scrape, Rem’s chair slid back and he stood, tucking the documents into the waistband of his breeches. “I’ll contact you when I have information to pass along.” He ground the cheroot beneath the heel of his Hessian boot. “You know how to reach me.”

Briggs nodded, arising as well. “The Crown is grateful—”

“The Crown can be grateful when I’ve done my job,” Rem replied in a low, terse tone. Purposefully, he stretched, deftly dispelling the coiled intensity that until now had permeated his powerful body.

In a heartbeat he was the Earl of Gresham again.

“I’d best be getting home, Briggs. The storm is subsiding.”

“Yes, as should I,” Sir Edmund echoed, all traces of his earlier gravity having vanished. “Although I fear the remainder of my evening will be dull compared to yours. Whoever she is
this
time, don’t keep her waiting.”

“Fear not,” Rem returned, cocking a brow at Briggs’s ironic taunt. A woman? At the onset of a mission? Briggs knew better. “My partner will be savoring my company within the hour.”

“May you enjoy a fruitful evening.” Briggs donned his hat. “Good night, Gresham.” Without a backward glance, he was gone.

At the loud mention of Rem’s name, one of the seedy derelicts loudly swilling gin in the opposite corner of the room lifted his head. “ ’Ey, Gresham, did y’ just get ’ere? ’Ave a drink with us!”

A corner of Rem’s mouth lifted. After all his years at sea and, more recently, his countless hours surreptitiously visiting unsavory docks and taverns such as this one, fitting in with the dregs of London came as naturally to him as attending an Almack’s ball.

“Why not, Sullivan?” he answered easily, heading toward the intimidating mob of unkempt patrons. “I certainly didn’t ride all this way in a bloody downpour to eat Boyd’s miserable excuse for food.”

Shouts of appreciative laughter greeted his pronouncement. “Did ye ’ear that, Boyd?” another voice called. “Bring th’man some gin! That way ’e can wash away th’taste of yer food!”

With a good-natured grin, Boyd crossed the room and handed Rem a bottle. “Need a glass?”

“No. I’ll do just fine without one.” Straddling a chair, Rem took a deep swallow of the cheap liquor.

“Where’ve ye been, Gresham?” Sullivan demanded, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “What do earls do when they’re not drinkin’?”

Lowering his bottle to the table, Rem chuckled, unbothered by the rowdy, pointed referral to his title. He was well aware that every low-life in that room knew he was anything but a pampered nobleman. They also knew he could single-handedly take on the whole lot of them—and win. If the former weren’t impressive enough to earn their respect, the latter most definitively was.

“Well Gresham?” Sullivan persisted. “What
do
titled navy captains do when they’re not at sea?”

Rem deliberately tossed off another gulp of gin before replying. “The same things you do.” A pregnant pause. “I’ve been occupied.”

Hoots and howls accompanied Rem’s implication.

“Was she any good, Gresham?” a grimy fellow with two missing teeth piped up.

Coming to his feet, Rem shrugged, a mischievous light in his eyes. “You know better than to ask me that, Parker. How many times have I told you I never discuss a lady’s attributes—at least not publicly?” Rem glanced out the front window, his gaze lingering for the briefest moment on Boyd. “Speaking of which, I’d best be on my way.”

“I heard ye say y’were meetin’ someone. She waitin’ for ye?”

“Yes, indeed. This moment, as a matter of fact.”

More raucous laughter. “Be off with ye, Gresham. Before she finds someone better—like a duke!”

“A distinct possibility.” Rem headed for the door, depositing the empty bottle on the counter without breaking stride. “I’ll do my best to prevent it. Good night men, Boyd.” Nodding in the tavern keeper’s direction, he slipped out into the night.

Boyd polished two glasses until they gleamed.

The men returned to their drinking.

Boyd unloaded three more cases of gin.

The men drank on.

Boyd eased his way through the storage room door at the rear of the tavern, confident that his now thoroughly inebriated patrons wouldn’t have noticed if Wellington’s troops had defeated Napoleon before their very eyes.

“Is it safe?”

Boyd closed the door behind him, giving Rem a tight-lipped smile. “I’m down to one quart of gin, but yes, it’s safe.” His smile faded. “What did Briggs say?”

In a lightning-quick motion as natural as breathing itself, Rem swerved his head from side to side, scanning the empty storeroom, assuring himself that they were indeed alone. Temporarily convinced, he nevertheless remained attuned to every sound lest the situation change.

Leaning against the stockroom wall, he regarded Boyd through penetrating gray eyes. “British ships are vanishing. Foreign enemies have been investigated … and all but ruled out. The same applies to privateers and foul weather.”

Rem’s terse explanation was more than sufficient for Boyd, who had served by the earl’s side for a dozen years, primarily by sea, ultimately by land. “Napoleon?”

“Impossible.” Not a flicker of emotion registered on Rem’s face. “All our information has been dispatched to Wellington. Napoleon’s demise will be a reality by Season’s end.”

Boyd inclined his head. “America?”

“No.”

“You believe the culprit is right here in England,” Boyd concluded, unsurprised. Through experience, both he and Rem had learned that when it came to the issue of financial gain, most men would abandon both principles and allegiance for the overpowering allure of securing great wealth. “Briggs is turning the problem over to you.”

“Yes.”

“Who do you need?”

“Give me a day or two on my own. I’ll head for London immediately.”

Boyd nodded. “I guess this determines where you’ll be spending this Season.”

“Evidently. I’ll go directly to my Town house and get a few hours’ sleep. At daybreak I’ll visit the docks—gather whatever facts I can. Then I’ll contact you … and Bow Street. By then I’ll know exactly who I’ll require, and for what.”

“Good.”

Rem straightened, all heightened energy and staunch resolve. “I’ll find you tomorrow.”

“Before or after you deliver the Barrett carriage?”

The pointed taunt struck Rem full force. “Dammit! I forgot all about that.”

“I’ll take care of it. What’s the address?”

“No.” The word was out before Rem could recall it, much less understand it. Seeing Boyd’s stunned expression, he added, “Samantha Barrett may be young, but she’s not stupid. Let’s not feed her curiosity or incite her questions by sending you in my stead. I told her
I’d
deliver the carriage—she’s expecting me to arrive between two and four o’clock. That still gives me all morning to poke around the riverfront. I can cover the West India and London docks in that amount of time. Meet me in front of Covent Garden Theater at half past one. By then I’ll be able to tell you which Bow Street men to notify. In the interim, I need you to make arrangements for the Barrett carriage to be repaired. Can you manage it?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Good. Bring it with you tomorrow.” Rem frowned for a moment. “As my own carriage is currently on loan, I’ll need to borrow your horse to take me to London.”

“Help yourself.” Boyd gestured toward the rear door. “I’ll see to my tasks and meet you as planned.”

Rem nodded, regarding Boyd with unspoken warmth and respect; a bond that had been forged over long, trying years and dangerous, adverse conditions. “Get some sleep, Boyd.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Forty minutes later the Earl of Gresham poured himself a brandy and tried to relax in the sitting room of his Town house. The chill of the rain was still in his bones, but he ignored it, for it was a condition the brandy would soon extinguish. Besides, the storm’s lingering effects were nearly eclipsed by the fiery thrill of the chase, which had already begun pumping through his veins, heightening his senses, honing his instincts. It was like this with each assignment, a mental metamorphosis that seized him, pervaded him, and ultimately prepared him for the grueling, disciplined weeks that lay ahead.

The danger, the challenge, unraveling the ugliest of lies to find the core of truth buried within—Rem relished it all. For it satisfied not only his relentless craving for adventure, but his equally compelling need to see justice served.

There was a time when things were different, when nothing but the sea could fill that restless void inside him. How he’d reveled in the danger of guiding England’s incomparable fleet into the dangers of war, armed with skill, cunning … and youth’s foolish conviction that mortality was an impalpable entity that need not be faced.

How drastically all that had changed.

The zealous dedication of his youth had eroded into bewilderment, then outrage, as he’d quickly learned that war’s price was death—a price paid not only by evil men, but by decent ones as well. His idealism had disintegrated further with each battle; first Copenhagen, then the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and culminating with the most heinous injustice of all.

Trafalgar.

With an anguished shudder, Rem fought the hated ghosts, wondering if he would ever be able to erase the image of his revered friend and mentor, the unrivaled Admiral Lord Nelson, lying amid a pool of his own blood on the deck of the
Victory.
Rem could still picture the admiral struggling for breath, being carried below to the surgeon’s cockpit before the horrified gazes of his crew. Nelson died during what should have been his most triumphant victory—the utter annihilation of Napoleon’s naval fleet.

Never had Rem felt so powerless, so hollow.

So unpatriotically bitter.

He had planned to resign from the Royal Navy. His resignation was never submitted. Instead, fate chose that moment to intercede in the form of the First Lord of the Admiralty himself. Based on the meticulous notes of Lord Nelson, which exuded praise for his young captain’s keen instincts and intricate mind, and the glowing recommendations not only of Admiral Nelson, but of three rear admirals and two commodores and commanders-in-chief, the First Lord respectfully requested that Rem consider working for the Admiralty—as a covert agent of the British Crown.

Rem had accepted, recognizing it as his opportunity to ensure that life’s equity would be in his hands, rather than in fate’s. He had been undeterred by the escalated dangers his forthcoming missions would pose, for after years of naval service amid death’s hovering presence, the thought of dying did not frighten him.

What had truly frightened him was the void in his soul, the loss of purpose he’d needed to regain.

Tossing off his drink, Rem rolled the empty glass between his palms as he contemplated the outcome of his unconventional career. He’d successfully ferreted out countless French and American spies, eliminated an equal number of English-born traitors to the Crown, apprehended elusive, highly effective privateers, undermined American naval strategy during the War of 1812, and, most recently, transmitted urgent, confidential missives to the Duke of Wellington—missives that would soon result in Napoleon’s downfall.