Stephanie Laurens – A Buccaneer At Heart (страница 18)

Shrinking back into the deepest shadows in the carriage, Aileen stared at the mercenary as the coach turned.

Her second look didn’t improve on her first. Instinctive fear closed chill fingers about her throat.

She couldn’t take her eyes from the threat. As the carriage continued, she shifted, keeping the mercenary in view.

But with the carriage turning aside, he appeared to lose interest. He turned and continued over the crest, disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Aileen exhaled. She slumped back against the seat, only then realizing her hand had risen to her throat.

She lowered her hand and dragged in a huge breath. Her heart was still pounding.

Minutes later, the carriage reached better-surfaced streets, and Dave urged his horse to a faster pace.

As her breathing returned to normal, Aileen reminded herself that the mercenary wouldn’t have been able to see her, that he wasn’t following her.

Despite the reassurance, her heart continued to thump faster than it had before.

* * *

Robert returned to the inn, but couldn’t settle; thinking of Lashoria’s death at the hands of the slavers left him restless—wanting, needing, to act.

On diplomatic missions, he rarely had to cope with situations like this—when an unnecessary and violent slaying provoked him.

Sleep wasn’t going to come soon. Remembering his earlier plan, he told Benson where he was headed, then left the inn.

Cloaked in deep night, he walked to Water Street and on to the office of Macauley and Babington. As befitted the holders of the lucrative trading license between the colony of West Africa and England, the company’s office was in a relatively new stone building in the middle of Water Street—in business terms, the beating heart of the settlement. A foray down the alley running alongside the building revealed an exterior staircase leading to an apartment above the rear of the office.

The door on the landing at the top of the stairs was locked, and Babington didn’t respond to Robert’s knock.

After deciding Babington was most likely out socializing, Robert picked the lock and went in.

The door opened into a living room. Robert stepped inside, quietly closed the door, then listened. Half a minute sufficed for his senses to confirm that he was the only person there.

He relaxed and looked around.

Two well-stuffed armchairs with a small round table between faced a sofa set against one wall. A bureau bearing a tantalus graced the wall opposite the sofa, while a desk stood against the wall a little way from the door. The fourth wall, opposite the door, played host to four long windows; the central panes were French doors giving onto a narrow balcony.

Sufficient moonlight washed through the uncurtained windows for Robert to see well enough. A door in the wall against which the sofa sat stood ajar; a glance beyond showed a bed and the usual appurtenances of a bedchamber.

Robert walked to the bureau, checked the decanters in the tantalus, then helped himself to a glass of whisky. Drink in hand, he angled one of the armchairs toward the door, sat, sipped, and settled to wait.

As the whisky slid down his throat, he found himself pondering his lack of hesitation in breaking into Babington’s rooms. Perhaps he had more of his brothers—and his father—in him than he knew.

Or perhaps it was simply his impatience to get on, further fueled by learning of Lashoria’s murder.

An hour later, he heard footsteps steadily climbing the outer stair. A key slid into the lock.

Babington didn’t realize the door was unlocked, but carelessly opened it and sent the door swinging wide.

He immediately saw Robert sitting in the chair, outlined by the light from the windows at his back.

Babington froze.

Robert remained where he was, but realizing that Babington couldn’t see his face, said, “Robert Frobisher.” When Babington blinked and the tension that had tightened his frame eased, Robert held up the half-empty glass. “Not a bad drop, but the Glencrae is better.”

“Frobisher.” After a further second’s hesitation, Babington stepped inside and walked to the small table. He lit the lamp upon it; the light flared, and he glanced at Robert—a sharp glance confirming his identity. Satisfied, Babington turned down the wick, set the glass on the lamp, then returned to the door and closed it. He set his cane in the rack beside the door, then went to the tantalus and poured himself a drink.

Only when he had it in hand did he look at Robert. Babington raised his glass, sipped, then asked, “Why are you here?”

Robert sent him an unamused grin. “As you rightly suspect, it’s connected with Declan’s visit. But as you’ve already realized, my visit is quite deliberately more...private.”

“Covert, in other words.” Babington crossed to the sofa and sat at his ease, stretching out his long legs. The lamplight played equally over them both. Babington studied Robert, then asked, “I presume you want my help with something. So what’s going on?”

Robert had had plenty of time to decide how he wished to proceed. “I understood from Declan that you might have an interest in people who’ve gone missing.”

Babington was too experienced to shift, but he stilled.

Over the rim of his glass, Robert scrutinized Babington’s expression, then quietly asked, “Is that so?”

Babington’s features didn’t give him away, but his color had ebbed. He remained frozen, staring at Robert. After several seconds, in a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “Why do you want to know?”

Robert shifted his gaze to the glass in his hand. “Because if you do have such an interest, then, presumably, it would predispose you to assist me in my quest.” He paused, then glanced at Babington. “However, if you don’t have such an interest...then I fear I would be unwise to share with you the details of why I am here.”

Babington remained sprawled on the sofa, staring through the lamplight and studying Robert’s face.

Then, slowly, Babington sat up. Moving deliberately, he set his glass down on the small table. Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he scrubbed both hands over his face. He stared blindly across the room for several seconds, then he met Robert’s gaze. “All right.”

Robert fought to keep his expression impassive, unresponsive. Babington looked almost tortured, his eyes shadowed.

“There’s—there was a young lady, a young woman in our terms. A Miss Mary Wilson. Her family was down on its luck, and she came out here for a fresh start, helping her uncle in his store. She was more than an assistant. More like her uncle’s heir—a co-owner.” Babington drew in a tight breath, then went on, “She and I...we were courting, but of course, I haven’t told anyone in the family that. They’d have an apoplexy if they knew I wanted to marry a shopkeeper—that’s how they’d see it. See her. They wouldn’t even want to meet her.”

Robert came from much the same background; he understood Babington’s familial situation.

Babington had paused as if ordering his thoughts. He continued, “One day, I called at the shop, and when he saw me, her uncle was furious. He tried to throw me out, but then he realized I hadn’t come to tell him that I’d persuaded Mary to give up her place with him and become my ladybird. That I didn’t have any more idea of where she was than he.

“We were frantic—the pair of us. We searched. I hired men to hunt high and low through the settlement—but she was gone. Vanished.” Babington gestured helplessly. “As if into thin air.”

Babington looked at Robert, and now anger lit his eyes. “So if you want to know if I have an interest in people going missing from the settlement, the answer is yes. Yes! I’d give my right arm to know what has happened to Mary.”

Robert set down his glass and crisply stated, “Then obviously, you’ll do all you can to further any venture that might—just might—result in getting her back.”

Babington snarled, “Anything. I’ll do anything to get her back.” He lifted his glass and tossed back his drink, then looked again at Robert, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think there’s any chance of that? That she’s even alive?”

Robert held his gaze, then sighed. “I won’t lie to you—I can’t be certain. But there is a chance that she’s been spirited away by those who’ve been taking a range of other Europeans, picking them off—men, women, and, it seems, even children—and taking them out of the settlement. The reason behind the kidnappings is a mystery, but as far as we’ve been able to make out, there’s a definite chance those taken are still alive.” Robert paused, then went on, “We’re proceeding on the basis that they are still alive, and that whatever we do in pursuing them must be done in such a way as to not alert the perpetrators.”

Babington was by no means slow. He figured it out in seconds. “So said perpetrators won’t risk covering their tracks by killing those they’ve taken.” He nodded. “And you think someone in the settlement is involved.”

“Some people, yes. More than one person, but exactly who is involved we can’t say.” Robert paused, reading what he could now see in Babington’s face—stripped of the man’s usual debonair mask—and made the decision to trust him. “Pour yourself another drink, and let me tell you what we know.”