скачать книгу бесплатно
“Aye, well—Miss Hopkins, or whatever her name is, hadn’t tumbled to that, but she knew as well as I did that there had to be something behind Will coming to the services. She was asking questions, trying to learn what.” Sampson drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t think that was wise, and I tried to warn her off.” He met Robert’s gaze. “I told her about your brother and how he’d been asking questions about the officers who’d gone missing, including her brother, most like. I also told her that your brother had to withdraw quickly—that he’d sailed from the settlement and just might have headed back to London—and I pointed out that people who asked questions about people who’ve gone missing tended to wind up missing, too. I did me best to get her to back off and leave the investigating to those qualified to do it.”
Robert arched a cynical brow. “Did you succeed?”
“I’m not hopeful. She’s been back to two more services, and anyone who thought to watch her would know she weren’t paying attention to Undoto’s thunderings.”
Robert grimaced; the last thing he needed was a gently bred but determined female complicating his simple and straightforward mission. “Do you have any idea where she’s staying?”
“Not precisely. She’ll be up on Tower Hill somewhere, would be my guess.”
“What did she look like?” It was Benson who asked.
Sampson took a moment, plainly calling up a picture in his mind. “Brassy-brown hair—sort of bright brown and glossy, not dark. Hazel eyes. Average height. Good figure, but well laced. Very English looking, and if I had to guess, used to getting her own way. Wouldn’t say spirited so much as forceful.”
Unease trailed tauntingly down Robert’s spine. Damn! He was going to have to act to effectively deflect the woman. He couldn’t risk her popping up at some crucial moment and interfering with his mission. More, if she was Hopkins’s sister, then given his acquaintance with her older brothers, he should definitely do his best to send her packing all the way back to England.
Sampson humphed. “I made it clear she was dabbling in dangerous waters, and while she listened, I’m damned sure she’s not going to pay my warning much heed.”
For a moment, all were silent. Sipping the last of his ale, Robert considered what would have brought a lady like Miss Hopkins all the way to Freetown. Sibling devotion, clearly, but it would have to be strong to have driven a gently bred lady to take ship and brave the dangers of a place like Freetown, a settlement on the outer fringes of civilization. That Hopkins’s sister was in the settlement at all, let alone determinedly asking questions, argued that convincing her to meekly step back, return to England, and leave the investigating to him wasn’t going to be any easy task.
That she’d found her way to Undoto’s services and Sampson—and it sounded as if she was concentrating her efforts around Undoto and his church—suggested she was intelligent, too.
Robert drained his mug. He would need to remove the lady from the situation, and soon. Before matters became any more complicated.
He set his mug on the table and glanced at his men, then looked at Sampson. “I need to speak with the vodun priestess, Lashoria. My brother told me she lives in the slum on the hillside to the east of here—is that still the case?”
Sampson nodded. “Far as I know.” He drained his mug.
“There’s a gentleman by the name of Babington—Charles Babington. I’ll probably need to speak with him, too. Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s the one that’s Macauley’s junior partner, aye?” When Robert nodded, Sampson said, “That’s easy, then. He lives in the apartment above the company’s office. On Water Street, that is. You can’t miss it.”
Robert nodded. He’d noted the Macauley and Babington office during their walk the previous night.
He’d call on Lashoria that evening and decide what he wanted to do about Babington after that.
He refocused on Sampson. All the men had finished their ales. “Our landlady mentioned that Undoto is holding one of his spectacles at noon today.”
“Aye.” Sampson nodded his shaggy head. “I planned on heading up there about now.”
“Do you mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Sampson grasped his cane and levered himself to his feet. He beamed at Robert and his men. “Glad of the company.”
They rose and left the tavern. Robert waved his men ahead and adjusted his pace to Sampson’s halting one. Robert looked about him as in companionable silence they progressed slowly up the hill.
He doubted he needed to ask Sampson to point out the notables in the congregation; if Robert was any judge, the old man thoroughly enjoyed having his knowledge plumbed, his observational skills put to use.
But when they halted at the edge of the forecourt before what was obviously the church, Robert murmured, “If you see Hopkins’s sister...”
Sampson nodded. “I’ll point her out.” He surveyed the people streaming toward the open doors. “Can’t see her, but she might already be inside.” With his cane, he waved toward the door. “Let’s go in.”
The forecourt stretched across the front of the rectangular church and extended down both sides, wider to the left than the right. To the left, several benches sat beneath a row of trees large enough to cast some shade. Carriages were drawn up in a long line opposite the front façade; ladies and gentlemen descended and strolled across the forecourt to the doors, most smiling and chatting, nodding to each other as if they were attending a social event.
As they walked forward and Robert refocused his attention on the church itself, a frisson of awareness—the sort of awareness he recognized very well—swept tantalizingly across his senses.
Glancing around, he looked back at the carriages. Most were simply black. Dusty, anonymous, and unremarkable.
Anyone could be sitting inside one and looking out.
It was hardly the first time he’d been the recipient of an assessing glance. If the lady had noticed his reaction, she probably wouldn’t show herself until after he’d gone inside.
Mentally shrugging—he certainly wouldn’t have time to follow it up, distractions of that ilk being indisputably the very last thing he needed—he returned his attention to those before him.
As they joined the throng streaming inside, Sampson added, “I hope you’ll be able to make the lady see sense.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Robert hadn’t expected to have to use his diplomatic talents on this mission, but he could be very persuasive when he wished.
Curious, he looked around as they moved into the church, noting the disposition of people to cluster in their own groups. His men had gone in ahead of him and Sampson and had sat in the last pew. Robert followed Sampson to a stool in the rear left corner.
The old man settled on the stool, his peg leg braced at a comfortable angle. Then he surveyed those seated.
Robert remained standing, leaning against the wall as several other men had elected to do.
Sampson grunted. “I can’t see her. She’s not here yet.”
His gaze sweeping the room, Robert shrugged. “Let me know when you spot her.”
As soon as he got a bead on her, he intended to seize the first chance that offered to warn her away from the investigation—and he was prepared to be a great deal more definite and effective than Sampson had been.
He had no intention whatever of allowing anyone—male or female—to interfere with his mission. For once, he had a mission whose path was blissfully clear and defined—learn the location of the slavers’ camp, then race the information back to London. The lady might be determined, but so was he; he was determined to allow nothing to get in the way of him finishing this mission in the shortest amount of time.
He wanted it done so he could put it behind him and concentrate on following the lure that, increasingly, drew him.
The need for a hearth. The need for a home. The need for a wife who would be his anchor.
* * *
Aileen leaned back against the squabs of her hired carriage as the last stragglers made their way into the church.
She’d debated joining the congregation, but she couldn’t imagine that she would see or learn anything she hadn’t already by subjecting herself yet again to Undoto’s version of fire and brimstone. Much better to sit and conserve her energies. She’d rolled up the flaps on the carriage windows, and a breeze as faint as an exhalation stirred wisps of hair at her nape.
Her strategy had already yielded one piece of information—the direction from which Undoto approached the church. After leaving Mrs. Hoyt’s, she’d walked down to Water Street and had hired a driver for the rest of the day; she’d had him drive her up to the church at just after eleven o’clock and draw his carriage to a halt at a spot toward the end of where the line of carriages would form. She’d been inside the carriage watching when Undoto had come walking down the street that curved up the flank of the hill.
Most of the congregation came from either below the church or, in the case of the European contingent, along the road from the west. The area from which Undoto had come was not one she’d previously explored.
But she would. Later, when she followed the priest back to his home. For the next hour, however, she had nothing to do but sit in the carriage and cling to her patience.
She’d chosen this spot from which to watch because it allowed her an unobstructed view of the church’s forecourt and also the smaller door along one side toward the rear of the building. That was the door through which Undoto had entered the church; others—the choristers and altar boys and several older men—had followed. One of the older men had later opened the front doors.
Patience wasn’t really her long suit, but she could, she told herself, manage an hour. In pursuit of Will, she could manage more than that.
With nothing else to do, she reviewed all she’d seen to this point, cataloging those of the congregation she’d seen previously, searching for anything odd or different.
Her mind snagged on the man—a newcomer, at least to her—who had arrived with old Sampson.
There was something about the man that had snared her attention, then effortlessly held it. In the privacy of the carriage with nothing else to occupy her, she could admit that and, via a distinctly vivid memory, indulge in a long, mental perusal.
He was the sort of gentleman commonly described as well set up. Tall with broad shoulders, but lean with the length. Strong, but flexible, too, exuding an aura of reined physical power. That he’d arrived with Sampson, chatting with the old man and clearly accepted by him, suggested the unknown was a sailor, but she would have guessed that anyway. She was accustomed to dealing with seafaring men, and the way he held himself, balanced in a certain fluid way, had instantly registered.
As had the sword at his hip. It wasn’t the type of weapon your average sailor sported. If she had to guess, she would say the intriguing stranger was a captain, one who commanded; an ineffable air of command had hung like a cloak about him, something innate that showed in the way he’d stood, in the manner in which he’d looked about him, scanning the surroundings, taking note of the people as well as the place.
Remembering that, she felt certain he’d never been to Undoto’s church before.
She hadn’t forgotten Sampson’s mention of a Captain Frobisher who had come to ask questions about those missing; it was tempting to speculate that this man was Frobisher, come back to take up the hunt, but if he hadn’t previously attended the church, that seemed unlikely.
Although courtesy of the distance, she hadn’t been able to note anything specific about the man’s face and features, she had to admit he’d made an impression.
She realized her lips had curved appreciatively, but there was no harm in such idle admiration. It wasn’t as if he and she were likely to meet face to face.
The warmth of the sun lay heavy on the land; the distant hum of the settlement’s center and port droned almost below the level of hearing.
Lulled, she felt her lids drooping. After a second, she allowed them to fall.
Her mind wasn’t empty; the image of the unknown man still lingered. He hadn’t been wearing a uniform; she recalled Sampson’s description of Captain Frobisher—not navy, but authorized. Most likely, Sampson had meant that the man had some degree of backing from the authorities; despite his lack of uniform, the unknown stranger had exuded the ineluctable sense that he possessed such authority.
So a captain, but almost certainly not of a naval vessel.
The memory of the clipper-style ship she’d seen so gracefully gliding up the estuary the previous evening swam across her mind’s eye.
The unknown captain’s ship?
Her attention shifted to the ship. Truth be told, she could admit to feeling a certain attraction to the vessel, too—a wish to see her, to examine her, to sail on her. To stand on her deck and experience the sensation of flying over the waves.
Aileen had long known she was no more immune to the siren song of the sea than her brothers.
And it was probably a good deal safer to explore an attraction to the ship than to the ship’s captain, even in her mind.
She grinned, then the sound of voices spilled into the forecourt. She opened her eyes and saw that the service was finally over. Undoto stood at the door, farewelling his parishioners.
Aileen sat up, then stretched her arms, easing her spine. She leaned closer to the window, then, realizing she might be seen, sat back in the shadows of the carriage once more.
She watched the congregation leave. She saw the intriguing stranger again. After exchanging words with four sailors—members of his crew?—and apparently dispatching them ahead, the stranger left with Sampson, pacing more slowly beside the one-legged sailor as they followed the winding street down the hill.
There was a courtesy there, in the stranger’s attention to Sampson, of which Aileen approved—a recognition that old men like Sampson were by no means worthless.
The stranger and Sampson soon passed out of sight.
She returned her gaze to the church itself and, counseling herself to patience anew, watched and waited while the congregation dispersed. When all were gone, Undoto and one of the older men who helped with the church pulled the doors shut, while two other older men set the woven-rush window panels back in place.
Aileen shifted her gaze to the side door. The altar boys and choristers had already left. The old men came out; calling to each other, they waved and went their separate ways.
Finally, Undoto emerged, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Again, Aileen was tempted to lean forward, but she held herself back; she hadn’t yet got her hat and veil.
She watched as Undoto walked along the side wall of the church and into the forecourt. He saw her carriage, but barely gave it a glance and continued across the gravel to the street.
Aileen crossed her fingers, praying he would return to his home and not go wandering elsewhere in the settlement.
Undoto reached the street and turned up it, heading back in the direction from which he’d earlier come.
She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She’d chosen this carriage because it had a small window set beneath the coachman’s seat through which she could look out over the horses’ backs and see what was happening in front of the carriage. Through that window, she watched Undoto stride up the dusty street. She waited as long as she deemed she could, then rose, stretched up, and lifted the small trapdoor in the carriage’s roof.
For all she knew, her driver might have been snoring for the past hour. “Driver?”
The carriage shifted as the driver started. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I was hoping to meet my friend here, but she didn’t attend the service. I must have dozed off. I’ve only recently arrived in the settlement, and as we are here, I would like you to drive slowly—just rolling very slowly along—up the street before us, the one heading up the flank of the hill.” The one Undoto had taken; he was almost out of sight. “Just carry on, and I’ll tell you when I’ve seen enough, and we can then return to Water Street.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Aileen swayed, then sat as the carriage rocked into motion. The driver followed her instructions well enough and kept their pace nice and slow. Through the small forward-facing window, she could see Undoto well ahead, but as he was striding along at a good clip, the distance between him and the carriage was only slowly decreasing.
The area the street ran through was neither a slum, nor was it Tower Hill. The houses were modest, but neatly kept; most were situated on their own small block. Few plants graced the gardens, but rocks and stones marked entrances and paths. From the few people she glimpsed, it appeared this was the area populated by the equivalent of the lower middle class.
There were still a good fifty yards between the carriage and the priest when Undoto crossed the road, went up a short path, climbed a few steps to a house’s porch, then opened the door and disappeared inside.
Aileen shifted to the window on that side and, as the carriage rolled closer, studied the house the priest had entered. As the house neared, she again drew back into the concealing shadows, but with her eyes fixed on the building, she cataloged every identifying feature she could spy.
The carriage rolled on, and the house fell behind. Satisfied, she sat back. She would recognize the house, even by night.
Her afternoon’s work—laying the groundwork for her evening’s endeavors—was done.
She let the driver steer his horses on for a full minute more, then she lifted the trapdoor again. “I’ve seen enough for today. Back to Water Street. You can let me out near the middle of the street.”
She had a milliner to visit.
And then...
She couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that the house Undoto had entered was his own abode, yet there’d been a lack of concern, of even the slightest hesitation, in the way he’d walked up the front path and had opened the door and gone inside. If it hadn’t been his house, surely he would have knocked?
Still, tonight would tell. If Undoto was still there when night fell...that was really all she cared about.
As the carriage rocked slowly down the hill and turned toward the center of the settlement, she reviewed her preparations. Once she bought what she needed from the milliner, there was one last issue to address.
To keep watch on Undoto’s house, she would need the concealment of an anonymous carriage, much like the one she was presently in. But she couldn’t risk hiring just any coachman and trusting him to keep his mouth shut about her peculiar excursions, much less the address from which he picked her up.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way around trusting the driver she hired. “Which means,” she murmured, “that I’ll have to make sure the driver I hire is, indeed, trustworthy.”
