The Lady's Command

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Edwina waited in the front hall while Humphrey opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She heard a shrill whistle; half a minute later, the clop of hooves informed her that her carriage had arrived. Calmly, she walked out onto the porch and down the steps. Humphrey held open the hackney’s door; he gave her his hand to help her into the carriage.

After settling on the thankfully clean seat, she nodded to Humphrey. “Thank you, Humphrey. I’ll see you anon.”

The jarvey said something, then Humphrey looked at her. “The direction, ma’am?”

“Oh—Eaton Square.”

Humphrey shut the carriage door and conveyed her instruction to the jarvey. A second later, the carriage jerked into motion.

Edwina felt her eyes grow round, felt excitement tempered by apprehension grip her. “I’m off on my journey,” she murmured to herself.

She waited until the carriage slowed at the corner, then stood and rapped sharply on the trapdoor set into the hackney’s ceiling. When it opened and the jarvey said “Yar?” she called up, “When you turn the corner, you’ll see a woman in a black gown holding a portmanteau. Please pull up beside her.”

The jarvey paused, then said, “’Ere—this isn’t one of them scandalous elopements, is it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Huh. Pity.” The jarvey flicked his reins, and his horse stepped out. “I always wanted to drive someone setting out on one of those.”

Edwina shut the trapdoor and sank back onto the seat, a very large smile spreading over her face. She wasn’t escaping to marry some unsuitable man—she was escaping to be with the entirely suitable gentleman she’d married.

She was still grinning when the jarvey drew up alongside the pavement where, as she’d arranged, Wilmot stood waiting with the portmanteau. Even as Edwina opened the carriage door and took the portmanteau, Wilmot was darting anxious glances in every direction.

“Don’t worry,” Edwina reiterated. “Now, don’t forget to give Humphrey those letters I left with you. They’re important, and it’s also important you don’t hand them over until six o’clock this evening.”

She’d written letters to her mother, her sisters, her brother, and to Humphrey and Mrs. King, explaining where she’d gone and how long she expected to be away. Given her destination, she couldn’t see that they would worry; she’d be just as safe as she would be in London. Possibly safer, given Declan would be with her.

“I won’t forget, my lady.” Wilmot bobbed a last curtsy. “I don’t know how you’ll manage with your hair, but I pray that you’ll take care.”

Edwina smiled. For all her nerves, Wilmot was a dear. “I will. And we’ll be home before you know it. Now hurry back before you’re missed.”

Wilmot bobbed again, whirled, and plunged into the narrow lane that ran along the rear of the houses in Stanhope Street.

Edwina shut the carriage door, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. She’d managed to leave the house, luggage and all, without anyone but loyal Wilmot knowing.

The trapdoor opened, and the jarvey asked, “So are we still headed to Eaton Square, mum?”

Edwina shook herself to attention. “No. I wish to go to Mr. Higgins and Sons’ establishment in Long Acre.”

“Right you are.” The trapdoor fell closed. An instant later, the carriage rocked into motion.

“And now,” she murmured, “I really am off—off on a true adventure.”

* * *

Declan strode up The Cormorant’s gangplank as sunset was streaking the sky.

He’d been held up at the London office when one of his searchers was late getting back. Subsequently, he’d delayed at Stanhope Street as long as he could, hoping that Edwina might return before he absolutely had to leave, but she hadn’t. Then on reaching the office here, he’d found more men waiting with verbal reports on the current conditions in Freetown.

He’d hoped that somewhere amid all the information, he might have found some glimmer of a clue as to why four men—Captain Dixon, Lieutenant Hopkins, Lieutenant Fanshawe, and Hillsythe—had vanished, but no. Instead, the news from Freetown was entirely benign, with not even a hint of disturbance among the natives.

On gaining The Cormorant’s railing, he paused to look across the harbor at the forest of masts set against the bright orange and scarlet hues in the palette the westering sun had flung up. Such sights never failed to steal his breath; there was beauty in the sky and in the promise of the ships bobbing at anchor, of the journeys they would make and the far-flung places they would visit before they returned to this port.

His gaze moved on to the billowing sails of the ships sliding majestically out of the harbor and into the Solent beyond. Soon The Cormorant would be joining the line.

His sailing master, the principal navigator, was waiting, smiling, at the head of the gangplank. As he stepped down to the deck, Declan acknowledged the master’s crisp salute with a nod and a matching smile—one of anticipation. “Mr. Johnson. How is she?”

“Shipshape and ready to sail, Captain.”

“Excellent.” With a nod, Declan acknowledged the salute of his quartermaster—Elliot, a burly Scotsman who was waiting by the wheel—then stepped aside to allow a pair of sailors to bring in the gangplank.

Grimsby, the bosun, bowlegged and barrel-chested, supervised the stowing of the gangplank. He grinned at Declan and saluted. “Good to have you aboard again, Capt’n.”

After replying to that and other greetings from his crew, all of whom had sailed with him before, Declan made a quick circuit of the deck, instinctively noting the ropes and sails, the set of the spars, and checking for anything not precisely as it should be. But everything appeared in perfect order; his ship stood ready to get under way.

Finally, he climbed to the poop deck, located over the stern, and joined his lieutenant, Joshua Caldwell, by the wheel. “Right, Mr. Caldwell. Shall we get under way?”

“Aye, Captain—ready and waiting at your command.”

Declan grinned; he and Caldwell had sailed the world for years, and those words had become a habit between them. “It’s good to be on the waves again.”

“I can imagine.” Caldwell raised his voice and called for a jib to be set. “There’s enough wind, I think, to get us out with just that.”

Declan nodded in agreement. He waited while the ropes were cast off and the ship slowly slid away from the wharf; under Caldwell’s careful steering, The Cormorant’s bow came around, and the ship eased into the channel leading out of the harbor basin. “So what did Royd do this time?”

His older brother was constantly tinkering with this and that, trying one thing, then another, to improve the performance of the Frobisher fleet. His favorite test subjects were his own ship, The Corsair, Robert’s ship, The Trident, and The Cormorant. Whenever any of those vessels docked at Aberdeen, the chances were good that Royd would have them out of the water.

“He had the hull refinished in some new varnish—he claims it has less resistance, so the ship should cleave through the water more cleanly and therefore go faster. He also changed the set of the rudder, so be warned. It feels different—reacts a little differently.”