The Lady's Command. Stephanie Laurens
Читать онлайн книгу.
regarded her. He was happy enough to answer that query, if only to distract her from those facts he didn’t wish to share. Rapidly, he canvassed his options to most effectively—engagingly and distractingly—satisfy her. “In order to do that, I have to explain something of the structure of the family’s fleet.”
When she opened her eyes wide, indicating her interest and that he should continue, he smiled and complied. “The fleet has two principal arms. The first is comprised of traditional cargo vessels. They’re larger—wider, deeper, and heavier—and therefore slower ships that carry all manner of cargo around the globe, although these days, we concentrate on Atlantic routes. At present, our farthest port on routes to the east is Cape Town.”
He paused to fork up the last bite of his scrambled eggs, seizing the seconds to consider his next words. She took the chance to slather jam on her usual piece of toast, then lifted the slice to her lips and took a neat bite. The crunch focused his gaze on her mouth; he watched the tip of her tongue sweep the lush ripeness of her lower lip, leaving it glistening…
Quietly, he cleared his throat and forced his wayward mind back to the issue at hand. After remarshaling his thoughts, he offered, “It’s the other arm of the family business in which my brothers and I are actively engaged. We each captain our own ship, and it would be accurate to say that we still carry cargo. But our ships are by design faster and also, again by design, newer and better able to withstand adverse conditions.”
With a soft snort, he set down his knife and fork and reached for his coffee mug. “You might have noticed that Royd is somewhat obsessed with our ships’ attributes and performances.” Royd—Murgatroyd, although no one bar their parents ever dared call him that—was his eldest brother and, these days, more or less in charge. “He’s constantly redesigning and updating. That’s why The Cormorant has been out of commission over these past weeks. She’s been in dry dock in the shipyards at Aberdeen while Royd fiddles, implementing his latest ideas, which I’ll eventually get to test.”
Declan paused to sip, then wryly acknowledged, “I have to admit that the rest of us are usually very grateful for his improvements.” Often those improvements had tipped the scales between life and death, between freedom and captivity.
“When you say ‘the rest of us’”—Edwina brushed crumbs from her fingers—“who precisely do you mean?”
“The four of us—Royd, Robert, me, and Caleb—and several of our cousins. Still other cousins captain several of our merchantmen, but there’s a group of family captains, about eight all told, who sail for the other side of the business.”
“Last night, some gentleman mentioned a treaty your family had assisted with. Was that an undertaking you were involved with?”
“No. That was Robert. He tends to specialize in meeting the more diplomatic requests.”
She frowned slightly. “What is the nature of this other side of the business? What sort of requests, diplomatic or otherwise, do you undertake?”
Declan considered for a moment, then offered, “There are different sorts of cargoes.”
She arched her brows. “Such as?”
Fleetingly, he grinned. “People. Documents. Items of special value. And, most valuable of all, information.” He paused, aware that it would not be wise to paint their endeavors in too-intriguing colors. “It’s a relatively straightforward engagement. We undertake to transport items of that nature quickly, safely, and discreetly from port to port.”
“Ah.” After a moment of consideration, she said, “I take it that’s the motivation behind Royd’s obsession.”
He set down his coffee cup. He hadn’t consciously made the connection before, but… “I suppose you could say that the fruits of Royd’s obsession significantly contribute to Frobisher and Sons being arguably the best specialized shipping service in the world.”
She smiled. “Specialized shipping. I see. At least now I know how to describe what you do.”
And that, he thought, was as much as she or anyone else needed to know.
Before he could redirect the conversation, she went on, “You said that you only sail for about half the year. Do you sail at any time, or are your voyages always over the same months each year?”
“Generally, our side of the business operates over the summer and into the autumn months, when the seas are most accommodating.”
“But you don’t expect to set out on The Cormorant before July or thereabouts?”
He nodded. “There was no”—mission—“request falling between now and then that I, specifically, needed to handle. The others took it upon themselves to cover for me.” He grinned and met her eyes. “I believe they thought of it as a wedding gift.”
“For which I am duly grateful.” She set down her empty teacup.
Before she could formulate her next question, he swiveled to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace at the end of the room. As he had hoped, she followed his gaze.
When she saw the time, her eyes widened. “Great heavens! I have to get ready for Lady Minchingham’s at-home.”
He rose and drew out her chair. “I’ve this meeting to attend, then I think I’ll call in at our office, purely to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world of shipping.” The Frobisher and Sons office was located with many other shipping companies’ offices near the Pool of London.
Distracted now, she merely nodded and led the way from the room. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”
She stepped into the hall, then paused. “I had planned for us to attend Lady Forsythe’s rout, but I rather feel we’ve moved beyond the need.” She glanced at him and smiled, one of her subtly appraising—and frankly suggestive—looks. “Perhaps a quiet evening at home, just the two of us, might be a better use of our time.”
He saw nothing in that suggestion with which he wished to argue. Halting on the parlor’s threshold, he smiled into her wide blue eyes. “A quiet evening spent with you would definitely be my preference.”
Her smile blossomed with open delight. She stretched up on her toes, and when he dutifully bent his head, she touched her lips to his.
He locked his hands behind his back to rein in the impulse to catch her to him and prolong the caress; aside from all else, both Humphrey and the footman were within sight.
If the commiserating quality of her smile as she drew back was any guide, she’d nevertheless sensed his response; while the look in her eyes suggested she shared the temptation, her expression also stated that she approved of his control. She lightly patted his chest, then turned away. With an insouciant wave, she headed for the stairs.
He remained where he was and watched her go up. Once she’d passed out of the gallery in the direction of their room, he reached into his pocket and drew out the folded note that had been burning a hole there. His smile faded as he reread the simple lines of the summons. They told him little more than that he was expected at the Ripley Building as soon as he could get there.
Glancing up, he saw Humphrey waiting by the side of the hall. “My hat and coat, Humphrey.”
“At once, sir.”
As Humphrey helped him into his greatcoat, Declan reflected that his summoner wasn’t a man it was wise to keep waiting. Seconds later, his hat on his head, he walked out and down the steps. Lengthening his stride, he headed for Whitehall.
* * *
From Whitehall, Declan turned into the Ripley Building. When he presented himself to the sergeant on duty, he wasn’t surprised to be directed into Admiralty House. He was, however, surprised to be directed not downward to some undistinguished office on the lower level but upstairs to the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Then again, the war was long over, and as far as Declan knew, the gentleman