Lord Of The Privateers. Stephanie Laurens
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seamen from The Raven
Dixon, Captain John – army engineer
Hopkins, Lieutenant William – navy, West Africa Squadron
Fanshawe, Lieutenant – navy, West Africa Squadron
Hillsythe, Mr. – ex-Wolverstone agent, governor’s aide
Frazier, Miss Harriet – gently bred young woman, Dixon’s sweetheart
Wilson, Miss Mary – shop owner/assistant, Babington’s sweetheart
McKenzie, Miss Ellen – young woman recently arrived in the settlement
Halliday, Miss Gemma – young woman from the slums
Mellows, Miss Annie – young woman from the slums
Mathers, Jed – carpenter
Watson, Wattie – navvy
Plus eighteen other men – all British of various backgrounds and trades
Diccon – young boy, eight years old
Amy – young girl, six years old
Gerry – boy, eleven years old
Tilly – girl, fourteen years old
Simon Finn – boy, twelve years old
Plus sixteen other children – all British, ranging from six to ten years old
Plus three other boys – all British, ranging from eleven to fourteen years old
On board The Trident:
Latimer, Mr. Jordan – first mate
Hurley, Mr. – master
Wilcox – bosun
Miller – quartermaster
Foxby, Mr. – steward
Various other sailors
On board The Cormorant:
Caldwell, Mr. Joshua – first mate
Johnson, Mr. – master
Grimsby – bosun
Elliot – quartermaster
Henry, Mr. – steward
Various other sailors
On board The Prince:
Fitzpatrick, Lieutenant Frederick – first mate
Wallace, Mr. – master
Carter – bosun
Hornby, Mr. – steward, carries information to London and returns on The Corsair
Various other sailors
On board The Raven:
Reynaud – bosun, on ship, but returns to the jungle compound
Plus four other seamen – on ship, but return to the jungle compound
Various other sailors
Aberdeen
August 9, 1824
Royd Frobisher stood behind the desk in his office overlooking Aberdeen harbor and reread the summons he’d just received.
Was it his imagination, or was Wolverstone anxious?
Royd had received many such summonses over the years Wolverstone had served as England’s spymaster; the wording of today’s missive revealed an underlying uneasiness on the part of the normally imperturbable ex-spymaster.
Either uneasiness or impatience, and the latter was not one of Wolverstone’s failings.
Although a decade Wolverstone’s junior, Royd and the man previously known as Dalziel had understood each other from their first meeting, much as kindred spirits. After Dalziel retired and succeeded to the title of the Duke of Wolverstone, he and Royd had remained in touch. Royd suspected he was one of Wolverstone’s principal contacts in keeping abreast of those intrigues most people in the realm knew nothing about.
Royd studied the brief lines suggesting that he sail his ship, The Corsair, currently bobbing on the waters beyond his window, to Southampton, to be provisioned and to hold ready to depart once news arrived from Freetown.
The implication was obvious. Wolverstone expected the news from Freetown—when it arrived courtesy of Royd’s youngest brother, Caleb—to be such as to require an urgent response. Namely, for Royd to depart for West Africa as soon as possible and, once there, to take whatever steps proved necessary to preserve king and country.
A commitment to preserving king and country being one of the traits Royd and Wolverstone shared.
Another was the instinctive ability to evaluate situations accurately. If Wolverstone was anxious—
“I need to see him.”
The voice, more than the words, had Royd raising his head.
“I’ll inquire—”
“And I need to see him now. Stand aside, Miss Featherstone.”
“But—”
“No buts. Excuse me.”
Royd heard the approaching tap of high heels striking the wooden floor. Given the tempo and the force behind each tap, he could readily envision his middle-aged secretary standing by the reception desk, wringing her hands.
Still, Gladys Featherstone was a local. She should know that Isobel Carmichael on a tear was a force of nature few could deflect.
Not even him.
He’d had the partition separating his inner sanctum from the outer office rebuilt so the glazed section ran from six feet above the floor—his eye level—to the ceiling; when seated at his desk, he preferred to be out of sight of all those who stopped by, thinking to waste the time of the operational head of the Frobisher Shipping Company. If callers couldn’t see him, they had to ask Gladys to check if he was in.
But he’d been standing, and Isobel was only a few inches shorter than he. Just as the glazed section allowed him a view of the peacock feather in her hat jerkily dipping with every purposeful step she took, from the other side of the outer office, she would have been able to see the top of his head.
Idly, he wondered what had so fired her temper. Idly, because he was perfectly certain he was about to find out.
In typical fashion, she flung open the door, then paused dramatically on the threshold, her dark gaze pinning him where he stood.
Just that one glance, that instinctive locking of their gazes, the intensity of the contact, was enough to make his gut clench and his cock stir.
Perhaps unsurprising, given their past. But now...
Nearly six feet tall, lithe and supple, with a wealth of blue-black hair—if freed, the silken locks would tumble in an unruly riot of large curls about her face, shoulders, and down her back, but today the mass was severely restrained in a knot on the top of her head—she stared at him through eyes the color of bittersweet chocolate set under finely arched black brows. Her face was a pale oval, her complexion flawless. Her lips were blush pink, lush and full, but were presently set in an uncompromising line. Unlike most well-bred ladies, she did not glide; her movements were purposeful, if not forceful, with the regal demeanor of an Amazon queen.
He dipped his head fractionally. “Isobel.” When she simply stared at him, he quirked a brow. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Isobel Carmichael stared at the man she’d told