Chapter Three

      Ledgers and lading papers might keep him out of the house, but they were not the most entertaining. Stepan pushed back from his desk at the dock warehouse and strode to the window, the room’s one amenity. Below him, the pier was bustling, his men sweating in the cold air as they hauled trunks of cargo from the hold to the warehouse where it would wait for wagons to take it to London. He’d been at the ledgers for hours now. He flexed his cramped hand. His body was begging for physical activity. Perhaps he’d go down and help with the hauling. That would give his muscles something to do.

      He’d just decided it when there was a soft, hesitant knock on his door. ‘Come!’ Stepan answered, watching the dark head of his clerk peer around the corner, still hesitant. Oliver Abernathy was a slim, timid young man, one of his rescued boys from London with a good head for numbers.

      ‘There are gentlemen to see you, milord.’

      Stepan glanced at the appointment diary lying open on his desk. ‘They do not have an appointment.’ Not that they needed one with Abernathy letting everyone who stopped by interrupt his work. The boy might be good with numbers, but he was a terrible gatekeeper.

      ‘One is a military officer, milord,’ Abernathy offered in protest as if being an officer came with the privilege to arrive unannounced.

      There seemed no getting around it. By now, the gentlemen would have concluded he was indeed in. ‘Very well, send them in.’ Stepan surveyed the austere office. ‘On second thought, I will come out.’ He took a last wistful look out of the window. He would not be hauling cargo today. He straightened his coat and went to take care of business.

      ‘Gentlemen! To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’ Stepan strode out of the office, all smiles and bonhomie, taking each man’s hand in turn with a firm grip. The one man in the blue coat of his station, Stepan knew: Carlton Turner, the customs officer. The other, dressed in a red coat, he did not. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Captain, is it?’ Stepan said, taking in the man’s uniform and noting the gorget. He noted other things, too, like the tight lines about the man’s mouth, giving it a harsh quality that matched the dark eyes. This was not a kind man. Was the harshness simply from the rigors of military life or something else, deeper? Darker?

      ‘Your Highness, may I introduce you to Captain Denning? Captain Denning, this is Prince Shevchenko, lately of Kuban. That’s his ship you’ve been admiring this morning.’ Turner made the necessary introductions. ‘Your Highness, the captain has been assigned to Shoreham on business and I wanted him to meet some of the key importers he’ll need to work with.’

      Stepan did not miss Turner’s deft positioning of the conversation and was immediately on alert. He didn’t mind Carlton Turner. Turner was a stuffy man, always a stickler for protocol, but reasonable beneath the fussiness. Stepan knew how to deal with him. As long as things were shipshape on the surface, Turner didn’t bother to probe deeper. But the man had been around a while; he knew the limitations of his authority. Captain Denning didn’t give the first impression of sharing that understanding.

      ‘I find business goes well with venison pie and ale this time of day,’ Stepan offered with a gesture towards the door. ‘May I invite you both to dine with me? It’s just past noon and I’m famished. The tavern up the street isn’t fancy, but the owner’s wife is a good cook.’ If circumstances were throwing him together with this Captain Denning, he needed to know more about this newcomer and decide if the captain posed a threat.

      Food meant small talk and a chance to size one another up. Stepan kept the captain talking through the flaky venison pie. The man was from Derbyshire in the East Midlands, the younger son of a baron. He’d served against Napoleon in his late teens. But those were just facts. Context was everything and Turner was providing it.

      Turner joined the conversation, clapping Denning on the shoulder. ‘He was relentless, keeping his troops on the field and holding ground against all odds in Spain.’ Turner’s tone suggested the comment was meant as an accolade, but the sharp glint in his eye when he met Stepan’s gaze suggested the remark was meant as more. A caution, perhaps? Until he knew otherwise, Stepan would take it as one. This was a man to whom the goal was all, the price of attaining the goal negligible.

      Denning was ambitious and desperately so. Military work was slow these days with no war to fight. Consequently, advancement was, too. There was little opportunity to prove oneself, yet Denning held on to his commission when others had given up and sold out. Here was a tenacious, canny man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.

      Stepan could have dealt with that. He understood officers, his friend Nikolay having been one in Kuban. But that was not the sum of Denning. The captain was more than determined. He was also cold. His determination sprang from ruthlessness, not relentlessness as Turner had couched it. The difference was there at the corners of his eyes where faint, early lines fanned out; there were lines, too, at the grooves at the sides of his mouth. This was an exacting man who drove those around him as hard as he drove himself. Perhaps an admirable quality in an officer on the battlefield, but a dangerous quality, as well.

      Another round of ale came and the plates were cleared. ‘Tell me how I can be of service to you, Captain.’ Stepan gave permission for the conversation to move towards business now that they’d eaten.

      ‘A complement of my men and I will be staying at the barracks on New Barn Lane in order to investigate reports of smuggling and act accordingly should anything be found.’ Denning sat back on the bench, leaning against the wall with satisfaction. ‘I hope you and the other upstanding importers in the area will join with us.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘It’s hardly fair that you pay a legitimate tax on your goods when others do not. Everyone should be accountable to the same rules and I am here to enforce that accountability.’

      Except when those taxes are unnecessarily high, Stepan thought.

      What wasn’t fair was the government placing high taxes on goods and making trade in them prohibitive to all but a small wealthy class who could afford the fees. That wasn’t free trade in his mind. Trade, the right to do business and make a livelihood should be open to all, not just the prosperous. Outwardly, Stepan gave a cordial smile. There would be time enough to alienate the captain, he thought wryly. ‘Enforce? That sounds like a very menacing word.’ He’d lived under a Tsar who’d also used that word, to his detriment. That Tsar was now dead, shot on the front lawn of his palace by his constituents.

      ‘Of course, compliance would be preferred,’ Turner broke in. ‘If you were to hear of anything, we’d want to know.’

      Stepan gave a neutral smile, aware the captain was watching him. ‘I’ll help in any way I am able.’ It was not entirely untrue. He would just not be very able.

      Then the captain fired his real salvo. ‘Good. If you see or hear of anything I should be aware of, send word to the barracks. I understand Shoreham is a popular landing point because of its access to the London roads. We will be redoubling land patrols, which I think is the best way to catch any activity, and we’ll continue to co-ordinate with the navy to patrol the coastline from the water. With luck, we’ll have the rotters cleared out by May.’ Enforce indeed. The captain was only a step away from martial law.

      ‘Best of luck with that, Captain,’ Stepan replied in all honesty. ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have ledgers calling my name.’ He made the polite noises of leaving and maintained a sense of affability until he was back in his office. Only then did he let his thoughts run over all he’d learned. The captain had an unenviable task, not only for himself, but for the town, as well. Shoreham would not respond positively to the