The Daredevil Snared. Stephanie Laurens
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him.
All six women looked up. Mary met Katherine’s eyes.
After a moment of straining her ears, Katherine nodded. Mary slipped from her stool, went to the door, and carefully eased it open enough to look out.
There was a grin in her voice as she reported, “He’s swaggering off to the barracks.”
They never knew when a guard might look in on them—and never quite trusted in them leaving and not hovering, hoping to hear something incriminating to report to Dubois. But this one had, as most of them did, taken himself off.
After shutting the door, Mary returned to her stool and hopped up again. She looked at Katherine. “Any news?”
“I’ve decided to ask Dubois if we—one by one, one each day—can join Diccon on his forays. Just to break up our days.”
“Ooh!” Gemma grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
They fell to discussing the pros and cons and how best to present the argument to Dubois. Katherine glanced at Harriet, but as she had, Harriet chose not to mention the issue of opening up the second tunnel.
Time enough to broach that later, after the leaders’ discussion that evening, when, no doubt, they would learn the hard facts.
* * *
Charles Babington stood on the worn planks of Government Wharf. Lounging in the shadows cast by a stack of cotton bales offloaded from some other vessel, he watched the Macauley and Babington inspector and the port’s customs officer as they peered down into the open hatch of The Dutch Princess, a merchantman bound for Amsterdam.
Impatience rode him, edged with desperation. His intended, Mary Wilson, had vanished too many weeks ago, and there seemed nothing of any substance that he could actually do. Robert Frobisher had given him hope, but Frobisher had vanished and had surely returned to England long since. Whether Frobisher had succeeded in advancing his mission—which might just result in Mary being found and returned to Charles and her uncle—Charles did not know. Short of writing to Frobisher, there was no way Charles could see to learn more.
And he had no idea where Frobisher, or even his brother Declan Frobisher, actually lived. A letter to the Frobisher Shipping Company in London or Aberdeen might, eventually, reach Robert. Perhaps.
But Charles had volunteered to do what little he could to ensure no diamonds—or gold if that was what was being mined, but his and the Frobishers’ money was on diamonds—slipped out of Freetown in some ship’s hold. He had the ability to order searches of the cargo of any ship bound for England or for ports nearby on the Continent. Amsterdam, long the home of the world’s diamond trade, was just such a port, and so together with all other Amsterdam-or Rotterdam-bound vessels, The Dutch Princess’s cargo hold was being searched by a gang of excise men.
Charles’s presence was not required—indeed, he had no real business being there—but the sense of helplessness that dogged his every waking moment had driven him to the wharf—just in case.
Just in case the search party stumbled on a cache of uncut diamonds.
The captain, a burly man who looked more English than Dutch, stood by the side of the open hold, his massive arms crossed over his broad chest. He’d been watching the searchers, but as if he’d felt Charles’s gaze, he glanced at him.
After a moment of staring, the captain uncrossed his arms, spoke to the inspector, then made for the gangplank. He swung down to the wharf and strode toward Charles.
Charles didn’t straighten from his slouch.
The captain halted in front of him. “Babington, am I right?”
Charles inclined his head. “You have the advantage of me—I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
The captain showed his teeth. “I’m the captain of the ship you’re holding up.” He glanced back at the activity on his deck, then looked out over the harbor. “Not sure I’ll get out in time now.” He brought his gaze back to Charles’s face. “So what’s this search in aid of?”
Charles’s smile was thin. He met the man’s gaze with every evidence of boredom. “It’s just routine. Macauley sometimes gets bees in his bonnet, and nothing will do but that we have to go out and catch whatever beggars he imagines are violating our license.” The Macauley and Babington Company held the exclusive license to ship goods to England from Freetown.
The captain humphed. “Bloody nuisance is what it is.” He looked toward his ship.
Charles followed the man’s gaze and saw the inspector and the customs officer walking to the gangplank, the excise men falling in at their heels.
“Finally!” The captain glanced back at Charles. “So with your permission, I’ll be on my way.”
Charles hid a grimace and nodded. “Fair weather and good winds.”
The captain tipped him a cynical salute and tramped back to his ship.
Charles watched him go and wondered, not for the first time over the past month he’d been authorizing such searches, whether Frobisher’s information had been accurate. Whether there was an illicit diamond mine in operation, or if there was, whether it might be in a very different location and not shipping its stones out of Freetown at all. Thus far, not a single search had found even a whiff of contraband.
On the deck, the captain started calling orders. Sailors jumped to the wharf and cast off the ropes. Charles saw one of the crew approach the captain, but there was nothing more to be seen or done. Pushing away from the bales, Charles straightened. Staring at the worn planking, but not really seeing it—seeing instead Mary’s sweet face—he followed the inspector from the wharf and headed back to his office.
On the deck of The Dutch Princess, now a-flurry with preparations to set sail, the captain glanced over his shoulder. He watched Babington leave the wharf, then turned with a snort.
His first mate halted beside him. “So what was that about? Anything we need to be concerned over?”
The captain hesitated, then said, “Babington made out it was just routine, but I’m not sure I buy that, not with himself being here to watch.”
The mate rocked on his heels. “Do you think they know?”
“Nope. If they did, we’d be in more trouble.” The captain glanced around, but there appeared to be no one watching them. “Not that hard to send a cutter to keep an eye on us, but I doubt they will. Keep an eye peeled, just in case.”
“Aye, aye.” The first mate debated, then asked, “So we’re still going for the pickup?”
“We most certainly are. We’ll take her out and across to the north shore. Give it a few hours for the tide to swing, and to make certain no one’s got their eye on us, then we’ll head down the estuary.”
The first mate nodded and pulled on his long nose. “Always wondered why they set it up for us to pick up the goods on our way out, given we have to turn to do it.” The mate grinned. “Guess I understand now.”
The captain grunted and headed for his wheel.
Minutes later, The Dutch Princess eased from her moorings and sailed out of Freetown harbor.
CHAPTER 3
Caleb paused to pull the neckerchief from about his throat and wipe the sweat from his brow. This was the second day of their trek along the path leading—originally, at least—north from Kale’s camp. They’d followed the well-trodden path more or less north for most of yesterday, but in the last hours before they’d halted for the night, the track had veered to the east.
Today, the path had started to climb while angling more definitely eastward. And they’d started to come upon crude traps. Phillipe had been in the lead when they’d approached the first; he’d spotted it—a simple pit—and they’d tramped around