A Thoroughly Compromised Lady. Bronwyn Scott
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‘Goodnight, Gladstone.’
He slammed the coach door and sank back against the squabs, less sanguine than he’d let on. This was dicey business with the Venezuelan delegation. Negotiations of this nature were always very covert, hardly ever making the public news, but that didn’t make them less dangerous. Usually, they were more so. Without the check and balance of being in the public eye, there were no rules to govern them. Still, it would be business as usual if Dulci wasn’t involved. But she was—placed right at the centre of the storm because of her connection to the three men most intrinsically concerned. There was going to be trouble. He could feel it in his bones.
Dulci Wycroft firmly believed trouble found you when you least expected it. She had an antidote for that: she expected trouble.
Always.
She’d learned early that collecting artefacts wasn’t exactly an old maid’s safe hobby. Not that she thought of herself as an old maid, although she’d reached the august age of twenty-six, trailing a string of six refusals of marriage behind her. Nor was she looking for safe.
If she was, she wouldn’t be here, or a lot of the other places she’d been. Her hand flexed and closed around the small gun in her pocket, her sharp eyes alert to any suspicious movements in the dim interior of the dockside warehouse. Warehouses in the dock districts were not foreign venues to her. But this one, set in a rough part of Southwark, was by far the worst.
She’d been glad she’d decided to bring her own unmarked coach instead of relying on public hansom cabs. She’d noticed that the deeper into the area she’d journeyed the presence of cabs had dried up, a sure testimony to the unsavoury nature of the environs, the noise and comparable respectability of Hays Wharf far behind them.
A man moved from the shadows. Dulci tensed and then relaxed. She might not completely trust this man, but she knew him. He was her reason for being here in these rather questionable surroundings.
He strode forwards, well-dressed and olive skinned. ‘Señorita, buenos días!’ he effused, lavishly bowing over her hand, too lavishly. Sweat lightly beaded his upper lip and Dulci noted immediately that the lavish gesture was a mask for the man’s anxiety. The usual self-confidence the man possessed seemed oddly absent today.
Dulci withdrew her hand as soon as it was politely possible, her tones haughty and clipped. ‘Señor Vasquez, let us dispense with the pleasantries. What do you have for me that is so urgent it could not wait out the afternoon?’ Señor Vasquez’s note had ruled out the chance to catch the Royal Geographic Society’s lecture on the West Indies in its entirety, but with luck she might still make the last part.
‘I have artefacts from the Americas.’ He gestured towards an opened crate, but Dulci didn’t miss the quick dart of his eyes.
‘Are you expecting anyone else, señor?’ Dulci asked keenly, her own eyes conducting a quick investigation of the warehouse too.
‘I have many appointments, señorita. I merely wish you to see these items privately. They’re from Venezuela, your latest area of interest.’
‘Really?’ Dulci replied coolly, raising her eyebrows a fraction of an inch to indicate only mild appreciation. A display of unabashed delight would only serve to increase Señor Vasquez’s price.
Dulci reached into the crate with one hand, parting the straw packing with one gloved hand. The other hand cautiously remained in her pocket, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on Señor Vasquez. Her hand met with stone and she pulled out a carved statue. Vasquez did indeed know her interests well.
‘It’s a zemi.’ Dulci fought hard to keep the rising excitement out of her voice, studying the object reverently in the poor light. The idol was devoid of any garments and the stone carving indicated breasts and a rounded belly. ‘It’s an idol of a native god, or goddess in this case. Unless I am completely mistaken, this is a fertility fetish.’ She stared at him in stark contemplation, oblivious to his discomfort at such frank discussion. ‘Did this come with a—?’
‘A bowl?’ Vasquez finished for her. ‘But of course, señorita.’ His eyes flashed with a mocking chagrin. ‘I would not give you only part of a set.’
Dulci set down the carving and with both hands delved beneath the straw packing. She felt the shallow dip of a bowl. ‘Yes, there it is.’ She withdrew a stone bowl and set it in place. ‘There, Señor Vasquez, you can see how it all goes together. The idols are flat headed so that a stone bowl can be placed on top of their heads for worship.’
‘Buena, señorita. Name a price, and it shall be yours.’
He seemed far too eager to get rid of her after the demanding note requiring an immediate meeting.
‘I would prefer to see the rest of the contents,’ Dulci said, proceeding to empty the crate and offering an exposition on each piece she extracted. ‘This is likely to be an amulet, this would be a metate, they used it for grinding seeds…’ She spoke absently, more to herself than for the edification of Señor Vasquez.
Dulci dusted off her hands and surveyed the artefacts, seven in all. She was cognisant of the fact that Señor Vasquez had checked his watch twice while she’d unloaded the crate. He was clearly expecting someone else, or perhaps hoping to avoid the expected visitor. The collection was certainly splendid, but, while it was exciting to her, she had not forgot the urgency of Vasquez’s summons. ‘Is this everything?’
‘All but this final item.’ Vasquez handed her a worn leather book the size of a journal.
She eyed him speculatively. ‘Saving the best for last?’
Vasquez placed a hand over his heart. ‘I seek only to please you, señorita. I know how much you like to read. Look here, there’s even a few maps, very detailed.’
Dulci thumbed the pages, noting the drawings of strange plants and places. ‘An explorer’s journal? Perhaps a missionary’s log?’ Dulci asked. It was written in English and she immediately thought of Jack. The journal would make a fine gift for him, a remembrance of his own work in that region a few years back. Not that he deserved such a gift after last night, she reminded herself.
‘I can only guess, señorita. My English is not good enough for reading,’ Vasquez hedged. ‘I am a mere importer.’
Dulci was instantly suspicious. There was nothing ‘mere’ about Vasquez. The Spaniard was rich, his wealth made from the lucre of Spanish interests in South America. ‘How did you come by this book?’
Vasquez shrugged gallantly. ‘It was in the same crate as the statue. It was on the last ship. I unpacked it and thought of you, that is all.’
Nothing was ever that straightforward. When it was, it was time to start asking the hard questions. ‘Are the artefacts stolen?’ Dulci cocked her head to one side in an assessing tilt. She’d done business with Vasquez before. He’d proven to be a reliable contact, visiting London twice a year from Spain. Still, something didn’t seem quite right.
‘Of course not, I am a legitimate importer. Such chicanery would damage my reputation,’ Vasquez argued, putting on an offended air at the suggestion.
‘If they’re not stolen, then why the urgency? We had an appointment tomorrow morning. What difference can a day make?’
‘Ah, yes, señorita, please forgive me for worrying you. I must leave for home on the morning tide instead of leaving later in the week as I had planned. It is a personal matter. I did not want to leave without meeting with you.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘There are others who were interested in the artefacts. I am to meet with them tonight. But I confess I wanted you to have first pick.’
Dulci nodded, her concern ebbing slightly in the wake of his explanation. The man was a consummate salesman. No doubt he’d arranged all this to increase his price. Urgency was a well-proven ploy for adding spice to a negotiation. ‘I’ll pay one hundred pounds for the crate and the journal.’
‘One