A Buccaneer At Heart. Stephanie Laurens
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Robert grimaced; the last thing he needed was a gently bred but determined female complicating his simple and straightforward mission. “Do you have any idea where she’s staying?”
“Not precisely. She’ll be up on Tower Hill somewhere, would be my guess.”
“What did she look like?” It was Benson who asked.
Sampson took a moment, plainly calling up a picture in his mind. “Brassy-brown hair—sort of bright brown and glossy, not dark. Hazel eyes. Average height. Good figure, but well laced. Very English looking, and if I had to guess, used to getting her own way. Wouldn’t say spirited so much as forceful.”
Unease trailed tauntingly down Robert’s spine. Damn! He was going to have to act to effectively deflect the woman. He couldn’t risk her popping up at some crucial moment and interfering with his mission. More, if she was Hopkins’s sister, then given his acquaintance with her older brothers, he should definitely do his best to send her packing all the way back to England.
Sampson humphed. “I made it clear she was dabbling in dangerous waters, and while she listened, I’m damned sure she’s not going to pay my warning much heed.”
For a moment, all were silent. Sipping the last of his ale, Robert considered what would have brought a lady like Miss Hopkins all the way to Freetown. Sibling devotion, clearly, but it would have to be strong to have driven a gently bred lady to take ship and brave the dangers of a place like Freetown, a settlement on the outer fringes of civilization. That Hopkins’s sister was in the settlement at all, let alone determinedly asking questions, argued that convincing her to meekly step back, return to England, and leave the investigating to him wasn’t going to be any easy task.
That she’d found her way to Undoto’s services and Sampson—and it sounded as if she was concentrating her efforts around Undoto and his church—suggested she was intelligent, too.
Robert drained his mug. He would need to remove the lady from the situation, and soon. Before matters became any more complicated.
He set his mug on the table and glanced at his men, then looked at Sampson. “I need to speak with the vodun priestess, Lashoria. My brother told me she lives in the slum on the hillside to the east of here—is that still the case?”
Sampson nodded. “Far as I know.” He drained his mug.
“There’s a gentleman by the name of Babington—Charles Babington. I’ll probably need to speak with him, too. Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s the one that’s Macauley’s junior partner, aye?” When Robert nodded, Sampson said, “That’s easy, then. He lives in the apartment above the company’s office. On Water Street, that is. You can’t miss it.”
Robert nodded. He’d noted the Macauley and Babington office during their walk the previous night.
He’d call on Lashoria that evening and decide what he wanted to do about Babington after that.
He refocused on Sampson. All the men had finished their ales. “Our landlady mentioned that Undoto is holding one of his spectacles at noon today.”
“Aye.” Sampson nodded his shaggy head. “I planned on heading up there about now.”
“Do you mind if we join you?”
“Not at all.” Sampson grasped his cane and levered himself to his feet. He beamed at Robert and his men. “Glad of the company.”
They rose and left the tavern. Robert waved his men ahead and adjusted his pace to Sampson’s halting one. Robert looked about him as in companionable silence they progressed slowly up the hill.
He doubted he needed to ask Sampson to point out the notables in the congregation; if Robert was any judge, the old man thoroughly enjoyed having his knowledge plumbed, his observational skills put to use.
But when they halted at the edge of the forecourt before what was obviously the church, Robert murmured, “If you see Hopkins’s sister...”
Sampson nodded. “I’ll point her out.” He surveyed the people streaming toward the open doors. “Can’t see her, but she might already be inside.” With his cane, he waved toward the door. “Let’s go in.”
The forecourt stretched across the front of the rectangular church and extended down both sides, wider to the left than the right. To the left, several benches sat beneath a row of trees large enough to cast some shade. Carriages were drawn up in a long line opposite the front façade; ladies and gentlemen descended and strolled across the forecourt to the doors, most smiling and chatting, nodding to each other as if they were attending a social event.
As they walked forward and Robert refocused his attention on the church itself, a frisson of awareness—the sort of awareness he recognized very well—swept tantalizingly across his senses.
Glancing around, he looked back at the carriages. Most were simply black. Dusty, anonymous, and unremarkable.
Anyone could be sitting inside one and looking out.
It was hardly the first time he’d been the recipient of an assessing glance. If the lady had noticed his reaction, she probably wouldn’t show herself until after he’d gone inside.
Mentally shrugging—he certainly wouldn’t have time to follow it up, distractions of that ilk being indisputably the very last thing he needed—he returned his attention to those before him.
As they joined the throng streaming inside, Sampson added, “I hope you’ll be able to make the lady see sense.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Robert hadn’t expected to have to use his diplomatic talents on this mission, but he could be very persuasive when he wished.
Curious, he looked around as they moved into the church, noting the disposition of people to cluster in their own groups. His men had gone in ahead of him and Sampson and had sat in the last pew. Robert followed Sampson to a stool in the rear left corner.
The old man settled on the stool, his peg leg braced at a comfortable angle. Then he surveyed those seated.
Robert remained standing, leaning against the wall as several other men had elected to do.
Sampson grunted. “I can’t see her. She’s not here yet.”
His gaze sweeping the room, Robert shrugged. “Let me know when you spot her.”
As soon as he got a bead on her, he intended to seize the first chance that offered to warn her away from the investigation—and he was prepared to be a great deal more definite and effective than Sampson had been.
He had no intention whatever of allowing anyone—male or female—to interfere with his mission. For once, he had a mission whose path was blissfully clear and defined—learn the location of the slavers’ camp, then race the information back to London. The lady might be determined, but so was he; he was determined to allow nothing to get in the way of him finishing this mission in the shortest amount of time.
He wanted it done so he could put it behind him and concentrate on following the lure that, increasingly, drew him.
The need for a hearth. The need for a home. The need for a wife who would be his anchor.
* * *
Aileen leaned back against the squabs of her hired carriage as the last stragglers made their way into the church.
She’d debated joining the congregation, but she couldn’t imagine that she would see or learn anything she hadn’t already by subjecting herself yet again to Undoto’s version of fire and brimstone. Much better to sit and conserve her energies. She’d rolled up the flaps on the carriage windows, and a breeze as faint as an exhalation stirred wisps of hair at her nape.
Her strategy had already yielded one piece of information—the direction from which Undoto approached the church. After leaving Mrs. Hoyt’s, she’d walked down to Water