A Buccaneer At Heart. Stephanie Laurens
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she sanded the sheet, then sealed her missive, she debated her options.
She set aside the letter, then glanced at the small clock on the mantelpiece. Lips firming, she pushed back from the desk and walked to the low chest that served as a dressing table. In the mirror above it, she considered her reflection, then grimaced and started unpinning her hair.
As she did, she considered the image the clerks at the naval office had seen. A gently bred English rose with pale skin and roses in her cheeks. Her face was close to oval, her nose unremarkable, her forehead wide. Her bright hazel eyes were her best feature, large and fringed with long brown lashes and well set under finely arched brows; other ladies might have used them more, but she rarely thought of it. Her lips were well enough—pink and softly plump—but they were usually set in a firm if not uncompromising line above her distinctly determined chin.
Her hair was a pleasing but unusual and distinctive shade of copper brown. It normally fell in glossy waves, but at the moment, her tresses were frizzing almost as badly as Mrs. Hoyt’s in the unrelenting humidity.
With her pins removed, she wielded her hairbrush with grim determination. Eventually, she managed to rewind and refasten her hair in a passable chignon.
She put down the brush, twisted side to side examining her handiwork, then she nodded to herself in the mirror. “Good enough.”
Good enough to pay a call at the rectory.
She resettled her skirts of pale bone-colored cotton, then put the matching jacket on again, but in a concession to the heat, left it open over her neat white blouse. After sliding the cords of her reticule over her wrist, she picked up the letter and headed for the door.
From Mrs. Hoyt, she’d learned that the Anglican minister’s wife was a Mrs. Hardwicke, and that Mrs. Hardwicke could be found most mornings at the rectory. Aileen felt sure that the minister’s wife would know about the other priest’s services.
Pausing with her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. “There’s also the army officer, Dixon.” As far as she knew, Will had no friends in the army.
For a second, she debated—rectory or fort? Then she firmed her lips and opened the door.
She would post her letter and then call at the rectory.
One question at a time. Step by step, she would hunt Will down.
And then she would get him back.
* * *
Two days later, Aileen filed out of the rustic church in which the local priest, one Obo Undoto, conducted his services. Hemmed in between two other ladies, she was carried forth on the tide of the emerging congregation, which then spread across the dusty area before the church.
As matters had transpired, she hadn’t had to ask Mrs. Hardwicke for information; when she’d called at the rectory, she’d found a small gathering of ladies taking tea. At Mrs. Hardwicke’s invitation, she’d joined the group. After the introductions had been dealt with, the conversation had turned to events occurring in the settlement—and a Mrs. Hitchcock had mentioned that Undoto’s next service would be held at noon two days hence. Later, Aileen had left the rectory with Mrs. Hitchcock and had asked for directions to the church, which Mrs. Hitchcock had readily given, along with a recommendation that she would find the service diverting.
When Aileen had walked into the rectangular church just before noon, she’d had to hunt to find a seat; she’d been astonished by how full the church had been. People of all races and of a wide range of social classes had crammed the pews—Europeans of all nationalities primarily to the left, with local natives and others of the African nations mostly to the right.
Her surprise had lasted until she’d heard enough to appreciate the tenor of Undoto’s offering. In a voice full of thunder and brimstone, with a showman’s zeal, he delivered something more akin to a stage performance than a conventional religious experience. Given the dearth of entertainment she had by then noted in the settlement, the crowd packing the church wasn’t such a wonder. Anything to fill the boredom that many, of necessity, had to bear.
None of which explained why Will had attended. Most likely more than once. She knew beyond question that Undoto’s performance wouldn’t have appealed to her younger brother as a way to pass his time.
She’d spent the majority of the service surveying the congregation and everything else she could see, searching for some sign of what might have drawn Will to the place, but she’d seen nothing and gained no clue to that mystery.
As she slowly wended her way through the crowd now thronging the forecourt, she noticed an old man—a grizzled old tar if she’d ever seen one—ponderously stumping away from the church. He leaned heavily on his cane; he had lost one leg and had an old-fashioned wooden peg leg.
Instantly, Aileen knew who among all the congregation Will would most likely have approached. Her younger brother had always been fascinated with old tales of the sea.
She changed tack and went after the old man. As she drew level, she glanced at his face and discovered he was one-eyed, too. “Excuse me,” she said. “I wonder if I might speak with you.”
The old sailor glanced at her in surprise. But the instant he took in her face and her attire, he halted, politely raised his cap, and, planting his cane, half bowed. “Of course, miss.” His eyes crinkled at the outer edges as he set his cap back on his head. “Old Sampson at your service. Always happy to have a chat, although what a lady like you might want with an old sea dog like me, I can’t imagine.”
She smiled. “It’s quite simple, really. My brother was here”—with a wave, she indicated the church—“some months ago, and I’m quite sure he would have spoken with you. He’s mad for tales of seafaring, and you look like you could tell quite a few.”
The old sailor folded both hands over the head of his cane. “Aye.” He nodded. “You have that right. I’ve sailed all of the seven seas in my day. Ain’t nothing I like better than to remember those days. Rip roaring, they were. But what’s your brother’s name?” Before she could answer, he added, “I pride myself on learning the name to go with every face I see, at least among the Europeans.”
Excellent. Aileen’s smile brightened. “His name is William Hopkins. He’s a lieutenant currently serving with the squadron here.”
“Will Hopkins? Sure and I remember him. Interesting lad—keen to hear my stories.”
She beamed. “I was sure he would have asked.”
“So how can I help you?” Sampson arched his bushy brows. “Young Will hasn’t been by for some time, and truth to tell, I never did understand why he came. Lads like him can usually find enough to interest them in the settlement without resorting to Undoto’s histrionics.”
“I can imagine.” With three brothers, she certainly could. “But Will has disappeared, it seems, and I’m here to see if I can find any trace of where he might have gone, or why.” She saw a frown form in Sampson’s eyes. She tipped her head, regarding him more closely. “I gathered that Will came to more than one service.”
“Aye.” Sampson nodded, but his expression had grown absentminded, as if the news that Will had disappeared had triggered thoughts of something else. “He came three times.”
“Do you recall if he met with anyone after the service—perhaps some young lady? Or was he watching someone?”
Sampson shook his head and answered in a distracted fashion, “Not that I saw. And I sit on a stool in the back corner, so I see most things.”
With the obvious excuse discounted, Aileen concluded that Will’s purpose in attending the services—three of them—had to have been connected with his mission. Whatever that mission had been.
But how?
She raised her gaze to Sampson’s face, only to discover he’d refocused on her and was now regarding her with some concern. “What is it?” she asked.