In the Arms of a Marquess(76)

“Did he bring you here?” Marcus demanded.

“Let me past, Abha. This instant.”

“Marcus?” A voice came from the chamber behind the baron, inflected with cockney. It was light, like a girl’s. And trembling. “Who is it?”

Nausea swirled in Tavy’s midsection. Marcus’s brow was drawn, his eyes closed.

“Nothing to concern you, Tabitha.” He opened his eyes to Octavia, and his look pleaded. “I hope.”

Chapter 20

CARGO. The lading, or whole quantity of whatever species of merchandise a ship is freighted with.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

By the time Creighton arrived with the former quartermaster’s report from the Eastern Promise tucked beneath his arm, Ben had already spent hours aboard ship, lamp in hand, examining every crevice, plank, and coil of rope for imperfections. And clues. He found nothing except a perfectly ordered vessel ready to haul away as soon as its cargo came aboard.

“You’ve already done the inspection, my lord? Thank you, sir. I would have had to do it this afternoon after the loading, and what with the—”

Ben waved an impatient hand. Awake since before dawn, he had welcomed the distraction. He could not call upon Octavia this early, no matter his impatience.

“Show me the quartermaster’s report.”

“Yes, sir.” Creighton pulled the papers from his stack. “I’m sorry about not coming up with anything on that odd cache of hair, sir.”

“I am as well. But I’ve—” At the bottom of the page, a scrawl of ink arrested his gaze. “Creighton, I cannot clearly read the quartermaster’s name here. What is it?”

“Jonas Sheeble. I was about to mention that.”

“And what did you discover of him in my absence?” Ben said with calm he did not feel. His extended foray at Fellsbourne into inebriated self-pity rose thick in his throat. If not for it, he could have known this days ago.

“He’s a shady fellow, sir. Not much trusted around the docks, although quite well-to-do for a sailor.”

“He sailed with this vessel to the East Indies, and returned with it?”

“Yes sir. Several times before the owner offered her up for sale, it seems.”

“When, most recently?”

“She embarked nearly two years ago, made it to Madras and sailed right into Calais less than six months later, where our French contact purchased her.”

Ben’s gaze traveled across the deck he’d just studied so carefully, then to the hatchway to the hold. “Her cargo?”

“The usual. Printed cotton piece goods and tea imports. Woolen exports.”

“Only wool?”

Creighton nodded. “According to Sheeble’s report, the lading bill, and the port inspector’s document.” He drew the other papers from beneath his arm and proffered them to Ben.

“Has Sully checked in with you lately?”

“No, sir. He must not have found Lord Crispin yet.”

“Send him to me as soon as he does, wherever I am. At any hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ben’s gaze shifted to the gangplank. A sailor in tattered clothing hung about the dock end, his face dirt-smudged, casting glances up at them. Creighton moved across deck. In the lightening hours the docks had come alive with activity, sailors and workers moving amongst carts and onto berthed ships, hauling cargo and tending to their vessels.

“You there,” Creighton said across the gangway. “Have you business here?”

“Gots me a message for his lordship there,” the fellow grumbled and tugged his filthy cap brim.

Creighton held out his palm. “Give it over, man.”

The sailor plucked a square of paper from the brim of his cap and exchanged it for a coin, then scampered away. Creighton offered the missive to Ben. A single line crossed the scrap.

Take particular care of your loved ones.

The hand was bold and undisguised. Ben knew it as well as his own. Styles.

He stared at the scrawled line. Last night he had shown his hand, trying to force his old friend to tell the truth concerning the fire. Ben had not expected instant capitulation, but he had not expected threats either.

It smacked of guilt.

Guilt could drive a man to threats. But so could the fear of being revealed. Guilt for an accidental crime. Fear of being discovered for an intentional one.

Lady Fitzwarren’s warnings tugged at Ben. Styles had always been active in Parliament, and had been openly critical of Ben’s father’s politics. But political differences did not necessarily translate to assassination, and he had loved Jack like a brother. He could not have wanted Jack dead.

“My lord?” Creighton’s voice came to him as though through a tunnel.

“It is nothing,” Ben forced through his lips, folding the message and slipping it into his waistcoat pocket. Nothing but a threat meant to control him. If he pursued the matter of the fire any further, Styles would hurt Constance.

He moved toward the gangplank.

“My lord, I thought you would wish to know, this vessel partnered with another ship on its last voyage east, the Sea Bird. She is shortly to set to sea again.”

“To Madras?”

“Apparently, sir.”

“The original owner of this ship is the man who still owns the Sea Bird, I presume?”