Andrea Kane (4 page)

Rem’s methods were not always orthodox, but his results were infinitely satisfactory. His identity had never been discovered, and he and his men could triumphantly boast not merely success, but success employing Rem’s cardinal rule: to expose and punish the guilty while sparing the innocent. About this Rem was adamant, determined to ensure that while warfare was undiscriminating about the lives it claimed, his men would not be. And they had yet to disappoint him.

Yes, he’d achieved all he’d sought a decade ago.

The clock in the hallway struck two, interrupting Rem’s musings, reminding him of the lateness of the hour and the multitude of tasks that lay ahead.

He deposited his glass on the side table and rested his chin on his chest. Slowly, he inhaled, then exhaled, beginning a practiced breathing method he knew would swiftly relax his body and free his mind for all it needed to plan during the remaining hours of night.

He would depart for the docks at daybreak.

“Samantha, my little lamb! You’re drenched!”

“We were caught in that dreadful storm, Aunt Gertie,” Samantha replied, stifling a smile. If anyone resembled a lamb, she thought, hugging her elderly aunt, it was Gertrude, with her spindly legs, imploring brown eyes, and wiry white hair. Why, she could almost hear her aunt bleat.

“You brought … what?” Gertie cocked her head to one side in an attempt to make out Sammy’s words.

“Not
brought,
Aunt,” Sammy replied patiently, and loudly. “
Caught.
We were caught in the storm.”

Gertrude gave a grand shrug. “Fine, dear. I’ll have the servants fetch it.” She glanced expectantly around the quiet hallway, then jabbed a wrinkled finger in Smitty’s direction. “You, young man, kindly put down that mangy rat and bring in my great-niece’s belongings.”

“Aunt Gertie, that’s Smithers.” Were it not for the terribly offended look on Smitty’s face, Samantha would have exploded into laughter. Instead she hastily transferred her wriggling pup from Smitty’s arms to her own. “And this is my dog—Rascal. I assure you, he is very friendly and bears absolutely no resemblance to a rat when he is dry.”

“Rascal?” Gertrude scowled. “A rather odd name for a footman.”

“No, Aunt.” Sammy was practically bellowing. “Rascal is my
dog.
Although your error is understandable. You’re the second person tonight to mistake Rascal for a rodent.”

“Your
dog?
Then who is this man? I’m sure he wasn’t here before you arrived, so if he isn’t one of Allonshire’s footmen, what on earth is he doing here?”

Sammy leaned forward and seized her aunt’s hands. “Smithers is Drake’s valet; you’ve met him. And remember? Drake wrote and told you that Smithers would be accompanying me to London because—”

“Oh yes, yes, yes,” the old woman interrupted with an apologetic shake of her head. “The birth of my next great-great-nephew or niece is impending. I apologize, Smithers … I don’t know how I could have forgotten.”

“That’s quite all right, my lady.”

“Although why Drake would send his valet along as Samantha’s chaperon is beyond my comprehension. No offense intended, Smithers.”

“None taken, madame.”

“But after all, a valet for a young woman’s—”

“Smitty is much more than Drake’s valet, Aunt Gertie,” Samantha interceded at a shout. “He’s been with our family for years and years, and I regard him as an uncle, not a servant. Drake has the utmost trust in him, as do I.”

“Oh … I see. My apologies once again, Smithers. I do recall now that Drake wrote something of the kind in his letter.”

“I understand, my lady,” Smitty managed in clipped tones.

Gertrude sighed. “I seem to be becoming terribly absent-minded these days.”

“Fatigue, I’m certain.” Sammy cast a please-be-tolerant glance in Smitty’s direction. “I hope your visit here with us this Season won’t tire you out.”

“Oh, definitely not! I’m savoring the thought of introducing you to London society. Let me have a look at you.” Gertrude stepped back, scrutinizing Sammy with a satisfied lift of her creased lips. “Why, you’ve become a true beauty, Samantha! Drake never mentioned
that
in his letter!”

“I was quite gawky and shapeless until this past year. Drake probably hasn’t noticed the change, and continues to view me as his homely little sister.”

“Impossible!” Gertrude smoothed Sammy’s damp ebony tresses from her face, smiling into eyes the color of a velvet-green meadow. “Why, the gentlemen at Almack’s will be tripping each other in order to be the first to claim a dance with you.”

A mischievous smile touched Sammy’s lips. “Then I’ll be in luck. If all the gentlemen are sprawled in an undignified heap, they can never discover how graceless a dancer I am.”

“You don’t care for dancing?”

“Oh, I adore dancing … but it doesn’t return my affection. My last instructor told me that my movements much resemble those of a newborn colt.”

Gertrude gasped. “A boring dolt? Why, the audacity of that scoundrel. I assume your brother discharged him at once!”

From behind Sammy, Smitty gave a discreet cough, which sounded suspiciously like a stifled chuckle. “Pardon me, my lady,” he offered in as loud a voice as he could muster. “But I do believe Lady Samantha will catch a chill if she remains in her wet gown … ?”

“But of course!” Gertrude snapped to action at once. “I’ll send for Millie—she’ll be attending you during the Season, my dear. I brought her with me from Hampshire—a delightful young girl. The two of you will get on famously. I’ll advise the footmen—wherever they are—to bring a tub of hot water to your room. Oh, your room.” She looked about in bewilderment, then turned befuddled eyes to the second floor landing. “Do you remember where it is?”

“Yes, Aunt Gertrude; I remember. I spent last Season here with Alex and Drake.”

“Did you? Then why on earth didn’t your brother bring you out?”

“Drake thought seventeen was too young.” Sammy jumped quickly to her revered brother’s defense, despite the numerous arguments they’d had on this very subject. “Since Father’s death, Drake has taken on a rather paternal role with me … and, well, he tends to be a bit protective. But only because he loves me.”

“I see.”

Sammy wasn’t certain whether Gertrude saw or not, because her vapid look clearly indicated that her aunt hadn’t heard a word of her explanation.

“I’ll go to my chambers and await my bath,” Samantha said.

“Since you know which room is yours, why don’t you go up and await your bath?” Gertrude replied brightly.

“Good idea.” Ducking her head so Gertrude wouldn’t see her uncontainable grin, Sammy hastened up the stairway.

The room was as she remembered it; a deep rose with white frilly bedding and rich mahogany furniture. And the bath, which arrived shortly, did indeed feel wonderful.

“Ah, Rascal, this is going to be a splendid Season,” Sammy informed the white ball of fur, who was now curled lazily before the roaring fire, absorbed in the process of drying himself.

Smiling, Sammy sank into the tub, closing her eyes and leaning back against the smooth copper surface. “And I
am
looking forward to all the balls and parties and excitement. But I can’t help feeling a bit guilty about allowing Aunt Gertie to go to such trouble. After all, she’s quite old, deaf, and a bit feebleminded. Acting the part of my chaperon is bound to be an enormous drain on her. And it’s really quite unnecessary, given the circumstances. After all, my future is already decided for me.”

Dreamily, Sammy wrapped her arms around herself, ripples of water lapping up about her slender shoulders. “The Earl of Gresham,” she whispered reverently. “Remington Worth. It’s a glorious name, don’t you think Rascal?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Did you see his eyes—that incredible piercing gray? Did you feel his power—that authoritative strength he emanates?” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “He’ll be here tomorrow, Rascal. Here. I wonder if he’ll ask to call again the next day. No. He’s too polished, too experienced to act in so boorish a manner. He’ll most likely wait several days … then ask permission to call. Perhaps he’ll be my first partner at my first ball. Perhaps he’ll be my
only
partner at my first ball! Is that permitted? Or must he alternate with other gentlemen? Oh, how I wish Alexandria were here! Aunt Gertrude is hardly the one to consult on romantic matters … my books promise to be more informative than she.” The bright gleam of anticipation burned within Sammy’s eyes once again. “Ah, well. I suppose I’ll have to discover all there is to know about love on my own.” She grinned impishly. “Well … not entirely on my own. I’ll have the finest of instructors. Remington.”

T
HE SUN HAD NOT
shown itself, and a lingering fog hung over the muddy banks of the Thames, nearly concealing London Dock from view. The burly man hoisted his pants higher about his waist, shifting from one foot to the other and rubbing the back of his neck impatiently.

“The
River Run
won’t sail by here for … I’d say twenty minutes. You must be losing your touch, Johnson.”

The startled man whirled about, paling beneath his dirt-smeared face, his terrified eyes searching the murky bank for his detector.

A small orange glow caught his gaze, the burning cheroot a mere ten feet from where he stood. How could he not have heard its holder approach?

There was only one man deft enough to catch him so totally off guard.

“Gresham?” The question was a hopeful croak.

Rem dropped his cheroot to the mud and ground it under his heel. “As I said, the
River Run
won’t be arriving for”—he squinted thoughtfully downriver—“about a quarter hour. Last night’s storm will have delayed her at least that long.”

Johnson licked his lips. “Wha’ makes ye think I’m waitin’ fer—”

“The shipment of liquor and tobacco you intend to pilfer is even larger than anticipated. The question is, will you have time to take your greedy fill before you’re spotted? You see, I happen to know that the night watchman has unexpectedly decided to diverge from his customary route tonight. He should be strolling by this section of the river in about three-quarters of an hour, and I would hate to see him catch you in the act of piracy.” Rem shrugged carelessly, folding his arms across his chest. “Of course, the fog is heavy and the watchman’s vision is poor; he probably won’t even see you—unless, of course, someone ensures that he does.”

“What d’ye want, Gresham?”

“Your other choice, of course, is to abandon the idea of confiscating the
River Run’s
cargo and flee. Unfortunately, that wouldn’t help if the watchman were to know about that weasely little Tower Street fence you’re on your way to see … and why you need to see him. Why, a decent watchman would then be forced to search you, only to discover the”—Rem’s omniscient gaze swept Johnson’s bulky frame—“ten odd pieces of jewelry stashed in your shirt and pants.”

“Ye’re a bloody bastard, ye know that, Gresham?”

“I’ve been called worse.” A corner of Rem’s mouth lifted slightly. “Your decision?”

Johnson’s broad shoulders sagged. “As I said, what d’ye want?”

“A very small favor, actually.”

“Yer favors are never small, Gresham.”

“Neither are your crimes, Johnson.”

Silence.

“I need you to gather a few of your cronies—the more intelligent, observant, malleable ones—and keep a little vigil for me.”

“Wha’ kind of vigil?”

“The kind you’re best at—scrutinizing ships. Check for anything out of the ordinary: unusually light cargo, shipments or seamen that look odd or out-of-place … whatever your instincts warn you might be amiss. As for the men you select”—Rem stroked his chin thoughtfully—“I recommend that you start with Jarvers; an excellent choice. He’s got a sharp eye and an equally strong incentive. Should the magistrate learn of the opium shipment he smuggled off the
Traveler
last week, he’d be on his way to Newgate—and a hanging. Yes, I’d definitely call on Jarvers if I were you.”

“Nothin’ escapes ye, does it, Gresham? Ye know everthin’.”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t need your help.” Rem turned to go. “Cover the entire Thames. Quickly. Get your men and get busy. Boyd will be in touch at week’s end to hear of your findings.”

“What about the watchman?” Johnson called out fearfully.

“He’ll be diverted.” Rem never glanced back. “Oh, and Johnson, forget the
River Run
—the people of London need that cargo, and I hear Newgate is really a most unpleasant place to take up residence.”

Johnson cursed explicitly, spitting after Rem’s retreating figure.

He was particularly careful to make certain the earl was too far off to witness his actions.

“The carriage is as good as new.”

Boyd gestured toward the Barrett’s vehicle, scratching his unruly head of sandy hair.

“I owe you one, Boyd.” The refined nobleman in the tight black breeches, cutaway coat, and snow-white cravat bore little resemblance to the threatening rogue who’d returned from the Thames’s unsavory banks mere hours ago.

“The only thing you owe me is some information.” Boyd’s terse response contrasted directly and purposefully with his casual stance, a stance that was as deliberate as was their meeting. It ensured that anyone strolling through the crowded streets of Covent Gardens would see only a pair of close, if slightly mismatched, friends enjoying an amiable chat.

Their friendship was hardly a secret.

Their conversation was hardly a chat.

“I got Johnson.” Idly, Rem smoothed the collar of his coat. “He’ll serve us well. He’s contacting Jarvers and a few others. The docks will be covered.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Rem nodded. “I let him know you’d be checking on him at week’s end.”

“Fine.”

No more needed to be said. Excluding predawn hours when concealment was assured, the docks were Boyd’s undisputed turf. Heavily muscled, intentionally unkempt, a seaman turned tavern keeper, Boyd blended easily into the wharf’s riffraff. Rem was different—a respected naval captain, a feared adversary, a welcome drinking and gambling partner. But still, an earl.