The Lady's Command

He saw nothing in that suggestion with which he wished to argue. Halting on the parlor’s threshold, he smiled into her wide blue eyes. “A quiet evening spent with you would definitely be my preference.”

Her smile blossomed with open delight. She stretched up on her toes, and when he dutifully bent his head, she touched her lips to his.

He locked his hands behind his back to rein in the impulse to catch her to him and prolong the caress; aside from all else, both Humphrey and the footman were within sight.

If the commiserating quality of her smile as she drew back was any guide, she’d nevertheless sensed his response; while the look in her eyes suggested she shared the temptation, her expression also stated that she approved of his control. She lightly patted his chest, then turned away. With an insouciant wave, she headed for the stairs.

He remained where he was and watched her go up. Once she’d passed out of the gallery in the direction of their room, he reached into his pocket and drew out the folded note that had been burning a hole there. His smile faded as he reread the simple lines of the summons. They told him little more than that he was expected at the Ripley Building as soon as he could get there.

Glancing up, he saw Humphrey waiting by the side of the hall. “My hat and coat, Humphrey.”

“At once, sir.”

As Humphrey helped him into his greatcoat, Declan reflected that his summoner wasn’t a man it was wise to keep waiting. Seconds later, his hat on his head, he walked out and down the steps. Lengthening his stride, he headed for Whitehall.

* * *

From Whitehall, Declan turned into the Ripley Building. When he presented himself to the sergeant on duty, he wasn’t surprised to be directed into Admiralty House. He was, however, surprised to be directed not downward to some undistinguished office on the lower level but upstairs to the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Then again, the war was long over, and as far as Declan knew, the gentleman who had summoned him was no longer actively engaged in managing their country’s defenses; presumably, he no longer maintained an official office to which to summon his minions.

A harried-looking secretary asked Declan’s name; on being supplied with it, the man immediately escorted him to an ornate door. The secretary tapped, then opened the door, looked in, and murmured something; he listened, then speaking more loudly, he announced Declan, stepped back, and waved him through.

Very much wondering into what he was strolling, Declan walked into the room.

As the door closed silently behind him, he scanned the chamber. Two men waited for him.

The Duke of Wolverstone—Declan’s summoner—had been standing by the window looking out over the parade grounds. He’d acceded to the title of duke shortly after the war, but Declan still thought of him as Dalziel, the name he’d used throughout the years he’d managed the Crown’s covert operatives on foreign soil—and on the high seas. As Declan walked forward, Wolverstone turned and came to greet him.

If becoming the duke, marrying, and having several children had in any way blunted Dalziel’s—Wolverstone’s—lethal edge, Declan couldn’t see it. The man still moved with the same predatory grace, and the power of his personality had abated not one jot.

Declan glanced at the only other occupant of the large room—Viscount Melville, current First Lord. Declan recognized him, but they hadn’t previously met. A heavy-boned, slightly rotund gentleman with a round face, a florid complexion, and the dyspeptic mien of a man who liked order but who was forced to deal with the generally disordered, Melville remained seated behind his desk, fussily gathering the papers on which he’d been working and piling them to one side of his blotter.

Literally clearing his desk.

The sight, indicating as it did Melville’s interest in meeting with him, did not fill Declan with joy. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon. His brothers and cousins had worked to clear his schedule.

Unfortunately, it appeared that the Crown had other ideas.

“Frobisher.” Wolverstone held out his hand. When Declan grasped it, Wolverstone said, “I—we—apologize for dragging you away from your new wife’s side. However, the need is urgent. So urgent that we cannot wait for any other of your family to reach London and take this mission.” Wolverstone released Declan’s hand and waved him to one of the pair of chairs angled before Melville’s desk. “Sit, and his lordship and I will explain.”

Although Declan had been too young to captain a ship during the late wars, through the closing years of the conflict he’d sailed as lieutenant to his father or one of his uncles, and had experienced firsthand, as had his brothers and cousins—those currently engaged in the other side of the business—the workings of the largely unwritten contract that existed between the Crown and the Frobishers. Alongside straightforward shipping, their ancestors had been privateers; in reality, those sailing for the other arm of the company still operated as privateers—the company’s Letters of Marque were active and had never been rescinded. In return for the company continuing, on request, to provide certain specialized and usually secret services to the Crown, Frobisher and Sons enjoyed the cachet of being the preferred company for the lucrative shipping contracts the government controlled.

The symbiotic link between the Frobishers and the Crown had existed for centuries. Whatever the request Wolverstone had summoned Declan to Melville’s office to hear, there was not the slightest question that Frobisher and Sons would, in one way or another, oblige.

Exactly how they responded, however, was up to them—and, it seemed, in this instance, the decision was in Declan’s hands.

He subsided into one chair. Wolverstone sat in the other.

“Thank you for answering our call, Mr. Frobisher.” Melville exchanged nods with Declan, then looked at Wolverstone. “I haven’t previously had reason to invoke the Crown’s privilege and call on your family for assistance. However, Wolverstone here assures me that, in this matter, asking Frobisher and Sons for help is our best way forward.” Melville’s brown eyes returned to Declan’s face. “As His Grace is more experienced than I in relating the facts of such matters, I will ask him to explain.”

Declan looked at Wolverstone and faintly arched a brow.

Wolverstone met his eyes. “I was at home in Northumberland when word of this problem reached me.” Declan was aware that Wolverstone’s principal seat lay just south of the Scottish border. Wolverstone continued, “I immediately sent word to Aberdeen. Royd replied, reluctantly naming you as the only Frobisher available. He wrote that he was dispatching your ship, The Cormorant, with a full complement of crew south at the same time as he sent his reply. Your ship should be waiting for you at the company berth in Southampton by the time you’re ready to leave.” Wolverstone paused, then said, “Again, let me offer our—and your family’s—regrets over disrupting your honeymoon. Royd, I believe, would have answered our call himself, but your father and mother have left on a trip to Dublin and are not available to take the company’s helm.”

Declan recalled his mother mentioning the trip.

“Robert, meanwhile, has recently set sail for New York and is not expected back for some weeks—and, as mentioned, our matter is urgent. Likewise, none of the others are immediately available”—Wolverstone’s lips twisted wryly—“while courtesy of your honeymoon, you are already here, on our doorstep in London.”

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Declan inclined his head.

“Royd also wrote that, as the mission involves our West African settlements, you are unquestionably the best man for the job.”

Declan widened his eyes. “West Africa?”

Wolverstone nodded. “I gather you’re familiar with the ports along that coast and have also gone inland in several locations.”

Declan held Wolverstone’s gaze. Royd might have mentioned Declan’s knowledge of the region, but his eldest brother wouldn’t have revealed any details, and Declan saw no reason to regale Wolverstone, of all men, with such facts. “Indeed.” In order to avoid further probing, he added, “Royd’s right. Assuming you want something or someone found in that area, I’m your best hope.”

Wolverstone’s lips curved slightly—he was far too perceptive for Declan’s peace of mind—but he obliged and moved on. “In this case, it’s information we need you to find.”

Leaning over his desk, Melville earnestly interjected, “Find—and bring back to us.”

Wolverstone flicked the First Lord a faintly chiding glance, then returned his dark gaze to Declan’s face. He imperturbably continued, “The situation is this. As you no doubt know, while Freetown is presently the base for the navy’s West Africa Squadron, we also have a sizeable detachment of army personnel stationed at Fort Thornton, in support of the governor-in-chief of the region, who is quartered there.”

“The governor’s currently Holbrook.” Melville caught Declan’s eye. “Do you know him?”

“Not well. I’ve met him once, but not recently.”

“As it happens, that’s advantageous.” Wolverstone went on, “An army engineer from the corps at Fort Thornton disappeared four months ago. As far as we’ve been able to learn, Captain Dixon simply vanished—he was there one day and not the next. Apparently, none of his colleagues have any idea of where he might have gone or that he’d been planning any excursion. Although relatively young, Dixon was an experienced engineer and well regarded. He was also from a family with connections in the navy. At those connections’ request, Melville authorized a lieutenant from the West Africa Squadron to investigate.”

Wolverstone paused; his gaze held Declan’s. “The lieutenant disappeared—simply vanished—too.”

“Bally nonsense,” Melville growled. “I know Hopkins—he wouldn’t have gone absent without leave.”

“Indeed.” Wolverstone inclined his head. “From what I know of the Hopkins family, I would agree. Subsequently, Melville sent in another lieutenant, Fanshawe, a man with more experience of investigations and the local region. He, too, vanished without trace.”

“At that point,” Melville stated rather glumly, “I asked for Wolverstone’s advice.”

Without reaction, Wolverstone continued, “I suggested a gentleman by the name of Hillsythe be sent to Freetown as an attaché to the governor’s office. Hillsythe is in his late twenties and had worked for me previously in covert operations. His experience is sound. He knew what he had to do, and, once there, he would have known how to go about it.” Wolverstone paused, then, his voice quieter, said, “Hillsythe has disappeared, too. As far as we can judge, about a week after he’d arrived in the settlement.”

Declan absorbed what it said of the situation that one of Wolverstone’s own had vanished. Imagining what might be going on, he frowned. “What does the governor—Holbrook—have to say about this? And the commander at Thornton, as well. Who is that, incidentally?”

“A Major Eldridge is the commanding officer at Thornton. With respect to Dixon, he’s as baffled as we are. As for Holbrook…” Wolverstone exchanged a glance with Melville. “Holbrook appears to believe the, for want of a better term, local scuttlebutt—that people who vanish in that manner have, and I quote, ‘gone into the jungle to seek their fortune.’” Wolverstone’s gaze locked on Declan’s face. “As you are someone who, if I’m reading between Royd’s lines correctly, has walked into those same jungles in search of fortunes, I’m curious as to what your opinion of Holbrook’s assessment might be.”

Declan returned Wolverstone’s steady regard while he considered how best to reply. Given he would be contradicting the stated opinion of a governor, he chose his words with care. “As you say, I’ve been into those jungles. No man in his right mind would simply walk into them. The roads are mere tracks at best and are often overgrown. Villages are primitive and few and far between. The terrain is difficult, and the jungles are dense and, in many places, impenetrable. While water is, in general, plentiful, it may not be potable. It’s entirely possible, if not likely, that you will meet hostile natives.” He paused, then concluded, “In short, any European venturing beyond the fringes of a settlement would need to gather a small company, with significant supplies as well as the right sort of equipment, and assembling all that isn’t something that can be done without people noticing.”

Melville humphed. “You’ve just confirmed what Wolverstone’s been telling me. That we—meaning the Crown—can’t trust Holbrook, which means we can’t trust anyone presently on the ground in Freetown.” Melville paused, then grimaced and looked at Wolverstone. “We probably shouldn’t trust anyone in the fleet, either.”

Wolverstone inclined his head. “I believe it would be wise not to do so.”