“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?”
“No.” Creighton paused. “Lords Crispin and Nathans now hold the Sea Bird’s papers. They bought her several weeks before you purchased this vessel.”
Crispin.
A strange, humming urgency threaded through Ben’s veins.
“Creighton, from whom did Lords Nathans and Crispin and our French friend in Calais purchase these vessels?”
Creighton tilted his head in an oddly wary gesture. “I thought you might already know, sir. It’s Lord Styles.”
The wind seemed not to stir. It could not be coincidence. Or perhaps coincidence only in so far as the community of traders wealthy enough to purchase a ship with cash was quite modest. Modest enough so he would never have connected Crispin and Styles if Octavia had not made him aware of Crispin’s troubles.
But perhaps he was looking for connections that did not exist. Crispin had kissed Octavia for Styles’s benefit, and the burr beneath the saddle had not been an accident. But how could Styles have committed arson or even blackmail yet he hadn’t an idea of it? Their friendship could not have been a lie. Not so many years of it.
“Creighton?” Ben’s voice sounded peculiar in his own ears. Tinny.
“Yes, sir?”
“How difficult was it for you to discover that Lord Styles once owned these vessels?”
“Extraordinarily, sir,” his secretary replied promptly. “The dockmaster’s registers were incomplete. I went on something of a scavenger hunt before I found trace of the original owner. I was obliged to grease a dozen sailors’ palms before I even knew where to start looking.”
“Were you surprised at this difficulty?”
“Yes, my lord. In fact I was. But—” He halted, obviously reluctant to continue.
“But what?”
“You said it yourself, my lord. A man has no need to protect himself from prying eyes when he has nothing to hide.”
“I will return later if I am able.” Ben did not hear his secretary’s response, or see the faces of the sailors he passed on his way to his horse. The morning was advancing. He had little time before Constance left home for the day on visits. And, as much as he wished only to see Octavia now, as much as he ached to bring the doubt-filled waiting to an end, he could not have this conversation in her presence.
At the Duke of Read’s town house he sent his card up and paced the receiving room until Constance appeared. Her eyes were red. She did not come to him, or extend her hand as usual.
“Did I wake you?”
“Heavens, no.” She pulled the bell rope, an unstable smile crossing her lips. “I was writing correspondence. I am not always a social butterfly.”
“I know that.”
“Of course you do, hypocrite.” She did not meet his gaze.
“Constance, I would like you to go home.”
Her eyes snapped up, strangely dull. “I drink a bit too much champagne at one party and you wish to exile me to Scotland?”
“I do not ask it because of last evening.”
“Papa is coming to town soon. I would be silly for me to make the journey then turn around and immediately return.”
“Then go elsewhere. Entertainments are thin now. Lady Fitzwarren may be willing to retire to her home at Stratford for the winter.”
“Lady Fitzwarren? Good heavens, why on earth would you wish to exile her too?”
“She merely came to mind. You seem to be in her company frequently of late.”
“I am in Octavia Pierce’s company frequently as well but I doubt you wish her gone from town.” Her slender brows knitted.
“Constance, listen to—”
“No. I will not go simply because you say so.”
“You are in danger.”
“I am not.”
Her reply came too swiftly. Ben moved toward her. She seemed to force lightness into her eyes, the glint in them unnatural.
“You are a thorough widgeon, Ben. I am quite content and not at all in any sort of distress.”
“I did not say distress. I said danger. And I did not realize that copious tears are evidence of happiness.”
“I was foxed.”
“Why?”
She turned away with a shrug. “Those gentlemen kept giving me champagne. They were enormously diverting.” Her voice sounded edgy, the Scots burr rather stronger now.