Samantha Page 2

  Gresham cocked a brow. "Again, I beg your forgiveness, my lady. I did not mean to offend your pet."

  Glancing at Rascal, Sammy's lips curved upward. "He does look a bit like a mouse," she admitted. "He's only three months old and still very tiny. But he'll grow to be hale and hardy."

  "A veritable tiger, I'm certain." The earl's smile was infectious.

  "I've read of you, my lord," Sammy blurted out.

  "Have you? And what did your sources tell you?"

  "That you're a hero; a brilliant leader—fearless and undefeated. You're also a terrible rogue, breaking hearts throughout England, leaving ruined women in your wake."

  Gresham threw back his head and laughed. "So I'm both saint and sinner, am I?"

  "So I've read."

  "Tell me, imp," he touched his forefinger to the tip of her nose, "do you believe everything you read?"

  "Only those things that are true." Her gaze fell on his strong, tanned finger. "And those things I will to be true."

  "You're quite the romantic, are you not?"

  "Quite." She licked raindrops from her lips.

  Gresham watched the motion, his expression unreadable. Abruptly, he seized her arm, guiding her into the carriage. "We might as well amass things in here where it's dry. What else must go with you tonight?" He paused, staring amazedly at the stacks of books piled on the carriage seat. "What on earth . . . ?"

  "My books." Sammy scooted past him, holding Rascal against her with one hand and gathering the novels with the other. "I must take them with me."

  "Do you plan to read them all tonight?"

  "No, but I don't know which ones I will read. So I cannot leave any behind. We can forfeit my clothing and other personal items. I'll make due with whatever Aunt Gertrude has at the Town house. But I must have my books."

  Gresham shook his head. "You are astonishing. All right, imp. The books go with you." He began to gather them. "Who is Aunt Gertrude?"

  "She's actually my great-aunt on my father's side," Sammy told him, stroking a volume of her newest Gothic romance. "Aunt Gertie is quite old, entirely deaf, and, if you ask me, a bit eccentric. However, given that Alexandria is very much with child, Aunt Gertrude will be my official chaperon this Season."

  "Alexandria. Yes, I've met your brother's wife at several house parties. She's a beautiful woman."

  "She's wonderful," Sammy answered fervently. "She's the best thing that ever happened to Drake. But then, love always is."

  "Quite

  the romantic." Gresham regarded Samantha soberly, an odd light in his eyes. "I envy you, imp. For you, the world is still a resplendent place, beckoning you forward to experience all its wonder." A fleeting sadness grazed his handsome features, vanishing as quickly as it had come. '"Revel in it, little innocent. . . but be cautious. Disenchantment is inevitable, and Ofttimes painful." "You'll protect me." The words were out before Sammy could censor them, and a bright flush stained her cheeks as the earl reacted with a start.

  "I?" He looked astounded, his heartstopping gaze sweeping over her. His smile, though faint, clearly revealed that he'd missed none of her untutored reaction. Leaning forward, he brushed his knuckles across her hot cheek. "That's the loveliest compliment I've ever received. But I'm hardly the one to ensure your safety. As you yourself pointed out, I'm less than reputable when it comes to women."

  "Will you be staying in London for the Season?"

  "Now and again, yes."

  "Good." Relief flowed through her in a rush. "Then I—and Aunt Gertrude, of course—can expect to see you at an occasional ball?"

  He chuckled. "You can. You can also expect to see me tomorrow when I come to collect my carriage and to return yours."

  "Our Town house is number Fifteen Abingdon Street," Sammy replied swiftly. "I'll be home settling in most of the day. Sometime after lunch I hope to convince Aunt Gertie to accompany me to Hatchard's so that I might purchase a few new titles."

  Gresham gestured at the piles of books surrounding them. "These aren't enough?"

  "Oh, no, I'll have read and reread these in a fortnight. Besides, I've heard glowing praise for Mansfield Park and I must have it."

  "Of course." The earl leaned back, folding his arms across his broad chest. "Very well, my persistent lady. I'll make certain to arrive prior to four o'clock. How would that be?"

  "That would be perfect." Sammy's eyes sparkled.

  "Good. Now that we've settled on a time, do you think we might collect your treasures so that you, Smithers, and your regal pet can be on your way?"

  Sammy nodded, silently berating herself for sounding too eager. She had to learn to be coy, sophisticated. After all, Remington Worth was a worldly man, one who had known countless women.

  Lowering her eyes, Samantha carefully gathered a pile of books together, rearranged her wriggling pup within Gresham's thick coat, and slid gracefully over to the carriage door just as a magnificent coach and four rounded the corner and pulled alongside them.

  "Excellent timing," Gresham proclaimed with great satisfaction, signaling his approval to the waiting driver. Seemingly unaware of Sammy's newly enacted savoir faire, he helped her alight, assisting her into his own elegantly appointed vehicle. "My coach awaits you, my lady."

  "Thank you so much." Samantha snuggled into the plush seat, wrapping Gresham's greatcoat more tightly about herself and Rascal. She felt very adult and thoroughly buoyant, tucked away in a dashing hero's carriage, ready to begin her great adventure in the exhilarating rainstorm.

  It took mere minutes for the earl and Smitty to transfer the majority of Sammy's belongings from the Barrett's carriage to the earl's. That task completed, Smitty hoisted himself into the seat across from Sammy and turned to address Gresham through the open window.

  "I cannot thank you enough, my lord."

  "No thanks are necessary," Gresham assured the elderly valet, then gave Samantha a conspiratorial wink. "Number Fifteen Abingdon Street. Between two and four o'clock. I'll be by with your mended coach."

  "I'll be waiting."

  If Gresham saw Smitty's disapproving scowl, he gave no notice. "Have a safe trip. It was a pleasure to see you again Smithers. And to meet the lovely young lady you've become, Samantha."

  The chill in Sammy's bones instantly melted. "I'm delighted to have met you as well . . . Remington."

  His eyes twinkled. "Until tomorrow." Backing away from the carriage, he signaled his driver to be off.

  Sammy watched until Remington disappeared from view. Then she sighed, leaning her head dreamily against the seat, running her fingers over the luxuriously appointed material.

  "Lady Samantha," Smitty began, "I really don't think—"

  "Oh, Smitty," she murmured, interrupting whatever he had been about to say. "Isn't he dashing?"

  "His Grace would never approve—"

  "Drake. Yes." Her smile was jubilant. "I wonder what my brother will say when I tell him that I'm going to become the Countess of Gresham."

  2

  "Hello, Boyd."

  The stocky tavern keeper looked up and grinned, putting down the mug he'd been filling. "Rem ... I thought I saw you come in. But then you disappeared."

  "I was temporarily waylaid."

  "Yes, well, I don't blame you. I spied the little chit who waylaid you. Quite a beauty. Well-bred, too. What the hell was she doing in here?"

  "Her carriage broke down. She needed assistance."

  Boyd's dark eyes gleamed. "And I'll just bet you gave it to her." He shook his shaggy head, sighing with mock dismay. "Ah, why did I choose that particular time to check my supplies? I'd have been delighted to offer her my help ... or anything else she wanted."

  Unreasonable annoyance struck Rem, hard. "She's half your age, Boyd—not yet out of her teens." A pause. "She's also Drake Barrett's little sister."

  A low whistle escaped Boyd's lips. "No wonder she looked so bloody regal. Well, that changes things. If I were you, I'd stay the hell away from her. You've got enough women nip
ping at your heels without involving yourself with—"

  "I'm not getting involved with her," Rem snapped. "I just loaned her my carriage and offered to have hers repaired. I'll return it tomorrow. After that, I'll probably never see her again. Besides," he lowered his voice, "I didn't come in to discuss Samantha Barrett."

  Boyd's eyes narrowed slightly—his only overt reaction to Rem's uncustomary loss of composure. "Are you here to see me, or are you meeting Briggs?"

  "Meeting Briggs. I take it he's not yet arrived?"

  "No. But that shouldn't surprise you. This storm could delay him for hours. Here," Boyd handed him a glass of beer, "have a drink while you wait. Where have you been? I haven't seen you in weeks."

  Rem relaxed into a roguish grin. "I've been busy."

  "Busy, huh? Which one is it this time?"

  "Never one, Boyd." Rem took a deep, appreciative swallow. "In my situation, that's far too risky. Several. Always several."

  "The Season's under way. Will you be staying in London or heading back to Gresham?"

  "That depends."

  "On?"

  "On what Briggs needs to see me about." The two men's gazes met in silent understanding. Take the table in the far left corner," Boyd suggested without altering his expression. "The riffraff back there are too deep in their cups to hear or see anything. That way you'll be assured privacy."

  "Fine."

  "Do you want me to join you?"

  "No." Rem shook his head. "Not this time. Briggs specified that he wished to speak with me alone. Let me hear what the Admiralty has to say. Once I understand the nature of the dilemma, I'll give the appearance of leaving, then wait for you behind the tavern. We'll discuss our strategy then."

  "Good enough." Boyd reached over to take Rem's glass, his eyes darting to the door as it clicked shut. "Briggs just arrived." Casually, he continued clearing the counter. "Good luck."

  Rem waited a full minute, then, without glancing behind him, swung around and headed toward the designated table.

  Shortly thereafter, a tall, distinguished-looking man with gray hair and a grim expression walked over.

  "Hello, Remington."

  Leaning casually back in his chair, Rem acknowledged Sir Edmund Briggs with a professional nod. "Edmund. Have a seat."

  Briggs complied, folding his hands on the table's rotted wooden surface. "I appreciate your coming out on a night like tonight."

  "Your note made it seem rather urgent."

  "It is." Briggs cleared his throat. "Before I begin, let me reiterate that you are free to elicit assistance from your usual sources." He inclined his head meaningfully toward the front of the tavern, and Boyd.

  "I understand."

  "Good. Then I'll get right to the point. Over the past six months a dozen British merchant ships have mysteriously disappeared, together with their cargoes and crews. Each of them was last seen in British waters."

  "Mysteriously?" Rem jumped on Briggs's choice of words at once. "Does that mean your investigations have ruled out the obvious?"

  "Evidently, yes. My men were extraordinarily thorough. All nations unfriendly to England have been scrutinized . . . and eliminated."

  "Specifically?"

  "We began, of course, with Napoleon, despite the fact that, as you know firsthand, his navy was virtually annihilated during the Battle of Trafalgar. We then investigated, not only France, but Spain, Portugal—Napoleon's entire European empire. We posted our men throughout the Strait of Gibraltar and in various points along the length of the Mediterranean and the Baltic." Briggs shook his head in frustration. "Nothing. Lastly, we considered the possibility of the Americans, although with the Treaty of Ghent scarcely signed, I am certain they have as little desire as we to initiate another war."

  "And?"

  "And it seems that not a single foreign vessel has been spied encroaching on British waters, nor have any of our missing ships appeared in enemy territory after their disappearance. Hence, if the British ships are falling prey to a hostile nation, that country is covering its tracks most brilliantly."

  "Indeed." Rem lit a cheroot.

  "We've also ruled out foul weather," Briggs added, anticipating Rem's next query. "In more than half the cases, the voyages were accompanied by fair skies and moderate winds . . . posing no threat to the safety of the ships or their crews."

  Rem exhaled, wafts of smoke drifting into the already murky room. "What about the ships themselves? Were they built to specification? By whom?"

  "Another impasse. The vessels were built, not by one, but by several different companies, all of them renowned and reliable."

  "So," Rem mused thoughtfully, "if it wasn't our enemies, the elements, or inferior construction, then what—or who —caused the ships' disappearances?"

  "Precisely the question. Of course, as we both know, the seas are swarming with smugglers. Perhaps—"

  "Smugglers take booty; they don't seize vessels."

  "I agree."

  "Which leaves us with the ugly probability that our culprit is right here in England." Rem regarded his glowing ash with unruffled detachment. "Do you suspect anyone in particular?"

  Briggs sighed. "To be frank, Remington, we are at our wits' end. Fear is growing, not only at the Admiralty, but throughout Parliament, to the Crown itself. With each lost vessel, the intelligence reports reaching Lloyd's grow more ominous, forcing our merchants and shipping companies to pay higher and higher insurance rates for their cargoes and the vessels that transport them.

  "Should this atrocity continue, many merchants will be unable to meet the escalated insurance costs. Even those who can will find their goods too expensive for foreign buyers. In any case, the delicate balance of British trade will be threatened; trade that is the very backbone of the British empire. We cannot afford that risk—I needn't tell you that." With a quick, furtive look around, Briggs withdrew folded papers from the lining of his coat. "This is a list of the ships that have vanished, the companies who built them, their captains, cargo, and crew, and the dates and locations they were discovered missing. There's also a detailed accounting of the Admiralty's findings thus far."

  Gravely, Briggs slid the documents over to Rem. "The Crown would like you to undertake your own investigation. The Admiralty will, of course, continue to employ conventional methods." Briggs gripped the table and leaned forward, his message clear, his urgency palpable. "We are counting on you to explore unconventional avenues. It is vital we locate the anonymous foe who is destroying our merchant fleet, and rid our country of this growing menace as soon as possible."

  Rem brought his cheroot to his lips, inhaling for one long, thoughtful moment. Then he drew the papers toward him, perusing them quickly and efficiently. "Any limitations, land or sea?"

  "None."

  "My methods, my men."

  "Agreed."

  "I assume the Admiralty will disavow any knowledge of my actions?"

  "As always."

  With a chilling scrape, Rem's chair slid back and he stood, tucking the documents into the waistband of his breeches. "I'll contact you when I have information to pass along." He ground the cheroot beneath the heel of his Hessian boot, "You know how to reach me."

  Briggs nodded, arising as well. "The Crown is grateful—"

  "The Crown can be grateful when I've done my job," Rem replied in a low, terse tone. Purposefully, he stretched, deftly dispelling the coiled intensity that until now had permeated his powerful body.

  In a heartbeat he was the Earl of Gresham again.

  "I'd best be getting home, Briggs. The storm is subsiding."

  "Yes, as should I," Sir Edmund echoed, all traces of his earlier gravity having vanished. "Although I fear the remainder of my evening will be dull compared to yours. Whoever she is this time, don't keep her waiting."

  "Fear not," Rem returned, cocking a brow at Briggs's ironic taunt. A woman? At the onset of a mission? Briggs knew better. "My partner will be savoring my company within the hour."

  "May
you enjoy a fruitful evening." Briggs donned his hat. "Good night, Gresham." Without a backward glance, he was gone.

  At the loud mention of Rem's name, one of the seedy derelicts loudly swilling gin in the opposite corner of the room lifted his head. "'Ey, Gresham, did y' just get 'ere? 'Ave a drink with us!"

  A corner of Rem's mouth lifted. After all his years at sea and, more recently, his countless hours surreptitiously visiting unsavory docks and taverns such as this one, fitting in with the dregs of London came as naturally to him as attending an Almack's ball.

  "Why not, Sullivan?" he answered easily, heading toward the intimidating mob of unkempt patrons. "I certainly didn't ride all this way in a bloody downpour to eat Boyd's miserable excuse for food."

  Shouts of appreciative laughter greeted his pronouncement. "Did ye 'ear that, Boyd?" another voice called. "Bring th'man some gin! That way 'e can wash away th'taste of yer food!"

  With a good-natured grin, Boyd crossed the room and handed Rem a bottle. "Need a glass?"

  "No. I'll do just fine without one." Straddling a chair, Rem took a deep swallow of the cheap liquor.

  "Where've ye been, Gresham?" Sullivan demanded, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. "What do earls do when they're not drinkin'?"

  Lowering his bottle to the table, Rem chuckled, unbothered by the rowdy, pointed referral to his title. He was well aware that every low-life in that room knew he was anything but a pampered nobleman. They also knew he could single-handedly take on the whole lot of them—and win. If the former weren't impressive enough to earn their respect, the latter most definitively was.

  "Well Gresham?" Sullivan persisted. "What do titled navy captains do when they're not at sea?"

  Rem deliberately tossed off another gulp of gin before replying. "The same things you do." A pregnant pause. "I've been occupied."

  Hoots and howls accompanied Rem's implication.

  "Was she any good, Gresham?" a grimy fellow with two missing teeth piped up.

  Coming to his feet, Rem shrugged, a mischievous light in his eyes. "You know better than to ask me that, Parker. How many times have I told you I never discuss a lady's attributes—at least not publicly?" Rem glanced out the front window, his gaze lingering for the briefest moment on Boyd. "Speaking of which, I'd best be on my way."