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  "I heard ye say y'were meetin' someone. She waitin' for ye?"

  "Yes, indeed. This moment, as a matter of fact."

  More raucous laughter. "Be off with ye, Gresham. Before she finds someone better—like a duke!"

  "A distinct possibility." Rem headed for the door, depositing the empty bottle on the counter without breaking stride. "I'll do my best to prevent it. Good night men, Boyd." Nodding in the tavern keeper's direction, he slipped out into the night.

  Boyd polished two glasses until they gleamed.

  The men returned to their drinking.

  Boyd unloaded three more cases of gin.

  The men drank on.

  Boyd eased his way through the storage room door at the rear of the tavern, confident that his now thoroughly inebriated patrons wouldn't have noticed if Wellington's troops had defeated Napoleon before their very eyes.

  "Is it safe?"

  Boyd closed the door behind him, giving Rem a tight-lipped smile. "I'm down to one quart of gin, but yes, it's safe." His smile faded. "What did Briggs say?"

  In a lightning-quick motion as natural as breathing itself, Rem swerved his head from side to side, scanning the empty storeroom, assuring himself that they were indeed alone. Temporarily convinced, he nevertheless remained attuned to every sound lest the situation change.

  Leaning against the stockroom wall, he regarded Boyd through penetrating gray eyes. "British ships are vanishing. Foreign enemies have been investigated ... and all but ruled out. The same applies to privateers and foul weather."

  Rem's terse explanation was more than sufficient for Boyd, who had served by the earl's side for a dozen years, primarily by sea, ultimately by land. "Napoleon?"

  "Impossible." Not a flicker of emotion registered on Rem's face. "All our information has been dispatched to Wellington, Napoleon's demise will be a reality by Season's end."

  Boyd inclined his head. "America?"

  "No."

  "You believe the culprit is right here in England," Boyd concluded, unsurprised. Through experience, both he and Rem had learned that when it came to the issue of financial gain, most men would abandon both principles and allegiance for the overpowering allure of securing great wealth. "Briggs is turning the problem over to you."

  "Yes."

  "Who do you need?"

  "Give me a day or two on my own. I'll head for London immediately."

  Boyd nodded. "I guess this determines where you'll be spending this Season."

  "Evidently. I'll go directly to my Town house and get a few hours' sleep. At daybreak I'll visit the docks—gather whatever facts I can. Then I'll contact you . . . and Bow Street. By then HI know exactly who I'll require, and for what."

  "Good."

  Rem straightened, all heightened energy and staunch resolve. "I'll find you tomorrow."

  "Before or after you deliver the Barrett carriage?"

  The pointed taunt struck Rem full force. "Dammit! I forgot all about that."

  "I'll take care of it. What's the address?"

  "No." The word was out before Rem could recall it, much less understand it. Seeing Boyd's stunned expression, he added, "Samantha Barrett may be young, but she's not stupid. Let's not feed her curiosity or incite her questions by sending you in my stead. I told her I'd deliver the carriage— she's expecting me to arrive between two and four o'clock. That still gives me all morning to poke around the riverfront. I can cover the West India and London docks in that amount of time. Meet me in front of Covent Garden Theater at half past one. By then I'll be able to tell you which Bow Street men to notify. In the interim, I need you to make arrangements for the Barrett carriage to be repaired. Can you manage it?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Good. Bring it with you tomorrow." Rem frowned for a moment. "As my own carriage is currently on loan, I'll need to borrow your horse to take me to London."

  "Help yourself." Boyd gestured toward the rear door. "I'll see to my tasks and meet you as planned."

  Rem nodded, regarding Boyd with unspoken warmth and respect; a bond that had been forged over long, trying years and dangerous, adverse conditions. "Get some sleep, Boyd."

  "I'll do my best."

  Forty minutes later the Earl of Gresham poured himself a brandy and tried to relax in the sitting room of his Town house. The chill of the rain was still in his bones, but he ignored it, for it was a condition the brandy would soon extinguish. Besides, the storm's lingering effects were nearly eclipsed by the fiery thrill of the chase, which had already begun pumping through his veins, heightening his senses, honing his instincts. It was like this with each assignment, a mental metamorphosis that seized him, pervaded him, and ultimately prepared him for the grueling, disciplined weeks that lay ahead.

  The danger, the challenge, unraveling the ugliest of lies to find the core of truth buried within—Rem relished it all. For it satisfied not only his relentless craving for adventure, but his equally compelling need to see justice served.

  There was a time when things were different, when nothing but the sea could fill that restless void inside him. How he'd reveled in the danger of guiding England's incomparable fleet into the dangers of war, armed with skill, cunning . . . and youth's foolish conviction that mortality was an impalpable entity that need not be faced.

  How drastically all that had changed. The zealous dedication of his youth had eroded into bewilderment, then outrage, as he'd quickly learned that war's price was death—a price paid not only by evil men, but by decent ones as well. His idealism had disintegrated further with each battle; first Copenhagen, then the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and culminating with the most heinous injustice of all. Trafalgar.

  With an anguished shudder, Rem fought the hated ghosts, wondering if he would ever be able to erase the image of his revered friend and mentor, the unrivaled Admiral Lord Nelson, lying amid a pool of his own blood on the deck of the Victory. Rem could still picture the admiral struggling for breath, being carried below to the surgeon's cockpit before the horrified gazes of his crew. Nelson died during what should have been his most triumphant victory—the utter annihilation of Napoleon's naval fleet. Never had Rem felt so powerless, so hollow. So unpatriotically bitter.

  He had planned to resign from the Royal Navy. His resignation was never submitted. Instead, fate chose that moment to intercede in the form of the First Lord of the Admiralty himself. Based on the meticulous notes of Lord Nelson, which exuded praise for his young captain's keen instincts and intricate mind, and the glowing recommendations not only of Admiral Nelson, but of three rear admirals and two commodores and commanders-in-chief, the First Lord respectfully requested that Rem consider working for the Admiralty—as a covert agent of the British Crown. Rem had accepted, recognizing it as his opportunity to ensure that life's equity would be in his hands, rather than in fate's. He had been undeterred by the escalated dangers his forthcoming missions would pose, for after years of naval service amid death's hovering presence, the thought of dying did not frighten him.

  What had truly frightened him was the void in his soul, the loss of purpose he'd needed to regain. Tossing off his drink, Rem rolled the empty glass between palms as he contemplated the outcome of his unconventional career. He'd successfully ferreted out countless French and American spies, eliminated an equal number of English-born traitors to the Crown, apprehended elusive, highly effective privateers, undermined American naval strategy during the War of 1812, and, most recently, transmitted urgent, confidential missives to the Duke of Wellington—missives that would soon result in Napoleon's downfall.

  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."

  3

  The 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."