How hard was it to retrieve a map no one knew existed? Yet his men had failed to recover it in Venezuela after the map-maker had mistakenly packed it with his other archaeological finds for shipping back to Spain. Here in London, the map had slipped from their grasp a second time. After having tracked it to an importer named Vasquez, Ortiz had thought his work was nearly done. He simply had to run Vasquez to ground and claim the map. But he was too late. The warehouse was deserted, but only freshly so. The crates were empty and bore the markings of Spanish freight. They also looked new, lacking the dirt and gouges that often accompanied crates over time.
Calisto Ortiz barked out new orders to his men. ‘Search the docks, maybe the ship hasn’t sailed yet. Search the taverns and inns for Vasquez too.’
The men rushed to do his bidding, leaving him alone in the warehouse. Calisto upended a crate and sat down upon it, heaving a sigh. He cared less about finding the ship than he did about finding Vasquez. Vasquez was fast becoming a valuable link in this game for two reasons. The first reason was of a practical nature. If he didn’t find Vasquez and hence the map, it would mean the map was loose in London. The search would take on a needle-in-the-haystack quality.
The second reason was more symbolic. Vasquez was moving fast. By all reports the ship had only been in London a short time ahead of his own arrival and now it was potentially gone, the warehouse cleared out. Vasquez knew he had something dangerous and he’d come to London to pass it on to someone, to unburden himself. It meant the map was no longer a well-guarded secret. The mission had now taken on two goals: retrieve the map and silence those who knew about it.
Ortiz ran his hands through his dark hair, breathing deeply to calm his racing mind. He had to take one step at a time, one assumption at a time. Until he found Vasquez, he had no way of knowing if Vasquez understood the value of the map. It could be that Vasquez only knew he had something of dubious worth, but didn’t know what it was. Along with the map, there were figurines, zemis and metates. Then of course, he’d have to hunt down whomever Vasquez had sold the items to.
He had to be prepared for best- and worst-case scenarios, the best being that the map had passed from hand to hand without anyone detecting its importance. The worst was that Vasquez did know the significance of the map and had sold it for a nice profit to someone who’d appreciate the map’s value in the discussions that would soon open up between the Venezuelan delegation and the British government in regards to the questionable border Venezuela shared with British Guiana.
Calisto knew he played a dangerous double game, not only with the British but with the Venezuelan government as well—not that the latter would mind if they came out the victor. Some would claim the map was a forgery, but Calisto preferred to think of the map merely as potentially biased. He wouldn’t be the first person in history to sponsor a map-maker to tweak the boundaries a bit here and there. In all reality, the interior of British Guiana was so underexplored, who could say where the borders really were?
It would take years to disprove the boundaries on his map and ownership was nine-tenths of the law, as the saying went. In the meanwhile, Venezuela would be in possession of a very lucrative piece of land containing riches untold and he and his uncle would be wealthy men.
Everything would work out. He was a man who knew how to cover his tracks and follow all necessary leads. His men were hunting down Vasquez right now. There was nothing more he could do at the moment. He flipped open his pocket watch. He had just enough time to change and dine before the Danby rout. With luck, the delectable Lady Dulcinea would be in attendance without her surly polyglot friend.
Luck was in short supply all around. The Danby rout was fully engaged by the time Jack arrived. He’d meant to come earlier in hopes of stealing a moment with Dulci before she was surrounded. He’d wanted to set the record straight about their most unfortunate interruption the prior evening. It was not how he imagined their reunion. But business had conspired against him. He’d spent the afternoon discreetly following Calisto Ortiz to an empty warehouse in a seedy part of Southwark.
The unplanned adventure had been enlightening, posing several interesting questions, such as why a man of Ortiz’s station would be down at the docks. Ortiz’s behaviour had been telling as well. There was no doubt that whatever had taken place in the warehouse upset Ortiz greatly. As to what that might have been, Jack could only speculate. Although he’d explored the warehouse after Ortiz’s departure, he’d found nothing more than the same empty, Spanish-stamped crates that had upset Ortiz. By the time he’d reported his news to Gladstone and picked up his newly tailored waistcoat of deep periwinkle blue, afternoon had swiftly turned into evening, leaving him hard pressed to find time for a much-needed bath and toilette before setting out for the night.
There was no hope of catching Dulci alone, a fact attested to by the sea of blue surrounding her four men deep. Squaring his shoulders and setting aside the cares of the day, Jack cut through the crowd of admirers to place himself in front of her. He made a courtly leg. ‘It appears I’ve more than fulfilled my commission, Lady Dulcinea.’ Jack gestured to the various hues of blue assembled about her. ‘I do believe I’ve saved the economy for a day.’
Dulci laughed and waved her fan, a painted affair that matched the pale blue hues of her gown. ‘Tailors’ apprentices across the city are in your debt, Wainsbridge.’
‘Certainly that’s worth a dance.’ Jack offered a charming grin and held out his hand.
There was the sound of grumbling. A few voices were raised in complaint: ‘He’s stealing all the best dances.’ ‘He danced with her last night.’
Dulci squashed the protests with a smile. Between her gown and that smile, she looked like an angel come to earth as she moved to take his hand. Her beauty never ceased to entrance him. But Jack knew better than to be misled. If Dulci Wycroft was any kind of angel, she was an avenging one. Before he could make his peace with her, she was going to make him pay. Would she start with the wager or the interruption from last night?
‘This deep periwinkle is an improvement, Jack.’ Ah, it was to be the wager. ‘Still, it’s a far cry from what you used to wear. I remember in Manchester you had an evening coat with diamond buttons. Brandon said you wore it to his betrothal ball. Whatever happened to all those shirts with yards of lace for cuffs?’
‘I burnt them,’ Jack answered succinctly. ‘I have not played the fop for years now. Such a façade does not suit a king’s adviser.’
‘It did once. You used to say people were unguarded in their conversation because they assumed a fop had stuffing for brains.’ There she went, probing again for the things he could not tell her.
‘I’m an adviser, not a spy. A man with stuff for brains is not a man who is ultimately respected. Playing the fop had rather obvious limitations after a while for an adviser.’ Jack kept his answers abrupt.
‘How long do you suppose we have before we’ll be interrupted by a government summons tonight? Do you think we might make it through this dance?’ Dulci quipped, with an edge to her voice that warned Jack he was not entirely forgiven.
Damn Gladstone and his interference. But Jack would not make excuses about who he was and what he did. He turned them sharply at the top of the ballroom and decided it was time to change the conversation to something lighter.
‘I’m surprised you’re angry over the interruption last night, Dulci. You were the one who didn’t want to go out to the garden in the first place. Admit it, you like my kisses.’ What was he doing? He was flirting with her as if he meant to take this interlude further. Which of course you do, his conscious prompted honestly. Admit it, the experiment last night failed. The
