the chair, outlined by the light from the windows at his back.
Babington froze.
Robert remained where he was, but realizing that Babington couldn’t see his face, said, “Robert Frobisher.” When Babington blinked and the tension that had tightened his frame eased, Robert held up the half-empty glass. “Not a bad drop, but the Glencrae is better.”
“Frobisher.” After a further second’s hesitation, Babington stepped inside and walked to the small table. He lit the lamp upon it; the light flared, and he glanced at Robert—a sharp glance confirming his identity. Satisfied, Babington turned down the wick, set the glass on the lamp, then returned to the door and closed it. He set his cane in the rack beside the door, then went to the tantalus and poured himself a drink.
Only when he had it in hand did he look at Robert. Babington raised his glass, sipped, then asked, “Why are you here?”
Robert sent him an unamused grin. “As you rightly suspect, it’s connected with Declan’s visit. But as you’ve already realized, my visit is quite deliberately more...private.”
“Covert, in other words.” Babington crossed to the sofa and sat at his ease, stretching out his long legs. The lamplight played equally over them both. Babington studied Robert, then asked, “I presume you want my help with something. So what’s going on?”
Robert had had plenty of time to decide how he wished to proceed. “I understood from Declan that you might have an interest in people who’ve gone missing.”
Babington was too experienced to shift, but he stilled.
Over the rim of his glass, Robert scrutinized Babington’s expression, then quietly asked, “Is that so?”
Babington’s features didn’t give him away, but his color had ebbed. He remained frozen, staring at Robert. After several seconds, in a voice devoid of inflection, he asked, “Why do you want to know?”
Robert shifted his gaze to the glass in his hand. “Because if you do have such an interest, then, presumably, it would predispose you to assist me in my quest.” He paused, then glanced at Babington. “However, if you don’t have such an interest...then I fear I would be unwise to share with you the details of why I am here.”
Babington remained sprawled on the sofa, staring through the lamplight and studying Robert’s face.
Then, slowly, Babington sat up. Moving deliberately, he set his glass down on the small table. Leaning his elbows on his thighs, he scrubbed both hands over his face. He stared blindly across the room for several seconds, then he met Robert’s gaze. “All right.”
Robert fought to keep his expression impassive, unresponsive. Babington looked almost tortured, his eyes shadowed.
“There’s—there was a young lady, a young woman in our terms. A Miss Mary Wilson. Her family was down on its luck, and she came out here for a fresh start, helping her uncle in his store. She was more than an assistant. More like her uncle’s heir—a co-owner.” Babington drew in a tight breath, then went on, “She and I...we were courting, but of course, I haven’t told anyone in the family that. They’d have an apoplexy if they knew I wanted to marry a shopkeeper—that’s how they’d see it. See her. They wouldn’t even want to meet her.”
Robert came from much the same background; he understood Babington’s familial situation.
Babington had paused as if ordering his thoughts. He continued, “One day, I called at the shop, and when he saw me, her uncle was furious. He tried to throw me out, but then he realized I hadn’t come to tell him that I’d persuaded Mary to give up her place with him and become my ladybird. That I didn’t have any more idea of where she was than he.
“We were frantic—the pair of us. We searched. I hired men to hunt high and low through the settlement—but she was gone. Vanished.” Babington gestured helplessly. “As if into thin air.”
Babington looked at Robert, and now anger lit his eyes. “So if you want to know if I have an interest in people going missing from the settlement, the answer is yes. Yes! I’d give my right arm to know what has happened to Mary.”
Robert set down his glass and crisply stated, “Then obviously, you’ll do all you can to further any venture that might—just might—result in getting her back.”
Babington snarled, “Anything. I’ll do anything to get her back.” He lifted his glass and tossed back his drink, then looked again at Robert, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think there’s any chance of that? That she’s even alive?”
Robert held his gaze, then sighed. “I won’t lie to you—I can’t be certain. But there is a chance that she’s been spirited away by those who’ve been taking a range of other Europeans, picking them off—men, women, and, it seems, even children—and taking them out of the settlement. The reason behind the kidnappings is a mystery, but as far as we’ve been able to make out, there’s a definite chance those taken are still alive.” Robert paused, then went on, “We’re proceeding on the basis that they are still alive, and that whatever we do in pursuing them must be done in such a way as to not alert the perpetrators.”
Babington was by no means slow. He figured it out in seconds. “So said perpetrators won’t risk covering their tracks by killing those they’ve taken.” He nodded. “And you think someone in the settlement is involved.”
“Some people, yes. More than one person, but exactly who is involved we can’t say.” Robert paused, reading what he could now see in Babington’s face—stripped of the man’s usual debonair mask—and made the decision to trust him. “Pour yourself another drink, and let me tell you what we know.”
Babington cut him a glance, then complied. Once he’d resettled on the sofa, a glass of whisky in his hand, Robert proceeded to lay out the entire scenario as they knew it, starting with Declan’s mission.
When he got to the part about Edwina being drugged by Lady Holbrook and then passed on to men they believed to be part of the slavers’ gang, Babington swore.
“She’s gone, you know. Took ship...it must have been a few days after Declan sailed. Holbrook told Macauley she went to help a sister in need, but I later heard the ship she’d sailed on was headed to America.” Babington’s face hardened. “That seemed odd at the time. Now...”
“Indeed. One thing you can confirm for me—Holbrook’s still here?”
Babington nodded. “On deck as usual. No change that Macauley or I have noticed—and the old man would have said if he’d sensed anything amiss.”
“So it’s likely Holbrook is innocent in all this—but he’s not likely to be much use to us, either. Until we know the identity of all those involved, alerting Holbrook might see him react in a way that will alert the villains, which, again, is the last thing we want. Also, as the focus of the investigation lies outside the settlement, it’s unlikely Holbrook will be able to provide the kind of help required. That makes telling him a large risk without much chance of reward.” Robert cocked a brow at Babington. “At least that was Declan’s assessment.”
Babington grimaced. “I wouldn’t disagree. Holbrook is paranoid about keeping the colony calm, and any hint of white slavers operating within the settlement would cause a panic—and send Macauley’s blood pressure soaring.” Dryly, he added, “Never a good thing. Especially not for the political
