the connection before, but… “I suppose you could say that the fruits of Royd’s obsession significantly contribute to Frobisher and Sons being arguably the best specialized shipping service in the world.”
She smiled. “Specialized shipping. I see. At least now I know how to describe what you do.”
And that, he thought, was as much as she or anyone else needed to know.
Before he could redirect the conversation, she went on, “You said that you only sail for about half the year. Do you sail at any time, or are your voyages always over the same months each year?”
“Generally, our side of the business operates over the summer and into the autumn months, when the seas are most accommodating.”
“But you don’t expect to set out on The Cormorant before July or thereabouts?”
He nodded. “There was no”—mission—“request falling between now and then that I, specifically, needed to handle. The others took it upon themselves to cover for me.” He grinned and met her eyes. “I believe they thought of it as a wedding gift.”
“For which I am duly grateful.” She set down her empty teacup.
Before she could formulate her next question, he swiveled to glance at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace at the end of the room. As he had hoped, she followed his gaze.
When she saw the time, her eyes widened. “Great heavens! I have to get ready for Lady Minchingham’s at-home.”
He rose and drew out her chair. “I’ve this meeting to attend, then I think I’ll call in at our office, purely to keep abreast of what’s going on in the world of shipping.” The Frobisher and Sons office was located with many other shipping companies’ offices near the Pool of London.
Distracted now, she merely nodded and led the way from the room. “I’ll see you this evening, then.”
She stepped into the hall, then paused. “I had planned for us to attend Lady Forsythe’s rout, but I rather feel we’ve moved beyond the need.” She glanced at him and smiled, one of her subtly appraising—and frankly suggestive—looks. “Perhaps a quiet evening at home, just the two of us, might be a better use of our time.”
He saw nothing in that suggestion with which he wished to argue. Halting on the parlor’s threshold, he smiled into her wide blue eyes. “A quiet evening spent with you would definitely be my preference.”
Her smile blossomed with open delight. She stretched up on her toes, and when he dutifully bent his head, she touched her lips to his.
He locked his hands behind his back to rein in the impulse to catch her to him and prolong the caress; aside from all else, both Humphrey and the footman were within sight.
If the commiserating quality of her smile as she drew back was any guide, she’d nevertheless sensed his response; while the look in her eyes suggested she shared the temptation, her expression also stated that she approved of his control. She lightly patted his chest, then turned away. With an insouciant wave, she headed for the stairs.
He remained where he was and watched her go up. Once she’d passed out of the gallery in the direction of their room, he reached into his pocket and drew out the folded note that had been burning a hole there. His smile faded as he reread the simple lines of the summons. They told him little more than that he was expected at the Ripley Building as soon as he could get there.
Glancing up, he saw Humphrey waiting by the side of the hall. “My hat and coat, Humphrey.”
“At once, sir.”
As Humphrey helped him into his greatcoat, Declan reflected that his summoner wasn’t a man it was wise to keep waiting. Seconds later, his hat on his head, he walked out and down the steps. Lengthening his stride, he headed for Whitehall.
* * *
From Whitehall, Declan turned into the Ripley Building. When he presented himself to the sergeant on duty, he wasn’t surprised to be directed into Admiralty House. He was, however, surprised to be directed not downward to some undistinguished office on the lower level but upstairs to the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty. Then again, the war was long over, and as far as Declan knew, the gentleman who had summoned him was no longer actively engaged in managing their country’s defenses; presumably, he no longer maintained an official office to which to summon his minions.
A harried-looking secretary asked Declan’s name; on being supplied with it, the man immediately escorted him to an ornate door. The secretary tapped, then opened the door, looked in, and murmured something; he listened, then speaking more loudly, he announced Declan, stepped back, and waved him through.
Very much wondering into what he was strolling, Declan walked into the room.
As the door closed silently behind him, he scanned the chamber. Two men waited for him.
The Duke of Wolverstone—Declan’s summoner—had been standing by the window looking out over the parade grounds. He’d acceded to the title of duke shortly after the war, but Declan still thought of him as Dalziel, the name he’d used throughout the years he’d managed the Crown’s covert operatives on foreign soil—and on the high seas. As Declan walked forward, Wolverstone turned and came to greet him.
If becoming the duke, marrying, and having several children had in any way blunted Dalziel’s—Wolverstone’s—lethal edge, Declan couldn’t see it. The man still moved with the same predatory grace, and the power of his personality had abated not one jot.
Declan glanced at the only other occupant of the large room—Viscount Melville, current First Lord. Declan recognized him, but they hadn’t previously met. A heavy-boned, slightly rotund gentleman with a round face, a florid complexion, and the dyspeptic mien of a man who liked order but who was forced to deal with the generally disordered, Melville remained seated behind his desk, fussily gathering the papers on which he’d been working and piling them to one side of his blotter.
Literally clearing his desk.
The sight, indicating as it did Melville’s interest in meeting with him, did not fill Declan with joy. He was supposed to be on his honeymoon. His brothers and cousins had worked to clear his schedule.
Unfortunately, it appeared that the Crown had other ideas.
“Frobisher.” Wolverstone held out his hand. When Declan grasped it, Wolverstone said, “I—we—apologize for dragging you away from your new wife’s side. However, the need is urgent. So urgent that we cannot wait for any other of your family to reach London and take this mission.” Wolverstone released Declan’s hand and waved him to one of the pair of chairs angled before Melville’s desk. “Sit, and his lordship and I will explain.”
Although Declan had been too young to captain a ship during the late wars, through the closing years of the conflict he’d sailed as lieutenant to his father or one of his uncles, and had experienced firsthand, as had his brothers and cousins—those currently engaged in the other side of the business—the workings of the largely unwritten contract that existed between the Crown and the Frobishers. Alongside straightforward shipping, their ancestors had been privateers; in reality, those sailing for the other arm of the company still operated as privateers—the company’s Letters of Marque were active and had never been rescinded. In return for the company continuing, on request, to provide certain specialized
