They were docked in Porto.
Portugal.
Where a priest five years ago had travelled with his father’s treasure.
Nick had kept an eye open for Ruford’s cutter as they sailed up the river. It would be almost impossible for the cutter to have caught up, never mind pass them, but Nick had to look anyway. He scanned the harbor with his spyglass, then handed it to Jonesy and took another look without the glass, taking in all the ships, searching for the Polly Ann.
“Don’t see ’er, Cap’n.” Jonesy tucked the scope in the maphouse.
Jack and Flynn finished tying up on the bollards as Miss Chase … no, no, had to think of her as Harry again … bounded up to the quarterdeck and handed him the leather portfolio he’d need for dealing with the customs agent.
She was in full character as the cabin boy, with smudges on her cheek and chin to hide her porcelain complexion. A light dusting of freckles was showing up across her nose and cheeks from her time in the sun. Her neat braid was wrapped in cotton cording, the same way he’d done it the other night. Striped dungarees and the blue plaid waistcoat hid her charms. Cotton shoes protected her feet, and a straw hat, identical to the hats worn by half the crew on deck, protected her from the bright autumn sun.
“Thank you, Harry.” Nick took the proffered folio.
She tugged her forelock, flashed him a cocky grin, and scampered off to help lower the gang board.
“Besotted,” he thought he heard Jonesy mutter.
Nick realized he was smiling, and quickly changed his expression to a suitable scowl. “What’s that?”
“Nothing, Cap’n.”
Nick greeted the customs agent in Portuguese, welcoming the chance to practice speaking the language other than swearing, and took care of business.
An interminable half hour later, he called Jonesy and Harry up to the maphouse.
“Well?” he asked them. “Short of visiting every church in Porto, any ideas how we’re going to find Father Miguel?”
“We won’t have to visit all of them if we get lucky early on,” Harry said, far too chipper for such a daunting task. Instead of looking at Nick, she was scanning the ships in the harbor.
“I don’t see him,” Nick said quietly.
“We may have anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days before the Polly Ann limps in,” Jonesy added.
Harry took a deep breath, which Nick tried not to pay close attention to. The waistcoat only hid so much, especially if one knew what was hidden beneath the homespun cotton shirt. “In our favor, how many priests arrived in town with a horse?” she said thoughtfully. “A donkey or mule, sure, but given their vow of simplicity, not many men of the cloth would have a horse.”
“There’s that,” Jonesy conceded.
“Let’s not waste any of our advantage,” Nick said, and strode down the steps to the deck. He gave quick instructions to Bos’n regarding the amount of water and foodstuffs to take on. “Mind you save plenty of room for port,” Nick added as he stepped down the gangboard, Jonesy and Harry right behind him. “The London townhouse is running low on a decent port wine.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Bos’n rasped.
“We can probably ignore any churches close to the river,” Harry said as they left the quay, struggling to stay close together in the crowded, narrow street. “Father Miguel would need room not only to stable his horse but to exercise it as well.”
“Good point,” Nick said. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Let’s start on this side of the river today. We can go over the bridge tomorrow if need be.” He scanned the hillside rising from the river. “There’s the most obvious candidate.” He pointed to the huge church atop the hill overlooking the city. “Sé Catedral do Porto.”
They followed the main road up the steep Penaventosa Hill from the riverbank north into the city proper, winding through the narrow streets and to the church.
Harry’s mouth fell open at the sight of the baroque interior with gold everywhere. The ceiling soared overhead, and light filtered through the stained-glass windows set in a row of gothic arches. Nick grinned as he tipped a finger under her chin to shut her jaw. She gave him an embarrassed smile. His toes did not curl at the sparkle in her eyes, but it was a near thing.
They arrived between services. A dozen or so worshippers still sat in pews here and there. An elderly priest was replacing burned-down votive candles at the side altar in the transept, overseen by a statue of the Madonna holding baby Jesus. Nick wouldn’t wager a farthing they would find the answer they sought here—nothing in his life was that easy—but they had to ask.
After a brief conversation with the priest, Nick shook his head for Jonesy and Harry. “This padre has served here for the last thirty years. No Father Miguel, no priest with a horse,” he said. He lit a candle and dropped a coin in the donation box. “Can’t hurt,” he muttered with a shrug.
They headed back out to the sunshine, to the crowded streets. Away from the harbor odors of fish, salt, and wet wood, other scents wafted on the breeze. Olive oil, onion, garlic, and spicy meat. Feeling his stomach rumble, Nick led the way into the next cantina they saw. They ordered drinks and the special of the day and sat back, looking around and listening.
Similar to the cantina in Corunna, musicians played in one corner, and patrons were conversing in at least four languages Nick could identify, none of them English.
