"The pleasure is mine," Zach responded. More than he could know, he thought.
Jerrold came around the desk. Lifting the lid on a hand-carved wooden box, he offered his guest the finest of rolled cigars.
"I hope you had no difficulty finding our offices."
Zach shook his head. "None at all." He declined the offer of the cigar, preferring one of the thinly tapered cigarettes he carried inside his coat pocket. The gesture was a small one, but it had the desired effect. Barrington's brows rose at the refusal. He was obviously a man who wasn't accustomed to being refused.
"Your company is well known in many ports of the world. I decided long ago that my business would be best served by dealing with you when I reached England. That is," Zach continued. "If we can reach a mutually satisfying agreement." His statements carried far more import than the other man could possibly know.
Jerrold resumed his position behind the desk. "I find it somewhat surprising that a man of your obvious station would concern himself directly with matters of business."
Zach's smile deepened. "As with yourself, I find there are certain matters that I prefer to handle myself." Standing before the sweep of windows that opened onto a view of the business district, he maneuvered the conversation.
"Certain transactions are best handled by me. I think you understand my meaning. The fewer who know of them, the better." He turned, leveling a speculative gray gaze on the watchful man behind the desk.
Barrington was careful, in his choice of words and his reactions. "You spoke of just such a cargo the other evening when we met at the celebration for myself and my fiancée."
His hands, spread on the desktop, betrayed only the faintest tremor of anticipation. After that evening, he'd sent one of his men to learn what could be found out about St. James. The man had returned with little information. It seemed the man was a mystery. He had only learned that he was apparently distantly related to Lord Vale.
"Ah yes," Zach replied, carefully masking what he felt deep inside. "A lovely young lady. You are most fortunate." He forced himself to get beyond the loathing he felt for Barrington.
"Yes," Barrington admitted. "It almost seemed as if you might know each other."
"A simple mistake. I knew of Lady Felicia Barrington through a friend some time ago."
"My mother has been dead for many years," Jerrold replied.
"Yes, so Lady Winslow informed me. I am deeply sorry. She must have been a very fine lady. My friend spoke highly of her."
"Who is your friend? Perhaps I know this person."
Zach turned to him. "It was someone I knew in the colonies."
"New South Wales? Such a wretched place. I sincerely doubt that, although I do have friends there because of my business dealings, and there are many English people there. It's possible one of them might have been acquainted with my mother."
Zach's gaze narrowed. A man like Jerrold Barrington wouldn't dirty his feet walking across the street to exchange pleasantries with a colonial, much less one who was a convict. He concentrated on the framed etchings of various Barrington ships that filled one wall as he slowly brought his anger under control.
Gypsy Mothcame to mind. The name seemed to leap into his thoughts. Why in the devil had he thought of it? He knew of no ship by that name. He continued his slow perusal. A ship's sextant was encased in glass on a mahogany table. He was drawn to the sextant as another thought, vaguer, remained just beyond his grasp. Then, as clearly as a memory, his father taught him to use the sextant when he was a boy.
Zach blinked as he stared at the sextant. That wasn't right at all! His father had died before he was born. An old sailor by the name of McAndrew in Sydney had taught him how to sail and use the sextant to chart a course. What the devil was wrong with him!
As easily as the thought came, it was gone and Zach turned to Barrington, hoping to learn something more from their conversation.
"I became acquainted with this man in New South Wales. His name was Nicholas Tennant." He watched carefully for any sign that Barrington recognized the name and hid his disappointment when there was none.
"You saidwas?"
"He's dead now." Zach continued his slow tour of the office, feeling a restless need to keep moving. He pretended to study the etchings of ships. Most were of clippers or the slower frigates, although a more recent sailing vessel also boasted a steam engine as evidenced by the single smokestack protruding from her main deck.
His gaze narrowed at the sight of a smaller sailing vessel. The artist had caught it at just the right moment, revealing the two-masted ship heeling over hard almost white-capped waves. The nameGypsy Mothwas neatly scribed underneath, and the year 1814.
Jerrold Barrington rose from his chair and crossed the office. Standing very near Zach, he noticed the direction of his interest. "I first learned to sail aboard her. Wretched, beastly little craft to handle in rough seas."
"Where is she now?" Zach's voice was hollow as he fought off something vague that hovered at the edge of some memory. How could he possibly have known the name of the vessel?
"At our summer place near Dover. Father goes there quite often. I haven't been in years. But as you can see," he went on boastfully, "our interest lies in bigger ships, and their cargos."
"The other evening it seemed you might be acquainted with Miss Winslow," Jerrold probed.
