“As a matter of fact, I have.” His friend shuffled through his documents and fished out a dozen sheets. “One of our dockyard foremen is well acquainted with the fellow who supervises the unloading of all goods that come into the West India docks. Two of Quincy’s ships have delivered cargos during the past three months. Here’s the manifests for both of them.”
Wrexford skimmed the sheets that Sheffield passed over. “Cotton, tobacco . . . it seems like nothing out of the ordinary.” He looked up. “Or am I missing something?”
“No, it’s as expected. The only thing suspect is the price he charges. Lady Cordelia has done a number of sophisticated mathematical calculations based on our knowledge of the markets, both here and in America,” explained Sheffield. “She’s convinced that Quincy Enterprises has to be losing money on its cotton exports. Our guess is, he’s trying to force us out of the market, and then he’ll recoup his losses.”
“A risky strategy,” observed the earl. “Assuming you have the funds to force him into a prolonged price war.”
A smile played on Sheffield’s lips. “My partners dislike it intensely when men try to use ham-fisted tactics to best the competition. They are of the opinion that if one can’t triumph through wits rather than skulduggery, then one doesn’t deserve a victory.”
“I take it Mr. Quincy is going to continue losing money,” said Wrexford.
“Yes. More than he might imagine.” Sheffield glanced at the papers still in his hands. “But never mind that for now. I’ve something more interesting to show you.”
The earl straightened in his chair.
“Looking into cargos and deliveries got me thinking. So I took it on myself to have our foreman ask some additional questions of the cargo supervisor—ones that pertained to the ship that brought Quincy and DeVere to London. It was one of the company’s smaller, faster vessels, a type that is usually employed to transport valuable goods rather than bulk cargo.”
“And was it?” he asked.
Sheffield made a pained face. “Allow me to finish, Wrex. It’s not quite as simple as yes or no.”
Wrexford signaled for his friend to continue.
“A number of plant specimens in specially designed crates were off-loaded and delivered to the Royal Botanic Gardens. I have the list here.” Sheffield passed it over. “As you see, there are nut-bearing trees from the southern states of America—hickory, pecan, black walnut—as well as conifers from the New England region. All given as a gift from Quincy to fill out the gaps in the Royal Society’s collections of North American trees.”
“Very generous of him,” murmured Wrexford. “One can’t help but speculate as to why he wishes to curry favor with the Society’s heads. But in truth, it’s not uncommon for would-be members to give extravagant gifts in hopes of obtaining a coveted invitation to join.”
Sheffield shifted impatiently, setting off a muted crackling of the papers still in his hands. “Yes, well, here’s where it gets more interesting—another set of plant specimen crates was also off-loaded into the wagons going to the Royal Botanic Gardens. But these were clearly labeled as the property of a private collector, to be held there for a later delivery.”
“I’m waiting with bated breath,” murmured the earl.
“As well you should,” shot back his friend. “They’re destined for DeVere’s mansion in Marylebone Park. Which could mean that he and Quincy are more than mere casual acquaintances.”
“Or simply that DeVere paid very well to bring back an assortment of American plants,” pointed out the earl. Sheffield was anxious to help, but jumping to conclusions could lead them on a wild goose chase. “We know he has one of the finest private conservatories in all of Britain.”
“I’m well aware of that.” A shadow passed over Sheffield’s face. He had been present at DeVere’s mansion on that terrible night when Charlotte had been within a hair’s breadth of death. Lady Cordelia had been in danger as well . . .
They had all been extraordinarily fortunate that Luck had been on their side, reflected Wrexford.But Luck is fickle. It would be foolish to assume otherwise.
“I know what you’re thinking. But before you dismiss what I’ve said, please listen to the last bit of information,” said Sheffield. “And then you may make of it what you will.”
“I’ve always respected your judgment, Kit,” he answered. “Even when you yourself doubted it. So be assured that I’m paying attention—and keeping an open mind.”
Their eyes met, the years of friendship making any further words unnecessary.
A fluttery whisper stirred the air as Sheffield raised the single document left in his hand. “There was one last consignment of cargo unloaded from Quincy’s ship. The regular stevedores weren’t allowed to touch it—the crew handled moving a half-dozen heavy iron-banded chests—each fastened with padlocks—down to a waiting carriage.”
Sheffield glanced down at the paper. “But the supervisor considers the dockyard his bailiwick, and doesn’t like it when ships try to circumvent the proper procedures. So he made a point of hefting one of the chests while the carriage awaited his permission to depart.”
A pause—his friend had a penchant for drawing out a dramatic moment.
“And made sure to learn the name of the recipient, and the address to which the goods were being delivered.”
Wrexford’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you should take up writing horrid novels, Kit. You’ve quite a knack for creating suspense. I’m assuming you’re about to tell me to whom the chests were sent.” He, too, paused. “And why it’s important.”
“Show a little more appreciation for my cleverness,” grumbled Sheffield. “Itisimportant—or at least intriguing enough to merit some further thought.”
With a flourish, he dropped the document in the earl’s lap. “The chests contained gold coins—any dockyard supervisor worth his salt can open even the most complicated padlocks—and the amount was a very large sum. As for the recipient, they were delivered to a man by the name of Reginald Lyman.”
