“Lyman . . .” Wrexford frowned. The name didn’t strike a chord.
“I daresay, Lady Charlotte might remember who he is.” All trace of bantering humor had disappeared from Sheffield’s face. “Several years ago, A. J. Quill penned a drawing concerning his activities. He’s a ship captain for hire, with a very fast Baltimore Clipper and a reputation for taking on jobs that others find too dangerous. The voyage that drew A. J. Quill’s attention concerned rumors of delivering a shipment of gold to French forces during the Peninsular War.”
Wrexford stiffened. His younger brother, a decorated British cavalry officer, had lost his life fighting in the mountains of Portugal. “Bloody hell, was that the bastard who was—”
“Suspected of carrying the payroll for General Soult’s troops just before the battle at Badajoz?” interjected Sheffield. “Yes, that’s Lyman. As you know, the war for the Spanish Peninsula was draining Napoleon’s coffers. As our forces began to take the offensive, he desperately needed to get funds to his armies, but much of his resources were already heading east.”
“As I recall the rumors,” said the earl, “the gold came from Prussia.”
“So it was said,” agreed Sheffield. “Having forced the Prussian king into an alliance with France at the Treaty of Tilsit, Napoleon demanded that he contribute to the war effort. However, the emperor worried about the delays and other perils of sending it west by wagon, and time was of the essence. So Napoleon decided to take a chance sending the shipment from Hamburg by sea, betting that a very fast and cunning captain could slip through the British patrols.”
“And Lyman accepted the job, even though it would leave his hands covered in his fellow countrymen’s blood,” muttered Wrexford.
“Even within the shark-eat-barracuda world of smugglers and pirates, Lyman has a filthy reputation,” replied Sheffield. “He’s said to be a man without a shred of conscience.”
The details of the incident were slowly drifting back to him. “A British naval frigate spotted him sailing out of a Spanish harbor, but couldn’t catch up with him, and eventually lost him in the fog. When the accusation was made against Lyman—informants in Spain corroborated that the gold had been off-loaded from his schooner—he claimed that he’d been blown off course from making a routine run along the Cornish coast after delivering documents and ore samples to a mining company in Falmouth.”
Sheffield nodded. “The company confirmed the delivery, and as there was no evidence or eyewitness to any wrongdoing, no charges were brought.”
“But the scuttlebutt in both Britain and the Continent was that Lyman was guilty as sin.”
“Indeed.”
It was just the sort of self-serving treachery that would spark Charlotte’s outrage. He must ask her if she had a copy of the published print.
“Lyman sailed for the West Indies soon after that, likely to allow things to cool down on this side of the Atlantic. He returned around eight months ago, and has done nothing to attract attention. As far as I can gather, his only activity is to do occasional runs to the north and the Baltic states.”
Wrexford was still trying to grasp the thread that tied the three deliveries from Quincy’s ship together—and how they connected to Becton’s murder. He slowly sorted through the papers his friend had given him, but the manifests didn’t offer any answers.
“You’ve done an excellent job of sleuthing, Kit.” He squared the papers in his lap into a neat pile and sat back. “I’m all agog to hear how all the information ties into Becton.”
Sheffield’s expression pinched to a wry grimace. “Actually, I haven’t got a clue.”
“Then why the devil—”
“My point is, there are three very disreputable and dangerous men who have recently crossed paths—however obliquely—with the victim,” interjected his friend. “DeVere, Quincy, and Lyman have all shown they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want—even if it requires others to die.”
Wrexford couldn’t argue the point.
“You and Lady Charlotte are stepping into a nest of vipers, Wrex,” continued Sheffield. “I just want both of you to be damnably careful as to how you tread through the tangle of forked tongues and fangs.”
CHAPTER 11
Charlotte watched Raven and Hawk race down the stairs and fly out the front door, their gentlemanly clothing replaced by the far more familiar—and filthy—rags of a street urchin.
“Weasels.” Soft as a sigh, the word slipped from her lips. Not that she would wish them to change. Yes, the slums taught brutally hard lessons, and one learned to be smart and strong in order to survive. But in addition, they also could teach other important life lessons—that friendship and loyalty, along with kindness and compassion, were often more important than toughness in overcoming adversity.
Still, the demands of living in both worlds weren’t easy—
“Of course you worry about them.” McClellan, her hands dusted with flour, had quietly come out of the kitchen to stand beside her. “It is an elemental irony, isn’t it, that the more we love, the more we fear. However, we must keep fear from clouding the joy from our hearts.”
“Thank you, Mac.” Charlotte smiled. “For always knowing what words I need to hear to buck up my courage.”
“Your courage needs no help from me. If anything, your heart istoobig. It needs an occasional reminder that you can’t try to take on every injustice that you see.”
There was great wisdom in the maid’s words. But Becton’s murderwaspersonal. DeVere had gotten away with too many unspeakable evils. If he was guilty of this one, she was determined to see that he would not escape justice.
“However, in this case, I understand your feelings,” added McClellan. “If that scoundrel DeVere was involved in the poisoning of Dr. Hosack’s friend, we’ll see that he answers for the crime.”
