“I’m not sure—”
“Wrexford, we can’t afford to make the tiniest mistake. These dastards are diabolically clever,” she countered. “I may see things about the situation that you don’t.”
The swirl and slap of the water eddying around the wharves reminded him that every passing moment was critical. Once the tide turned, Lyman’s ship could sail for the open sea.
“Pull your hat down,” he muttered in surrender. “And stay back with Hawk while I explain the latest developments to Kit and Daggett.”
In response, she crouched down, muddied her fingers, and wiped them on her cheeks.
Hawk started to laugh, but a look from Wrexford speared him to silence. “Wait here for my signal,” he growled. “And then we need to move quickly.”
“Holy hell,” intoned Sheffield as the earl finished his terse report. Daggett said nothing. His face appeared carved out of stone.
“Kit, you’re familiar with the rhythms of the river. When, precisely, does the tide turn?”
“The ebb started about ten minutes ago,” responded Daggett. “Which means that the flow changes in another six and three quarter hours. Allow another half hour for a ship the size of the Baltimore Clipper to begin moving with the tide, so I calculate that we have a little over seven hours before von Stockhausen and his co-conspirators sail out from under our noses.”
A nod from Sheffield confirmed the timing.
“Then we ought not waste our wind in any more jabbering,” said the earl. He flashed a signal at the alleyway. “Kit, you and the lad know what I need you to do. Daggett, you’ll come with me.”
“You seem to have wharf rats crawling out of every muck hole and crevasse of the dockyards,” observed the American as he watched Charlotte and Hawk slink out of the gloom. “How do you find all these filthy little vermin?”
“Swallow your insults and just be grateful that I do,” snapped Wrexford. “Without their eyes and ears, and their willingness to do the dirty work of ferreting out information, we wouldn’t stand a chance at beating the poisonous vipers.”
Daggett crinkled his nose. “Who’s the new one? He looks even more disreputable than the others.”
A laugh rumbled in the earl’s throat. “Looks can be deceiving. But leave Magpie to me. He doesn’t like to talk around strangers and we can’t afford for him to close up tighter than a clam.”
Hawk was already standing by one of the passageways threading through the cluster of storage buildings.
“From here on, stay alert. We’ll go in single file. I’ll follow our guide. Daggett, you’ll come after me, and Magpie will bring up the rear.”
“You trust an urchin to watch our backs?” murmured the American.
“More than I do you,” shot back Wrexford.
To his credit, Daggett allowed a quiver of amusement to touch his lips.
“I’ve worked with Magpie before,” added the earl, “and have never been disappointed.”
“Then without further ado, let us spread our wings and fly.”
Wrexford’s attention was already on the serpentine twists and turns that lay ahead. The back byways were narrow and the light murky—an attack could come in a flash. But stealth was key, so he wished to avoid the main paths that wound through the dockyards. He was counting on the element of surprise—the dastards didn’t know their plans had been discovered.
Or so he hoped. Given all the wrong assumptions he had made of late, Wrexford couldn’t help but wonder . . .
But he shoved his doubts aside. Hawk kept up a quicksilver pace, a dark shape skittering within the shifting patterns of shade and shadow. After a glance to the rear, the earl quickened his own steps. The tang of brine and the salt-sweet scent of decay were growing more pronounced as the ebbing tide began to expose the river’s mud. He could hear the breeze ruffling the water.
They must be getting close . . .
Hawk cut down an even narrower footpath between two massive storage racks for timber, fresh from the Baltic, and then disappeared for an instant as he wiggled under a log that had come to be wedged across the way. Wrexford managed to flatten himself enough to inch his way beneath it.
Daggett, moving with the sinuous speed of a sea snake, was through in a flash. He turned and extended a helping hand to Charlotte.
Wrexford held his breath. One touch—a sea captain’s senses were attuned to all the little nuances around him—and the American would know she was no hardscrabble urchin.
But Charlotte hadn’t survived life in the stews by making silly mistakes. Quick as an eel, she slithered away from his outstretched fingers and popped to her feet with a casual grace.
