Chapter Twenty-One
Sun seeped throughnarrow windows in the records room of the new custom house. Eli pinched his nose and leaned back in the wooden chair only to stretch upward to relieve his back. Six hours poring over port books left him as ignorant as he had been at dawn. He would much rather have escorted Fanny and Wil to the bloody Tower as promised, but Fanny truly did need to stay home and rest after her ordeal. With them all safe at Rob’s house in Chelsea, he’d decided to begin the investigation into shipping that Morgan and Rockford had suggested.
He rose on a yawn, paced to the window, and gazed down at the river traffic. So many ships and boats of all sizes. So much going and coming. But none of them gave him a glimmer of light on the issue of abducted women and girls.
Neither did the port books. Obviously, no captain would list human cargo in customs declarations, but he had yet to find any record that customs agents had uncovered such an atrocity, either. Records from the cruisers and revenue cutters patrolling the coast had nothing specific to offer. The list he assembled of ships involved in the illegal trades, laid side by side with the list of known abductions provided by Rockford’s men, revealed no patterns, no direction for further research. The abductions had clustered in the northwest in the past five years. Even if he focused his attention on that area, there were too many ports. Too many ships. Too many ways to evade detection. None of it added up.
He strolled back to the table, twisting his neck from side to side to relieve stiffness. A charred port book from 1812 caught his eye. Records for London were spotty due to the fire that destroyed the custom house in 1814. This had been a fool’s errand. He returned the record books to the clerk on duty and packed up his notes. He had to think. To do that, he needed lunch.
Descending the stairs to Lower Thames Street, he considered the next steps. What had Rockford told him to do?Follow the money.What money?He paused in the lobby and sank to a marble bench.
The mews behind the Happy Cock shimmered into focus in his mind. The smell of rotting trash. Fanny blindfolded and bullied. The street toughs who’d held her. His stomach clenched, and rage momentarily blinded him.
What are you doing shuffling papers, Benson? Illicit trade means ill-gotten money. You won’t find it in port books. If you want to nail these bastards, you have to get your hands dirty.
He was approaching the problem from the wrong end. He had to begin at the point of abduction. Money moved among the gamblers and cheats. Money passed hands on the docks. He had to trace it to the mastermind, from the street up.
Standing on Lower Thames Street, searching for a hackney, he realized he had two problems. For one, he needed to learn more about the language of the docks, how money changed hands legally and illegally—how ships were bought, sold, disguised, and hidden. He needed to spend time in the docklands, in the taverns, and among the workers. He lacked the sort of vocabulary needed to ask the right questions.
He could go immediately, but a quick glance at his suit and valise stuffed with notes put a period to that notion. He couldn’t just pop into a tavern in the Isle of Dogs, looking like the solicitor he was, and expect to learn something useful. It would have to keep for tomorrow.
When he finally flagged a hackney to take him to Caulfield House, he sat back to contemplate his larger problem. He would have to return to Manchester and run the trade to ground, starting with whoever paid the bullyboys and working his way up the chain to the ultimate villains. He couldn’t do that as long as Fanny remained in London. He wasn’t certain about Rob’s suspicion that the same people that abducted her meant to do her harm here, but the incidents at Kew and the theater had made it obvious she wasn’t safe. Certain devious earls sniffing at her skirts posed another threat. Grimsley could not be trusted to treat Eli’s Fanny with honor.
Eli breathed a sigh of relief that the ladies had agreed to stay home that day. That thought led to another. He called to the driver and changed directions.I need to make sure my Fanny has recovered.
My Fanny. He could no longer pretend his interest in her was business. Perhaps it never had been. He had fallen in love and had no idea what to do about it, at least not while Fanny tried to make a life for herself. What did Eli have to offer her? She had an earl dancing attendance. Grimsley may be insincere, but he matched her description of her hero perfectly. Eli devoutly hoped Fanny would see through him before she had to disabuse any dishonorable intentions.
That thought didn’t help. Even if Grimsley faded away tomorrow, there would be others, more honorable men who would see her worth. The upper levels of society might cut up rough over her mother’s family being shopkeepers, but others would happily accept the daughter of an earl, even one born on the wrong side of the blanket. Eli could do nothing to compete; he could only hover nearby to make sure she got the life she wanted.
Morose thoughts engulfed him until he arrived at Rob’s house in Chelsea, paid the driver, and climbed the steps to be greeted by Mullins, Rob and Lucy’s butler.
“Greetings, Mullins. How did Wil survive his ‘boring’ day? Is Miss Hancock in the drawing room?” he asked, handing over his hat and valise.
“Mr. Wil found solace in the mews among the horses and is there still. I’m sorry, Mr. Benson, but the ladies left two hours ago. The Earl of Grimsley invited them for a drive out in his carriage.” Mullins betrayed his disapproval with the slightest pinch of his lips. Eli felt sick.
*
Accepting the earl’sinvitation had been a mistake.
Grimsley’s sympathy fell flat on Fanny’s ears, and yet she had no reason to doubt him. Perhaps her general misery dampened her response to his words. Lucy, for her part, bit her lip and clasped her hands tightly in her lap, no doubt also regretting their impulsive decision to accept his invitation.
If Fanny had realized he meant to parade them through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour, she would have refused. She had been told London society thinned in the summer. If so, she never wanted to visit during the Season. Summer crowds were certainly no kinder, and the crush of vehicles had been maddening. Once trapped in the line of carriages, there had been no way to demand that they return home immediately. She could only endure.
“You mustn’t take it to heart, truly,” the earl droned on. “Lady Parmbarton and her cronies are not as influential as they pretend.”
Fanny cared nothing for the old crones’ influence, but they were even more cruel this time. She smarted from their venomous barbs. It quickly became obvious that the story of her incident at Covent Garden had been served up for entertainment across London.
She breathed in sharply when they pulled up in front of the little house in Chelsea that had become a refuge to her. Grimsley leapt down as a gentleman ought and extended a hand to Fanny. She took it, eager to get inside, and allowed him to help her down. The gesture, perfectly proper, felt uncomfortable when he retained her hand longer than he needed to, rubbing her palm with his thumb until she turned pointedly to Lucy. Forced to recall his other guest, he let go of her hand.
“Lady Benson.”
Fanny heard Grimsley say the words, but she was already at the door.
“Thank you for bringing us directly home,” Lucy murmured, drawing Fanny’s attention back, embarrassed she had failed to thank him. Grimsley, his smile firmly in place, stepped toward her.
Surely he doesn’t expect to come in!
The earl’s expression wavered when the door opened behind her. Something unpleasant shone in the narrowing of his eyes, though the smile stayed.
