Chapter Twenty-Four
Two more days.It had been agreed he would escort Fanny and Wil to Ashmead on Wednesday. Two more days.
Eli lay in bed Monday morning, contemplating the ceiling in the silent house. No servants disturbed his rest. Caulfield House’s skeleton staff gladly left him to care for himself. He had wondered for the past week if he shouldn’t have stayed at Rob’s instead of the earl’s townhouse.
His stroll with Fanny Sunday night had put that thought to rest. A walk at sunset, merely a walk, Fanny at his side, her dainty body pressing close when she had stepped on uneven ground, her spicy apple scent filling his senses, had paralyzed him with yearning, heated his dreams, and confused him about his future. Staying under the same roof would make it all worse.
Rob could handle her security. Eli would sort her legal problems in Manchester, find her that dratted cottage, and—What had he called himself? Her business adviser? He must have been mad. Someone had to take a closer look at the money trail from gambling hell to ships, however. Someone.
After that, I’ll put my suit to the test.The thought, unexpected and unbidden, hung in the air. He sat up and held his head, his elbows on his knees. It felt right, but it terrified him.What is the worst thing that could happen?he asked the universe. A mocking voice in his head responded,She could say no.
He flung his legs to the side of the bed, dressed quietly, and went down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Stilson already had coffee brewing and breakfast breads purchased from a shop she preferred. Blessedly the staff left him to his thoughts.
After his second coffee, Eli reached a decision. He would ramble about the docks and see what he could learn. Fanny, energized after their walk to the river, declared her desire to stay in and write, leaving him free.
He cleared his throat and broke the silence. “Stilson, do you suppose the grooms left spare clothes a man might borrow if he wished to look a bit less like a solicitor?”
The older man eyed him carefully. “Are ye wishing something from the rag box or decent working man clothes?”
Shrewd question. “Something a man seeking work on the docks might wear.”
Stilson thought a moment. “Per’aps a bit of both?”
Two hours later, a hackney let him off along the Ratcliffe Highway, dressed in a mix of borrowed clothing and discards, with no firm plan other than to observe and listen. He meandered about the London docks. When he paused to watch one crew unloading cargo, their chief offered him two hours’ work. He took it.
He said little lest his speech betray him, but the dockworkers’ cant clarified in his ears quickly. They all understood customs law and process well enough. None seemed averse to petty theft. When, job done, they all pocketed their coins and wandered toward a tavern where both ale and other work could be found, Eli asked them if they’d ever witnessed abducted women. He’d have sworn to his own mother they were horrified. “None. Never. Not even Africans. Not in this port.” He believed them.
He wandered past the docks to Wapping. Once there, he found the Thames River Police easily, but he stood outside, looked askance at his appearance, and wondered if they’d toss him out.
A man about to enter glowered at him. “You, there, what are you doing? You need the police?”
“Yes, I rather think you might help,” Eli said, his cultured accents at war with his appearance.
The man’s eyes went wide, and he motioned Eli inside. “Oy, Danny, I think we have a story here,” he said.
The man named Danny studied Eli grimly. “Lost your sister, have you?”
It cut close enough to startle Eli. “Not exactly. But what do you know about abducting girls for sale?”
“Sale? To the brothels in the stews? That’s not our patch. And you’re no dockworker.”
Eli grinned. “I was for a few hours today.” They directed him to a rickety chair next to a desk that belonged to Danny, who appeared to be some sort of leader.
Eli wiggled to get comfortable, and leaned an elbow on Danny’s desk. “Not that kind of sale. I mean transporting. Overseas. To the Barbary Coast.”
The river police didn’t shock easily. Two more came closer to listen.
Danny leaned forward. “You mean selling English women? I’ve heard of it, but…”
“I know such a trade is probably customs cutters’ ‘patch,’ as you call it, or maybe the Royal Navy even, once at sea. But you see the coming and going. You know trade. How would a person—or likely a gang of people—go about it? In your opinion.”
Three of them began to talk at once, first to express their disgust and then to speculate. It would, Eli was told, depend. The ones responsible would need to hide cargo like that. They wouldn’t use customs docks.
“Inlets like coastal smugglers?” Eli requested paper to take notes.
“Aye, but some o’them are bold as brass,” one policeman said.
“Might use private anchorage,” another suggested.
