Page 6 of Benefactor to the Baroness (The Seductive Sleuths #3)

F ontaine adjusted her cloak and adopted a swaggering gait. With luck, her rough garb, the lack of a moon, and the fog that crept in from the banks of the Thames would combine to keep anyone from recognizing her as anything other than another sailor seeking a nightly diversion.

After her conversation with Mrs. Eris, she had convinced Lady Trello to allow her to use her carriage to transport the orphans in the morning, and then she’d spent the rest of the day slinking about London’s rougher areas, searching for clues regarding the discrepancy of the Halifax report. She didn’t want to consider that it was connected to what Mr. Newton had mentioned about there being fewer orphans than usual, but it seemed quite a large coincidence. For that reason, she couldn’t trust the foundation employees with investigating, in case any of them were involved.

Someone had to know what was happening to London’s orphans. They couldn’t simply be disappearing. It was far more likely that they were being taken .

She just didn’t know who was doing it.

Unfortunately, none of her sources had helped, except to confirm there weren’t as many children moving through orphanages as in previous months or years. No one had an explanation, although the orphanages were relieved rather than concerned. Fewer children meant fewer mouths to feed with increasingly thin budgets.

As she trailed behind a crowd of drunken, piss-smelling men, she wondered what Mrs. Summersby would have said about her current activity. The woman had gone almost apoplectic when she’d learned that Fontaine was headed into Whitechapel. Any other gently bred woman would have immediately given her a cut direct, but not Mrs. Summersby. She had seemed almost defiant when Fontaine had suggested she not enter the workhouse.

The group of sailors she was tailing reached their destination, a squat building near the water. Fiddle music filtered out of the open door, loud enough to muffle the sound of the waves hitting the shore nearby, and the light blooming from the windows cast dancing shadows on the ground.

She wrapped her cloak more firmly around herself and pushed through the throng until she found an empty table, then she sat with her back to the corner. The building was packed with men shouting and drinking and playing cards. How they could hear anything over the cacophony of clinking glasses, stomping boots, and off-tune fiddle music was beyond her. She had to resist the urge to slap her palms over her ears. Yet when a barmaid approached her table, she spoke in such a way that it cut through the noise.

“What can I get’cha? Ale, food, or company?” She lifted one dark eyebrow, causing a fluttering to start in Fontaine’s stomach. She might have been dressed like a man, but that didn’t mean she could respond the way a man would. Rather than risk outing herself with her voice, she slid a few coins across the table and made a drinking motion.

“One ale for the silent stranger,” the barmaid said, bending over to collect the coins, revealing ample cleavage.

Fontaine tried not to stare as the curvy barmaid sauntered back to the kitchen. It had been months since she’d last pleasured a woman—a seamstress with nimble fingers and an explosive temper—and the temptation to allow herself a night of freedom was strong. But even if the barmaid’s preferences were compatible with her own, she hadn’t come all the way to the docks to indulge herself. If she were caught, news would make it back to the foundation and she would be tossed out in a second. That wasn’t even the worst-case scenario. Presented with an attractive woman, a drunk sailor might not let a title prevent him from acting on his baser urges.

Her skin pebbled as a muffled scream came from outside. The few women who dared to venture this close to the water understood the risks but were forced by circumstance or vice to ply their wares to sailors. Men who could take what they wanted, secure in the knowledge that they would leave port on their ships before suffering any consequences for their actions.

She shuddered, remembering a girl she had shared a room with for a fortnight during one of the rare times she hadn’t been stuck in an orphanage or workhouse. The girl had called herself Charlene. Her pale-blonde curls and dark-blue eyes had made her popular on the street, until she’d ventured too close to the docks and had never been seen again.

Fontaine licked her dry lips and closed her eyes, listening to the various conversations going on around her. It took time, sorting through the different threads of speech at varying volumes, but she had done this often enough when she’d been a matchstick seller that she knew what to listen for. People who were up to no good didn’t shout, didn’t laugh loudly, didn’t make themselves the center of attention. They slunk in the shadows and whispered. The quiet ones were the most dangerous, the ones she had to be careful to avoid.

She forced herself to take slow breaths of the sour-smelling air and tilted her head so that her hood covered her face. Eventually, she caught the tail end of a question that piqued her interest.

“The Whitechapel workhouse?”

She turned her head toward the direction of the speaker and found a group of four men sitting at a table. Their garments identified three of them as sailors, but the fourth was different. The last man, neither the shortest nor the burliest, had a wiry beard shot through liberally with silver, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat that obscured most of his face. As if sensing her attention, he turned and met her gaze.

A pulse of heat shot through her. She glanced down at her glass, staring at the small bubbles forming on the surface of her drink. There was a distinctive sound of a chair being shoved back, and the noise in the room seemed to dim. When she dared to look up, the man was walking toward her with the three sailors following. The crowd receded from them like the sea during low tide. Before she could scramble away, the man was standing in front of her, his hands on his hips.

“Was there something you wanted, lad?”

Fontaine froze. There was no other word for it. Her throat closed up and her skin went cold. Half the room was watching them with expressions ranging from mild interest to excitement, and the other half carefully turned away, as if expecting a fight.

The man grinned, revealing several gleaming, gold teeth. “I see. No lad, then.”

He’d seen through her disguise. She slipped her hand beneath her cloak and fingered the hilt of a dagger tied to her belt. The odds were stacked against her, but she would not allow these men to take her without a fight.

The man leaned toward her. “You have one chance, madam. If I dislike what you have to say, my men will escort you back to wherever you belong.”

One chance to get him to tell her whatever he knew about the Whitechapel workhouse. She could have made something up, claimed she was a member of the ton seeking a thrill by venturing into the rougher areas of the city. But then her risk would have earned her nothing. As her plan had already failed, she saw no reason not to lay all her cards on the table.

“Children are disappearing from the street,” she said, having to shout to hear herself above the crowd. “I want to know why.”

The man jerked his head toward the door. “Come with me.”

She stiffened. How many men had whispered words like that to her as a young girl, only to take what they wanted the moment they were alone? She shook her head back and forth while curling her fingers more securely around the hilt of her dagger.

“Ah. I see.” He cleared his throat. “I can only offer you my word that neither me nor any man under my command will lay a hand on you.”

She slid her dagger out of its sheath. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“A captain never breaks his word.” He removed his hat and bowed in a sweeping gesture. “Captain Charles, at your service.”

The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. The entire room was silent and even the bartender had vanished from his post.

The captain replaced his hat, then turned to the man nearest to him. “Give me your rifle.”

She scrambled out of her seat, only to have Captain Charles shove an enormous weapon toward her, butt first. She stared at it for several long seconds before wrapping her fingers around the handle.

“Be careful with that,” the captain said. “It’s primed and ready.”

She flicked the chamber open to confirm, then settled the weapon more securely in her hands. Its weight was reassuring.

“Will that assure you I have no ill intentions?” Captain Charles asked wryly.

She nodded, then found herself trailing behind the captain and his sailors without considering what she might be getting herself into. She knew nothing about this man. He could lead her to his ship, where his crew would truss her up and throw her in a cage. But it was too late to change her mind. She was outnumbered four to one.

As they exited the building, a gust of wind tore at her hat and made her shiver. One of the sailors, a bald man with an eyepatch over his left eye and a thick bundle of fabric wrapped about his neck, pressed closer to her.

“Beggin’ your pardon, madam, but you’re looking mighty chilled.” He unwound his long scarf and thrust it toward her.

“T-Thank y-you,” she said, teeth chattering from both the cold and nerves. She accepted the offering and let out a soft gasp at the softness of the fabric. This was no sloppily knit item purchased for a penny out of a bargain bin. As she slipped it around her shoulders, she caught the sailor who had given it to her blushing. Before she had time to react to that, the captain came to an abrupt halt. The sailors turned their backs, forming an impenetrable wall around them.

“Cake is soft on you,” the captain said, his expression unreadable in the darkness.

Fontaine took a step back. “I beg your pardon?”

What did confectionery have to do with anything?

The captain jerked his chin toward the back of the bald sailor. “Cake.”

The sailor was named Cake.

A giggle burst out of her lips before she could hold it back. “I apologize, sir. I appreciate the gift.”

“Just ‘captain,’” he said. “I haven’t been ‘sir’ in years.” He tucked his thumbs into his belt. “I don’t ask for formality from anyone but my men. Now, what’s this about you hunting down children?”

She licked her suddenly dry lips. “I may look like a gently bred woman to you, sir—Captain Charles, but I spent my life on the street. I know how many urchins should be running about, after last year’s epidemic.”

The captain shook his head. “You’re right about that. It’s a shame what’s been happening.”

She stepped closer, her pulse pounding in her ears. “What do you know about it?”

He shook his head. “Unfamiliar faces lurking about. Ships that have no right setting off when they do. Not something I wanted to get tangled up in, but curiosity is a mighty beast.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and removed a scrap of paper, which he held out to her. “I sent my first mate to speak to the officials who oversee this dock, and he brought me back this.”

She peered at the tiny script. The writing was messy and slanted, the words difficult to make out.

“It’s a manifest,” Captain Charles said. “Reporting two dozen child passengers departing this port last week.”

With that context, she could make sense of what she was reading. The name of the ship that had transported the children was missing, but there was something else scrawled at the bottom. As she tilted the paper in the faint light, she recognized several words.

“The Halifax Home for Destitute Children,” the captain said. “That’s where they’re sending them. Can’t say I know what that place is, although we’ve been to Halifax often enough delivering goods.”

She gulped. It was as she’d feared. Mrs. Eris had told her that the foundation had only arranged for four groups of children to be transported over the past several months, but it appeared that someone else was also supplying the Halifax branch. That explained why Mrs. Eris had miscalculated.

“Thank you,” Fontaine said. “I…will investigate this further.”

She tried to imbue her words with confidence, but internally, she quaked. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Eris about what she’d found, or the woman would certainly involve Mr. Hill. Then the careful plans she had been forming over the past year would crumble like a sandcastle washed away by the sea. Mr. Hill would demand a review of the program, and any failings would surely reflect on her. The chance she had of usurping leadership of the board would vanish. She had to sort this mess out herself before Mr. Hill retired at the end of the month without raising the suspicions of anyone else at the foundation.

If only she could speak to Mr. Sellinger. She had already penned a letter requesting a status report, after speaking to Mrs. Eris, but it would take ten days for her letter to reach its destination, and just as long to receive a response. What she needed was a more direct method of communication. To learn for herself what had happened and untangle the mess of miscommunication before anyone thought to investigate. The only trouble was that her usual transport was not due to leave for weeks.

“You about done, cap’n?” Cake asked. “I promised Cookie a match before we set off for Halifax.”

Could the answer to her problem be standing right in front of her?

“How long is your passage across the ocean?” she asked.

The captain narrowed his eyes. “It’s just over a week to get there, in good weather. Then I grant the men a few days’ leave before returning. Why do you ask?”

She did the calculations swiftly in her head. If she was lucky, she would have just enough time. She reached into her pockets for the stack of bills she’d intended to use as bribes. “Would you be amenable to taking on another passenger?”

He accepted the money she thrust toward him with a scowl. “A single woman traveling alone? That’s a disaster in the making, madam.” But he didn’t immediately give the notes back.

A single woman. Just like Mrs. Eris, the captain did not approve of her acting on her own. It was almost enough to make her wish she had remarried, although she doubted a husband would have allowed her to lurk around the city in disguise. Even Malcom, who had delighted in hearing exciting stories from her youth, would have disapproved. Then a sudden, wild impulse possessed her, and she straightened.

“Fare for two passengers. I travel with my companion.”

A companion who didn’t exist. What was she thinking? She hardly had time to pack for a three-week voyage, much less hire a woman to accompany her. It was unfortunate that Jones had left to be married. Since the baron’s death, her former lady’s maid had accompanied Fontaine on all her voyages across the ocean until now. There was no room in her budget to hire a replacement for Jones, after purchasing the orphans. Where would she even find someone willing to jump on board a ship with little warning?

“I suppose…” The captain tucked the bills into his pocket. “Be ready Wednesday afternoon. We’ll be leaving with or without you.”