over the harbor.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Captain Tarrant said. He had been standing on the dock, watching his ship
burn. The casual onlookers had left when the best of the show was over, but Tarrant had waited for
Wessex in order to make his report.
"She went up like wildfire. Between one second and the next the whole ship was aflame. She burned like
kindling. I've never seen anything like it."
I have
. "Were any of the crew hurt?" Tarrant's arm was in a sling, but he looked unharmed. In better trim
than young Thomas Wren, at the moment.
"A few singed. Nothing to speak of. Most of the crew was ashore, Your Grace having been so kind as
to give them leave."
Wessex reached for his purse, and passed it to Tarrant unopened. "See that they stay out of trouble, and
out of the Royal Navy. As for the ship…" he gazed toward the remains of his father's yacht.
"I do not think she can be salvaged," Tarrant said reluctantly.
"Well, see they remove the wreckage as soon as she stops burning. I won't be called before the
Harbormaster and scolded for making a mess." Wessex smiled faintly. He doubted any Harbormaster
would presume to scold the Duke of Wessex.
"Yes, Your Grace. Do you have any further orders?" his captain asked.
"Buy me a new boat," Wessex said simply.
The fire aboard the
Day-dream
had sprung from no natural cause, Wessex was certain. Such opportune
fires could be timed, with a mechanism of glass bubbles and vitriol, to ignite several hours after the device
was left A slow match leading to many small charges of gunpowder could make a ship burn that way…
or phosphorous-cloth rags, soaked and left to dry. There were a thousand ways to set such a pyre, and a
gentleman-spy knew most of them.
The only question remaining was, which side had burned his boat? The reason itself was plain enough:
whoever it was wanted him held in Baltimore, tied up with the legalities of the arson investigation at the
very least, imprisoned for committing it at most.
So the only question that remained was who—the White Tower, the Red Jacks, or some
as-yet-unsuspected contender?
Even if it were the Tower's doing, Misbourne might not know about it. Wessex had not forgotten that he
had been originally tasked to investigate the mole who had plagued the Tower for two generations.
Misbourne thought it settled now that the Marquess of Rutledge was no longer being blackmailed for his
daughter's safety, but Wessex suspected the mole still flourished, and might now be turning his attention
to his hunter.
It was dusk by the time Wessex returned to the Royal Baltimore, and this time his arrival was unimpeded.
Aching and weary and filthy, he thought most of a bath.
Atheling had obviously been watching from the window above the street for Wessex's arrival, for the
most superior manservant was on the doorstep to usher Wessex into their temporary accommodations.
One glance at Atheling's studied expressionlessness, and Wessex knew that Sarah was not here, nor
anywhere Atheling could have discovered in the last few hours.
"Have we had a spot of difficulty, Your Grace?" Atheling inquired, as soon as they had ascended to
Wessex's rooms.
"More in the nature of colt-fever, Atheling," Wessex answered, stripping off his coat and kicking it across
the room. He paused a moment to work the mechanism of the throwing knife; the delicate metal of the
sheath, which allowed it to drop into the wielder's hand for throwing, had bent. He slipped it off and
tossed it to the couch. It was a fine trump-card when it worked, like so many things in Me. "I shall
require a bath, and you may tell me your other news at once. The boat is a loss, by the way."
He sat down and began dragging at his boots. After a moment, Atheling took over the task.
"So one was given to understand," the valet murmured over his shoulder. "Your Grace is bidden to dine
with the Governor tomorrow evening. A selection of horses is waiting for you down at the stable, and if
none of them is satisfactory, a Mr. Bulford has a champion hunter, Further, which he might be willing to
sacrifice, Mr. Bulford having recently sustained certain losses at the gaming table. Mr. Ashley will bring
Her Grace's trunks to the room as soon as he locates the strongroom key, and—"
"What did you say?" Wessex demanded, sitting up and pulling his foot from Atheling's hand. "She is
here?"
"No, Your Grace. But she
was
here, and, ah, decamped without paying her shot, as Mr. Ashley was so
bold as to make known to me. She was not here above three nights, and he cannot say where she might
have gone."
"Devil take and blast the man!" Wessex swore. His valet regarded him impassively until he sat back once
more and suffered his second boot to be attended to.
"There was a young person—from Boston, one surmises—who accompanied Her Grace to this
establishment. I am endeavoring to discover this person's direction so that Your Grace can interview
her."
"Tell Mr. Ashley that if my wife's possessions are not returned to me immediately I shall come and shoot
the lock off his damned strongroom myself," Wessex growled.
"As Your Grace wishes. May I offer my regrets that one of Your Grace's trunks was still aboard ship at
the time of the conflagration?"
Even without seeing Atheling's face, Wessex could imagine the faint air of self-congratulation with which
the manservant delivered himself of this ornate locution. He allowed his valet the change of subject.
"Did we lose anything of particular importance?"
"It would be some of the heavier hunting gear, Your Grace."
"Damn," Wessex said softly. Atheling had always affected to believe that the special weaponry that could
not be disguised when it came to his attention was simply hunting equipment. No wonder the ship had
burned so merrily, if that had been aboard—Wessex knew what he had packed. They were only lucky
the harbor was still there.
"I am very sorry, Your Grace," Atheling said, removing the second boot and straightening up. He
regarded their condition sorrowfully and shook his head minutely. Wessex wondered if at this rate he
would have any item fit to be seen in by suppertime.
"There was nothing you could do—unless you were the one who set fire to my ship in the first place?"
Wessex suggested.
"I will see to your bath, Your Grace," Atheling pronounced. "You will find your dressing gown laid out in
the next room, along with a can of hot water."
Dismissed, the Duke went to inspect the rest of his accommodations. They were rustic, filled with the
cumbersome furniture of local craftsmanship, but the whitewashed rooms were clean. Through small
round panes of bubbled glass—also of local manufacture—Wessex could see the faint flecks of the lit
streetlamps below. With a sigh, he completed the task of undressing himself, and washed the worst of the
dirt away before putting on his dressing gown. Fortunately, the encounter with young Thomas Wren had
left his face unmarked—bruises would be an awkward business to explain to the Governor tomorrow
evening.
If Sarah had been here, why had she gone? And where? Why would she take ship for England again
without her luggage—if that was what she had done?
Sarah, my love, where are you? How could you have vanished and left me no way to find you?
When Wessex emerged from his bath, two of the hostelry's servants were carrying in the mooted trunks
under Atheling's watchful supervision. A personage Wessex took to be Mr. Ashley hovered in the
hallway, presumably in the hope that the Duke would restrain himself from shooting anything.
Wessex's heart twisted at the sight of the trunks—the green leather stamped in gold with the Roxbury
crest proved beyond doubt that Sarah had in fact been here.
"Was there nothing else? A letter?" Wessex demanded, more sharply than he had intended.
"Your Grace—" Mr. Ashley took the opportunity to insinuate himself. "A terrible misfortune! Indeed, had
we known this lady truly was the Duchess of Wessex—"
"Did you not?" Wessex cut in sharply. "Forgive me. I had been under the impression she had declared
herself."
"I—Well, of course. However—"
"You did not believe her." Wessex cut him off ruthlessly. "I will speak to you in the morning, Mr. Ashley.
Good evening."
The innkeeper retreated in disarray.
"A difficult puzzle, Your Grace," Atheling observed mildly, once they were alone.
"The—infernal—presumption—of that creature." White-lipped and shaking with sudden fury, Wessex
turned away to compose himself. How dare any man presume to judge the Duchess of Wessex, no
matter how she chose to present herself? Wessex was an aristocrat to the very marrow of his bones, and
believed that the nobility, like Caesar's wife, was not only above reproach, but above suspicion. The
thought that Sarah might have been forced to endure the contempt of her inferiors was maddening.
But Sarah would not have minded, Wessex realized. Indeed, she might not even have noticed. He shook
his head at the thought of his wife's Republican upbringing. Men needed kings to rule them, just as bodies
needed minds to govern them.
After a moment he sighed, and spoke without turning. "Bring me my lockpicks, Atheling. Let us see what
she has left us."
Mr. Ashley had brought not only Sarah's luggage, but two other trunks unfamiliar to Wessex. He ignored
those for the time being. If Sarah had left him a message, it would be among her things.
A few minutes work with the probes opened the heavy locks, for they were meant to discourage casual
thieving, and not a determined assault. Wessex opened the lid, and was greeted by a strong scent of
lavender and roses, the scent Sarah wore.
He tore through the trunk's contents ruthlessly, but found nothing that would help him. Some sturdy
traveling clothes, one fine satin gown, a few second-best jewels in a small traveling case, the pistol he had
given her on their anniversary, with a goodly supply of powder and shot… but no letters, documents, no
message of any sort. The items that had—so he guessed—been lying about her rooms had been tumbled
will-y-nill-y into the trunk when it had been taken away—he found her French soap, a flask of toilette
water, some hairpins, and her brushes. As much more, Wessex guessed, had fallen prey to servants'
pilfering, but the Royal Baltimore did not retain its reputation by allowing its guests to be stolen from, and
so most of Sarah's possessions were intact.
He opened the catch to raise the false bottom of the trunk, but found it empty save for a thick layer of
blossoms of unspun wool.
He lifted one and sniffed at it.
"Gunpowder," he said aloud. He suspected her Baker rifle—such an unsuitable prize for a Duchess, little
though Wessex was in a position to judge—had been carried to New Albion in that compartment.
The second trunk held much the same as the first had. Here there was a small case of medicines and
bandages, and the false bottom of the trunk contained a quantity of gold coin and an expertly-forged
Royal warrant to release a prisoner into the bearer's hand.
"Burn this," Wessex said, passing the document to Atheling.
He sat back on his heels, puzzled. Sarah had certainly come prepared for a wide variety of trouble. She
had been prepared to retrieve prisoners from royal justice, to physic an injured man, to bribe a great
many men, or to fight. If the Baker was missing from its place, it must be with her. But where was she?
He got to his feet, and approached the other trunks.
The first held men's clothing—few pieces, and those of average quality. Wessex felt a tingle of suspicion.
These items were too featureless, too… ordinary… to be the possessions of an innocent man. He
searched it again more carefully, and found where the lining had been cut away and reglued. He ripped it
loose, and found a thin leather secretary that contained a journal and a few letters, both in French. He
glanced quickly through the journal. Its writer had been as circumspect in his journal as he had in his
person, but it provided clues enough.
"Burn this as well," Wessex said, handing the journal to Atheling. It would not do to leave proof of Louis'
continued existence where it could be easily found. He had known from Mend's letter to Sarah that she
and Louis had reached Baltimore—now he knew that Sarah had tracked them down somewhere in the
city and brought their luggage away with her.
Wessex read over the letters very carefully, but there was no clue in any of them that their authors had
known Louis' true identity. The letters were addressed to a variety of names, and Wessex memorized
them before handing the letters to Atheling to burn as well. Louis and Meriel had often traveled as Mr.
and Mrs. Louis Capet, emigres who had fled Napoleonic France for the relative peace and safety of the
New World, and it was under that name that the money at Nussman's Bank had been left for them. But
Wessex was forced to conclude that Louis had not received the money, and within a few days of his
arrival in Baltimore, Mr. Nussman was dead and Louis vanished.
He turned to the second trunk. Women's clothes, undoubtedly Meriel's, but the diary he had expected to
find was not here.
"Here's a pretty puzzle," he said aloud. Where were Meriel and Sarah? If the villain who had seized Louis