"So Samantha knows about Cynthia's former occupation?"
"Yes, my avenging romantic told me so herself, defended Cynthia as if they were old friends."
"I see." A spark kindled in Boyd's eyes. "Interesting."
"I thought you might say that."
A noise at the door interrupted them. Cautiously, Boyd waited until he'd heard the customary signal required from his after-hours guests. Three knocks ... a pause ... two knocks more. Satisfied, he rose to admit Templar and Harris.
"Knollwood's at Bow Street," Templar announced, shedding his coat. "From there he'll go to Old Bailey, then Newgate. We won't be seeing that cur for a long, long time."
"Good." Nodding his approval, Rem handed each man a wad of bills.
"Is that from Knollwood's booty?"
"No, from mine. Knollwood's funds are being put to another use. One that needn't concern you."
The men knew better than to pry.
"This might be the only money we see," Harris announced, helping himself to a drink. "We don't have a damned thing for you, Gresham."
"I'm not surprised." Rem tossed off the remains of his gin. "You shouldn't be either. Whoever's sinking these ships isn't stupid. Nor is he anxious to get caught. It's up to us to be shrewder and more persistent than he. How many companies have you visited?"
"Four companies, three merchants. All with impeccable records."
"That leaves at least six more companies and an equal number of merchants to investigate. You should have something for me by Wednesday night."
"Two days?" Templar blanched.
"Two days." Rem replenished his drink. "I don't pay you to dawdle, Templar. I pay you to work—hard. So"—Rem lifted his glass—"shall we say Annie's? Wednesday night, two a.m.?"
Harris and Templar exchanged glances. Resignedly, they nodded. "We'll be there, Gresham."
By the time Sammy arrived at Carlton House Wednesday night, she no longer wanted to view the Prince Regent's palatial mansion or take part in the enormous gathering within. Her head throbbed from idle chatter, her heart ached with loneliness, and her mind screamed with frustration.
She hadn't heard a word from Rem since their broodingly silent carriage ride home from Vauxhall two nights past. She missed him dreadfully, found herself searching the crowds for him at every ball she and Aunt Gertie attended. He'd not been present at a single one, and there had been countless. Carlton House was her third stop this evening—and definitely her last.
"Samantha . . . what a delightful surprise!"
Clarissa's insincere greeting accosted Sammy like a bucket of ice water. Fervently, she wished she were anywhere but here. "Good evening, Lady Sheltane," she returned, forcing a smile.
"Please, call me Clarissa. After all, we're both friends of Re
m's, aren't we?"
Sammy flinched. "Did the marquis accompany you tonight... Clarissa, or is he still ailing?"
"He's still not well, poor dear. But he did manage to meet with your brother again regarding my yacht. Oh, it should be splendid."
"I'm sure." Where oh where was Aunt Gertie?
"Samantha! It is you! I thought I saw your lovely face brighten the room a moment ago."
"Stephen." Sammy wanted to throw her arms around Viscount Anders's neck. "I'm so happy to see you."
The warmth of her greeting seemed to please him immensely. "The pleasure, petite fleur, is all mine. May I have the honor of this dance?"
"Of course."