Samantha (Barrett 2)

Anders Shipping was deserted.

The lone figure unlocked the door and entered, lighting an oil lamp in preparation.

He'd scarcely completed his task when the door hinge squeaked, and another silhouette stepped inside. "Anders? Is that you?"

"Of course it's me!" the viscount snapped, turning down the lamp as low as he could without casting the room in total darkness. "Who the hell were you expecting?"

The Marquis of Hartley rubbed the back of his neck with a shaking hand. "Summerson, perhaps."

"Summerson will be here any minute. I came early to unlock the door."

"Do you know what this is about?"

"I only know what you do: Summerson got a frantic note from his privateer friend. As a result, he ordered us to meet here at half after four to find out if Fuller is really being threatened by someone who can expose the whole lot of us, or if it's just his way of bleeding us for more money."

"What if someone really has discovered our plan?" Hartley began to pace. "God, I wish I'd never agreed to this. I should have lost my company rather than keep it alive with stolen funds."

"It's a little late for regrets, isn't it, Hartley?" Summerson strode into the room. "Now stop this nonsense. We have enough to contend with—we certainly don't need one of your attacks of conscience."

Hartley had no chance to reply. The door banged open and Fuller entered, leaving the door ajar. "Are ye all 'ere?"

"Yes. We're all here," Summerson snapped. "Now, what's this about? Who wrote you that letter?"

"That's what I want t' know." Fuller scratched his beard, "It could be one of ye, now couldn't it?"

"That's preposterous!" Hartley burst out. "Why would we thwart our own scheme? If one of us is imprisoned for theft, we'd all be close behind!"

"Maybe ye was gettin' cold feet."

"Or maybe you were getting greedy." Anders whipped out a pistol. "Isn't that truly the case, Fuller?"

Fuller's eyes bulged. "I thought ye said they were all soft but ye, Summerson. Ye told me they'd never even 'eld a weapon in their 'ands!"

"Shut up, Fuller," Summerson ordered.

"How interesting." Anders tossed Summerson a look. "Pray continue, Fuller." He cocked his pistol. "What else did Mr. Summerson tell you?"

"Nothin'."

"Why don't I believe you? Why do I suddenly get the distinct feeling something is transpiring that I know nothing about? Tell me, Fuller," Anders advanced toward the pirate, "do you and Summerson speak of us often?"

"I didn't even know 'ow many of ye there was until now."

&nbsp

; "Well, now you not only know how many of us there are, but you've seen our faces. Convenient, wouldn't you say? Now the truth, Fuller—there is no letter, right? There's only your greedy little mind ... and perhaps a special arrangement with Mr. Summerson here?"

"Cease this absurdity, Anders!" Summerson fired out. "I assure you, there is no conspiracy between me and this privateer."

"Fine. Then why don't I correct his false impression of our ineptness by blowing off his head?"

In a flash Fuller's knife was out, whizzing through the air and striking Anders in the arm. The pistol thudded to the floor.

"I've 'ad enough of this, Summerson!" Fuller rasped over Anders's cry of pain. "Keep yer bloody money—I don't want it! Ye'll have to find someone else to peddle yer men in the West Indies. I'm through workin' with ye—ye're all crazy!"

"Shut up, Fuller!" Summerson thundered.

"Peddle our men?" Hartley managed, wrapping his handkerchief around Anders's bloody wound, "What men? What does he mean, Summerson?"