Chapter Nineteen #2
Finally, she swallowed. “You say he sailed the ship. You’re certain of this?”
“Grayson and Brice were at the docks during the loading process. Both claim to have witnessed him casting off and setting sail, along with the two privateer ships we hired to guard him.” During the sale off the Spanish coastline, he’d used a looking glass to search the deck.
He’d seen no sign of Dirk before taking a cannonball in the hull.
“I see. You’re certain he was aboard, then, and fairly certain he led the convoy into France, yet you search for him here?”
Disappointment weighed him down. She had only been grasping at straws. “Yes, in case he somehow returned. Barring that, I’ve been seeking his family’s whereabouts.”
She smiled a whimsical smile. “Ah, yes. Mr. Kennedy never anticipated marrying or having a child of his own, claiming himself wed to the sea. Then Meredith came along and upended the apple cart.”
He shook his head. He had never allowed anyone to read his private journals.
Had never considered the notion, and no one of his acquaintance would have dared ask had they even known they existed.
He should be appalled, or offended or, at the very least, self-conscious.
Instead he felt relief at having Gwen with whom to confer.
Abruptly, her brows snapped together and she sat up straight in her chair. “Wait. Are you saying Meredith and the babe are gone?”
“Gone without a trace. I first checked the apartments I keep in Portsmouth. Dirk resides—resided—locally, but we often sailed out of Portsmouth, or received important shipments there.”
“So, for expediency’s sake, you keep a place there for you and your higher employees’ use,” Gwen surmised.
She was so damned easy to talk with; she never missed a beat. “Precisely. When Dirk knew he would be there for an extended time, Meredith and Dirk Junior would relocate temporarily to join him.”
“They weren’t there, and they aren’t here,” she said thoughtfully as she swirled her brandy in the glass, peering into it like a gypsy reading tea leaves before lifting her gaze to his. “What of their belongings?”
He tried without success to squelch the ember of hope once again igniting in his chest—that Gwen would somehow solve the riddle and clear his friend of all complicity.
“Their furnishings remain in their residence in Wapping. However, by all appearances, they packed for an extended trip and left in a hurry. Their neighbors claim not to have seen them leave, nor to have any knowledge of where they may have gone.”
She pursed her lips. “Leading you to conclude they departed for France where they rejoined Mr. Kennedy.”
He took a hefty swallow of the fine liquor. “It would seem the most logical conclusion.”
“Yet you continue to search for them,” she said, tilting one fine brow. “Why?”
“Fool’s errand,” he muttered and swirled his own brandy in his snifter. “It’s unlikely Dirk will ever return. Unlike me, he doesn’t have a wealthy duke for a father who won’t stand for him being thrown into Newgate prison.”
She set her glass aside and moved to kneel before him, one of her hands on each of his knees.
His throat went tight looking down into her pale, fine-boned face, and the care he read there.
“Gideon,” she began in a low voice. “Do you know what I think?”
“No.” He knew what he thought. He wanted to kiss her. To haul her up onto his lap, ravage her mouth and forget everything, save her.
“I think you know very well Mr. Kennedy would never betray you, nor would he move his precious family to live with the enemy.”
“So where are they and how do you explain him leading the ships into enemy territory?”
“Perhaps someone forced him at gunpoint to veer the ship toward France. Perhaps the crew mutinied and forced him to walk the plank.”
He grunted. “Spoken like a woman who’s read far too many horrid novels.”
In typical Gwen fashion, she ignored his childish outburst and cocked her head, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Perhaps, and I think this scenario most likely, someone threatened those he loved in order to gain his compliance. Maybe even took them. Didn’t you say his entire family disappeared, leaving no one the wiser as to their whereabouts? ”
“Yes, which could as easily be explained by him acquiring a hefty sum through nefarious deeds and sending them somewhere he planned to later join them.” Even as he spoke the words, they felt wrong.
“You don’t believe that,” she said, reading his mind. She cupped his cheek with one silken palm.
He resisted, barely, pressing into her touch.
“If I had to guess, I’d say you suffer from guilt.”
“Guilt?” he railed, as the fire of need within him raged. “I had nothing to do with Dirk’s treachery.”
“Of course you didn’t. But you likely blame yourself for having been absent when he needed you, having departed for Calcutta to see to your business interests before the final shipment of arms set sail.”
He stared into her eyes, sudden, intense misery welling up inside him. “I should have been here,” he gritted out. “I should never have let such a major responsibility land on his shoulders.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Gideon.”
“It was, damn it.”
“It wasn’t,” she repeated. “Someone set all of this up. They made it so you would not be here, so that they could manipulate the situation, including Mr. Kennedy, without your interference.”
As she knew, he hadn’t found any sign that his workers in Calcutta had been skimming.
Which meant either it was Dirk, pilfering from him at sea, or the theft had happened here, where the same person—or persons—arranged the rifles meant for England’s Spanish allies to go to Napoleon instead, and then pinned the guilt on Dirk—and him.
“I have a suggestion that might help with your investigation.”
“Do you? An editor, contract negotiator, publisher, and now inquiries agent. Your list of skills is no less than legendary.” She did not deserve his sarcasm, but he could not seem to help himself.
She dropped to a sitting posture, feet curled under her skirts, folded her hands on the arm of his chair, and rested her chin on her hands. Her lovely lips drew into a pout. “If you’re going to be like that, I shall not bother wasting my breath.”
One corner of his mouth crooked upward as some of the vitriol within him eased, exactly as she’d intended. “My apologies, madam. Go on.”
She straightened immediately, ebullient with childlike enthusiasm.
“Why not pay the runner you hired to put it about that you seek Meredith, or information leading to her whereabouts, because you wish to provide aid? Let it be known you wish to see her and baby Dirk safely settled, and your most cherished desire is to find a way to exonerate her husband, Mr. Kennedy and—”
“My ‘most cherished desire’?” he asked dryly.
She waved a dismissive hand. “You may word it however you please.”
“Thank you.” He resisted the urge to grin.
Several locks of her gold-spun hair had come loose from her braid to frame her delicate face. He imagined sliding the silky strands between his thumb and forefinger. Imagined their satiny feel.
Would her skin be as satiny?
Gwen continued, oblivious to the direction of his thoughts. “Make it clear that whatever you learn you’ll keep in the strictest confidence. I believe you will succeed at learning the truth, Gideon, whatever that may be.”
Never in his life had anyone taken such an avid interest in him, the real him. Men, other than his father and Dirk, sought him for his connections, his know how, his influence. Women wanted him for something far more base—to satisfy their carnal cravings, something he was very, very good at.
Gwen wanted nothing from him other than the temporary use of his name, and a few drops of his finest liquor.
If anything, aiding him in unraveling his mess had become of paramount importance to her.
Why? Perhaps it was just because she enjoyed a puzzle.
Or—and this struck him as infinitely more likely—helping was something she did. Who she was. Gwen was…kind.
Little wonder he wanted her to a degree bordering on obsession, and it seemed the desire was only growing more profound—to kiss her, to hold her, to be held by her. Damn it. It was too much.
He bounded out of the chair, rounding the furniture so it stood between them.
Eyes widening, she rose slowly to her feet. “Gideon? I hope I did not overstep. I only meant to help.”
“Oh? Because you like it so well when people offer you sound advice?”
She blinked, and her face flushed, but she neither defended herself nor went on the offense—which would have made sorting his feelings so much easier. As it was, he regretted the acerbic comment the moment it crossed his lips, but what good would taking it back do now?
“It’s late,” he said. “We’ve an early start tomorrow. I’ve ordered the carriage brought ’round at half past six.” He strode for the door, opening it wide and moving to the side.
“Very well.” Skirts fisted in her hands, she moved cautiously past him into the corridor. She took several steps, then halted to look inquiringly over her shoulder at him. “You’re not coming?”
He shook his head. “I have work to attend. Go to bed, Gwen. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She stared at him a long moment, her expression, if he had to guess, one of concern—for him. “Goodnight, Gideon,” she finally said and walked away, her slippers silent on the marble tiles. She did not look back though he watched her until she disappeared from his sight.