Chapter 4
Warrick never thought he'd have to beg his sister-in-law Marianne to allow him to join her for tea, but here he was, hat in hand, assuring his brother's firebrand wife that he meant no harm to her new apparent compatriot.
How women managed to bond together after only a few cursory exchanges of words was a puzzlement. One moment the Rowe chit had been an enemy of the Horsemen and his prisoner for questioning, and the next, she turned into his larcenous sister-in-law's bosom friend.
"Of course you may join us for tea, Warrick, but you have to leave your barbaric tendencies outside my parlor.
" Marianne gave him a pointed look as she poured a third cup of tea.
She nodded her head toward the boarding axe still slung over his back.
"Oh, and that...thing...has to stay out of my parlor. You know the rules."
He gave an exasperated huff and threw her an evil look she ignored.
He trudged back to the entrance to the rear stairway in the hallway where a large wooden chest was pushed against a wall.
Con had allowed his obstinate wife to force all of them to deposit their weapons there whenever they entered what she now considered her private sanctum.
She'd claimed Con's formerly masculine study, which she'd turned into a parlor with bright floral curtains, an expensive Aubusson rug on the floor, and fine furnishings which must have cost his brother nearly a king's ransom. Unless Marianne had stolen them.
Once back in the parlor, properly denuded of his tools of defense, Warrick could have sworn Con's cook, Ho, threw him a side eye whilst bringing them a tray of freshly baked chocolate biscuits and tiny watercress sandwiches. He was never going to live this down.
Beatrice Rowe turned a sly smile his way. "Exactly what do you want to know, Mr. Dyer?"
"I have to know what your dock workers know. My brothers and I must find out who's abusing children and trying to implicate us."
"My men have already told me what they saw. What makes you think their stories will be any different if you're the one asking the questions?"
He swallowed one of the sandwiches whole before leaning toward Missus Rowe. "For starters, I want to know the dates and times they saw what they think were our men stealing from you and using children to haul cargo."
"What difference would that make?" She took a delicate sip of her tea and gently set the fine china teacup back down, with a smug look toward Marianne.
"There's times of the month and times of the night when we do our, um, work. Maybe the men your workers saw weren't ours, but I can't prove it unless I have the times and dates."
"I'm sure your haphazard marauding habits would never provide you the means to prove where you and your men are on any given night."
Marianne gave her guest a pitying look. "My husband and brothers-in-law know exactly which of their men are where on any given night.
" She pointed a slender finger at Warrick who'd piled his plate high with enough biscuits and tiny sandwiches to see him through a night of the supposed "marauding" accusation Missus Rowe had thrown at him.
He carefully finished chewing one of said sandwiches before assuring her, "I have copies of all the manifests from the cargoes of all your ships for the last twelve years."
When his nemesis opened her mouth in surprise, he had to stop himself from reaching across Marianne's precious cherry wood table to wipe a bit of clotted cream away from the corner of Missus Rowe's mouth.
He dropped his hand to his side as if he'd scorched his fingers on the flame of one of his sister-in-law's expensive tapered candles.
"How...no, why would you keep duplicate manifests of all of my cargoes?" Her cheeks flushed in anger.
"Because, I keep records of when we, um, assist with unloading, and how exactly we arrive at our ten percent share.
That is the only way we have to track how our crews are paid.
Each of those records have notations of dates, times, and which phase of the moon, or the state of the weather, that allows us to work without being noticed by the River Police.
Now do you see why it's imperative that I speak to your waterfront crew who claim to have seen us stealing cargo and abusing children in the process? "
"I don't believe you." Missus Rowe crossed her arms firmly over the fine breasts that had been straining at her black silk bodice ever since they'd first met at The Angel that morning.
He nearly groaned out loud. How had that meddlesome thought crept into his addled brain? He shifted in his chair and considered giving himself a healthy whack to the side of his face to redirect his brain back in the right direction.
Beatrice hadn't let a man irritate her so in a long time.
When she'd first taken over the management of her husband's failing shipping company, a lot of men who'd worked in the office in one of their warehouses along the quay near Limehouse had tried to ignore her efforts.
She'd worked tirelessly to turn around the extreme losses they were experiencing.
And no wonder the former employees of Rowe Shipping were so determined to block her, considering most of them had been the very ones stealing from Rowe Shipping.
She'd dealt with all of those thieves and now surrounded herself only with honest employees who gave her the respect due the person who paid their wages each month. Yet today, she'd discovered this...this rogue band of criminals had been tracking her business in secret all these years.
She leaned forward in a decidedly unladylike manner, planting her fists to the sides of the plate of dainty biscuits, rattling the cutlery on the expensive cherry wood table, and staring directly into the impudent man's eyes.
"You're lying. I don't believe a word of such a Banbury tale.
..copies of Rowe cargo manifests for the last twelve years?
Who amongst my employees would do such a thing? "
Warrick mirrored her unflinching stare. "Yer saintly, late husband, Missus Rowe."
"Why...," she muttered. "Why in the name of St. Martin would he do such a thing?"
"His gambling debts. We paid them, he got to keep his shipping company, and in return, we've gotten copies of yer manifests ever since."
Marianne rose so suddenly, her plate of biscuits tumbled to the floor and shattered.
The noise brought their butler running, a broom in one hand and a club in the other.
"It's all right, Crisp. We're done here.
Mister Warrick Dyer is going to accompany us to his office where he keeps all the records of his, um, enterprises along the docks.
Missus Rowe requires proof of what he's been telling her.
Please have Young James bring around the carriage.
" She gave Beatrice a long, assessing look.
"I believe one of my hooded capes will fit you perfectly.
I'm sure you don't want any of your friends or employees seeing you in the company of one of the Dyer brothers. "
Beatrice gave her a grateful look and followed her to the rear staircase where Marianne kept a selection of similar capes hanging on hooks.
Within ten minutes or so, they were allowing Warrick to help them up into the conveyance.
She despised the thought of even touching the blackguard, but the electric tingle of his hand over hers made her shaky despite her resolve.
Would this godforsaken day never end? And how would she place her carefully organized life back into any sort of order after the dark revelations she'd been forced to face in the presence of one of the most dangerous men prowling the waterfront?
Warrick sucked in a deep, restoring breath when their coachman pulled up next to his warehouse hideaway on Wapping Street.
Suddenly, he felt a twinge of unease at what the golden-haired harpy next to him would think of his abode.
He stiffened at that unbidden thought. What the hell was he thinking?
He had no intention of bedding, or Zeus forbid, courting, the querulous wench sitting stiffly next to him.
He meant to show her just how carefully his business paralleled her own.
And besides, who was she to change the way he and the rest of The Horsemen had watched over the docks along London's northeastern shores of the Thames for years?
She should have been around before they'd cleared the docks of warring gangs and opportunists who were not above spiriting away much more plunder than the mutually agreed upon two percent.
Why, it was no more than a simple tithe.
So lost in his thoughts was he, he hadn't noticed she'd slowed her stride in front of him to stare at the upper level of his tidy warehouse home.
When he followed the line of her observation, he noticed a large number of his men pressed against the windows of their top-floor quarters staring back at the irritating widow.
"You swabs up there," he shouted. "Away from the windows and back to work.
If ye can't find honest work, then I'll be sure to think of something.
There's plenty to do around here for idle hands. "
When he looked back at Missus Rowe in triumph, the expression on her face was more horrified than understanding.
"Are you in the habit of shouting at your employees from public streets?
" With that, she stepped delicately around him, as if he were something disgusting she'd encountered lying on a dusty road.
"What is wrong with you?" Marianne demanded with a hiss. "Have you no manners? If you wanted to impress Missus Rowe, you're doing an especially poor job of it."
"Nobody wants to impress Missus Rowe," he argued in a voice just a tad too loud.