Page 63 of One Wicked Secret
“If this isn’t a matter of life or death, I’ll thrash the blasted constable with a birch. Of all the rotten timing.”
“Perhaps fate is conspiring to keep us apart.” A small part of her was relieved. Ignorance was a sweet mercy. She didn’t want to know what had happened during those missing hours she’d spent unconscious in Mr Carver’s bed.
“Don’t say that. It’s not fate but someone from the East India Company. That, or Denby is out for my blood.”
“It could be connected to the investigation,” she agreed.
“Mr Dalton?” Signora Conti called.
“Yes, I’ll be right there.”
Keen to leave his wife with a lasting memory of their encounter in the garden, Daniel claimed her mouth in a fierce kiss while he pumped his fingers in and out of her slowly.
Pleasure rippled through her. “Daniel! Don’t tease me.”
“This isn’t teasing. It’s a promise.”
“A promise?”
“A promise you’ll be my wife in more than name.”
Wapping Docks
Northern bank of the Thames
If Daniel had a shilling for every time he’d cursed in the past hour, he’d be richer than Midas. He stood on the wharf in the rain, his greatcoat collar turned high, the faint glow from the constables’ lanterns casting eerie shadows across the damp, desolate docks.
“The pirates struck while the men were unloading the cargo,” the constable said, pointing to the shattered crates and the overturned barrel of salt, its contents gleaming like crushed diamonds in the gloom. “They attacked the men first before loading what they could onto the wherry.”
Daniel glanced at the hulking ships anchored along the Thames. No one would notice a passing wherry in the mist, and the pirates had secret hideouts scattered along the riverbanks.
“I trust there were no casualties.”
“One dock worker has a nasty head wound, another a broken arm, and one was knocked unconscious. The cargo master is busy assessing any financial losses.”
He would share more than a few stern words with the cargo master. Why the hell were they unloading the goods at night? Filing an insurance claim would be pointless. Lloyd’s would use the late hour as proof of negligence.
“Do you know what time the attack took place?”
“Around nine, sir. The ship arrived late. The dock workers were keen to unload the vessel to make room for another ship arriving in the morning.”
It was no excuse.
Daniel wiped the rain from his cheeks, which had trickled from the brim of his beaver hat. “Keep me informed of your progress,” he said tightly. The shareholders would demand answers.
He checked on the injured dock workers, assuring them they’d be paid and their attackers brought to justice. Then he strode into the warehouse in search of the cargo master, Jim Travers.
The rough-looking man, with weathered skin and a permanent scowl, stood amid the salvaged cargo, mumbling under his breath as he tallied the losses by lantern light.
Daniel removed his hat and shook off the rain as he marched toward Travers. “I want a full inventory on my desk by morning. A man with your experience should know better than to unload a ship at dusk.” His temper flared—he’d left his wife panting beneath an oak tree to deal with this nonsense. At this rate, he’d be lucky to make it home before dawn. “Your stupidity has voided any chance of filing a claim.”
Travers blamed the weather, the tides, and the inexperienceddock workers. “A hoist broke, making it hard to manage the load. The rain didn’t help. The wood was slippery.”
He wasn’t sure why he chose to confront the man rather than accept his excuses. Perhaps because, since marrying Elsa, suspicion was his constant companion. Or because he’d faced more than his fair share of misfortune.
Daniel stepped closer, aware his dark features and broad frame made him look devilish in the gloom. “That’s not the whole truth. Is it, Travers?”
Travers frowned. “What are you getting at? You think I broke the hoist myself? Johnson’s a stripling with the strength of a sparrow, and Carpenter’s got one arm in a sling—hardly the lot to pull off a grand scheme.”
