His gaze locked with Tony’s, Jack shook his head. “Not in such circumstances. Cargoes are insured against loss through the vessel being lost, but they aren’t covered if the goods are seized during wartime.”
“So it’s considered a loss through an act of war?” Tristan asked.
Jack nodded. “The cargoes would be lost, but there’d be no claim to worry the denizens of Lloyd’s Coffee House, no fuss perturbing any of the major guilds like the shipowners.”
“And if the merchants were unconnected individuals, and the losses varied and apparently random…”Tony paused, frowning. “Who would that benefit?”
None of them could offer an answer.
“We need more information.” Tony looked at Gervase.
Who smiled grimly. “It took a bit of persuasion, but I heard three separate tales from three unconnected individuals of ‘special commissions’ being offered in the Channel Isles. The contacts were all English, and all were miffed that these ‘commissions’ were being offered solely to, not specifically French, but only to non-English captains.”
Gervase exchanged a glance with Tony. “You know what the sailors in and about the Isles are like—they consider themselves a law unto themselves, and largely that’s true. It never was clear where they stood in recent times.”
Tony humphed. “My reading is that they’re for themselves, regardless.”
“Indeed,” Charles put in. “But I assume the links between our shores and the Isles, and the Isles and Brittany and Normandy continued to operate throughout the war?”
“Oh, yes.” Both Tony and Gervase nodded; Jack, too.
“Located as they are…” Jack shrugged. “It would be wonderful were they not the haunt of ‘independent captains.’”
Tony turned to Gervase. “Did you get any confirmation on those particular ships?”
Gervase shook his head. “None of my contacts had information on specific ships—they’d never been in the running for those ‘special commissions’ and it seems whoever was making the offer played his cards very close to his chest.”
Tony grimaced. “I could go over and scout about, but…”
Jack shook his head. “Aside from all else, there’d be more than a few who might remember one Antoine Balzac, and that not fondly.”
Tony raised his brows fleetingly. “There is that.” He reached into his pocket. “Which brings us to my discovery, which makes me even less inclined to go fossicking on foreign shores.”
He tossed the bundle of letters on the table; the others’ eyes locked on them. “Yesterday, a greasy-looking clerk in dusty black called at Mrs. Alicia Carrington’s house in Waverton Street while she and her sister were in the park, as might have been predicted, the hour being what it was. Said clerk insisted on waiting, and was shown into the parlor, but when Mrs. Carrington returned home, no sign of this clerk could be found.
“Later, when I searched the parlor, I found these, wedged behind books in a corner bookshelf.”
The others all glanced at him, then reached for the letters. Their faces grew more and more impassive as they read each, passing them around the table. Finally, when all five letters had been tossed back on the table, Christian leaned forward and looked at Tony. “Tell me why Mrs. Alicia Carrington cannot be A. C.”
Tony didn’t bridle; Christian was playing devil’s advocate. “She’s been married just less than two years—before that, she was Alicia Pevensey, and that’s been checked.” He gestured at the letters. “All five of these were written while she would still have been A. P.”
Christian nodded. “Her husband—what was his name?”
“Alfred.” Tony didn’t like pretending Alfred Carrington had ever existed, but life would be easier if he stuck to Alicia’s fabrication. “But he died nearly two years ago, so he wasn’t the A. C. who was continuing to seek and buy information from Ruskin. Further, the Carrington family have no connections through which they might have used such information, nor wealth enough to have played A. C.’s game. The payments, the system, are consistent throughout—we’re looking for one man, A. C., who’s very much alive.”
“And up to no good, what’s more.” Charles flicked one of the letters. “I don’t like this.”
Tony let a moment elapse, then softly said, “No more do I.”
After a moment, he went on, “However, the letters confirm that the track we’re pursuing is correct. They show A. C. did engage French naval captains and French privateers to capture ships, presumably using information Ruskin supplied.” He added his knowledge of the Frenchmen involved.
“Stop a minute.” Tristan said. “What have we got so far? How could a scheme based on what we’ve surmised work?”
They tossed around scenarios, pooling their experience to approve some suggestions as possible, discounting others.
“All right,” Tony eventually said. “This seems the most likely then: Ruskin supplied information on convoys, especially when and where certain ships would leave a convoy to turn aside to their home ports.”
Charles nodded. “That, and also when frigates were called off convoy duty to serve with the fleets—in other words when merchantmen would be sailing essentially unprotected.”
“The merchantmen would have made a good show”— Jack looked increasingly grim—“but against an enemy frigate, they’d stand little chance.”
“So, armed with said knowledge, A. C. arranges for a foreign captain to pick off a specific merchantman. Once the deed was done, and Ruskin’s information proved good, A. C. paid him, and both he and A. C. went home happy.” Tony grimaced. “We need to work out why A. C. was so keen on removing specific merchantmen, thus preventing their cargoes from reaching London.”
He looked at Jack, who nodded. “We need the specifics of the cargoes, not just the general description. The only way to access those details after all this time is via Lloyd’s—they always keep records.”
“Can you learn what we need without alerting anyone?” Tony held Jack’s gaze. “We have no idea who A. C. might be, nor yet what contacts he might have.”
Jack shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on asking anyone— I know where the records are kept. No reason I can’t drop by late one night and take a look.”
Charles grinned. “A man after our collective heart— are you sure you don’t want to join the club?”
Jack answered with a brief grin. “I have my hands full just at present.”
“How long will it take you to gather what we need?” Tony asked.
Jack considered. “Two days. I’ll need to scout things out before I go in. Wouldn’t do to get caught.”
“No, indeed.” Christian looked at Tony. “This business of those letters planted in Mrs. Carrington’s parlor more than worries me. Whoever A. C. is, he’s blackguard enough to happily deflect blame onto an innocent lady, without regard for the damage to her—”
Heavy thuds fell on the front door, reverberating up to the meeting room.
They all froze, waited…
The door downstairs opened; voices were heard, then footsteps, not precisely running but hurrying, came up the stairs.
Gasthorpe, the club’s majordomo, appeared in the doorway. “Your pardon, my lords.” He looked at Tony. “My lord, a footman has arrived with an urgent summons.”
Tony was already rising. “Waverton Street?”
“Indeed, my lord. The authorities have descended.”
FIFTEEN
THEY’D ANTICIPATED SOMETHING OF THE SORT, BUT Tony was nonetheless surprised and made uneasy by how swiftly the expected had arrived.
Jack demanded the number of Alicia’s house, then parted from him on the pavement outside the club, saying he’d meet him there. Together with Christian and Charles, Tony piled into a hackney; Tristan intended to join them, but just at that moment Leonora, his wife, emerged from the garden next door—her uncle’s house where she’d been visiting. She saw them, and instantly wanted to know what was going on.