Page 80 of Go, Rogue

And besides, it’s more than possible they’ve already heard about her jilting Pembrooke at the altar, even all the way here in Jamaica.

The speed of gossip is probably faster than even that of steam, she thinks.

And if they have heard, they’ll give Lady Catherine the cut direct, which will leave her without home or safe haven.

“I’ll be Miss Hope,” she says. “But what if I run into the crew?”

“They aren’t likely to be found on the grounds of the governor general’s mansion. But if you do meet them, they’ll follow your lead. They are aware we’re looking for their captain. They won’t give you up.”

“That is presuming a great deal of loyalty,” she says. “Above and beyond what they might feel for a man who gave them a position.”

Rogers only shrugs. “Their pay has also been increased commensurately such that it will be in their best interest to play along no matter where their loyalties might lie.” He catches her gaze and holds it. “I know we’ve not always seen eye to eye, but I do ask that you trust me on this.”

Catherine has no choice but to agree. She does have to trust him, at least a little. She has nowhere else to go in Kingston but to the governor general’s mansion, and no one to rely on but Rogers and his connections there.

She thinks of the key that is still in her pocket. She hasn’t told Rogers about it—not yet. But if that’s what the kidnappers are looking for, they’ll keep Andrew alive until they find it.

“I don’t think,” she says slowly, “they’ll have gotten from Andrew what they’re looking for.”

“And why is that?”

He gives her that assessing look she doesn’t care for, but she fishes the key out of her pocket anyway and shows it to him. In for a penny of trust, in for a pound, after all.

“Because I believe they’re trying to find this.”

“And what is that exactly?”

“It’s the key to Andrew’s lockbox. Where I believe he has stored evidence of the kind you’re looking for.”

Something flashes across his features, too quickly for her to identify exactly what it is. But then he nods at her sharply. “You may be correct, Miss Hope. I don’t suppose you’d give me that key for safekeeping?”

“I absolutely would not.”

“Then guard it as if your life depends upon it. Or more to the point, as if Captain McGann’s does.”

Not more than two hours later, she’s standing on the steps of a mansion in Spanish Town, being introduced to Mrs. Elizabeth Masters, the governor general’s widowed niece. The woman is a few inches taller than Catherine and only a few years older—a striking brunette with a pale, English rose complexion, who can barely hide her delighted reaction to the juicy tale that Rogers spins of a shipwreck and Catherine’s near drowning.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. Masters says, taking Catherine by the arm. “How terrible that must have been for you! Do not worry about a thing. We’ll see you well taken care of. You poor girl.”

“Thank you,” Catherine says, grateful for the kindness, which makes her guilt well up at the subterfuge.

She pushes it away as Mrs. Masters takes her arm and leads her into the governor’s mansion. Catherine crosses the threshold and stops suddenly as she sees the sumptuous world of the ton recreated here in Jamaica. She sucks in her breath.

“It is something, isn’t it?” Mrs. Masters asks, and Catherine nods. It is something, though not in the way her companion intends. It’s—well. It’s grotesque, the way they’ve transported the trappings of the beaumonde all the way here.

She looks behind her through the open doorway, her eyes taking in the same cupid-spewing-water fountain that might decorate the same circular drive at any English country estate. The same colonnades holding up a gracious building constructed in the same Georgian style of architecture, likely designed by the same English architects.

She turns back to the interior, where the same version of the same crystal chandelier lights the large entryway, and the same gilt-framed portraits and landscapes grace the walls as would fit any townhouse or ducal seat. They really have made Jamaica into a faithful replica of England.

She doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing, just inhales the floral scent wafting her way, aloft on a gentle breeze.

Andrew’s scent.

She takes another deep breath. She can do this, and she can do it as graciously as possible. If she needs to be Miss Hope to get Andrew back, she’ll be Miss Hope. She gives Mrs. Masters her best smile. “I am so grateful for your hospitality,” she says. “You have my deepest thanks.”

And then she is shepherded up the stairs to a waiting bath, a borrowed muslin gown, and a young Black woman named Claire who will act as her lady’s maid.

All the staff of the mansion are, in fact, Black. She thinks back—slavery was abolished in Jamaica twenty years ago. But looking around now, not as much seems to have changed as she would have imagined.