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“What about the duke’s solicitor and banker?”
“Ostensibly, they did nothing other than meet with other prominent businessmen who are in London for the Season.”
Courtney chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Slayde, you yourself alerted Morland to the fact that you were delving into his activities. Is it possible he was aware you’d followed his colleagues to London and advised them to await your departure before taking action?”
“I suppose. In truth, it’s difficult for me to attribute such cunning to a weak drunkard like Morland. Then, again, he’s no longer the man I recall. And he is Chilton’s son.” Slayde gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Honestly, Courtney, I just don’t know.”
“What about Oridge?”
“Ah, Oridge. He’s the only one who’s managed to yield some results. We went our separate ways once we reached London, then met at an out-of-the-way pub on the day I left for Pembourne. According to his sources, a few disreputable men matching the descriptions you’d given him were seen peddling silver near London Bridge.”
“When was this?” Courtney demanded. “Is Mr. Oridge certain the men were Armon’s crew?”
“Two days before Oridge’s arrival, and yes. He confirmed it several times over. Which means his theory was right; Armon’s men didn’t immediately flee the country. Conceivably, they could still be in England or, at worst, they’ve traveled a short distance. Either way, Oridge will find them—and their ship. Of that, I have no doubt. The question is, what peace will that bring you? Who of your father’s crew might those filthy pirates have allowed to live?”
“I’ve asked myself those same questions, especially with regard to Lexley.” Courtney swallowed past the lump in her throat. “And the answers will doubtless be painful. But I must face them nonetheless.”
“I know.” Slayde stared out over the gently rolling waters. “In addition to the avenues my investigators are pursuing, I still want to check out that unsavory merchant, Grimes, to see if he was the contact Armon was en route to on the night he was killed. After you and I return from this excursion, I intend to head back to Dartmouth. Perhaps Grimes has slithered his way home from wherever the hell he was. If he knows anything, I’ll urge him to cooperate.”
Courtney’s insides surged, whether in reaction to their conversation or as the onset of her customary seasickness, she wasn’t certain. “I think I’d best go below,” she said shakily, her voice as unsteady as her stomach.
Slayde cast a swift glance at her. “Do you need my help?”
“No.” She was already on her way. “I just hope you had the good sense to provide a chamber pot in the cabin.”
The next hour was one Courtney would have liked to forget—just as she’d liked to forget the dozens of other times she’d spent crouched on a cabin floor heaving until her muscles ached. She was thankful she’d eaten very little the previous night, although her body seemed not to care, protesting the motion of the ship with wrenching spasms that went on long after her stomach was empty.
At last, the torment ended and she collapsed in an exhausted heap, too spent to even attempt sitting up. As if from a distance, she heard Slayde come in, and she murmured gratefully when he carried her to the berth, gently wiping her face and neck with a cool cloth.
“Rest,” he urged softly.
“But I have to…direct our way.” She felt as weak as a rag doll.
“You will. Soon. For a while, I’ll head in the general direction the Isobel would have taken—toward the Colonies. I’ll awaken you when I need you.”
“Slayde?” Courtney’s eyes drifted shut.
“Hum?”
“Thank you.” With that, she slept.
She jolted awake, a shaft of sunlight reminding her that the afternoon was well under way and her input would be needed in order to reach their destination. On wobbly legs, she arose, sagging with relief when she spied the basin of water Slayde had left. She drank and washed, then crept from the cabin and climbed topside, rejoining Slayde at the helm.
“Hello,” she greeted him, grateful to see the water was calmer.
His head jerked about, his eyes narrowing on her face. “I was just about to check on you. How do you feel?”
“Better.” A rueful smile. “As I said, I’m not much of a seafarer, although I’ve never before been quite this sick—not to the point where I fell into a dead sleep after being ill.”
“You’ve never before been recovering from severe injuries, body depletion, emotional turmoil, and physical fatigue,” he reminded her darkly. “Perhaps that had something to do with your reaction.”
“Perhaps.” She peered out to sea, trying to get her bearings. “What time is it?”
“A little past one. We’re lucky; the winds are with us and we’ve gone a lot farther than I anticipated.” Slayde rubbed his jaw. “You said the Isobel was three days out of port when Armon overtook you. How much of that time were you sailing along at a rapid pace?”
“If you’re asking what portion of those days were spent in open waters, not very much. ’Twas foggy when we left London. Halfway down the Thames, the winds turned against us. I recall Papa having a difficult time navigating the Downs, trying to avoid the Goodwin Sands. It wasn’t until we’d cleared the Strait of Dover that we began picking up speed.”
“The Goodwins can impede the very best of sailors. However, in this case, the fact that it inhibited the Isobel’s progress works in our favor. That, together with Devonshire’s western location and the beneficial winds now propelling us, convinces me we have very little westerly distance to cover before we reach the spot where your ship was attacked.”
