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"Samantha?" He stared at her from beneath red-rimmed eyes, his rumpled clothing the same attire she'd seen him in at Carlton House. Evidently, he'd been up all night.
"I heard what happened. I came to see what I could do." A movement from inside the office caught Sammy's eye. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"No ... of course not. I appreciate your visit more than I can say. Forgive me for forgetting my manners." He drew her inside. "Arthur, may I present Lady Samantha Barrett. Samantha, Arthur Summerson." He cleared his throat. "Arthur is a fine merchant. . . . He lost valuable cargo on my missing brig."
"Lady Samantha, I'm honored." The stocky, balding man bowed, his eyes meeting Samantha's.
It was all she could do not to cry out her distress.
Arthur Summerson was the man she'd seen chatting with Lord Hartley the morning she'd investigated the docks dressed in her gardener's clothes; the man who'd stared at her as she made her way through the warehouse walls disguised as a boy. She recognized him at once, as well as his name—it was the one Lord Hartley had used in addressing him. The question was, would he recognize her?
If he did, she would die.
"Mr. Summerson." Forcing a smile, Sammy fought the urge to dash back out the door.
For a fleeting instant Summerson's eyes narrowed, a quizzical expression in them. "Have we met before, my lady?"
"I don't believe so ... but it is possible, sir. My brother owns Barrett Shipping."
"Ah ... you're Drake Barrett's sister." Fortunately, that realization seemed to satisfy Summerson's doubts. "I imagine your brother is troubled by this loss. After all, it was his ship that sank."
"Drake is upset by all the losses, whether they involve his ships or not," Sammy defended instantly. "Frankly, however, all the Barrett vessels are constructed with the finest materials and by the most capable men. So it is puzzling indeed that any of our brigs would go down."
Summerson cleared his throat roughly. "Yes... of course, I quite agree. Barrett Shipping is a fine, reputable firm. Well, Anders, I'd best be on my way. Keep me abreast of any news you might hear."
"I certainly shall," Stephen assured him.
"Lady Samantha, it was a pleasure."
"I'm sorry we had to meet under such disagreeable circumstances, Mr. Summerson. I hope you recover all that is lost."
"As do I. Good day."
"Forgive me, Stephen," Sammy apologized when they were alone. "I didn't mean to be so defensive."
Stephen waved away her apology, pouring himself a brandy. "You were defending your family's business. I understand completely." He tossed off his drink, then gave her a measured look. "Dare I hope that your visit means you've changed your mind about us?"
"There is no 'us,' Stephen. You're my friend, nothing more. But friends care about each other. They also help each other, if need be."
"I see. So you're here to offer your assistance?"
"And to elicit yours."
"Mine? In what manner?"
Sammy ran her fingers along the edge of Stephen's walnut desk. "Viscount Goddfrey. What do you know of his circumstances?"
"Goddfrey?" Stephen's brows rose in surprise. "Only that he's endured great financial losses; losses that forced him to flee from London in order to save face. Why?"
"Do you know where he went?"
"No." Stephen frowned. "Why are you so interested in Goddfrey? You're not involved with him, are you?"
"Involved with him?" Sammy blinked. "No, Stephen. I never even met the man. I only thought perhaps he knew something about the missing ships . . . and that what he learned had forced him—or frightened him—away."
The frown faded from Stephen's face. "I see. You're investigating on behalf of your brother, are you?"
Sammy's face fell. "Am I so obvious, then?"
