The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom

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      Since he’d only risen an hour ago, that would be like drinking whiskey for breakfast. He hadn’t sunk to that level yet. “Too early,” Geoff said, though he had no doubt the male half of London was drinking by teatime.

      After a swallow, Harry met Geoff’s gaze again. “We don’t know when, exactly. It just came to our attention that no one has seen el-Daibul for a month or more.”

      “Christ! A month! Where can he have gone?”

      “Don’t know. We haven’t been able to pick up his trail. We’ve got operatives searching Algiers to see if he went back there. So far, no luck.”

      “Any word from the desert?” Geoff pointed to the Sahara on the map.

      “No one has reported him moving overland.”

      “Has the political climate changed? Any clues there?”

      “Nothing new. The Americans are still harrying the Corsairs, but the underground market is still good for white slavery.”

      “Always,” Geoff murmured. “Have you tried tracking his men?”

      “They are all in place. Nothing unusual there, and one of the reasons it took us so long to realize that el-Daibul himself had not been seen for quite some time. It looks as if he went to considerable trouble to lull us into complacency.”

      Geoff ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing a stray lock. Damn! What could the man be up to? Geoff could only hope this latest development was not a prelude to increased activity. Unless… “Harry, what’s the news from the docks? Any increase in reports of missing women?”

      “Not in London.”

      “Send men to Liverpool, Portsmouth and Dover. Contact Culver in France, Groton in Hamburg and Peters in Venice. Verify with them that the traffic is quiet. If there’s an increase, no matter how small, and no matter where, I want to know immediately.”

      “What are you thinking?” Harry asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

      “I’m not certain. Just…verify. He’s up to something, Harry, I can feel it.”

      Harry shook his head. “We’ll need evidence to get help from the Foreign Office.”

      He sat and studied the maps. “Last time…when he was quiet, it was because the demand for Englishwomen was high enough to warrant certain…risks. Educated women of a higher social standing were in demand. Virgins.”

      Harry nodded. “I remember. ’Twas 1816. The year Auberville nearly lost his wife. The year Constance Bennington was killed.”

      Geoff said nothing. He still couldn’t talk about the horror and pain of finding Constance’s body in a pile of discarded rags. She’d come too close to learning the truth about the disappearing women, and she’d fought her attackers. Oh, God, if she just hadn’t fought! He could have gone after her. She might still be alive.

      But Mustafa el-Daibul had wanted retribution in retaliation for their systematic closing down of the white slavery trade. And he hadn’t cared what form it took.

      “So.” Harry exhaled. “You think this may be the same thing? You think he’s stepping up activity?”

      Lord, Geoffrey almost hoped so. That might be better than the possibility of retaliation. He, at least, did not have a woman to worry about this time, but Auberville would have to be warned. He’d have to set guards over his wife and children.

      Damn! Why did these things have to happen when he could ill afford the division of his attention? He’d give anything for a two-week respite—just long enough to get Miss Lovejoy off his hands. Or to get rid of Miss Lovejoy long enough to deal with el-Daibul.

      “What is it, Morgan?” Harry asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for? Haven’t you been trying to force el-Daibul’s hand? Flush him from hiding?”

      Geoff nodded. “There are complications. If I didn’t have…a personal obligation at the moment, I’d be halfway to Gibraltar right now. I wish I knew where the hell the blighter was.”

      “If you were to guess?”

      “I’d say he’s gone back to Algiers. Or Tunis. That’s where the buyers are. Most likely, Tunis. The Dey of Algiers blamed him for the Bombardment in 1816. I think el-Daibul has been out of favor since then, which is why he shifted operations to Tangier. He blames Auberville and me for that particular debacle. El-Daibul’s wife and children were killed in the Bombardment, and that has given him another reason to hate me.”

      “You make it sound personal, Morgan.”

      “It is personal.” In point of fact, he suspected Constance had been killed as much for her place in his heart as for the fact that she’d fought her kidnappers. He could easily imagine el-Daibul ordering a “dead or alive” order to take Constance. Hide and seek. Cat and mouse. Attack and retreat. They’d played out all the stratagems. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t already been done. He and the white slaver had been engaged in a global duel to the death for the past five years, and nothing was sacrosanct, no rules inviolable.

      Wisely, Harry remained silent. He went to the window and stood gazing out while Geoff made a few marks on the maps and a notation at the bottom.

      What was it? What piece of the puzzle was just out of his grasp? A message? A taunt? There was a clue somewhere, something he should see and understand.

      “Bloody goddamned hell!” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the ink bottle and miscellaneous pens.

      “Easy, Morgan,” Harry soothed. “I hate it when you get this way. You’re too hard on yourself. Ease up a bit and let it come on its own.”

      Geoff pushed back from the table. “Send for word from the ports, Harry, and get news to me the minute you have any. Steer clear of the Foreign Office. They’d have our heads if they thought we were compromising the uneasy peace they’ve forged.”

      Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”

      “To warn Auberville.”

       Chapter Five

       D ianthe sat at a dressing table in Madame Marie’s back fitting room and made a tight coil of her pale hair before pinning it at her crown. She watched Madame lower the black wig over her head and snug it into place.

      “Ah, chérie! This is the mistake, no?”

      Dianthe stared at her reflection. With every strand of blond hair covered, she had taken on a foreign look. Pale skin with a hint of pink on her cheeks, clear blue eyes and a beauty patch on one cheekbone made her virtually unrecognizable.

      “Mistake?” she asked. “You think the beauty patch is too much?”

      “Mais non, chérie! But the idea was to make you less noticeable. This—” she waved at Dianthe’s reflection “—will turn ’eads.”

      “I do not care about that, Madame. More to the point is if I will be recognized.” Indeed, Dianthe was nearly desperate to change her appearance. СКАЧАТЬ