A Buccaneer At Heart. Stephanie Laurens

the gardens, but rocks and stones marked entrances and paths. From the few people she glimpsed, it appeared this was the area populated by the equivalent of the lower middle class.

      There were still a good fifty yards between the carriage and the priest when Undoto crossed the road, went up a short path, climbed a few steps to a house’s porch, then opened the door and disappeared inside.

      Aileen shifted to the window on that side and, as the carriage rolled closer, studied the house the priest had entered. As the house neared, she again drew back into the concealing shadows, but with her eyes fixed on the building, she cataloged every identifying feature she could spy.

      The carriage rolled on, and the house fell behind. Satisfied, she sat back. She would recognize the house, even by night.

      Her afternoon’s work—laying the groundwork for her evening’s endeavors—was done.

      She let the driver steer his horses on for a full minute more, then she lifted the trapdoor again. “I’ve seen enough for today. Back to Water Street. You can let me out near the middle of the street.”

      She had a milliner to visit.

      And then...

      She couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that the house Undoto had entered was his own abode, yet there’d been a lack of concern, of even the slightest hesitation, in the way he’d walked up the front path and had opened the door and gone inside. If it hadn’t been his house, surely he would have knocked?

      Still, tonight would tell. If Undoto was still there when night fell...that was really all she cared about.

      As the carriage rocked slowly down the hill and turned toward the center of the settlement, she reviewed her preparations. Once she bought what she needed from the milliner, there was one last issue to address.

      To keep watch on Undoto’s house, she would need the concealment of an anonymous carriage, much like the one she was presently in. But she couldn’t risk hiring just any coachman and trusting him to keep his mouth shut about her peculiar excursions, much less the address from which he picked her up.

      Unfortunately, she couldn’t see any way around trusting the driver she hired. “Which means,” she murmured, “that I’ll have to make sure the driver I hire is, indeed, trustworthy.”

      Hat and veil first; carriage and trustworthy driver second.

      Once she’d succeeded in securing both... “Then I’ll be ready to keep watch and see who comes calling on Undoto.”

      CHAPTER 4

      Darkness had fallen. The slum area in which Lashoria lived had no lighting to illuminate its winding alleys.

      Robert paced steadily up the passageway that Declan had told him led to the priestess’s red door. Somewhere in the shadows behind him lurked Benson and Coleman. Both men were past masters at trailing others. Even though he knew they were there, Robert couldn’t hear or in any way sense them; if he glanced around, he knew he’d see nothing.

      It was a slow climb. Long enough for him to feel the atmosphere of the slum—of such a density of close-packed humanity—close around him. The smells and sounds rifled his senses, tickling and pricking them to higher awareness. The smothering heat, a solid warmth from which there was no escape, didn’t help. As most locals did, he’d dispensed with his coat. Unfortunately, in the gloom of the slum, the relative whiteness of his linen shirt made him feel like a walking target.

      To distract himself, he thought back to his afternoon, to Undoto’s service. Admittedly, he was predisposed not to approve of Undoto, but the man’s belligerent, overconfident—almost bellicose—delivery had set his teeth on edge. At least he and his men would now be able to recognize the priest.

      After taking a thorough look at the congregation, noting especially the Europeans attending, he’d confirmed via Sampson that Hopkins’s sister hadn’t been present. Once that was established, he’d spent the rest of the hour thinking of various ways in which he could send the overinquisitive lady packing.

      He glimpsed a flash of bright red ahead on the right.

      A minute later, he stood facing what was patently Lashoria’s door.

      Neither Declan nor Edwina had said anything about the brilliant red being splotched with black.

      The black looked recent.

      There was no light showing through the thick material covering the window of the front room. Neither Declan nor Edwina had mentioned curtains, either; instead, Declan had said he’d been able to look into the alley while seated on the love seat inside that room.

      The fine hairs at Robert’s nape stirred.

      He drew in a breath, climbed the two steps to the front door, and rapped sharply.

      He had to knock a second and a third time before he heard shuffling footsteps—too light to be a man’s—approaching from deeper inside the house.

      Then the door was flung open, and he found himself facing an old woman, her face haggard and worn.

      “What do you want?”

      The demand was aggressively made, but the woman’s voice sounded rusty, scratchy.

      Before Robert could reply, her dark eyes drifted over him—then flicked back to lock on his face.

      The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “You...no, your brother. He was here before. With his pretty wife.”

      Robert nodded. “Yes. He and his wife spoke with Lashoria. I need to speak with her, too.”

      The old woman’s eyes widened. For two seconds, she stared at him.

      Then she glanced furtively down the alley as she reached out, gripped his sleeve, and tugged. “Come inside. Quickly.”

      Robert needed no further urging. He stepped over the threshold and past her. He watched as she shut the door, then wrestled two heavy bolts across.

      She turned and slipped past him. She beckoned. “Come. To the back.”

      She led him down the corridor Declan and Edwina had described, but instead of going into the room at the end—Lashoria’s consulting room, as Edwina had termed it—the old woman turned left and led the way down a flight of crude steps cut into the earth. Robert had to duck to pass under the lintel at the bottom of the steps; straightening, he found himself in a small chamber carved into the ground. A wood oven built into one wall marked it as the kitchen. It was transparently the old woman’s domain.

      She perched on a stool at one end of the narrow wooden table that took up most of the floor space. “Here.” She pushed a low stool his way. “Sit.”

      A single candle in a holder on the table cast a small circle of golden light.

      As Robert complied with her order, taking the place to her left, the old woman folded her hands on the table and met his gaze. “They killed her—the beasts. They killed my Lashoria.”

      Robert had suspected as much—why else the black on the door?—but the wealth of emotion in the old woman’s voice, the virulent hatred he could see burning in her eyes, made him still. Then he drew breath and asked, “Who?”

      “The slavers who work with Undoto.” The old woman’s fingers gripped tight. “They killed her because she spoke of their evil to others.”

      “Their evil?”

      Robert didn’t have to ask more questions; just that was enough to fracture the dam wall. The old woman poured out her hatred of those she termed “the beasts.” Robert let her rave, let her sob and rail; she remained dry-eyed throughout, as if she had no more tears to shed.

      He waited silently, unjudging, just being there. When she finally fell silent and simply breathed, he quietly said, “My brother and his wife had nothing to do with Lashoria’s death. They were attacked when they left here.”

      The old woman waved