In the Arms of a Marquess by Katharine Ashe Page B

ship, broad-bellied and cleanly built from her three sturdy masts and fifty guns to her sparkling decks, the Eastern Promise was as fine a merchant vessel as could be seen docked anywhere in the world.
    “Creighton, who brought your attention to this ship? Lord Ashford?”
    “No, sir. I had a tip through the regular channels. Since you were looking for a third vessel to send down to Tunis with the others, I inquired after it.”
    Ben endeavored to loosen his jaw muscles. First mysterious hair, now the need to ask the sorts of questions he typically left to his secretary’s discretion.
    “From whom have I purchased her?”
    “A Frenchman we’ve done good business with in the past. He took her off her previous owner six months ago in Calais.”
    “Only six months? That is brief to own a ship like this.”
    “He’s an honest man. Had another vessel founder off the Cape filled to the gunwales with goods intended for Bombay. He needed the cash.”
    “And we needed the ship.”
    Creighton flipped open a leather folio and scanned the top page. “She’ll be ready to put to sea within the month. The tea will take a fine price in Marseilles.” His face grew impressively blank once again. The cargo of tea masked the vessel’s true function, to trawl the Barbary Coast in search of pirate ships with holds full of human ballast. Ben had kept Creighton on for seven years precisely because of his consistent failure to emote over the principal project he oversaw, the destruction of slaving vessels and conveyance of their cargo to safe ports. Men involved in the slave trade tended toward pride, then greed, when they met with success. Creighton never showed a hint of either vice.
    His only vice, in fact, seemed to be in continually hoping for his employer’s greater involvement in his business. If he had any idea what Ben was currently planning, he would be in alt.
    “Fine,” Ben replied.
    “The muskets and cannonry Lord Ashford took off that privateer last month arrived in Portsmouth. Shall I see to their storage?”
    “Too likely to go astray.”
    “I’ll have them sent to the foundry to be melted down.”
    Ben’s gaze strayed to the Union Jack hoisted high upon the mizzenmast, bright blue, white, and red against the pale sky. Beside it the colors of his front company flapped dully in the slight breeze, brown and white stripes with a gold slash through the center. That company made him a healthy income he then used to fund other shadowy and considerably more controversial causes.
    A weary crease shaped his brow. Styles imagined he had an interest in politics, perhaps that he was trying to work his way into society’s good graces by pleasing his fellow lords and tradesmen at once.
    Ben’s old friend hadn’t any idea of the truth. For seven years, even longer, Ben had worn the secret of his life’s work like an invisible yoke about his neck.
    “Sir,” Creighton said, “about that letter you dictated to me yesterday, to the governor of Madras . . .”
    “Complete it, allowing for the transfer of funds to the army if he agrees to the terms.”
    “Yes, my lord. And the Malta issue?”
    “It may work itself out without interference, and we will not know for some time yet.”
    His secretary scribbled upon the ledger.
    “Creighton, I need you to pen some invitations.”
    Creighton’s head snapped up. “Invitations?”
    “A dozen or so, for a sennight of shooting at Fellsbourne.”
    “Shooting.”
    Ben leveled a clear stare at his employee.
    Creighton cleared his throat. “Of course, sir. To whom should I send them?”
    “The Leadenhall Street set, but exclusively titled men. Nathans, Styles, Crispin, the others. Include their wives.” He turned toward the gangplank.
    “I don’t believe there’s more than a handful of lords involved with the Company at this time.”
    “It is a modest group indeed.” All fairly well known to each other. All with business interests in the same far distant waters and upon the