The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) (12 page)

Chapter T
hirteen

Towering
red brick walls surrounded the vast complex of wharves, piers, and warehouses that made up the East India Docks. Centuries ago the walls had been erected to protect the docked vessels from theft and piracy. As Derek’s carriage carried him through the heavy wooden gates that regulated the flow of traffic, the irony was not lost on him that the thieves who currently preyed on the ships came from within.

There were newer docks, of course. Other places
where his money would have been happily received in exchange for a wide berth in which to unload his cargo. Most notably the West India Docks, London Docks, and even the St. Katharine docks—though the latter was a poor choice for deep-bottomed, seafaring vessels like the
Makara
.

But habit and complacency kept him from taking his business elsewhere.
For years he’d harbored a vague notion that he felt an allegiance to the East India Docks, for it was there that he’d first gained his footing in trade. From those docks he had built both his fortune and his reputation. It was a sentimental pull that brought him back month after month.

At least
that was the lie he told himself. The lie he had been content to believe for so long. Now he shrugged it off like a jacket that no longer fit, one that pinched and pulled uncomfortably at the seams. He faced the truth. From the very start, he’d done business at the East India Docks because he’d wanted to be
seen
. The greater the fortune he amassed, the less inclined he was to take his business elsewhere. He wanted to rub his success in the faces of the men who ruled the East India Company. It had been vanity that had brought him there, and nothing else. Pure, utter conceit.

He tapped the missive he’d received from Nathan Bedsford against his thigh. It was rare for the
Makara’s
captain to contact him directly, and rarer still for him to request Derek’s assistance in resolving a matter relating to the ship’s cargo. It did not bode well.

He cast a glance through his carriage window.
The tidal fog, normally dissipated by mid-morning, hung heavier than usual. It shrouded the masts and sails of the docked vessels in an icy mist, giving the normally bustling docks a bleak, sinister appearance. Or perhaps it was just his mood that painted such a grim picture.

His
carriage rolled past a group of lascars huddled together beneath the meager shelter of a warehouse awning, begging for work. They were dressed in typical native attire: thin cotton pants and jacket, cloth shoes, their heads bare. A few wrapped blankets around their shoulders for warmth. Their clothing might have sufficed in Calcutta, but was of little defense against the unseasonably frigid London air.

He scanned the lascar’s
faces, looking for one who might answer to Ram Daas’s description. No green, frightened, sixteen year old boy there. Just worn-out men, their shoulders stooped and their legs bowed, their faces pinched with cold. Men who’d grown old sailing the trade routes, bringing Indian goods to the shores of England, where they had the misfortune to outlive their usefulness. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before—perhaps even hundreds of times before. Abandoned seamen resorting to begging, thievery, and random menial tasks just to survive. A scene so commonplace it was rendered nearly invisible to him.

Calla would be appalled.

For the first time ever, so was he. 

His carriage rolled to a stop before the
Makara’s
berth. Derek took one look at the vessel and swore. Nothing had moved. In the shipping trade, timing was everything. Getting goods to market before one’s competitor was the difference between making a fortune and sustaining heavy losses. The goods he had purchased to be loaded on the
Makara
for her return voyage to Calcutta remained stacked in crates on the pier. The imported Indian goods—most of it salvage after the unfortunate flood in the hold—still sat on the ship.

Bloody hell
.  He leapt from the carriage and vaulted up the gangplank.

Nathan B
edsford strode toward him, accompanied by three men Derek didn’t recognize. Bedsford was an American, tall and broad-shouldered, born with a face so inscrutable it could have earned him a fortune at the gaming tables. Instead, he’d chosen a life at sea. For that, Derek was grateful. Bedsford was without doubt the finest captain he’d ever hired. A fact which made it harder to understand why his imported goods languished aboard ship, while the cargo he’d purchased for export rested on the pier, waiting to be picked over by thieves.

“What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

“I believe I can answer that, Keating,” replied one of the men beside Bedsford.

Derek swung his gaze around.
“Who are you?”

“
Henry Cecil, Custom House Superintendent.” Cecil had dark hair and dark, hooded eyes. Coarse stubble clung to his unshaven cheeks. He was of average height, with a burly thickness and aggressive air about him that suggested if he weren’t employed by the Customs House, he might have found his fortune in the boxing ring. He gestured to the men beside him. “Patton and Norse, my chief cargo inspectors.”

“Gentlemen,” Derek said
, biting back his impatience. “What’s this about?”

“I’m afraid my men found a slight irregularity between the
cargo your captain has declared and the cargo my inspectors have inventoried.”

Derek’s gaze shot to Bedsford.
While the captain remained silent, Derek didn’t miss the subtle ticking of a muscle along the side of his jaw—the first sign of emotion Derek had ever seen on the man’s face. Bedsford was clearly furious at the accusation of impropriety.

“Explain,” Derek said.

“Oh, I will,” Henry Cecil assured him. Assuming a posture of arrogant ease, he leaned one shoulder against the bulkhead and regarded Derek steadily. “But there’s another piece of business we need to get to first. I understand you’ve been poking around the docks, looking for a boy by the name of Ram Daas?”

Derek
froze. A wave of icy understanding washed through him. Carefully he said, “Go on.”

“The fact is, that boy is in a bit of trouble.”
Cecil released a theatrical sigh and shook his head. “I have witnesses who swear Ram Daas was responsible for the murder of Amit Gupta, former serang of the
Ariel
.”

“Your witnesses are liars.”

“Word is the two men had a grudge back in Calcutta,” Cecil continued as though Derek hadn’t spoken. “They sailed here on different vessels, found each other, and Daas took his vengeance.” He lifted his shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “Natives, both of ‘em. It’s a dirty business, but nothing we haven’t seen before. I expect there’ll be a confession soon.”

Derek’s gaze narrowed.
“You’ve found the boy?”

“
Not yet, but we will.” His lips twisted in an ugly smirk. “He can’t hide for long.”

“What does
any of this have to do with me or my ship?”

“Well, seeing as how you’re so interested in finding Ram Daas, seems only natural that we work together. The sooner we find that boy and get him before the magistrate, the sooner my men can get back to work.” Cecil moved to one of the crates of cargo and rested his hand on top of it. “If they’re not distracted looking for that boy, my men will be less likely to make mistakes inventorying your goods. We can get the paperwork straightened out and get your cargo unloaded. Until then…” He let his words hang as his gaze locked on Derek. “There’s not much I can do.”

There it was
. Extortion. Blunt and ugly as sin. The
Makara
was effectively locked down while the customs inspectors picked through the ship’s cargo, the losses accruing with each hour that passed.

“We
ll, Keating?” Cecil pressed. “Do we understand one another?”

“Perfectly.”

“Glad to hear it.” His expression smug, he turned and nodded to his subordinates. “There, you see? I told you he was a reasonable man.”

Derek
looked at Bedsford. “Assemble the lascars.” Once the captain had done so, Derek strode to the front of the group of natives, who were perhaps twenty in number. Once he’d finished his address, he turned to Cecil. “Do you understand Hindi?”

“Nothing but unholy gibberish to me.”

“Then allow me to translate what I just said. I’ve offered a five hundred pound reward to the man who brings Ram Daas to me unharmed. You won’t get anywhere near him. From this point forward, the boy is under my protection.”

Hen
ry Cecil’s face darkened. “That’s a mistake, Keating.”

Derek caught him by his lapels and slammed him against the bulkhead.
“It’s
Lord
Keating to you, Cecil,” he grit out, then shoved him aside. “You and your men have exactly three seconds to remove yourselves from this vessel, or you will be thrown overboard.”

Cecil staggered backward, then found his footing. He indignantly tugged at the hem of his coat, restoring order to the garment.
“You’ll regret this. I can promise you that.” His lip curled back in an ugly sneer as his gaze shot from the lascars to Derek. “Look at you. Dressed in gentleman’s finery. You’re just as heathen as the rest of them.”

“Two seconds.”

Captain Bedsford’s inscrutable visage cracked as a glimmer of satisfaction showed on his face. When he spoke, however, his voice was cool and in command. “See to it, men.”

Uttering a dark oath,
Cecil and his henchmen shoved past Derek and Bedsford and took themselves down the gangplank. Derek watched them leave with a feeling of immense satisfaction. No anger, no rage. Just an acute sense of accomplishment. When he turned, he found Bedsford watching him.

“About the cargo—”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” It would be a financial setback, but he would shift his accounts and find a way to absorb it. “Send the crew out in shifts to comb the docks. Find Ram Daas and bring him to me.”

“
Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Yes.”
Derek thought for a moment. “There’s a group of lascars near the Linley Warehouse. See that they’re given work.”

Bedsford nodded. “Something specific you need them to do?”

“Just see that they’re paid a decent wage, as well as given proper food and clothing.”

H
e left the ship without another word and returned to his carriage. He opened the door and reached for the outer handle to pull himself aboard. But as his gaze skimmed his gloved hand, he hesitated. After toiling for years to amass his fortune, he’d purchased the finest pair of gloves he could find in all of London. Made of buttery soft calfskin and lined with mink, they were the first item of any expense Derek had allowed himself. He’d worn the same pair for years, though his valet had repaired them countless times and begged him to replace them with something new.

Derek had steadfastly refused. The gloves became a symbol for him, something far more than a way to keep his hands warm. They served as an acknowledgement of his place among his peers, tangible proof of his stature and his worth. The estates, carriages, servants, and tailors followed thereafter, but the extravagant luxury of the gloves had come first.

A rueful smile curved his lips. He had fooled no one. Except, perhaps, himself.
Henry Cecil was right. He was no different from the rest of the lascars. With that acknowledgement, he felt a great unburdening take place within him, as though an oppressive weight had been lifted from his chest. The fragile bubble of pretense that he had protected for so long had finally burst—and he was better for it.

His way forward seemed eased, like
a ship turning to sail with the wind, rather than against it. It was a sloppy metaphor, but he felt
righted
. Relief bubbled up inside him. Unable to contain it, he tilted back his head and released a shout of laughter.

His driver,
a bony-limbed older man, sat atop his carriage perch with the reins in his hands. He gave a start and swung around. “Are you all right, my lord?”

Derek looked at
him “I’ve just been called a heathen.”

His driver paled.
“I see. Shall I…do something, sir?”

“Yes.”

The man gulped. His eyes darted nervously toward the
Makara
, as though he might be called upon to avenge his master’s honor. It was all too ridiculous.

“Drive me home.”

Calla. He wanted to see Calla. Of anyone in the world, his bride would understand the sheer folly of the situation.

But before he could board the carriage, he
realized he had another witness to the spectacle he was making of himself. A native boy stood watching him, his dark eyes bright with undisguised curiosity. Derek was not good at judging the age of children. He guessed the boy to be eight, perhaps as old as ten. His coat and trousers were patched and worn. His hands were bare.