If Blackwell was the devil, his wife, Farah, was his counterweight in every respect. A small, delicate, angelic beauty with silver-blond hair, kind gray eyes, and a gentle but inordinately capable demeanor.
“What do you make of this modern-day pirate currently terrorizing the Mediterranean, Trenwyth?” Blackwell queried in his dark voice. “This man who calls himself the Rook?”
The duke considered the question for a moment too long, his jaw flexing in the most distracting way over a perfectly formed bite of seared duck breast with figged port demi-glace.
“He’s rumored to be a savage, villainous slave trader.” Lady Broadmore reached her long neck over her dinner plate as she said this, as though taking them into her confidence. “I’ve heard he’s British, and only steals cargo from North Africa and the Continent, so why should we worry about him at all, so long as he stays clear of the Channel and the English fleet?”
What an insipid thing to say, Imogen thought, trying to remember why she’d invited the inane woman in the first place.
“He originated in the South China Seas where it is known he conducted a great deal of violence against English vessels,” Dorian answered dryly, making it clear that he shared Imogen’s plummeting opinion of the woman. “He marauded the Bay of Bengal for a time, then the Arabian Sea. I say the fact that he’s moved as close as the Mediterranean is cause for great concern, indeed.”
“Besides, not only British ships feed our empire’s economy, and not only British lives are of consequence.” Imogen couldn’t stop herself from censuring the vapid viscountess in her own subtle way.
Blackwell turned his head to regard her with that unsettling astuteness, before nodding his approval. “Well said, Lady Anstruther.”
Unused to compliments of any kind, especially for her opinion, Imogen barely stopped herself from pressing a hand to her cheek to feel the blush she was certain stained it.
“I think his story is far too apocryphal.” Trenwyth finally answered the original question, after wiping his mouth with a linen. “The high seas aren’t what they were a century ago, ruled by pirates like the Barbarossa brothers, Sir Francis Drake, and Blackbeard. The East India Company has been completely dissolved—you were involved some years ago, Ravencroft, if I’m not mistaken?”
The Scotsman shrugged a giant shoulder, though his dark eyes twinkled. “I canna confirm nor deny.”
“Shipping is mostly steam powered now,” Trenwyth continued. “And cargo very heavily guarded. The probability is that this Rook, or whatever he calls himself, paddles around on a clipper and takes easy foreign prey, and then spreads his own legend with embellishments as thick as Devonshire cream.”
Farah Blackwell set her knife down, aiming a disarming smile at Trenwyth. “I don’t know, Your Grace, I haven’t seen any evidence that steam-powered ships have done to piracy what steam engines did to highwaymen. Essentially, render them obsolete.”
“I thought you were fond of highwaymen.” Blackwell frowned down at his wife.
“Only one in particular,” she replied, running a finger along his arm.
If a man could have purred like a cat, the Blackheart of Ben More certainly would have in that moment.
Imogen felt something inside her go soft at the sight of them. To be surrounded by such love, such devotion, it was enough to make one hope …
Edith put a hand to her breasts, which were threatening to escape her bright pink gown. “But, the papers say that he cuts the … the scalps off his enemies and hangs them from his flagpole, just like those savages in America.”
“You should always believe what you read in the paper,” Argent said in his unique, toneless way that made one wonder if he was being supportive or derisive.
Though the sarcasm was evident in this case.
Millie smothered a smile and said, “Illusory or not, it’s imperative someone find out who this Rook character is, and what he wants.”
“Why would it matter what he wants?” Mena queried, dabbing at a bit of sauce that had dripped on her diamond bracelet. “The crown is not in the habit of rewarding criminals and fiends, or giving in to their demands.”
“Is that so?” Blackwell lifted a cheeky brow and everyone laughed as though enjoying a shared secret.
“Well, I think Millie raises an excellent question,” Farah replied. “In my experience, in law enforcement and otherwise, the key to catching a criminal, or to reforming one, is to first identify his motivation. Once that is ascertained, then you have the key to his every move.”
Blackwell scowled without umbrage, before returning to Trenwyth. “I asked you, specifically, because I know you’re still very active with the Home Office, and I was curious as to their take on the Rook situation.”
All turned to look at the duke, who seemed to choose his words very carefully, plucking them from the darkness where state secrets were well kept, and leaving what shadows needed to remain. “As far as the Home Office is concerned, there isn’t a situation as of yet … Though what worries them the most is the utter lack of available intelligence on the man. He’s British, or claims to be, but no one knows who he is or where he came from. He literally has no name. No past that we can find. It’s like he just … appeared from the sea one day.”
“Like Aphrodite,” Imogen mused.
Trenwyth’s gaze snapped to hers, and he studied her long enough to incite little shivers of heat down her spine.
“Aphrodite?” Edith laughed, loudly enough to draw censuring glances from the other guests. “What utter nonsense, Lady Anstruther. We’re discussing a pirate, not a goddess.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Aphrodite was said to have been created of sea foam and magic,” Imogen countered. “That was the parallel I was making.”
“You mean you actually paid attention to your Greek tutor?” Edith rolled her eyes heavenward and took another bite. “Tell me we’re not inflicted with another bluestocking.”
“Not exactly.” She’d never had the opportunity to study Greek or any other language. She’d had no governess, and only a rather rudimentary education before attending nursing school. But she’d chanced to see the painting of Venus by Henri Pierre Picou at a gallery, and had been so moved, she’d simply had to devour everything she could about the Roman goddess of love and, of course, her Grecian counterpart, Aphrodite. Though she’d let the haughty viscountess think what she liked.
Imogen tried some of the main course as the conversation proceeded around her. She was able to wash it down with a bit of wine and let out a sigh of relief as some of the strain began to unstitch from her muscles.
How grand and extraordinary these people were. She appreciated their acumen and intelligence, but also their progressive principles. Not only did the men converse with conviction and compassion, but they also listened with interest when their wives spoke. They respected their views and opinions, and discussed them with as much candor as they would any man’s.
It was all rather unsettling, while at the same time very inspiring.
They not only approved of her cause, they championed it. In fact, the Blackwells and the Mackenzies had already begun to draft documents for Parliament regarding hospital and prison reform. Two years prior, Dorian Blackwell had been instrumental in the Prison Act of 1877, which centralized the prison systems and brought awareness to some of the inhumane acts and egregious conditions, including those of younger offenders and children born into incarceration.