Page 46 of Any Duke in a Storm

The slit in the pockets was a trick she’d learned from the Duchess of Thornbury’s intrepid sister-in-law. Lisbeth had met Ravenna, the very interesting and outspoken Duchess of Ashvale, and had liked her quite well. She and her duke spent their time between London and Antigua, and Lisbeth had seen their fancy passenger liners in the Port of New York. One day, when Lisbeth stopped living a hundred lives, she’d enjoy having some female friendships that lasted longer than each job she took.

As she cut briskly down the street, she let out a short sigh. What would things look like if she had a normal life…with a normal marriage that wasn’t tied into undercover work? Perhaps a family of her own one day? Thornbury had done it, and his last letter had said that he and Bronwyn had finally decided to start trying for a family. That had been over a year ago, and Lisbeth had been undercover in the Caribbean for most of that time. She wondered if they’d been successful. He’d make a good father.

Caught up in her musings, she almost missed the turn for Second Street and hurried to the building. Just outside the entrance, Lisbeth took a moment to calm herself with a few deep breaths. Half the battle was confidence, and that she had in spades. Lifting her chin, she smoothed her skirts and strolled inside Parson and Hale’s with purpose as she made her way to the customs office.

“May I help you, miss?” a man with a thin mustache asked when she arrived.

“I’m Mrs. Medford from Boston,” she said in a haughty voice. “Who is in charge here?”

He blinked and replied before he could think twice about it. “Mr. Jenks but he’s—”

Lisbeth cut him off with a wave of her hand, nearly dizzy with relief. Jenks was one of the few men she trusted in Florida, and he was someone who knew the truth of her identity. Normally, as an agent assigned to the Gulf Coast and a hands-on kind of fellow, he was out working rather than in the office. Perhaps her luck was turning. “Can you fetch him, please? It’s a matter of some urgency.”

His mustache wobbled up and down, eyes narrowing on her in much the same way the girl at the milliner’s had, as if trying to regain control of the situation that he’d never had control of in the first place. “Well now, wait a moment. Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but he will see me.” She suppressed her irritation. The man was simply doing his job, but any minute now, she expected the form of a large pirate to come bursting through the doors, and then her window of opportunity would be lost. “Medford is the name.”

The man frowned. “Mr. Jenks is a busy man. If you don’t have an appointment, I’m going to have to ask you to make one.”

Bloody hell, she was going to flip the man onto his stubborn arse if he didn’t cooperate. “Now look here, I am at the end of my rope—”

A male throat cleared from behind them followed by alow whistle. “Bloody hell, Medford, is thatyou? Everyone thought you were dead!”

Lisbeth whirled to the stout man standing at the end of the corridor near an open office and nearly slumped with gratitude. “Jenks, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I’m not dead as you can see, and we need to talk.” She lifted a brow. “Privately and swiftly.”

With a nod to his man, he led her into the office marked J. Harry Jenks and closed the door. Lisbeth laid out the pertinent facts as quickly as she could, knowing that time was not on her side. She explained about the storm and the rowboat, and that she was saved by a sailor. His eyes widened to the size of saucers when she explained that the sailor had taken her to the notorious smugglers’ stronghold, but she wasn’t certain exactly which island it was.

Lisbeth wasn’t sure what had possessed her to keep the information of Saint’s identity hidden as well as the name of the island from Jenks. They were on the same side, after all. Jenks was responsible for seizing theSouthern Star, theMargaret Ann, andSeadrift, all attempting to smuggle contraband goods with cattle, and he was a man with integrity as far as customs agents went. She had every reason to trust him, but of late, her instincts favored caution.

Jenks is need-to-know only.

The half-truth tasted like ash in her mouth. The real truth was that she didn’t want to implicate Saint, not when she didn’t know how deep he was in with Dubois. And Saint had already been dealt a raw hand with his father’s declineand death. She didn’t want to be the cause of another. Not that it absolved him of any crimes against the American Treasury, but she couldn’t help feeling conflicted.

One thing at a time.

Set up the takedown for Dubois first and then she would untangle the knot that was Raphael Saint.

“That’s not really my department anymore,” Jenks was saying, and Lisbeth forced her attention to him with a frown.

“Since when?”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m here to provide whatever support you need, but I have been tasked with looking for a specific man. A Mr. Madge who has been evading capture for months and smuggling a fortune in untaxed cigars from Havana.”

She stilled. Lisbeth had heard that name. He was one of the captains who had been in the great hall and at the bonfire, one of Dubois’s cohorts. The one who had crudely invited her to sit on his lap. “He was there,” she said. “One of the men was called Madge.”

Jenks shot forward in his seat. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Unbridled interest lit his face for the first time since they’d sat down. “If there’s a way you can get on a ship with them somewhere close to this coast and signal to us with the code, we can have men ready.” The code was a flashing optical sequence used by the British Navy that Lisbeth had employed in the past to communicate her movements to Jenks and others along the shoreline.

“Not here, but I did hear Dubois say he had to go to New York for a shipment at the end of this month,” she said. “Though Madge has his own ship.”

Eager now, Jenks waved his arm. “I can make New York happen. A fortnight or so from now, you think? Dubois will lead us to him, if they are working together. A trapped rat will do anything to save itself, even eat through its own family.”

That was absolutely a visual she did not need. Speaking of family, she cleared her throat. “Jenks, do you know a man called Captain Saint?”

He nodded. “He’s a protégé of Dubois’s.”

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