Page 39 of A Duchess to Fight For
“Wine? They make wine?”
Hobart laughed. “Way up north of New York City. I hear it’s pretty good, and their prices are good because they are trying to establish themselves.”
“I’ll think about it. We’ll talk later. Are many ships willing to go to America?”
“C’mon Frederick, you can find a ship to sail anywhere. Think about it; we’ll talk again.
Hobart wished he had more topics that diverted Frederick besides America. He didn’t want to worry Frederick, but he had a feeling he couldn’t shake. Frederick was right. It was too quiet.
Hobart didn’t like it at all. Before leaving the warehouse, he put two more men on overnight watch. Now that the crates were ready to go, all their money was sitting in those crates.
Hobart would have to ask Frederick if his insurance policies covered losses while the crates were being housed. That would be a great way for Barton to ruin both of them. Just set the warehouse on fire. This had to stop. And soon.
When Frederick got to his townhouse, Mendon opened the door for him and informed him that he missed a caller.
“The Duke of Hamilton, Your Grace,” Mendon said.
“Did you inform him that he was not welcomed in my home?”
“I did. He asked me to tell you he was by and to expect a missive from him.”
Frederick pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something unintelligible, even to himself. He turned and went into his office and closed the door. After pouring three fingers of whisky, he sat in his comfortable upholstered chair near the fire. He stared at it. Something was about to happen. He knew it.
He had hoped their research on a horse-trading scheme at Tattersall’s was finished before they heard from Barton again. They wanted to be first.
The ship would leave with the tide tomorrow evening. They just needed to hang on that long. Then whatever Barton wanted to try on him, he’d take.
Why was it taking so long to get something on him? Did he shut down the horse-trading operation for now? Was he tipped off? Was there an informant in Hobart’s warehouse?
Frederick got up and strode to the bell pull. When Mendon came, Frederick instructed him to get the carriage. He was going to Hobart’s.
Frederick turned, took his best pistols off the wall, and tugged them into his pants. He strode past Mendon.
“I won’t be dining at home,” he said then took the stairs down to the pavement in twos and jumped into the carriage.
Hobart was at home doing the same thing Frederick had been doing at his townhouse. Sitting by the fire, whisky in hand. He looked up. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I can’t shake the feeling something’s coming. Barton came by the townhouse when I was at the warehouse. His message to Mendon was that he would send along a note. I’ve got a bad feeling.”
“Me too,” Hobart said. “When I left tonight, I put two more men on the overnight shift.”
“Let’s go. Get a gun.”
