Sheffield dropped to one knee by the headstone, his fingers tracing the carving. “It’s a damn clue!”
Harriet knelt next to him, practically shoving him out of the way in her excitement to read the stone.
Chase Langston
1811
May He Rest in Porto
The sun disappeared briefly, and Harriet realized Jonesy was blocking the light as he leaned over her to read the headstone.
Jonesy pushed his queue back over his shoulder when it swung forward. “Odd coincidence, some cove with your da’s last name dying right before the padre left town.”
Harriet shook her head. “No, no, that’s the clue. My father’s name, and the viscount’s family name. The padre went to Porto and wanted them to follow him.”
Sheffield stood and dusted off his knees. “I’m thirsty. Let’s go have a drink. Wind Dancer will have enough water and stores on board again to leave when the tide turns, and we’ll head for Porto.” He reached a hand to pull Harriet to her feet. They waved to the two chess players as they walked past.
The cantina was easy to find, with music from two guitarists and a horn player wafting out the open doors and windows, and sailors and women milling around the shaded portico entrance. Sheffield spotted an empty table inside and they sat down, though Harriet gave the stained, scarred chair and tabletop a dubious glance. Conversation in at least half a dozen languages floated through the air along with the scent of several flavors of tobacco smoke. A serving wench greeted them.
“Tres cervezas, por favor,” Sheffield requested.
She nodded and left in a swish of skirts and flash of trim ankle.
Harriet coughed, and Sheffield dragged his gaze back to her, not hiding his grin.
She shook her head and tried not to inhale too deeply as she inspected the cantina, looking over every face, listening for English accents.
“Bloody hell,” Sheffield growled, barely audible.
Harriet followed his gaze to two men sitting near the bar, their heads almost touching as they studied a document on the table. One had the browned, weather-lined face of someone who had spent decades at sea, dressed in a coat and neckcloth that had once been fine but were due to be handed off to the rag merchant. A captain, perhaps. Certainly not a common sailor.
His companion, a gent in his early thirties or so, clean shaven and hair mussed, would look at home in a London drawing room with his white cravat and lace cuffs peeking from his coat sleeves.
His dirt-smudged cravat, and dusty cuffs. Smudges of dirt marred his blue superfine coat, dusted his aquiline nose and one chiseled cheek.
Harriet sat up straighter. “They’re dirty,” she whispered, trying to contain her excitement.
Jonesy hit the table with the flat of both his hands. “Great greasy codswallop, that’s—” He broke off as Sheffield touched his arm, shook his head. “What’s he doing here?” He spat out the word, as though the he in question was something Jonesy would scrape off the bottom of his shoe.
Harriet looked between Sheffield and Jonesy. “You know them?”
“We’re acquainted with the captain, yes.” Sheffield grimaced, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “It’s bad, but I didn’t think you’d be able to smell him from this distance.”
“Dirty. As in, they’ve been digging.” Harriet glanced at the men again. “What are they studying so intently?”
“Your map?”
Harriet worried her bottom lip. “Can’t tell from here.” She scooted her chair back. “I’ll just go have a peek over their shoulders.”
Sheffield clasped her wrist, his grasp just firm enough to keep her from standing up. “I’ll go look. You stay here.”
“What if he recognizes you?” Jonesy kept his voice so low that even at this proximity she barely heard him. “Me, he might not remember, but I doubt he’ll ever forget or forgive you.”
Harriet scooted back to the table. “Why? What did you do that was so terrible?”
Sheffield looked out the front window, ignoring her question, but Jonesy leaned close to Harriet.
“Piloted Cap’n Ruford’s ship after smugglers got aboard and commandeered it from him. Their leader didn’t know how to sail, so she asked Cap’n here to sail it back to her home port.”
