Captain Samuel Glenshire was beside himself with worry and grief. Cold and wet with nothing to change into, Samuel sat in the telegraph office wrapped in a blanket, composing messages. The port police had fished the crew and himself out of the harbor after the battle. They took information and allowed him to go to the British Embassy to report the theft. He had lost his ship and his duchess to pirates. Mary Kate, so sick in her cabin, could not defend herself. God only knew what might have happened to her. He did not want to think of that.
Samuel did not want to think about what he had to write, either. Andrew was in London, so he would send one of these messages directly there. He had requested any Navy vessel in the area to give chase. He had also called on friendly ships with armament. Few had been available to pursue, but some did and promised to spread the word.
Now, sick with failure, he wrote the cable to Andrew, begging forgiveness.
Andrew and Sir James met in the parlor of Andrew's club, ready for breakfast. Before they could get there, a message from Whitehall was hand delivered to Andrew, a summons with a carriage to transport him. The messenger was of a certain age and look. Sir James put a hand on Andrew's sleeve. "I'm coming with you."
The messenger objected at once.
Andrew was not sure why, but felt suddenly alarmed. "Sir James will come, or no one will."
The agent looked at the two men who contrasted each other despite their close relation. Sir James McCollum was older and taller. He had green eyes and light blonde hair, while the earl had red brown hair and blue eyes. The knight's eyes were hard, demanding answers without speaking the questions. "Alright, the carriage is waiting outside."
On the way, the cousins look about and at each other. James had come to London to meet a lady, whom he discovered out of the country. Andrew had seen his disappointment, but felt her absence a good thing. Maybe he will lose interest before she returns. Andrew did not know what to make of James's interest in Rebecca Fogg. Sure, she was beautiful; but there were plenty of redheaded beauties in Scotland for him to choose from. James did not need to chase one who had once put a knife to his throat.
The drive to Whitehall was short. They were escorted into an office and introduced to the head of the Secret Service himself, Sir Jonathan Chatsworth. Andrew found the middle-aged man, all bureaucrat, as others had described him. Today, the bureaucrat was troubled by something.
After they were seated, in muted tones, Chatsworth told them of an attack on his new ship in Istanbul. Four of the crew were dead. The ship had been lost, and his wife had been abducted.
So stunned, Andrew couldn't find his voice.
James took over, getting more details. "Is the ship being pursued? Where was it seen last? It is one of the new clippers, so there cannot be that many around to confuse things."
"I do not command the Navy," Chatsworth said, shifting his eyes away from him. "I do not know what pursuit has been made. As director of the Secret Service, I have been tasked with the investigation, identifying the pirate who took it and how we might recover your ship and property. I am sending a manifest of the ship's contents out to all consulates. Once the contents go up for sale, we should get more information."
"That is very good of you, sir," Andrew said. "I am grateful, but you have not addressed the more important matter of my wife's abduction. The ship can be replaced, she cannot. What measures are you taking to find and recover her?" It was politely worded but a direct question demanding a direct answer.
Chatsworth looked even more uncomfortable. He hated this type of thing. Why am I the one to say this?
"My Lord, the possibility of finding your wife alive and unharmed is simply outside the realm of reason. I am sorry, but she is completely lost. I am told she was sick when the pirates attacked. The most likely result of the attack would be her death as soon as she was found."
If the woman was lucky, that happened. Chatsworth did not add that. The slave trade was still alive and well. If the lady was still alive, there was no knowing what port she would have been taken to for sale. Ransoming her was a possibility, but only if she communicated her rank and position quickly enough. Chatsworth prayed the woman was dead. He truly did.
Andrew saw in his face what Chatsworth wasn't saying. He had written Mary Kate off. That might be well and fine for the Secret Service, but not for him. She was his wife. He would not give up on her.
"I see," Andrew stated in an even, low tone, surprising him at how calm it sounded. It gave no clue to his real feelings. The man had already made it plain he would have to find her on his own. "Have you at least made her abduction public knowledge? Is there any search underway?"
"I was not told of the efforts made after the attack." Chatsworth said. "It is not in my orders to make any such search, beyond recovering your ship's property." It was a flat bludgeon of a statement, giving no hope. Chatsworth had no hope to give, and he refused to offer false ones.
Sir James's green eyes went cold at the man's callousness. Katharine was as dear to him as she was to his cousin. What the man was saying had to be killing Andrew. It was boiling his normally even temper. He stood, made a step closer to the desk.
Before he got one word out, Andrew stopped him with a hand on his coat. He stood from his seat stiffly, moving just in front of his cousin between him and Chatsworth.
"Please, leave us for a moment," Andrew said.
Sir James looked at him. Andrew was pulling rank. James wanted to refuse. He knew that tone. Anyone that knew Andrew would be on guard at hearing it. He took a moment to digest the implications, but left the room, heading toward the main stairs to find a carriage.
When James closed the door, two things happened. Chatsworth made an off-handed remark about Sir James being overwrought and commended the Earl for restraining him. The second thing caught Chatsworth off guard.
Andrew grabbed him by the cravat and dragged him down over his desk. Everything on it went flying. His hold was like a trainer on a dog's leash. He pinned Chatsworth on his desk by the force of his downward pull on his neck. The pressure kept him from crying out. He could barely breathe.
Andrew sat down again in his chair, bending down so he was eye to eye with the object of his anger. "My wife, sir, is not to be given up on."
The statement's tone gave Sir Jonathan a hint of just who was the most overwrought. It held a knife-edge of barely held fury.
"You might not choose to search for her, but I will. If I find her to have been killed, I will consider your decision warranted. If I find her to have been killed when an early search could have saved her, your career will be worthless. If her fate turns out what one might expect of that part of the world…"
He hesitated to elaborate on that or what he would do once he rescued her. Andrew would hunt for Mary Kate for as long as it took, killing anyone that got in his way. He would surely kill anyone he found to have offered her any harm. He had centuries of Scottish blood telling him exactly how to handle this. None of those things were peaceful.
"If her fate runs that course," he said, "your career will be the least of your worries. I would suggest that you pray I find her quickly, well, and whole."
With that, Andrew heaved upward, pushing with the arm he had the man caught with and his legs as he came to his feet. Chatsworth was thrown back into his chair with force enough to overturn it and land him on his back with his feet up in the air.
Andrew left the room before he could right himself, finding Sir James waiting at the head of the stairs. The two cousins were out the main door before Chatsworth could get hold of himself and straighten his clothing.
They took the hired carriage back to the club. On the way, Sir James took in his cousin's mood and made the leap, not knowing how it would be taken. "I believe that was mine to do," he said. Their agreement about who handled private and public injuries was quite clear. James, as chieftain of the clan, got the duties of protection and the handling of grievances.
"No James, it was mine to do," Andrew said. "The handling of political matters is mine. That includes political weasels. You have not the position to get away with it."
Incredulous, James said, "And you think you do? That was the head of the Secret Service in there."
"Under the circumstances, yes, I believe I do." Andrew changed the subject to something more constructive. "We have a lot to do and not enough time to do it. There are three ships in port at home right now, are there not?"
"Yes," Sir James said.
"We must send a message to have the crews gathered to meet us in Portsmouth. Cancel whatever schedule they already have. We will need them all. See to it they are fully armed. I want them to pick us up no later than tomorrow afternoon. That is possible with the tides, is it not?"
Sir James calculated that. "Maybe, if the crews can be gathered fast enough."
"Good. You will handle the search from here on with Robertson."
Andrew's first instinct was to command the whole thing himself. But reason was not completely lost to him. He had come to the fleet through marriage just two years earlier. Andrew had not proven himself its master in more than name. He was not a Glenshire and had not even done an apprenticeship cruise the way Mary Kate's cousins did. Sir James had, before going to the Army.
Sir James wanted to protest. Robertson had turned over the now combined clan chieftainship to him. He had retired quietly with his wife ever since. On further thought, James stopped himself. Retired or not, the old man literally knew every port in every country the fleet made calls on. They would need him for that knowledge, if nothing else.
When they reached the club, Samuel's telegram was waiting for them. It gave more detail than the Secret Service had offered. From this, one might deduce that Mary Kate had been deliberately made ill to put her on board for the raid. That had not been comforting news. Samuel must have deduced the same thing, considering the long apology at the end of the letter.
Andrew read it over again, seeing his elder cousin, knowing how he must feel. None of this was Samuel's fault, and he intended to tell him so.
I will get Mary Kate back and Samuel will have a chance at avenging himself for the theft of his ship. For now, he wrote out orders to the fleet, to Robertson, and conferred with Sir James on what to do next. They ate brunch before catching a train to the west coast.