Georgie studied the technical drawings in front of her and shook her head in amazement. “These are incredible.”
The plans they had stolen from O’Meara showed the design for a boat—or rather, a submersible vessel—of about twenty feet in length. The hull was divided into three chambers, with a central section for the operator and controls, and two end sections that could be filled with water or air as ballast to sink or rise. Despite her extensive knowledge of ships, she’d never seen anything quite like it. The revolutionary concept made her heart beat faster.
“Who designed this? And what did Admiral Cockburn say when you showed him?”
Wylde smiled at her evident enthusiasm. “He wasn’t best pleased, as it happens because he’s seen these plans before. They were stolen from the Admiralty about a year ago.”
Georgie blinked. “The Admiralty is developing a submarine?”
“They were, when we were at war with France.”
He indicated the seat behind her, and Georgie sat, then leaned forward, eager to hear the story.
“Around fifteen years ago, France paid an American inventor named Robert Fulton to develop a submarine to use against us,” he said. “He did so, but the Treaty of Amiens in 1802 put an end to the war. When hostilities resumed a year later, the French had lost interest in the project, but our own Admiralty had taken note. The government was terrified Napoleon would invade, and they thought Fulton’s innovations could help derail that, so they brought him over to our side.”
Georgie raised her brows. “Very sneaky.”
“All’s fair in love and war. Fulton moved to London and signed a contract with Prime Minister Pitt and Lord Melville, First Lord of the Admiralty, to attack fleets using his ‘submarine bombs.’ By October 1805, he’d actually succeeded in blowing up a brig with this ‘torpedo’ system.”
Wylde’s mouth twisted wryly. “Unfortunately for Fulton, Nelson destroyed the French fleet at Trafalgar that very same month. The Admiralty told him to stop work, believing the threat eliminated. He demanded to be paid in full, despite his invention never having been used. Some bitter negotiating ensued, which resulted in the vessel being broken up and Fulton returning to his homeland, very unhappy, in 1806.”
“What a shame!”
“That’s not the end of the tale, though. When war broke out with France again, four years ago, the Admiralty decided to revisit the idea. Since Fulton was working for the Americans by then, they contacted an acquaintance of his who’d helped make the original vessel, a character called Tom Johnstone.”
Georgie bounced in her chair. “This is fabulous! Just like one of Mr. Defoe’s adventure novels! Who is this Johnstone fellow?”
“A smuggler and an adventurer, by trade. But the Admiralty turned a blind eye to that and commissioned him to work on a new vessel using Fulton’s original designs.” He indicated the papers spread out on the desk. “These designs. They gave him enough money to start building and the use of a shipyard at Blackwall Reach on the Thames.”
“I have warehouses at Blackwall!” Georgie exclaimed. “This has all been going on right under my very nose! Did Johnstone build the vessel?”
“Not quite. Once again, the war ended before work was completed. Johnstone, like Fulton, was ordered to stop work, and went back to smuggling on the Kent coast. Until a few months ago, when Bow Street sent me to investigate rumors of a smuggler who was trying to engage a crew of competent sailors for a mysterious voyage.”
“You think it’s Johnstone?”
He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and nodded. “I do. He and O’Meara are in league together. When the Admiralty’s plans went missing, suspicion fell on a man named John Finlaison who was keeper of their records at the time, but nothing was ever proved. It turns out that Finlaison is a good friend of O’Meara’s. They corresponded regularly the entire time the doctor was stationed on St. Helena.”
“Aha! So O’Meara got hold of the plans and contacted Johnstone to build him a new submarine?”
“Precisely.”
Georgie tilted her head toward the papers and frowned. “But this design is extremely challenging, even for an experienced shipwright. It would take months to construct. You have plenty of time to find your man.”
Wylde shook his head. “Ah, but here’s the rub, as Shakespeare would say. Johnstone doesn’t have to build a whole new vessel. He only has to finish the one he started a few years ago.”
Georgie blinked. “What?”
“The Admiralty didn’t destroy Johnstone’s second model. It was put in dry dock in one of the navy’s warehouses—and then lost.”
“Lost? How does one lose a submarine?”
He chuckled. “I believe the actual phrase Admiral Cockburn used was ‘temporarily unaccounted for,’ but it’s the same thing. When the plans were stolen, they sent someone to check on it, but it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.”
Georgie let out a slow breath. “You think Johnstone and O’Meara have stolen it, don’t you?”
“That would be my guess.”
She sat back in a whoosh of skirts. “But this is unbelievable!”
His devilish grin brought out the roguish dimple on his cheek. “Isn’t it just?”
They sat in a companionable silence for a few moments, contemplating the unusual situation, then Georgie said, “It’s rather ironic, don’t you think, that someone is planning to rescue the French emperor with a British-made submarine designed by an American?”
He gave a world-weary shrug. “War’s like that. Nothing makes sense. Things always come back to bite you in the arse.”
She smiled at his cynical assessment. “So, what’s to be done? I assume Bow Street wants you to prevent any rescue attempt?”
He nodded. “Indeed. Unfortunately, being a smuggler, Johnstone is an expert at avoiding the authorities. I’ve been chasing him for months with no luck—that’s how I ended up in Newgate.”
She sent him a teasing smile. “We have him to thank for our introduction, then?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I suppose so. I’ll thank him, if we ever meet. Bow Street has men following O’Meara now, but he’ll be wary of leading us to Johnstone.” He exhaled slowly, and Georgie stifled the urge to lean over and kiss the scowl off his handsome face. He looked adorably frustrated.
“We need to find the submarine and stop it from sailing,” he said. “But neither Bow Street nor the Admiralty have enough manpower to start searching thousands of warehouses—assuming it’s even being stored here in London.” His hair flopped forward as he raked his hand through it. “Where would you even start?”
The question was rhetorical, but Georgie answered it anyway. “You have to narrow down your search. Have you considered that these plans might provide a way to trace him?”
“How?”
“Well, in the first instance, it’s unlikely the submarine has been moved very far from its original location. Blackwall is a busy place—ships unload at all hours of the day and night. Such an unusual vessel would be extremely conspicuous, which suggests they would have limited the time it was visible to the public. Plus, it has to be built close to the river, because they’ll need to test it, so that narrows your search even further.”
He rested his elbows on the desk, mirroring her position. “All that makes perfect sense, Captain Caversteed”—his lips quirked at the teasing nickname—“but even if it is somewhere near Blackwall, there are still hundreds of wharves and warehouses to look at.”
Georgie pulled the paper toward her and pointed at the craft. “Johnstone cannot be building this alone. Look at how complicated it is. It takes a whole team of men to make something even as simple as a rowboat. You need carpenters and block makers, caulkers to pitch the seams, rope makers, riggers to fit the spars and sails, anchor smiths and blacksmiths to provide the chains and all the brass fittings. That’s before you even get to these more unusual, bespoke parts.” She drew her finger over the section that detailed various complicated-looking portholes, piping, and mechanical instruments. “This requires all sorts of gauges and valves.”
She glanced up, and the blood rushed to her face as she realized Wylde was watching her with an amused, intent expression. It was the same kind of look she imagined visitors to a zoo bestowed on some perplexing new creature they’d never encountered before.
Oh, wonderful. Young ladies were supposed to go into raptures over the latest fashion plates in the Journal de Desmoiselles, not display an unseemly interest in technical drawings.
Well, she wasn’t going to hide her curiosity. Wylde would just have to take her as she was.
She cleared her throat. “I know many of the tradesmen who supply the shipbuilding yards, and I can tell you there are very few with the skills to make such complicated bits of machinery.”
His slow smile made her stomach flutter. “I think you might be onto something, Mrs. Wylde. Go on.”
She tried to ignore the feeling his appreciative gaze produced; it was as if she were basking in the warm glow of his approval. But it was a rare thing, to encounter a man who was neither astonished nor disgusted by her knowledge.
“The man who makes the instruments for my ships would be one of those experts,” she said. “His name is Mr. Harrison. Perhaps he can give you some insight. He may have supplied parts for this submarine or be able to suggest the name of someone else who might have.”
“That is a capital idea.” Wylde slapped his palms on his knees and stood, apparently having decided it was time for her to leave. Georgie did the same, swallowing a twinge of pique. She’d been enjoying their discussion.
He stepped around the desk, picked up her bonnet, and handed it to her. “Since you know this chap, and where he works, that makes you the ideal person to accompany me and make the introductions. Shall we say tomorrow, ten o’clock?”
She paused in the act of retying the ribbon of her bonnet and tried not to let her inner leap of excitement show. “You want me to pursue this case with you?”
He placed his hands on his hips in a vaguely combative stance. “What of it? Fate, or luck, or whatever else you want to call it—maybe some higher power with an exceptionally warped sense of humor—seems to have thrust you, someone with an exceptional knowledge of seafaring matters, into an investigation that requires precisely those same skills. Who am I to ignore that kind of assistance, hmm?”
She had no answer to that.
“Don’t think you’ll be getting half the reward money if we catch Johnstone, though,” he cautioned. “This is still my case. You’re just assisting.”
“I wasn’t even thinking of it,” Georgie protested truthfully.
“Well, good. You have quite enough money of your own.”
She choked back a surprised laugh. Nobody had ever dismissed her fortune with such casual levity before.
He tilted his head and surveyed her from head to toe. “I never thought you’d end up being useful, Mrs. Wylde. Decorative, yes. Irritating? Undoubtedly. But useful? Never.”
Georgie opened her mouth to berate him, but he laid his index finger over her lips, and she sucked in a little gasp of surprise. Her stomach swooped as if she’d just driven over a jolt in the road or cleared a fence on her horse. The contact of his warm skin made her lips tingle.
“Perhaps if we’re successful, I’ll quit Bow Street and we can set up a rival agency: Wylde and Wylde, independent investigators. No job too small. No reward too big.”
He was joking, of course. The idea of them having such a close association once the season was over was impossible. But his crooked smile did funny things to her insides. He lifted his finger and tapped her playfully on the nose, and Georgie laughed to cover her confusion. She’d hoped he was about to kiss her.
“Do you think you’ll be able to get away from your mother tomorrow?”
“Yes. I visit our own warehouse every month, so she won’t be surprised if I go to the docks. I’ll have to bring Pieter with me, of course, but we’ll pick you up on the way.”
Wylde ushered her to the door, and Georgie suppressed a sigh. Here she was, an unchaperoned young lady in the private rooms of a rogue—a rogue, moreover, to whom she was legally married and had kissed quite comprehensively several times—but who apparently had no inclination to further their acquaintance.
Had he only been teasing when he made his offer to introduce her to passion? Or had he changed his mind, having kissed her and found her wanting? Perhaps he looked at every woman with that same hungry look he sometimes sent her. The thought was rather demoralizing.
Still, she was looking forward to tomorrow.