rough hug. “Either that or you truly don’t have enough to occupy that fertile imagination. Thanks for the gift.” Releasing Camilla, he refolded the housewife and slipped it into his coat pocket. He stood and offered her a broad, callused hand. “I’ll put it to good use. Now be a good girl and go pack me a lunch. Make it generous, ’cause it’ll be a long time before I get Portia’s sourdough bread again.”
Packing him a lunch was the least she could do. He was always the soul of generosity to her. On the way to the kitchen, she touched one of the little carved coral camellias dangling at her ears—her birthday present. Jamie knew how much she adored camellias, how she waited for their blooming every winter.
Portia was up to her dimpled elbows in bread dough and was not best pleased by Camilla’s interruption. “That boy picks the inconvenientest times to go sailing!”
Smiling at the anxiety behind Portia’s grumpy frown, Camilla pulled bread and cheese out of the bin and began to carve thick slices of both.
Portia heaved a sigh as she added an apple tart and some sausage left over from breakfast to the hamper. “I hope those Yankees got poor eyesight tonight.”
“Me, too. God preserve him.”
Jamie wasn’t afraid of anything, especially not a Yankee clipper. He took life exactly as it came, laughing at the worst dangers, even her question about the fish boat. Was his amusement genuine—or did it serve the purpose of hiding his thoughts? Everything with Jamie was usually right on the surface. Maybe her assumption that he knew about the boat was wrong.
She paused in the kitchen doorway, absently swinging the heavy hamper. “Portia, I heard something funny last night on my way in the house.”
Portia’s head whipped around. “Shush, little girl! Mind yourself!” She jerked her head toward the back door. “Come out this way, and we’ll walk around the house.”
As they picked their way through the kitchen vegetable garden, Portia drew close, sharing the handle of the hamper. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” she whispered.
“I forgot,” Camilla retorted. “I was busy getting scolded!”
“Hmph. And didn’t you deserve it. What’d you hear?”
“Did you know Papa had a man in his office in the middle of the night?”
Portia gave her an enigmatic look. “If he did, it isn’t any of my business.”
“They were discussing an underwater boat. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Portia snorted. “In the book of Jonah.”
“It could happen. And Papa’s planning to get rich off it.”
Portia smiled. “He’d have a long way to go before—”
Camilla stamped her foot. “He’s financing this—this fish boat, to sell to the government so they can blow up Yankee ships.” At Portia’s quizzical look, she began to walk again. “I know it sounds incredible. They built it in New Orleans, then sank it when the Yankees took over. Now they’re going to rebuild it right here in Mobile.”
Camilla had half expected Portia to pooh-pooh the idea, much as Jamie had. But the housekeeper’s broad, smooth brow puckered. “Men and their all-fired gadgets,” she muttered. They reached the flagged walkway in Lady’s flower garden. Portia abruptly stopped and handed Camilla the hamper. “Take this to your brother, and tell him I said happy sailin’.”
“But what should I do? You know, about the boat?”
“You ain’t a baby anymore. You heard more than’s good for you, so keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open. Don’t you do anything.” Portia’s fierce gaze speared Camilla. “You hear me?”
“S-so you believe me?” Portia’s belief was infinitely more frightening than Jamie’s amusement.
Portia’s shoulders lifted. “I believe you heard your papa gettin’ up to some shenanigans. We’ll see how important it is.”
Numb, Camilla watched Portia head back to the kitchen. Eyes and ears open would be no problem. Mouth shut was another story.
Chapter Three
Gabriel shoved through the swinging doors of Ingersoll’s Oyster Bar and stood in the baking afternoon heat swinging a newspaper-laden canvas bag against his leg. Sooner or later his quarry was bound to surface.
Last night he’d returned to the riverboat with Delia and, while she went to her room to bathe and change, conducted a discreet search of the hold of the boat. This canvas sack—discovered behind the barrel he’d been sitting on as he waited in the dark for his courier—might or might not be a clue to the imposter’s identity, but it was all he had.
Embarking early this morning on a search, he’d put on his overanxious-relative face and questioned the proprietor of every establishment on Water Street. Downtown Mobile abounded in oyster houses, lagerbier and wine shops, and gambling and drinking saloons. Women were plentiful in those places, but no one admitted to harboring one dressed as a man.
He was about to start over on another round of the search when a violent tugging on his coat sleeve caught his attention. He looked down.
A scrawny little man in a red knit cap danced at his feet, beady pink eyes glinting under bristling eyebrows. “N—now—” The man’s head stretched and retracted as he struggled for words. “Now—where’d you get that?”
Gabriel stared at him. “Where’d I get what?”
The little man snatched at the newspaper bag. “You got it! I give it to Missy, and you stoled it!”
Gabriel swung the bag out of reach and found himself pummeled in the stomach by surprisingly potent punches. “Hey!” Instinctively he hooked his attacker around the neck and secured the skinny arms. He looked around panting. Shoppers and vendors watched with varying degrees of curiosity and disapproval. “If I let you go,” he said through his teeth, “will you settle down and listen to me?”
“Gimme back my bag!” howled the little man.
“I’ll give you back the blasted bag. Just shut up and let me ask you some questions.”
Forced to concede to Gabriel’s superior size and strength, the little man relaxed.
Gabriel released him. “No use asking if you’re crazy,” he muttered, straightening his clothing. “What’s the matter with you?”
The malevolent red-rimmed eyes fixed on his face. “You said you’d gimme the bag.”
“I will, I will. Come on, and I’ll buy you a meal.” Gabriel led the way back into the oyster bar and ordered coffee for himself and his bizarre guest.
The man slugged down his steaming coffee in three great slurps.
Gabriel waved away a waiter offering to refill the cup. “What’s your name, old man?”
The hot drink seemed to have taken some of the starch out of the man’s ire. He leaned back against the wooden booth. “Name’s Byrd. Virgil Byrd.”
How poetic. “What makes you think this bag is yours?”
“Is mine. It’s marked.”
“Marked? How?”
“Candy took a bite out of it one day when I forgot to feed her.”
Gabriel looked at the bag. Sure enough, there was a ragged hole in the bottom about the size of a half-dollar, through which he could see the rolled newspapers. “Who’s Candy?”
“That’s my mule. Candy.”
Gabriel had seen no evidence of any such animal. “You gave the bag to the mule?”
Byrd screwed up his face. “Naw. Candy just tried to