“Ahoy there,” the ferry man called out. “Customs to board!”

Simon did not want to board the ship. He didn’t like the feeling. He hadn’t wanted to do parts of the job before, of course, but mostly for reasons of laziness or foreboding. What he felt now was fear. Fear because his jailers had been Turks and the men negotiating his release had been Dutch. A fine partnership that had lasted hundreds of years along the Barbary Coast, with or without treaties or international agreements.

And just knowing he would be on their ship again, that there was a possibility, remote though it may be, that he could be captured again, made him break out in a cold sweat. Why did the first case upon his return have to involve this devastating combination? It was a heavy blow that knocked the breath out of him and made him lightheaded and nauseous.

“You don’t look well,” Robert said to him quietly. Of course Robert would notice. He noticed everything. “Is it the water?”

It took a moment for Simon to comprehend what he meant. He shook his head and then wished he’d said yes. It was a fine cover.

“Stay here,” Robert ordered him. That did the trick.

“I’m fine,” Simon said. “Quit being an old woman.”

He glanced over and saw the second ferry making its way around the bow. While they had the attention of the crew, the rest of Sir Barnabas’s men were going to board quietly on the starboard side. By the time they reached the deck and announced their real intent, they should be able to subdue the crew handily.

“Customs?” a man shouted down at them from the deck. Perhaps the captain, he sounded Dutch. But not the Dutchman from Alice Gaines’s. “We have been inspected already.”

“Still have some questions,” Hastings shouted back. He held up a slim leather portfolio with papers sticking out. “Paperwork, I’m afraid,” he called apologetically. The captain’s curses were carried away by the wind but he motioned them on board.

“Can you climb the rigging?” Robert asked.

“Yes,” Simon said through lips tight with anger. He knew Robert was asking for his own safety and that of the others. They didn’t need a man going up who couldn’t pull his own weight and might need rescuing if things got rough. Simon had never been that man and never would be.

He came up in the rear. He could do it, but he wasn’t the strongest or fastest and he was man enough to admit it. He hoped his days of doing second story work weren’t behind him.

By the time he climbed onto the deck, Sir Barnabas’s men were in place with the crew under control and Hastings was interrogating the captain. Robert had waited to help him onto the deck.

“I’m fully capable of climbing over the rail myself,” he grumbled, taking Robert’s hand.

“Of course you are,” Robert said. “But there’s no need to reinjure yourself at this point with needless heroics. Come on.” His brisk tone was businesslike and cooled Simon’s temper. As soon as his feet were firmly on the deck, Robert dropped his hand and walked away without a backward glance. So much for sentimentality.

“Where did you pick him up?” Hastings was asking the captain.

“Algiers,” the captain said in disgust. “And if I had known he would cause so much trouble, I would have turned down his offer.”

“What offer?” Hastings asked.

“He said he knew a man in London who would be interested in buying this ship.”

“Did he have other business in London?” Robert asked.

“I didn’t ask,” the captain said. “And he didn’t offer. He said he needed to go to London and knew someone who would be interested in my ship, we came to a mutually satisfying arrangement, and here we are.”

“And are you in the habit of transporting spies, no questions asked, captain?” Simon queried.

The captain grew pale at the question. “How was I to know he was a spy?” he argued. “A well-dressed Dutch businessman. The last time I checked, the English and the Dutch were friends, yes? Ask the Bey in Algiers, who is still trying to rebuild his city that you destroyed together not too long ago.”

“You are Dutch, and yet you captain a Turkish ship,” Robert said.

“This is true,” the captain said with a shrug. “But this is business. I own the ship, but she sails out of Algiers. That’s why I have no papers. I only recently acquired her and am in the middle of sorting out the particulars. My Dutch papers are in process. I have the bill of sale. It satisfied customs.”

“And the crew?” Robert asked.

“They came with the ship.” The captain shrugged again.

Simon beckoned one of the agents over. “Go with him.” He turned to the captain. “Fetch the bill of sale.” The captain hurried away. Simon turned to Robert and Hastings. “The captain seems to be telling the truth. I have a sense about these things. But something is amiss here. I can feel it. I don’t think the captain knows what is going on aboard his own ship.” He looked around at the crew, all of whom were eyeing them sullenly. “We need to search this ship.”

Less than an hour later they were staring at a square-shaped hole cut in the middle of the pile of rugs. It had been not so cleverly concealed by several rugs laid on top of the pile. “I shall have to send a sternly worded note to customs about the obvious lack in their searching techniques,” Robert said gravely. “What do you suppose they were smuggling in?”

“Not they. He,” Simon said. “Clearly the Dutchman was bringing more than himself to London. Question the crew,” he said without looking at the agents behind him.

Belatedly he realized he was sounding and acting more and more like Sir Barnabas, just expecting his will to be carried out. He turned around only to see that the agents had melted away, obeying his orders. It was a bit heady. No wonder Sir Barnabas seemed drunk on power half the time.

“Do they sit, stay and fetch with such alacrity?” Robert asked quietly. He sounded amused rather than upset, which was good. Stupid, simple Simon didn’t want to upset him because he was an idiot who was obviously infatuated again with the wrong person. When would he learn? The answer was clearly never.

“I never learned,” he replied lightly. “That’s why I don’t work for him.”

“I hate to be the one to remind you that you’re working for him now,” Robert pointed out gently. “And showing a remarkable resemblance to him, I might add. In this case I believe familiarity has bred similarity.”

“Ouch,” Simon said, wincing. “I probably deserved that. But never fear, you shall keep me humble.”

“I’ll do my best.” Robert squeezed his shoulder as he walked past, headed for the ladder out of the hold. Simon ignored the frisson of awareness that skittered across his back at the touch. Not here, not now, not ever. Again.

When they emerged on deck, it was just in time to see a man go over the side. “Man overboard!” one of the agents yelled.

In the ensuing chaos, several agents began to struggle with various crewmembers who rushed them in a coordinated attack. Robert pulled his pistol out from under his jacket, attempting to shove Simon behind him with his other hand.

“For God’s sake,” Simon shouted at him. “Let me go! I’m highly trained in this sort of combat, and can probably kill faster with my bare hands than you can with that gun. Now stop being so ridiculous.” He shoved Robert out of the way and pulled a stiletto out of a sheath in his boot. “You go that way,” he yelled, pointing left. “Bludgeon, don’t shoot. We need answers, not dead men.”

“I’m not Hastings,” Robert said, affronted. He took off running, and Simon saw him bash a sailor on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. It stunned him long enough for the agent he’d been struggling with to subdue him, and Robert moved on.

Simon ran toward the rail where he’d seen the sailor jump over. Another sailor tried to grab him and he slashed at his hand, cutting him. The sailor fell away with a cry, holding his hand, and Simon ran on as another agent jumped at the sailor.

Simon could see that men on other ships anchored nearby had also seen the man go overboard. At least two small dinghies were rowing toward him where he was treading in the water. He had one leg up on the rail before he took even a moment to think about what he was doing. He shoved his knife back in his boot and grabbed a rope to pull himself up onto the rail.

“Simon, no!” he heard Robert shout, but he ignored him and jumped.

He thought he was prepared for the water, but he wasn’t. It was much farther to fall than he’d estimated, and when he hit the water it wasn’t feet first, but at an angle, and his back bore some of the brunt of the impact. The searing pain momentarily stunned him and he sank in the cold, dank, stinking water of the harbor. He gasped and took in a mouthful of that awful stew, and immediately spewed it out and kicked for the surface, his shock dissipating, but the pain remained.

Simon was handicapped by his tight jacket and what he now remembered to be a serious lack of swimming experience. The Turkish sailor, on the other hand, looked to be half fish. The odds were distinctly against Simon, but he set off after the sailor.

He had a bit of luck when the sailor suddenly turned around and began to swim back his way. The dinghy had gotten too close to him and nearly caught him. They had him surrounded, and he’d clearly decided Simon was the lesser threat. Simon chased him down, grabbing his pant leg and hauling him back. The sailor proved as adept at grappling in the water as he was at swimming in it, and Simon was losing the struggle. Suddenly the sailor shoved Simon’s head under the water, holding him down, and Simon knew he meant to drown him.

He heard the dull echo of a shot ring out. The pressure eased and he was able to jerk his head free and rise to the surface where he gasped and coughed, not caring if he ingested the disgusting water around him. He couldn’t think about that when he was so relieved just to have air.

When he regained his senses, he saw Robert standing at the rail above him, his pistol still pointing at the water. When he looked to his left, the sailor was floating on the water, and he reached out, grabbed the sailor’s shirt and began to drag him toward the nearest dinghy. Once there, he let the boat’s occupants take charge and gladly accepted a ride from the second dinghy back to the dock, where he met Robert and Hastings.

Robert had somehow procured a blanket for him. He waved it away. “It’s so damn hot I don’t need it. I stink more than anything. Did you kill him?”

“No,” Robert said calmly. “I shot him in the shoulder. He’ll most likely never use that arm again, and frankly with a wound like that in this water it will probably fester and he’ll die anyway, but at least he’ll be able to answer some questions first.”

Simon turned to stare at Robert with wide eyes. “I had no idea you could be so ruthless.”

“You, sir, do not know anything about me.” Robert’s gaze was cold and enigmatic, and Simon felt a disturbing sort of confusion, as if someone had told him he didn’t know his own name.

“I am beginning to think I don’t know very much of anything at all,” he said honestly.

“It’s a start,” Robert told him. “A good start, I should think. Now, what in the hell did you think you were doing jumping into the water like that? We’ll be lucky if you don’t start to fester as well.”