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She twisted and stretched. Bram immediately clapped his hands around her waist, securing her. “Almost have it…” She stretched a little further, her neck muscles stinging. Her knuckles scraped the stone. She was going to have the hands of a bruiser. All she needed was her own tattoo. Prim across one hand. The ton would faint en masse in shock.

“Are you giggling again?”

“Absolutely not.”

She finally felt the object, which seemed to be a smallish box. She probably would not drop it on the head of an unsuspecting guest below. Probably.

“You are definitely giggling.”

She grabbed hold and pulled it loose, ducking back inside. Bram did not release her straightaway. His eyes were hard, hot. Or cold? She could not tell. Her body only knew that he was so close, and focused on her again.

Her brain knew it must be for the investigation.

Her body was not listening to her brain. In fact, it had shouted nasty names and slammed the proverbial door shut. It took every bit of her self-control not to press against his warm, solid heft. To bite his lower lip, just once. To see what he would do. What she would do.

But alas, a Spinster must Spinster.

“It’s a box,” she blurted out, holding it up.

It was not much bigger than her hand, plain, dark wood with brass hinges. Nothing particular about it all. Except for its location. Clara met Bram’s blue eyes, stunned. “We actually found something.”

Take that, rules of etiquette and pouring more tea than anyone could reasonably drink—she was a proper Spinster now.

Her thighs were still far more interested in Bram’s proximity.

She took a key from where it dangled down the front of her stays on a thin chain. It was still warm from her body heat when she slid it into the lock.

It fit.

A turn, a satisfying click.

She lifted the lid.

The words she used were not fit for even the filthiest Nightingale story. Bram’s eyebrows lifted. “Not a captain after all with that mouth, but a pirate. Suits you better.”

She decided she could sway just a little closer to him. He was so big and he smelled so good, always like rain and lime candies, and for some reason he knew the perfect things to say.

One small problem remained.

Another blasted key.

Anticipation and excitement slammed into each other and broke apart, a shipwreck on the rocks. She visibly deflated. Bram swore. Clara held the box upside down, shaking it. Nothing fell out to helpfully solve the mystery. “Bollocks.”

Bram just shook his head, and she could have sworn he was hiding a smile.

Meanwhile, she was trying—unsuccessfully, it had to be said—not to sulk.

“Sybil is,” Clara said, very calmly for a pirate, “I’m sorry to say, beginning to vex me. We clearly need a more practical way of sending messages.”

“I have no doubt you can sort that out.”

Wait.

“This has a false bottom,” she said softly.

Chapter Eighteen

Bram suddenly had a dagger in his hand. She had no idea where he had been hiding it. Or why it made him even more attractive. Why she couldn’t stop staring at the tendons in his wrist, the deft strength of his fingers, the faded rope burns. “Give it here.”