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He had.

But an unfeeling person wouldn’t concern herself with the welfare of the boy at the hospital. An entitled one would feel shame to be spending time with the likes of a merchant’s son. Her snappish mouth was beginning to sound like bravado to Rafe’s ears, her quick temper a bruise reachable beneath layers of armor.

He stood beneath the gargantuan tree in the square’s center while she mounted the steps and rapped on her parents’ door. Hours-old rain slipped free from the leaves, dripping onto his shoulders and hat with little thuds. God, what was taking so long?

She rapped again. He wondered if she might turn and look for him; her skirts swayed with impatient movement, but then, finally, the door opened. Rafe turned his back and crossed the square, making himself fully invisible. By the time he reached his father’s No. 36, all was quiet at the St. Quintons.

Thomas was having someone in for drinks, based on the sound of ludicrous laughter traveling up the corridor. No one greeted Rafe. He liked it better that way. The staff here were tense and cold, unfailing in their loyalty to his father for fear of losing their positions (which they often did, save the damnable butler, Russ). They were so aligned with Thomas that naturally, they learned to snub Rafe at every turn.

A missive had been left for him on the silver salver—an invitation to a dinner party, hosted by Sir and Lady Bancroft. Apparently, his debut conduct at the Miltons’ ball hadn’t been as abhorrent as he’d feared. Hopefully Miss Penney had received the same summons. The chattering, snorting, and lethal gossiping coming from Thomas’s study served as an exquisite reminder that this marriage business needed to be settled. Quickly.

Once in his chambers, Rafe called up water and supper—both arrived similarly cold. He bolted himself in, undressed and washed himself (curse the thought of a prying valet hired by Thomas to do such things for him), and sat down to his buttered roll and roast turkey.

Miss St. Quinton was probably sitting down to a hot meal and smiling parents, her day with him already forgotten. Or maybe she’d gone to her chambers as he had. Her maid might be unpinning her hair … If she didn’t insist on seeing to the task herself. Yes, he could imagine that.

His hand tightened into a fist, then relaxed. It had been all he could manage to focus on the Painted Hall today. She, in the ochre light, every inquisitive thought prefaced with a pinch of her brow or quirk of her lips, had been living art. More captivating than Thornhill’s divine beings, because there were no illusions about Miss St. Quinton. She wasn’t ashamed of her sharp corners, her strengths, her curiosities. God, if he could paint!

Better that he couldn’t. He’d never capture the wittiness behind her eyes, the variegated colors of her hair when hit by the sun.

If she had a maid doing such things, seeing the full length of her near-black tresses, raking her fingers through its texture, studying its dimension by candlelight … Well, he envied the bloody maid.

Laughter burst through the floor and soured the taste of bread in his mouth. “Just look what she’s done to herself! She looks like a Jerusalem pony!”

Rafe pushed his plate aside, put his elbows on the tabletop, and sighed into his hands. Thomas had been clear: marriage to Miss Penney was the only path by which Rafe could get his hands on a large sum of Balfour money.

If he had only himself to think about, he might have taken risks. Pushed his luck by stealing more of Thomas’s stock and taken up more contracts. Run off and lived on dirt. But Rafe was solely responsible for his mother’s care, barely keeping up with the cost of her cheap Greenwich lodgings as it was.

He had kept the secret for years. This wasn’t the first night it had felt lead-heavy.

Whatever one-sided fantasies he had about Miss St. Quinton didn’t matter. Few things did: Escape. Freedom. Peace. All synonyms for the same common goal—

Survival.

eight

Get out. Get out. Sophie’s fingertips dug into the slippery deck of the ship, but there was no strength in her arms. She stayed glued in the mayhem, lying face down. Her hand slipped in the wetness and hot liquid splattered her face. Don’t look. You mustn’t look.

That was her only strength: her will to keep her eyes clamped closed.

Salt and iron prickled on her tongue. The boards beneath her groaned and popped, but they weren’t loud enough to drown out the dueling shouts of men. They seemed to be everywhere … An explosion. Smoke.

Screams.

She gritted her teeth until they ached. She could get out. She would, in seconds—

“Sophia.”

“Edmund?” She jerked to alertness and the strength of the sun scalded her eyes. Ice-blue water and a blisteringly cloudless sky. Rigging spattered red with …

Blood. Blood coating her teeth and hands and sloshing toward her as the ship heeled to her starboard side.

“Sophia!”

“I’m coming!” She spluttered blood when she yelled, and tried to leverage the strength of her hands again. He couldn’t be far. Anguish gripped his voice, but he sounded strong and close. If she could reach him, she could save him. She knew it down to her marrow: she could save him.

She managed to pivot her body and found an outstretched hand and a shock of soaked, dark hair. “E-edmund. Edmund.”

The world was fracturing; the sky dimmed to grey and her voice was a croak. He wasn’t answering.