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A few seconds passed before relief worked its way through the anxiety-ridden channels of Rafe’s brain and down to his raised shoulders, out to his clenched fists. Thank God.

“What are you doing here?” It sounded like an accusation. “Didn’t you have some fancy dinner tonight?”

“I did. But I left early.”

Alfie picked up his lamp and stepped closer. The corners of his mouth tightened. “And chose to come here, of all places, and not back to your bed where you ought to be?”

“I had a few things to finish up,” Rafe said, hating the lie even as it crossed between his teeth. “I won’t be long. Do you need help with this?” He gestured to the floor where crates were stacked neatly.

His friend stared at him for a long, hard, infinite moment. “No, I don’t.”

Rafe shrugged off his coat and laid it aside. “It’s no trouble—”

One of Alfie’s strong palms came against Rafe’s chest. “I’m finished, Rafe. It was just the boxes for Greenwich. We need to do a run tomorrow.”

“Right. A run tomorrow, of course.”

The room grew still. Still enough to renew Rafe’s awareness of that pulse in his chest, his ears, his temples. Beat after beat. “You must’ve had a good go of it at the docks, then. Always a good negotiator, you are, Alf. There’s no one better.”

“What’s really going on?”

Alfie’s diplomatic skills were a fabulous asset that Rafe admired, until moments like this, when their object was himself. “I’m just worki—”

“Damn it, Rafe.” Alfie removed his palm from Rafe’s chest, but not before he gave him a light shove. “Why do you lie to me?”

Guilt. Guilt seeped in and replaced the strange feeling that presided over Rafe’s ribcage. He was beginning to lose control over himself in a dozen small ways, and he detested it. These little impulses would all add up, until finally, they resulted in real trouble.

“Miss St. Quinton—Miss Red Skirts—is in my office,” he hissed. “She drank too much at the dinner party. I tried to take her home, but she refused. I-I didn’t know where else to go. I just need a few hours.”

Alfie blew out a breath, exhaled with his whole chest. He took a step back. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Alfie sniffed and nodded.

“I know it doesn’t look good, Alf, but I couldn’t just leave her there. As soon as she can stand on her own two feet, Chenoweth’s taking her back to Berkeley Square.”

“It’s nothing to me, Rafe. I know you’ll take care of her.”

A long silence passed, eating at the space between them, and yet not relieving an ounce of the tension.

“So, Greenwich, tomorrow night?” Alfie asked finally.

Hell. The visit to his mother. His next words tasted like sand. “Mm, but I’ll handle it myself this time. You can take a rest.”

Alfie laughed, high and humorless. “One of those times, is it, eh?”

Rafe could feel more of that control slipping between his fingers, just like his handkerchief between Miss St. Quinton’s. She had to be wondering where he was by now. He’d promised to return quickly, and yet, he felt rooted in place and torn in both directions. He couldn’t lose Alfie. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t lose Alfie to the truth if he told it. But with trust always comes inherent risk, even if no more than a splinter of it. And that splinter would be enough to ruin Rafe.

“Are you ever going to tell me where it is you go?” Alfie’s voice was stern and loud, loosened with feeling.

Rafe’s vocal cords strained to answer. The words were all there—the lies, too. None of them came out.

“You know what, to hell with it.” Alfie receded further into the room, and his thrown hand was little more than a shadow. It could’ve belonged to anyone. “Night, Rafe.”

“Good night, Alf.”

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