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“No, I don’t expect you did.” The man laughed, but the sound bore a dry edge. He thumped his walking stick on the floor, and Rafe realized he wore trousers with his uniform rather than the usual short pantaloons. The navy fabric concealed his wooden leg. “I must say, I did not expect to find you here, either, sir.”

Rafe’s throat tightened. There was a faint pleat between the vice admiral’s brows, and he performed a slow search of Rafe’s figure. Had Crofton ever addressed him as ‘sir,’ before? If so, it must’ve been ages earlier when he had taken up his first contract with the Royal Hospital for Seamen in Greenwich.

“I’m here at my father’s behest,” Rafe said, attempting an easy smile. It was even more an effort than blankness. Someone laughed in the direction of the ballroom, a reminder of just how easily Rafe could be spotted—and questioned—for having this conversation. He pressed the door open. “Perhaps you’d prefer to have this conversation privately?”

It was with a single nod that the vice admiral followed him inside the shadow-confined room. Windows along the far wall captured moonlight in their white curtains, but it was only bright enough to reveal the vague promise of an expensive desk and packed bookshelves. Rafe situated himself in a patch of darkness. “If you’re concerned about tonight’s delivery, it’s without reason, sir. Mr. Malloy is in Greenwich as we speak. I was with him at the docks just this evening.”

Vice Admiral Crofton smiled at him, held his gaze. Light from the nearest wall sconce in the corridor bypassed the half open door, picked up the silver of his coat’s epaulettes, braids, and the shining star covering his breast. Suddenly, Rafe thought he could smell the warehouse on himself, and the stench from the pipe his friend had been smoking this afternoon as they loaded crates of wool onto the cart. Thomas’s wool. Wool that was very much meant to stay in Mayfair and be sold at Balfour’s, not carted off into the night for profit.

“The pair of you haven’t missed a single appointment in all these years,” Vice Admiral Crofton said slowly. “I hadn’t any doubt of that.” He cast a brief glance around the room. “Is it your father, in attendance with you? I say, it’s rather a shame I’ve not met the fellow sooner. I feel quite put out with myself. I knew his business for a success, but he must be something spectacular to impress upon Lord Milton’s hospitality.”

Rafe’s mouth went dry. If the privacy he’d failed to escape to was an oasis, this room, this line of questioning, was a parched expanse of desert. “How are you and Lord Milton acquainted?” Rafe managed.

“His younger brother is a captain. We spent time at sea together, more years ago now than I care to count, but the connection has persisted. Lord Milton often invites me and a few other seamen to such events. Have I been remiss, before? Or is this your first such engagement here?”

It was blistering in its plainness then: Rafe standing here, wearing a pristinely tailored suit worth more than his last three months’ wages, bore all the futility of an alchemical experiment. No one, not even the great Thomas Balfour himself, could make gold out of iron.

“You are not mistaken,” he said. “This is my first such engagement.”

“Ah.”

There was something like pity, or perhaps relief, in the vice admiral’s smile. Rafe despised it, even as he knew he ought to be thankful. Crofton had always been fair to deal with; he couldn’t afford to lose his trust. At least not until he wed Miss Penney and started earning a steady income without the need to take on contracts with the naval hospital.

“Well, will I have the pleasure of meeting the elder Mr. Balfour this evening?”

“Perhaps another time would prove better.” Rafe’s heart hammered against his ribcage. “All the evening’s excitement has aggravated his nerves, I’m afraid. I should hate to bring business into it. I think you should find him far more amenable on a different occasion.”

“I find it rather tasteless to drag business into such affairs myself, which means we ought to get along fine.” Another glance about the room, and then his first step toward the lit corridor. “Tell me, are you and your father fond of cricket? Perhaps—”

“Vice Admiral.” The words effectively froze Crofton, but Rafe’s stomach had never swirled more forcefully. “I trust you will understand that I conduct business with my father, and I conduct business with Mr. Malloy. Separately. The latter is a more … private endeavor.”

Seconds passed. “I see.” Tap. Tap. The vice admiral’s walking stick moved in his hand. “Well, I’ll trouble you no longer, then. Pleasure as always, Mr. Balfour.”

“A pleasure, Vice Admiral.” Rafe bowed and stood, rigidly, to watch him walk away. Once he could no longer hear the man’s uneven footsteps, he drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. Devil take me.

He knew his current arrangement of living couldn’t last forever. That one day, his father would note missing stock in the warehouse, or one of their acquaintances would recognize Rafe making deliveries at the naval hospital in Greenwich. One couldn’t sneak and thief forever.

One couldn’t go unpunished for it, either, no matter his reasons.

At least he’d spared himself another night. Crofton wouldn’t approach his father against his wishes. He would take a moment to settle himself, return for his dance with Miss Penney, and be well on his way to a time in his life where contracts and deliveries and deceit held no weight over him.

He pushed the door closed and took in his surroundings more fully.

A library, from the looks of it. Perhaps a study. All that counted was its emptiness. He was struck by an urge to shed his coat and neckcloth, to throw open one of the large windows and take in air like a drowning man. His knee jostled a piece of furniture. Closer inspection revealed a cellarette, an open bottle of brandy, and a crystal glass sitting beside it.

Much had happened since he’d sworn not to take another sip. He felt no obligation to that promise as he poured himself a drink.

Christ, it was dark. The lingering jitters from the last quarter hour did nothing to help; his mind was addled beyond reason. He wouldn’t throw his head out the window like a true biscuit-brain, but he would at least move aside a set of curtains, flirt with the illusion of freedom.

They were made of cotton. He used more force than was necessary to wrench them back, and something popped. Moonlight streamed in, almost cool against his face, and he took a sip from the glass. He could make out little more than trees and shrubs outside. In the light of day, the view was probably—

Rafe spun to face the sound of creaking furniture. In what had moments ago been darkness, there was a pair of golden eyes staring back at him. A woman, half risen from her seat. The lady in the red dress, who had run off. Miss Penney’s acquaintance.

A Miss St. Quinton.

She didn’t speak. He sure as hell didn’t.

Her arms were bare, and she held a glass that matched his own in her right hand. She was alone, and aside from the missing gloves, appeared entirely as put together as she had in the ballroom. Why, then, did he feel as if he had caught her in some intimate moment? As if he ought to look away?