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Alfie’s gaze was felt more than seen.

“Right, the draper’s shop. It sounds very fine, Alf. Thank you for checking into it. I’ll … I’ll mull it over.”

The clouds had scuttled off the moon and Rafe crossed his arms and tipped his head back, watching their hurried retreat. People always cautioned against staring at the sun, but what of the moon? Its undiluted brilliance made his eyes sting. He forced himself to continue looking.

Don’t look upon the sun, now, sweet. You’ll hurt those pretty eyes of yours.

That was among the first of his memories. He must have been a little thing, riding astride a pony whose withers scarcely reached the shoulder of Mother’s own mount. He had loved the vastness of the country then. It hadn’t felt isolating or confining or lonely. All of that had come after.

“You know”—Alfie’s even keel baritone broke through his thoughts—“if you were a man in love, I’d tell you there was a second option to be had.”

The bench seat was hurting his neck now, dratted rough-hewn wood. He shifted again. He wouldn’t be able to afford the sort of velvet-benched carriages Thomas kept, if he relied only upon himself. “Is that so?”

“Speaking in the figurative sense, as it were, if I had a friend besotted with the likes of someone—oh, I don’t know, like that of Miss St. Quinton, let’s say, for figure’s sake—I’d advise he humble himself before her father, the old viscount.”

“Ha. Quite amusing.”

“If the fellow’s got a set of eyes, he’ll see the truth of the matter. And if he’s got any heart about him at all, he’ll honor her wishes.” A sharp turn, which felt unnervingly like splinters going into the back of Rafe’s neck, forced him to sit up. Alfie continued. “One thing’s for sure, your old man couldn’t touch you again with the St. Quinton name behind you.”

Surely he hadn’t meant it like that. But Rafe felt his father’s stubby finger pressing into his chest again, a flaming torch laid to an oil pit of anger. “I’m not a worthless milksop,” he gritted out. “If I win her, it will be by the work of my own hand.”

Vice Admiral Crofton wore dark circles beneath his eyes, a curious contrast to the profusion of light-catching silver and gold on his coat.

“Thank you, sir, for agreeing to meet with me.” Rafe had taken the proffered seat across from him, and the desk appeared miles long between them. It was meticulously swept and organized, an opposite to his own.

“Certainly, Mr. Balfour.” He propped his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. He looked at them rather than Rafe. “I should like to address the recent episode that occurred with our youngest In-Pensioner.” His eyes lifted, a not-quite-direct gaze. “I hear you came to his aid.”

It had really been Sophie’s doing. Rafe never would have guessed at the boy’s predicament, had he not set off in a fury looking for her. But it wouldn’t do to advertise that Miss St. Quinton made a habit of running off in the dark to raid alehouses—even if that fearless, fiercely determined quality made her more qualified than anyone else he knew to be a child’s legal guardian, Crofton mightn’t see it that way.

“I can only be credited for helping him to his cabin and summoning the physician.” Rafe ran his palms down his trouser legs. “How is the boy?”

The vice admiral’s steeple collapsed, and his hands thumped the desktop. “I suspected this was the nature of your business. Listen, sir—Mr. Balfour—I know most of our acquaintance has been limited to matters of trade, but allow me to reassure you I am not an unfeeling man. It was with great shame that I learned of what happened to Bonnie. It is only that there are so very many men here. It grows increasingly difficult to monitor individual needs.”

“I’m hardly here to ridicule your manner of doing things.”

Crofton stared for a moment. A deep, penetrating glance, and then he eased back in his chair. “Bonnie seems quite returned to his usual self. Though it took several days. He had nothing but broth and bread, not even the weak ale. I saw that water was given him instead.”

Sophie would be mightily pleased to hear that. Rafe crossed his legs, fixing his sight on the subtle interlacing pattern of his wool weave trousers. “Have you ever considered making him an Out-Pensioner? Under the care of a guardian, of course.”

Silence. Rafe scratched a fingernail against the woven pattern. He wanted to meet the man’s gaze, knew he ought to, but he … couldn’t.

“Mr. Balfour,” Crofton started, and then moved somehow, for his chair creaked, “it is only fair to explain that the boy … can be troubled, at times. He is prone to certain fits of anger, when met with a task made difficult by the loss of his arm. He can be quite destructive. Disobedient. I am not altogether certain he would fare better as an employee of yours.”

Rafe lifted his eyes. “I was not thinking of a working position.” The thought of subjecting Barnard to Thomas’s dictatorial ways made his teeth clench. He would keep the boy safe. There was no question.

“You mean to bestow him with a more personal patronage, then?”

“Vice Admiral, I must be entirely honest with you.” He uncrossed his legs. His pulse was hammering now. “I am making the inquiry on Miss St. Quinton’s behalf. She is fond of the child, and wishes to provide him a comfortable life, one of education and clean living, the likes of which he couldn’t possibly achieve elsewhere.”

The suntanned lines bracketing Crofton’s mouth deepened. “I have made it a particular point for the boy to attend school across the street.”

“And was he able to attend those lessons, following the recent folly which left him near to dead?”

All grew quiet, emphasizing the smaller sounds: the thump in Rafe’s throat and a distant scuffle elsewhere in the building. The vice admiral’s eyes were hard. Rafe might have just cost himself and Alfie future dealings with the hospital. Crofton could easily choose to label him as insolent and disrespectful. He should be apologetic, but deep in his breast, he felt a dawning pride. He sounded like Sophie. Like someone who built their beliefs out of brick and mortar, and stood upon them with unflinching honorability.

Crofton’s pointer finger started to move against the table like an inchworm. “Might I ask what Lord St. Quinton has to say on the matter?”

“As you may know, Miss St. Quinton is in London for the Season. The matter concerns her and whomever she weds more than Lord St. Quinton.”