Page 72

Crofton chuckled, the epaulettes on his shoulders rattling. Rafe’s face grew hot, a climbing, damnable scorch. He knew himself well enough to guess it showed across his brow and cheek in ruddy color. He gripped the chair arms.

“No need for playing coy, Mr. Balfour. I won’t announce your engagement ahead of schedule.”

Rafe’s eyes widened. Crofton thought—? It wasn’t unreal to him that Sophie St. Quinton might accept an offer of marriage from Rafe Balfour? The vice admiral was wrong in his assumption, at any rate. Rafe opened his mouth to protest, but Crofton had risen and was reaching for his walking stick.

“The directors will be gathered in the steward’s office on Saturday the twenty-fifth instant. If Miss St. Quinton wishes to put a proposal to them, she may arrive at eleven o’clock.”

Rafe rose to meet him. Crofton had continued speaking as he made his way around the desk, but his staggered gait and a hand laid to his right hip—which descended into a wooden leg below the knee—belied his easy manner. “Be certain she brings a gentleman with her, Mr. Balfour. Either her betrothed or her father. They’ll not hear of it, coming from an unwed miss.”

“Thank you, sir.” Rafe bowed. This was a win. Not a clear, spine-thrilling sort of victory, but a damn favorable outcome.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Balfour.” Crofton angled himself toward the door and motioned Rafe forward. “Now, if I can manage to get home without any further excitement, perhaps my wife will see fit to join me for dinner.”

Rafe found Barnard next. It wasn’t difficult—night had drawn many of the pensioners beyond the hospital’s walls, leaving the courtyard open and bare. The silhouette of a small, sitting form by the riverside caught his eye straightaway. He didn’t get close before his footfalls drew Barnard’s attention and the boy twisted around, the whites of his eyes glowing.

“My name is Rafe,” he said quickly. “I don’t expect you remember me, but—”

“I remember you.” The boy’s shoulders inched down from his ears. “You was here when Miss Sophie gave me my marble.”

Rafe smiled. “That’s right. Mind if I sit?” He gestured toward the stairs that led down into the Thames. When Barnard shook his head, Rafe joined him on the top step with a sigh.

“I s’pose I should thank you, sir, for bringin’ me back here from that alehouse.”

Rafe’s head whipped right to study the lad’s pale, freckled countenance. “You remember that, too?”

“N’sir. I was told it was you.”

“Ah. Well, it was no trouble.” The river lapped at the stairs beneath them, splashed a little too close to Rafe’s shoes. He didn’t budge. “I hear you’ve done very well as a cabin boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that you’re meant to rejoin the Iphigenia’s crew when she sails out again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rafe fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve. He felt large, next to the boy, as if his limbs had grown longer and his body older. But they weren’t so different, were they? Rafe hadn’t been much younger than Barnard when his own forced, laborious commitment to Balfour’s had begun.

“My work is different, but I serve other people, too,” he said.

“You do?” Barnard’s tone held a note of interest for the first time, revealing a higher pitch in his voice.

God, he was young. Years of starving and pilfering on the streets—for he must have done, given the notes Crofton had found—had doubtless left him shorter and frailer than a twelve-year-old ought to have been. It seemed the only place he held any plumpness was in his brightly colored cheeks.

“That’s right,” Rafe said. “And I’ve taken things before.” Better to not use present tense with a boy whose respect he hoped to earn. “Not because I wanted to, but to survive.”

The lad’s worn, buckled shoes grated over the step. He was quiet for a long time. “Don’t that make you a bad man?”

“I used to think it did. But I’m beginning to realize …” The moonlight on the water was bright enough to burn. “Bad men can be thieves, but not all thieves are bad men. Not everyone who takes enjoys the taking.”

“I’ve took before. ’Til I seen the advertisement in the papers and thought this might be better. They was giving me more than I could’ve gotten from a month of thievin’—two caps and a good pair o’ shoes. And a waistcoat. I ain’t never had a waistcoat before.” Barnard had been speaking quickly, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to say anything to anyone, but paused. “Well, now I’ve lost my arm and a waistcoat’s of no use to me. I’m more worthless to ’em now than I was before.”

Rafe had been wondering what the hell he ought to say, but Barnard’s final sentence absolved him of any question.

“You are not worthless, lad.”

The boy flicked him a quick glance, then looked away. Rafe leant down, resting his elbows on his knees. He waited until Barnard looked at him again. “And any man worth his salt would assure you of that. Seaman or not.”

Barnard matched his smile for half a second before looking away, his feet fidgeting again. His right hand went to where his left elbow ought to be, and wrapped around his thin waist. “Well, you’s the first to say so.”