Now he knew why he’d returned to this suite. It resounded with her absence. It looked cheap, unreal, like set dressing—and he understood that even if he carried her love about like hidden miser’s gold, this was how the rest of his life would feel without her.
And therein lay an epiphany. That fancy beautiful word she had taught to him.
Who was he now? Not a coward. That much he knew. He didn’t know how much of his courage was innate, or how much he could attribute to experience building his courage up like muscle, the way he’d claimed. He did know nothing in his life had prepared him for what he was considering doing.
Unless it was loving and being loved.
And he burned with the near holy knowledge that she loved him.
The epiphany was this: in loving him, he was only now realizing she’d shown him he had something of value he hadn’t yet offered her. Maybe, just maybe, it was what she’d wanted from him along.
What a miracle that would be.
But damned if it was going to be the only thing he brought to her.
He thought of Hardy’s and Bolt’s ship limping into port. An idea was taking shape on the periphery of his awareness; he aimed the spyglass of his mind at it, and he could feel a thrill stirring in the pit of his stomach when it expanded fully into view. Seconds later, he nearly shouted “Hosanna.”
What he was considering was a risk. He was used to risk.
Bloody hell. He was going to do it.
This realization left him genuinely terrified.
And thoroughly exhilarated.
But he felt powerful again.
And he didn’t know if he was mad, brave, delusional, or brilliant, or all four.
It was going to be up to Daphne to decide.
It was quiet in the smoking room that evening, as Mr. McDonald and St. John Vaughn, after thanking their hostesses, had bolted from The Grand Palace on the Thames like hares set free from traps, and Hans, Otto, and Friedreich had been engaged to play at a previously arranged small soiree at the home of a wealthy merchant.
They expected never to see poor Mr. McDonald again, but they all sincerely hoped he continued his violin lessons.
Which left Hardy, Bolt, Delacorte, and Lorcan to wearily enjoy cheroots and much-needed brandies alone in the smoking room.
Bolt and Hardy looked exhausted but more at peace. At least they knew what they were up against: repairs to the masts and quarterdecks. Financial losses from partially damaged cargo. New crew members to hire, and injured crew to compensate—their crew had valiantly gotten their ship into port, but two members had been injured in the rigging when the mast snapped. They would be unable to work for quite some time.
“So the Triton Group needs a ship,” Lorcan said thoughtfully.
“Yes,” Bolt said.
Lorcan’s heart was suddenly a bass drum in his chest. He waited a moment, strategically. He understood the value of a bit of theater, especially when it came to a high-stakes wager.
And then he exhaled smoke. “I have a ship.”
It sounded as offhand as “would you kindly pass the peas?”
Almost as if the rest of his life didn’t hinge on what happened next.
Bolt, Hardy, and Delacorte stared at Lorcan.
After a long, taut, fascinating silence, Lorcan added, entirely neutrally, “a large and fast ship.”
He saw a hard, almost mordant amusement and respect flicker across Hardy’s face. And a suppressed excitement. He knew that Lorcan more or less had them in the palm of his hand.
Finally Hardy said, very casually, “What are you proposing, St. Leger?”
