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“Aye, he’s mad. Off his head.” A stark-raving lunatic.

Loudly clearing her throat, Abbie re-entered her bedchamber with the writing implements. “Here ye go, now.”

In short order, Bryston penned a brief missive to Zhao. The Chinaman had a mischievous streak and a particular fondness for fireworks. A combination that worked well for what Bryston intended.

He also wrote Keane a letter. He lifted the folded rectangle after affixing the wax seal. “This is for Roxdale, Abbie. It explains we’re sailin’ to France, but will be back within a month.”

“A month?” Branwen blanched and swallowed. “A month?” she repeated, unable to keep the dismay from her voice. “That long?”

“Aye. Yer family would be in peril if ye returned to them before I deal with Le Sauvage, once and for all.” Bryston lowered the hat’s veil and slouched as Abbie had recommended.

“But it disna take a month to sail to France and back,” Branwen insisted, glancing at Abbie and then back to him.

“Nae, but it may take me that long to find De La Beche. If he yet lives, that is.”

And if he didn’t? Then what?

God’s bollocks, Bryston didn’t bloody well know.

Abbie looked on, sympathy brimming in her eyes. She also knew what this meant for Branwen. How many of the women in this whorehouse had been compromised through no fault of their own, and their only recourse afterward had been to sell their bodies?

At least Branwen had her family, which included a powerful, wealthy duke as her guardian. Unlike Camden Kennedy, who’d salvaged Bethea Glanville’s reputation by marrying her, Bryston wouldn’t make the same noble sacrifice.

He’d known true love and vowed the day Delphine had been ripped from his life, taking his heart, soul, and joy with her to the grave, he’d never wed again. Loving another was out of the question. He was a man who loved but once in a lifetime.

No remorse speared him. He’d save Branwen’s and possibly Roxdale’s and his family’s lives. That was enough, and if the duke or anyone else, expected more, hoped for more, well disappointment was in their futures.

“Yer point is well taken. I willna knowin’ly put my family in danger.” Giving a brusque nod, Branwen turned toward the door. “Shall we go?”

Again, her stalwartness and pragmatism impressed him. Her acceptance of the situation earned further respect. Branwen Glanville was a singularly remarkable woman.

As they departed the chamber, Abbie chuckled. “Just wait until ye see what the lasses and I have planned.”

Somehow, Bryston didn’t doubt it would be utterly scandalous, and he prayed to God, would carve enough time for his and Branwen’s escape.

Fifteen minutes later, having walked to the wharf unmolested, Bryston, Branwen, and the four prostitutes, as well as two of Lucky Spence’s more intimidating bouncers, stood in an alley adjacent to the docks. The Dolphin swayed in the harbor, her colorful flag fluttering flirtatiously in the ever-present breeze.

Squinting from behind the lacy veil covering his face, Bryston grinned. Zhao and another four of Bryston’s crew wheeled an innocuous cart, no different than a dozen or so others, toward the middle of the dockyard.

He didn’t know precisely what Abbie and her girls had planned, but he was positive it was something that would draw keen attention.

“Are ye ready, lasses?” Bryston asked the demurely attired women.

“Aye,” they chorused, then giggled as if privy to a great secret.

He touched Abbie’s arm before passing her a weighty purse. “Thank ye, Abbie. I’ll send ye more.”

“Nae need, Captain.” Shaking her head, she accepted the coins and tucked them inside a pocket concealed within her skirts. “Ye always treated the lasses and me with respect. That’s worth more than ye’ll ever ken. And yer lady is a kindhearted lass, too.”

Mylady?

Before he could correct her assumption, she turned and sauntered onto the gray-brown planking. “Ye ken what to do, dearies.”

A moment later, having shed their conservative hats and cloaks, to reveal scandalous gowns, the women paraded forth, advertising their assets with the confidence of those well-practiced in the profession. At once, they drew loud whistles and hoots from the myriad of men on the docks for one reason or another.

Laborers, merchants, and sailors paused in their tasks, their attention riveted on the women flashing lengths of pale legs and tantalizing glimpses of creamy shoulders and bosoms.

“They really are somethin’,” Branwen said, admiration inflecting her voice rather than derision or condemnation. “I admire their confidence.”