Hold Fast

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Lou, Olivia, Meagan, Mercutio, and the Rhode Island Romance Writers for their support and encouragement in making this book a reality.

Chapter One

Cumberland, England

22nd of February, 1891

With his right hand, Morgan Turner clasped the palm of the dying baronet.

With his left hand, he altered the will.

The impending end aside, it was business as usual. Thinking of it as such proved a handy remedy for Morgan’s eyes, which burned with tears he couldn’t allow to gather. Blurred vision would make his task quite impossible. He listened to the rattling gasps from Sir Francis’s throat and added codicils accordingly.

Sir Francis’s chest heaved. The doctor, sitting on the opposite side of the bed with two fingers on the baronet’s thick wrist, appeared unperturbed.

To my second son, Basil, Sir Francis croaked. I leave sufficient funds to finish his education, and not a penny more.

Morgan’s pen paused its scratchings. Sir?

Ungrateful whelp, Sir Francis spat. Can’t bother to come to his own dying father’s bedside. Cut him out. Serves him right.

Morgan hesitated, then added the appropriate lines to make it so. Who would you have inherit in his stead?

As he ran down the list of the baronet’s surviving family in his mind, Morgan couldn’t think of a likely prospect. Sir Francis’s only sister was an elderly spinster. He had no brothers, nor cousins. His wife had died bringing his second son into the world. Of his two sons, the younger, Basil, had gone to university and ceased all communication with his father beyond forwarding considerable bills. And the other…

To my eldest son, Evelyn, I leave all.

Morgan laid down his pen. Sir, no one has seen him in—

Thirteen years! Sir Francis finished for him. He’s missing, not dead. I'll trust you to find him.

Sir Francis squeezed Morgan’s hand. Morgan attempted a comforting smile in return. It went unregarded; the baronet’s eyes had fallen shut. He still breathed, but the effort exhausted him. Morgan returned to his work.

Evelyn Winthrop’s existence hadn’t been acknowledged in any previous draft. Morgan didn’t know what had happened thirteen years ago to make him disappear. He’d assumed the worst, and had known better than to ask. If the man was, in fact, alive—well. Morgan would find him. Somehow.

Morgan punctuated the final line. Was there anything else, sir?

The baronet’s dying laugh was a hideous thing to hear. You’re wondering where you fit into all this, aren’t you?

Sir, I’d never—

Of course you would! You’d be a fool not to! And you’re no fool, or I’d have turned you out years ago. No, you, dear boy— Here Sir Francis named a respectable pension, and Morgan dutifully wrote it in. —to be paid out when you’ve completed your service to my progeny. Can’t very well leave my heir without an agent, now can I?

And if he should find my service unacceptable?

Then he’s an ass, and he doesn’t deserve you or your service. Let him rot, and the house and lands and title too, if my own flesh and blood is so stupid as that.

Very well, sir.

With his will decided, Sir Francis Winthrop lay quiet for the remainder of the afternoon, and in the evening, passed from this world to the next, at the age of sixty-two.

—

Basil Winthrop arrived before noon the next day. The letter announcing his father’s illness hadn’t spurred him to action. The telegram reporting his father’s death summoned him as swiftly as the trains between Oxford and Cumberland allowed. Morgan tried not to dwell upon it.

Morgan himself had sat up all night with the body. He was supposed to have alternated shifts with Pierce, the late baronet’s valet, but sleep hadn't come even in the moments not spent staring down at his benefactor’s corpse, alert for any sign of life. He was still waiting when Basil burst into the room.

Oh! Basil cried upon sighting the body, his blue eyes round with surprise.

Morgan rose from his chair by the bedside. Mr Winthrop.

Basil jumped, looking at Morgan as if he hadn’t seen him before. Morgan would’ve liked to attribute his reaction to the shock of grief, but truth told, Basil rarely noticed Morgan’s presence.

My condolences for your loss, Morgan continued.

Yes, yes, thank you. Basil flapped his hand dismissively. When will you be reading the will?

As soon as your aunt arrives, Mr Winthrop.

Basil’s eyes narrowed. Oughtn’t that be ‘Sir Basil’ to you?

No, sir.

My father is dead. Basil paused before continuing in a matter-of-fact tone. Regrettably. Therefore his title has passed on to his heir, along with his material possessions. And therefore, as his heir, I ought to be called ‘Sir Basil’.

If you were his heir.

The devil d’you mean, ‘if’? There can’t be any question, there’s no one else— Basil cut himself off and glared at Morgan with renewed suspicion. Surely not yourself?

No, sir. But there is your brother.

Basil rolled his eyes. My dearly departed brother, yes. As dead as— He gestured towards his father’s body.

Morgan ignored the impulse to slap him. Your father believed otherwise.

D’you mean to tell me, Basil demanded, his voice rising with indignation, I’ve been usurped by a corpse?

I can only tell you what’s in your father’s will, and remind you it is a legally binding document you’d be ill-advised to fight.

Basil opened his mouth for a blistering retort. The door also opened, interrupting him with Pierce’s entrance.

Welcome home, sir, said Pierce.

Basil whirled to face him, then stormed out without a word or a backwards glance.

Poor lad, Pierce told Morgan. Overcome by all this.

Morgan bit his tongue and nodded.

—

I do hope you’re not vexed with my brother for failing to leave you any immediate inheritance, said Miss Cecily Winthrop.

Not in the least, Morgan replied.

It was hardly an appropriate conversation for a funeral, but then Miss Winthrop had never been an appropriate lady. Morgan had learned long ago not to balk at any word that might fall from her lips. On this chill February morning, each word came with a cloud of vapour, but neither the cold nor her brother’s burial prevented her wry smile as she added, No one would blame you. I certainly wouldn’t.

It hardly mattered to Morgan whether she blamed him or not. Sir Francis had saved him from utter ruin. Being executor of his will and a pallbearer at his funeral were small prices to pay for all the baronet had done for him. Not that Miss Winthrop knew the sordid details. Morgan didn’t think now was the moment to enlighten her, even if the coffin was already stowed away in the family crypt.

The funeral procession began to disperse. Morgan realized he’d failed to reply to Miss Winthrop’s comment. He hoped she’d forgive his distracted state. She hadn’t traded her wry smile for the thin-lipped line she wore when correcting ignorant staff, so he supposed himself safe for the moment.

How will you inform my nephew of his good fortune? Miss Winthrop asked as Morgan escorted her to the family carriage waiting in the churchyard. Basil had been the first to leave the graveside and doubtless already awaited them within.

I’ll write to London, Morgan answered, ready to expound upon his plan of putting advertisements in every newspaper from the Pall Mall Gazette to the London Star.

Miss Winthrop cut him off with an impatient cluck of her tongue. I’d start in New Bedford. That’s where my first letter from him was postmarked.

Morgan stumbled. "The first letter?"

I’ve had dozens since. The last one came from Peru about four months back. Very interesting stamp.

Morgan’s mind reeled. You’ve been in contact with him this whole time?

Off and on. Francis had no idea, of course.

It wasn’t Morgan’s place to ask why. Instead, he replied, He’s in Peru, then?

"He was, briefly. Doubtless the Mary-Ann has since moved on to more fruitful waters. His ship," she added in response to Morgan’s evident confusion.

So the Winthrop heir had gone to sea. He’s a sailor?

A harpooner, Miss Winthrop corrected. Prestigious work, or so I’m told. Quite dangerous. Takes a strong arm and a stronger stomach.

They’d reached the carriage, which gave Morgan an excuse for stumbling to a halt. He’s a whaleman?

What marvellous ears you have. Yes, our Evelyn is a South Pacific whaler sailing out of New Bedford. I suggest you begin your search there.

The groom, Nicholas, held the carriage door open for her. Morgan, dumbstruck, handed her up into it.

—

Miss Winthrop left the family seat the day after her brother’s funeral. That very same morning, Morgan followed her suggestion and drafted an open letter regarding Sir Francis’s passing and Sir Evelyn’s inheritance. He made no mention of what funds and property Sir Evelyn had come into—merely the title, and the fervent wish of his surviving family that he return home. This notice went out to every newspaper in New Bedford, including the Whalemen’s Shipping List. He also sent it to papers in San Francisco, New York, and Boston. Still more handwritten copies went out with as many ships as Morgan could find departing British ports for the Pacific. The project thus far had cost a considerable sum, which would’ve given Morgan pause under any other circumstances. However, Sir Francis’s will authorized the use of whatever means Morgan thought necessary to find the lost heir. Morgan only hoped he needn’t stoop to hiring Pinkertons.

Six months passed before Morgan received a letter stamped San Francisco and smelling faintly of seawater. Its arrival surprised him; he’d expected to spend the rest of his life and the Winthrop fortune in a hopeless search.

Doubtless, many sailors would’ve seen the notice as an opportunity to trade in their sorry lot for a life of luxury. Yet the letter, as Morgan scrutinized it, showed no obvious sign of fraud. Its author—supposedly Sir Evelyn himself—referred to his younger brother as Basil and Miss Winthrop as dear Aunt Cecily. As neither of these persons were named in Morgan’s notice, he felt confident the letter was genuine.

The arrival of a second letter, this time from New York, announced Sir Evelyn’s imminent voyage on the steamship Gayheader (which the letter assured Morgan was of no relation to the Gay Head of the New Bedford fleet lost in the Arctic). It also informed him of the ship’s expected arrival on the fifth of September, and proposed meeting on the Liverpool docks.

Morgan wrote to Miss Winthrop and Basil to notify them of his quest’s end. Basil didn’t bother to respond. Miss Winthrop returned to the Winthrop estate two days prior to Sir Evelyn’s scheduled arrival with her paid companion, Miss Vaughan, and informed Morgan he was free to go retrieve her nephew.

So Morgan went.

Upon arriving in Liverpool, he sought accommodations convenient to the waterfront and found the Black Whale. It was hardly the sort of establishment Sir Francis would’ve chosen, but Morgan thought it’d do to ease an ex-harpooner into life on land. His daylight hours he spent walking the wharves. At sunset, he retired to the Black Whale for chowder and re-read British Ferns and Their Allies until his nervous energy abated and sleep found him.

The fifth of September dawned. Morgan stood on the dock before the sun struck the harbour, and waited.

The most difficult part was finding a place out of the way. Fishermen spilling catches from their nets, passengers disembarking, customs officers inspecting ships, crewmen stumbling ashore for their holiday, stevedores hauling cargo, carts tangling, horses rearing, pulleys straining—all seemed determined to run Morgan down. Still, he dodged them all and found a convenient lamppost to stand beside and watch the ships come in. Shortly after four o’clock, he beheld a massive steamship, the Gayheader herself, towed in by tugboats.

It occurred to Morgan that he had no idea what Sir Evelyn looked like. Nor did Sir Evelyn know the face of the man who’d come to meet him. Nonetheless, Sir Evelyn had promised to meet him on the dock. By keeping to his post, Morgan could hardly miss him, no matter his appearance.

The customs official boarded the ship. A half-hour later, unloading began in earnest. First-class passengers disembarked. Morgan stepped up to the gangplank to meet them. Two women in furs, a mother and daughter by their looks, and American by their accents; a black gentleman and his wife; and a family with three children and a harried nurse; these and more passed Morgan by. He hung back until he espied one particular man with shoulders broad enough—so Morgan supposed—to throw a harpoon. But upon overhearing his flirtation with the young lady in furs, Morgan discerned he, too, was American.

The second-class passengers came next. None fit Morgan’s expectations of Sir Evelyn. Nor did anyone in steerage, though they came in such a wave that he could’ve very well missed him. Then the crew began to disembark, signalling the end of passenger arrivals.

Morgan turned from the ship, confused, but no less determined. He would return to the Black Whale and send notice to the local papers that he awaited Sir Evelyn there. But as he strode down the dock to put his plan into action, he met a striking sight.

A sailor stood across the way by the very lamppost Morgan had abandoned to approach the ship. Many of his shipmates milled about nearby, but this particular sailor attracted Morgan’s attention by standing quite literally head and shoulders above the rest. He had a broad, bearded face to match his broad, brawny shoulders. Years of open-sea sun had tanned his skin and bleached his hair to the same shade. The hair—tied back, with the ends flitting about in the sea breeze, strands stiff with salt—drew more of Morgan’s interest than he would have liked to admit.

The sailor caught Morgan’s eye over the crowd, and winked.

Morgan quickly glanced away, intending to keep walking, but stopped as a thought occurred to him. The sailor had lately crewed aboard the Gayheader. Perhaps he knew where Morgan might find his quarry. Resigned, he crossed the wharf and approached him. Your pardon, sir.

Granted. A cocky grin flashed through the sailor’s grizzled beard, turning his aspect from ferocious to friendly in an instant. He rested a hand against the lamppost. Ragged blue lines across his knuckles spelled out H-O-L-D. A glance at his other hand, planted on his sinewy hip, showed the letters F-A-S-T.

Morgan forced his gaze back up to the sailor’s face. I’m looking for Sir Evelyn Winthrop.

The sailor’s eyes widened, but his grin never faded. You’re in luck, mate. You’ve found the very man.

.

Chapter Two

The stranger blinked at Evelyn. Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. Turner, your agent.

Nothing to forgive, Evelyn assured him. For his own part, he could hardly believe his luck. The letter he’d received at sea had read dry as grave dust. He’d expected its writer would be a decrepit curmudgeon.

Yet a regular Tom Astoner stood before him. Rare was the man who could look Evelyn in the eye without looking up. Turner had a lean build, with a narrow waist and a throat as slender as a crane’s. His hawkish nose continued the theme, as did his sweeping brows. The rich auburn waves of his hair were cropped, combed, and oiled into pristine order. His storm-grey eyes held a self-assured authority. The eyes of a born captain. They provoked a catch in Evelyn’s throat and a curling warmth in his belly. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, indeed.

Turner cleared his throat. The next train to Cumberland leaves at half-past six. I suggest we catch it and return to your estate tonight. With your permission, sir.

Evelyn, thrown off by the request for his permission, disguised his discomfort with a shrug.

After a pause, Turner continued. If you require refreshment before we depart, I’ve found the Black Whale acceptable. Unless you’d prefer something else?

Evelyn marvelled at the novelty of being asked his pardon, permission, and preference all within an hour of disembarking. He’d grown accustomed to being told what to eat and when to eat it these past thirteen years. If the Black Whale passed Turner’s muster, it served better fare than any ship’s hold. Acceptable is acceptable.

He spoke with a friendly smile, but Turner didn’t return it. Clearly, Evelyn would have to break out the big guns. In one fluid motion, he yanked his sea-chest up over his shoulder. No easy task, and harder still to make it look effortless, but it was well worth the strain to see those storm-grey eyes fly wide, if only for an instant.

If you’ll follow me, sir, said Turner.

Evelyn followed.

At the Black Whale, Turner’s pressed suit and clean-shaven face stuck out amongst the seafaring crowd, most of whom had just completed a tour of four years or more. The bill of fare could be charitably described as simple. To Evelyn, after over a decade of hard tack and weevils, it was a feast. He fell upon it like a shark frenzying over a stripped whale. Watching Turner carefully manoeuvre knife and fork for the sake of mere chips and cod was almost enough to shame Evelyn into reforming his table manners. Almost. It was outweighed by the taste of bacon not pulled green and stinking from a can.

Having polished off his second helping, Evelyn brought out his pipe for an after-dinner puff, much as many of his fellow patrons were doing. He almost offered it to Turner first, out of habit. The elevation of Turner’s brows as he beheld the tobacco-stained whalebone brought Evelyn back to his senses, but the disapproving look vanished as quick as it’d come, and Turner remained silent as Evelyn smoked his share. Though he did check his pocket-watch.

An hour yet, Turner murmured. He tucked his watch away and turned to Evelyn. If I might be so bold as to make a suggestion, sir?

Suggest away. Evelyn knew how he’d like to fill the time—particularly with rooms available upstairs—but he had a feeling Turner’s idea differed.

Would you consider shaving your beard before we go?

Evelyn stared at him. Turner met his gaze—not challenging him, but showing he stood behind his suggestion.

Would you prefer I shaved it off? asked Evelyn.

My preference doesn’t enter into it, sir.

Nevertheless, I’m asking for your preference. Evelyn didn’t think he could pull off a smooth-chinned look, but he’d be willing to give it a go if it would catch Turner’s attention.

Turner’s sharp cheekbones gained a hint of colour. I only ask on behalf of your aunt, who awaits you at your estate, and hasn’t seen you in thirteen years.

You think all this might prove a shock, then? Evelyn stroked his beard. He doubted anything could shock his aunt, though perhaps her constitution had weakened with age.

I only suggest, sir.

Evelyn would’ve liked to suggest Turner remove the iron rod from his arse, but his desire to make a good impression overcame him. How about a trim?

Turner dropped his gaze to his beard and followed it up his jawline, considering. Evelyn swallowed hard.

I believe it may suffice, sir, Turner said at last.

He led Evelyn up the stair behind the bar to a room the size of a captain’s cabin, with a single bed, made with military precision, the book laid upon it the only suggestion of human presence.

Bloody palatial, Evelyn declared.

Turner raised an eyebrow but said nothing as he rolled out a shaving kit by the wash stand. Evelyn took his place in front of it. As he brought the razor to the scraggly tip of his beard, he locked eyes with Turner in the mirror.

Evelyn winked.

Turner quickly looked away and picked up the book from the bed.

A quarter-hour later, Evelyn had his beard trimmed to a half-inch, covering his jawline from ear-to-ear, and a smart moustache. He rather thought it framed his face nicely. He hoped Turner might think the same. He turned from the mirror towards his agent. How does it look?

Turner glanced up from his book. His stoic gaze flicked over Evelyn’s face. It suits you.

Evelyn grinned.

—

Apart from his appreciation of Sir Evelyn’s freshly-trimmed beard, Morgan made no further attempts at conversation. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Sir Evelyn’s winks weighed heavily upon him. Even if Sir Evelyn were a mere sailor and not his titled employer, Morgan couldn’t allow himself to entertain the barest thought of temptation. He turned his imagination away from what it might feel like to let go, to capture Sir Evelyn’s lips in his own, to run his fingers through his golden mane, to press him up against a wall and—

Morgan coughed and thought no more of it.

Sir Evelyn carried his own sea-chest to the train station despite Morgan’s offer of assistance. Morgan couldn’t help noticing how, as Sir Evelyn hoisted it over his shoulder again, his arms bulged and strained against his shirtsleeves in a manner suggestive of tremendous strength.

Once aboard the first-class train carriage, Morgan sat across from Sir Evelyn rather than beside him. He couldn’t trust himself to sit beside him, to chance that their thighs might brush together...

Morgan swallowed hard and turned his eyes determinedly to the window. Better his employer should think him rude than perverse.

The train pulled out of the station and rattled along for half an hour before the tense silence broke.

Fine weather we’re having, eh? said Sir Evelyn.

Morgan glanced at him, then out the window to the grey skies, and back again. The clouds hung low, heavy and dark with precipitation. They grew moreso towards the northwest. The train would likely plunge into a full-blown downpour halfway to Cumberland. He couldn’t imagine they’d find anything but more rain upon their arrival.

Quite so, sir, said Morgan, and returned his gaze to the window.

How long have you worked for m’father?

Morgan tensed, daring a sidelong look at Sir Evelyn.

Sir Evelyn offered up a friendly smile.

Morgan’s mind raced. Sir Evelyn had vanished before Morgan had arrived at the Winthrop estate. He’d contacted no one save his aunt since. He couldn’t possibly suspect anything. He was merely making conversation. Morgan breathed a little easier and faced Sir Evelyn head-on. Twelve years, sir.

All that time? You can’t be more’n thirty. What age did you start?

Fourteen, sir.

Aha! said Sir Evelyn. Then you are six-and-twenty!

Morgan stared at him. Astutely calculated, sir.

Sir Evelyn gave him a puzzled look. Morgan turned back to the window. It was his only defence against a conversation he desperately wished to participate in, but he couldn’t allow himself the indulgence. Sir Evelyn had an easygoing manner, a pleasant countenance, and worse still, an apparent interest in Morgan’s background. Morgan regretted having to give curt answers to his inquiries. Any employer would be well within their rights to take him to task for being so brusque. And to treat Sir Evelyn so felt cruel.

I’m twenty-eight myself, Sir Evelyn blurted.

Morgan whipped around to find a sheepish smile upon his employer’s handsome face.

From where d’you hail? asked Sir Evelyn.

Morgan forced a casual tone. Cumberland, sir. Same as yourself.

D’you find this agent business terribly difficult?

No doubt hunting leviathans is far more difficult than any task in my line of work, sir.

Sir Evelyn chuckled. You flatter me!

I merely hold a healthy respect for your former profession, sir.

Sir Evelyn’s smile died away. Former?

Confusion furrowed Morgan’s brow. You were a harpooner, were you not?

Still am, Sir Evelyn declared.

Morgan stared at him. Surely Sir Evelyn understood his current position. The notice in the newspapers had made it quite plain. Sir, you’re a baronet now. That’s why we’ve asked you to return. To stay and manage the estate.

Hardly! I’ve come back to see my aunt and brother. Then I’m off again on the very next ship that’ll take me.

But the estate—

Seems you have it well enough in hand.

Morgan couldn’t afford to take the compliment. He had to make Sir Evelyn aware of what nightmares would result if he didn’t defend his inheritance, if Basil encroached upon the property.

Your brother, Morgan began.

Basil? What about him? Sir Evelyn smiled again, most distracting, Morgan wished he’d stop. He must be what, twenty? Blow me down, he can’t be twenty! Seems only yesterday Aunt Cecily wrote to tell me he’d gone off to Eton. How is he, then?

The affection writ plain upon Sir Evelyn’s features forced Morgan to hastily rework the complaints and concerns he’d meant to voice. He’s—well. Quite well. He enjoys university. Regarding the estate, however, he…

Sir Evelyn looked at him expectantly.

Morgan cleared his throat. He takes little interest in its management, and your father feared—

The rest of Morgan’s speech died on his tongue. Sir Evelyn’s face had shifted from sunny to stormy in an instant.

May I be frank with you, Turner? he asked, his voice low.

Morgan couldn’t reply otherwise than with, Of course.

I don’t, said Sir Evelyn, give a damn what my father thought.

With that, he sat back and looked pointedly out the window, one fist clenched on his thigh.

The rest of the train ride was silent.

Chapter Three

Evelyn hadn’t meant to kill the conversation. The mention of his father had blinded him to his goal. And now, judging from the wary glances Turner cast his way, said goal was further off than ever before. Even from beyond the grave, his father meddled in his affairs.

The weather worsened as the train pulled into the station. The brief dash to the waiting carriage soaked both men to their skin. Again, Turner sat as far away from Evelyn as the confined space allowed. Evelyn watched him shiver and withheld a suggestion for how they might warm themselves up. He didn’t wish to offend Turner further. No matter that they’d be more comfortable out of their wet clothes and in each other’s arms.

Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Evelyn’s ancestral home. Two footmen ran out of the house to meet them. One carried an umbrella, which he insisted on holding over Evelyn. The other grabbed Evelyn’s sea-chest, stumbling under its weight at first, but righting himself and bringing it into the house before Evelyn could protest. The chest was locked, the key was in his boots, his goods were secure. For now.

Wind howled through the surrounding trees and blew the umbrella inside-out before they reached the front entrance. The double doors opened. Lightning flashed, blinding Evelyn as the footman ushered him into the grand hall. His vision returned with the rolling thunder. He found Turner gone, and himself surrounded.

An army of household staff faced him. Footmen in livery, maids in black-and-white uniform, valet, butler, housekeeper—all had gathered to greet him. They stretched across the hall in a precise row at the base of the stair. In front of them stood a familiar face.

Evelyn broke into a grin. Aunt Cecily!

She didn’t look near so frail as Turner had implied. Her pursed lips spread into a fond smile. Welcome home, Evelyn.

He ran to clasp hands with her. As he did so, a woman stepped forward to stand beside his aunt.

My companion, Miss Vaughan, Aunt Cecily explained.

Miss Vaughan, with her pale dress, wire-rimmed spectacles, and dishwater hair pulled back into a severe bun, could’ve easily passed for a widowed schoolmistress. Yet her face, while severe in expression, bore no lines of smiles or frowns. She couldn’t have been any older than Evelyn himself. Her downcast gaze and barely audible greeting seemed designed to make as little of an impression as possible. Not shy, merely disinterested.

Evelyn coughed up a proper how-d’you-do in return. His eyes strayed to the rest of the assembled staff, still watching in stone-faced silence. Why…?

Oh, said his aunt. With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed them. They filed out of the room so quietly Evelyn would’ve supposed they wore silk slippers instead of shoes. As even Miss Vaughan curtsied and disappeared, Aunt Cecily looked back to him. I knew they’d all be driven to distraction with curiosity. Rather than have them skulking around corners trying to glimpse you—and neglecting their duties in the bargain—I thought it best to let them have a good look at you the moment you arrived.

She frowned as she glanced down at their clasped hands. Evelyn assumed he had taken too strong a hold on her arthritic knuckles. Not wishing to pain her, he loosened his grip. She only held him tighter.

What have you done to your hands? she asked.

Work? Evelyn guessed. Most baronets didn’t have calluses.

She tapped his blue-stained knuckles.

Right, said Evelyn. The tattoos. Another thing few baronets possessed.

Permanent, then? She clucked her tongue and raised his hands to the level of her eyes. Why ‘hold fast’?

To keep my grip on the rigging.

And this remedy has proved effective through rigorous scientific experimentation.

A warm blush crept up from under Evelyn’s collar. We sailors are a superstitious lot.

Aunt Cecily squinted. Rather like she had done in his youth when withholding a smile against his wild ways. The moment he recognized it, a merry laugh escaped her, like rusted sleighbells. Forgive me—I shouldn’t tease you so.

Tease all you like, Evelyn replied as she released his hands. I’ve missed it.

Her eyes twinkled. We’ll order gloves. Seven pair for everyday, three for evening, two for dancing, and… how many do you suppose you’ll require for riding?

A nagging thought distracted him from her question.

Where is— he began, only to have his intended inquiry answered by footsteps to starboard, and a shadow in his peripheral vision. He turned and beheld a young man with a face longer and leaner than when last he’d seen it, but with the same fluffy blond curls and a snub nose to match his own.

Basil! Evelyn cried, running to meet his brother.

Basil stopped and stood silent.

Evelyn crashed into him with enthusiastic embrace. Basil’s arms remained stiff at his sides. Evelyn pulled away. Basil wasn’t smiling.

What’s amiss? Evelyn asked, a nervous laugh catching in his throat.

Basil gave his curls a petulant toss. Nothing.

Evelyn very much doubted him, but didn’t press the matter. Whatever it was, they’d have time to discuss it later. He clapped his brother on the shoulder.

May I go? sighed Basil.

Evelyn forced a chuckle. What, had enough of me already?

Yes.

Something was very wrong indeed. Evelyn turned to his aunt for an answer, but she was too busy fixing Basil with a disapproving look.

Basil took the resulting silence as permission to leave, brushing past Evelyn to ascend the stair.

Evelyn resisted the impulse to charge up after him, grab his shoulder, and spin him about-face to demand an explanation. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of their aunt.

Dinner will be served in half an hour, Aunt Cecily said as if nothing ill-bred had occurred. Evelyn turned to face her, and she continued, Which should give you ample time to find something suitable to wear.

Evelyn doubted anything in his sea-chest would pass her muster. He’d certainly grown out of any clothes he’d left behind.

Seeing the question in his eyes, she added, Perhaps something of your father’s will do for now.

Evelyn would’ve rather gone down to dinner stark naked, but he nodded his assent regardless.

—

Morgan, anticipating a scene, had slipped away up the servants’ stair. He’d felt a twinge of guilt for abandoning Sir Evelyn to Basil’s melodrama, but had thought that, if Sir Evelyn could handle a whale, he could handle his little brother.

He arrived at his own room, stripped, threw dry clothes on over damp skin, then went out again, intending to return his borrowed library book to the Winthrop family library. Quiet as a shade, he passed down empty corridors. Just as his fingertips brushed the library door, he heard a disturbing cry.

Sir, please—I don’t—you mustn’t—!

He whirled towards the sound. It had come from behind him, in the billiards room across the hall.

Morgan threw open the door.

In the centre of the room lay the billiards table, abandoned. To the left, an uninspired landscape adorned the wall. To the right—

Basil had a housemaid by the wrists, holding them against the wall above her head in one hand. The other held her jaw still.

Basil! Morgan snapped.

Basil pulled back from the housemaid, revealing her terrified face.

Let her go, said Morgan.

Basil attempted a sneer. Go about your business.

Morgan strode towards them. Basil dropped her wrists, and the housemaid fled the room. Morgan stepped aside to let her pass. She was safe, for the moment. He wouldn’t let Basil follow her.

Basil, meanwhile, had turned crimson with rage. How dare you!

You’ve no right to touch her.

I’ve every right! She’s mine!

You’ve offered to marry her, then, said Morgan, though he knew no such thing had come to pass.

Basil scoffed. "She’s part of my inheritance!