“She is indisposed currently, sir.”

“Cleaning time, I daresay. Well, best get her back in the water where she’ll do honest men some good. Now don’t you be late to dinner or the missus will scold me. Seven o’clock direct.” He closed the door.

On the street again, amid shoppers passing by and carts laden with the commerce of a port town, Viola turned to him.

“Englishmen are the most peculiar people I have ever met. They do know what you were, don’t they?”

Beneath the brilliant blue equatorial sky, Jin’s blood ran cool now, anger gone for the moment. This was what he had come to know, what he had trained himself to for a decade. This game of pretending his past did not exist, the past in which the only identities he owned were slave, murderer, and thief.

“Indeed they do,” he replied.

From the shadow of her hat brim, she studied him. “I suppose they prefer you as an ally rather than an enemy.”

He saw no reason to reply.

Finally she spoke again. “I need to go to the shop. My dress was ruined riding that horse last night a-and… I…” She stuttered to a halt. “Perhaps you could wait for me at the inn.”

“As you wish.”

He watched her along the street because it seemed he could not do otherwise, no matter how he wished it. A pair of women carrying lace-edged parasols stepped hastily to the side as she passed. They looked after her, heads tilted close and lips moving.

Jin headed toward the inn, drawing the letter from his pocket as he went into the public room. He settled at a table with his back to a corner and slid the blade of his knife along the edge of the envelope.

It was not from the commissioners of the Admiralty. Not even from Viscount Colin Gray, his erstwhile colleague in the Falcon Club. The hand was delicate, that of another member of the slowly shrinking Club, the single lady agent, a lady with sufficient funds and connections in the Admiralty to send dozens of letters into the Atlantic Ocean searching for him. A lady who would not have done so without good reason.

Apparently, Constance Read needed him.

April 12, 1818

London

Dear Jin,

I hope this missive finds you well. But I will not waste time in pleasantries for which you care nothing; I will come to my point swiftly.

Our friend Wyn is unwell. He will not admit to it, but he speaks in riddles as ever, evasive, and I cannot penetrate him. But I fear for him. I have no doubt that Colin has written to you; he has a project for you in the East. I write to beg you to take Wyn with you, provide him with purpose and distraction to cure him. I do believe at this time, Jinan, that you are the only one amongst our small band of friends who can help him erase the past and begin anew.

Wishing for your quick return to England,

Fondly,

Constance

Wyn Yale, born in Wales yet more comfortable in London or Paris or even Calcutta than in his homeland. He was not even Jin’s age, yet now, according to Constance, the Welshman was comfortable nowhere.

Among the five members of the Falcon Club, Wyn was the most suited to the work, stealthily ferreting out missing persons of distinction and returning them home. Colin, Viscount Gray and secretary of the Club, was a leader, a man meant for a position of power, not skulking about in shadows. Leam Blackwood had gotten into it reluctantly, avoiding for a time the responsibilities that weighed on him as a Scottish peer, and now he was fully quit of the work. But before Leam left the Club he had invited his young cousin, Constance Read, to join them. She had taken to their mission with alacrity, flitting from one society event to another, charming all with her wit and beauty, and carrying away secrets as they slipped off the tongues of unwitting informants. As for himself, Jin’s search for atonement had made the Club a comfortable fit for him. For a time.

But Wyn was a spy through and through. He was made for better than the Club, much as Viola Carlyle was made for better than a former pirate.

He scanned Constance’s missive again. She wrote to him now because he was the person she believed could best help their Welsh friend. Because he was the only other among them who had taken another human’s life in cold blood.

He would help Wyn and ease Constance’s anxiety. Today he would write to the Welshman in London and send the letter off in advance of his own departure with Viola. He would offer Wyn a task that the young, chivalrous fool would be unable to refuse. Jin knew the measure of his fellow agent well. When he arrived with Viola in England, Wyn would be waiting and ready to assist.

He went to the hearth and cast Constance’s letter forth.

“A love letter from an unwanted girl, Seton?” Aidan Castle stood behind him, a riding crop gripped tightly in his gloved fingers. “Perhaps you already have your hands full at the present.” He looked like precisely what he had become, a modestly prosperous planter, a man of comfortable distinction dressed neatly if not in the highest fashion. But his face was drawn. He had not slept either.

“Join me for a drink, Castle.” He gestured him to a chair. “You must need one after the night you passed.”

“One, or half a dozen. Don’t mind if I do.”

A serving girl brought them a bottle.

“Thank you for your assistance last night.” Castle wrapped his hand about the glass. “I met your man Matouba when he arrived this morning. He told me of the sloop.” He glanced about the taproom. “News travels swiftly on an island. Now of course the whole town knows.”

“What occurred after we departed?”

“The fire didn’t reach the house. But it took the storage barn and stable and two fields before we could halt it.” He shook his head and took a full swallow. “The stain of smoke and ash is on every surface. The house will not be habitable until it is thoroughly cleaned.”

Jin poured him a second dram. Castle drank it, then leaned back in his chair, finally releasing the riding crop.

“It must have been Perrault,” he uttered, his tongue loosened by the spirits or simply because he had not rested until now. A man would reveal much at such moments.

“Your neighbor?”

“He is of the same opinion as my cousin. He believes that if planters like me continue using the labor of free men, and are successful, the island will press to abolish slavery. He does business with the Curaçaons occasionally. No other planter in this region does. Most consider them little more than mercenaries.”

Jin knew this well. He had at one time worked for the Dutch-speaking islanders. “It could be coincidence.”

Castle shook his head. “Perrault has threatened me on occasion.”

“A man is bound to do so when he believes his interests are in danger.”

Castle’s gaze sharpened. Then, with an exaggerated shift of attitude that almost made Jin pity him, he took up the bottle and poured another glass. “How is Violet today? I cannot imagine how this has affected her, to arrive and immediately be thrown into chaos.”

Jin studied his face, the tension in Castle’s jaw and eyes as he sought to appear natural.

“Given Miss Daly’s profession,” he replied, “I suspect she is accustomed to such upsets.” The pity clung, and another less comfortable emotion. Despite his foolishness with Miss Hat, this man cared for Viola. “She was concerned over the safety of you and your guests.”

“Does she tell you such things, then? Are you in her confidence?”

Jin regarded the reason she had sailed south for a month to this island without him being the wiser for it. “Only in certain matters.”

Then he saw again the suspicion and jealousy that had shadowed Castle’s eyes the previous night. Abruptly, his next tack became clear. This man would serve as his ally-unwittingly.

He chose his words carefully.

“It seemed that you were displeased with her for pursuing the arsonists. With your long acquaintance, you must have known that would be her choice.”

Castle shook his head.

“In truth, Seton, I don’t know what to do about her. I never have.” He chuckled, affectedly man-to-man, but behind his eyes Jin discerned the care he was also taking with each word. “Working for her, you must have seen it. But she has always been this way, willful and stubborn and misunderstanding all she sees and hears.”

The first and second, yes. But not the last. Viola understood what she wished to understand.

But in seeking to paint her in a poor light, Castle offered him the perfect opening.

“Perhaps it is in her nature,” he said. “And in her breeding as well.”

“Her breeding?” Castle flashed him a curious glance. “Fionn was a stubborn man, it’s true, but a thinking man, all the same, with a fine understanding. Did you know him?”

“I know only her foster father,” Jin replied easily, “the man who raised her as his own until she left England.”

Castle stared. “Foster father? I don’t understand. Her mother was English, of course. But after her death Fionn and his sister raised Violet entirely.”

A metallic frisson of satisfaction ran through Jin. Castle had no idea of her true identity. He could not and appear so perplexed.

Now he would know. Jin would use him in this manner, as he had used men for his own purposes for years. Castle was courting the Hats for their connections and wealth. But he would turn his attentions swiftly once he knew of her true family. He would not hesitate to urge her to return to them.

And, in casting her into this man’s arms, Jin would free himself of the need to have her in his own. He would have what he wished, his debt repaid, and she would have what she wished as well. From the English gentry, stalwart, steady Aidan Castle had labored to acquire modest wealth and status. He had never killed a man to secure his admirable goals, or thieved, or lied. And he cared for her.