His house would be packed with rich dilettantes and socially ambitious matrons. They’d eat Jess alive. Or she’d eat them alive. Either way, likely to be an interesting evening. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Standish is going to display the Agamemnon krater in the front parlor. For the armament on it. And Windham will be here. He has promised faithfully not to discuss the Reform Bill. You look tired, Bastian. When did you last sleep?”

He’d spent last night rummaging through Jess’s office and today going through copies of her papers. “I’m headed up to do that now.”

“A few weeks ago you told me you’d found the man responsible for sinking the Neptune Dancer. You said you knew the name of the traitor. You meant Jess’s father, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I spoke with him several times, three years ago. Standish was shipping pots to that German collector. Your Whitby impressed me. An astute man. Straightforward, unpretentious, very hard underneath. Honest, I think. I find it difficult to see him as a traitor.”

Here was one more person, telling him Whitby was innocent. Just about a clean sweep. “There’s evidence.”

“So I should imagine. Sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” Eunice pushed him in the direction of the stairs.

He didn’t take a candle with him. Upstairs was black as a coal pit, but he navigated darker decks every night at sea.

Jess was in the attic. Not far away at all. She’d be under the covers, wearing one of those soft, pretty nightdresses she favored. If he knocked on her door, she might invite him in. They hadn’t finished talking.

But neither of them was interested in just talking. “The hell with that.” He undressed in the dark and lay down in bed. He could feel Jess in his house, as if she were a sound just out of the range of hearing. As if she were a spinning top somewhere, humming.


JESS heard the night watchman calling two o’clock and woke herself up. She was in bed, in the chill of a rainy night, in the middle of the sleeping city, in her room in the attic. A tiny lamp burned dim and yellow in one corner. The curtains were pulled to shut the Dark out. It was raining steady now, a muffled tapping on the roof just a foot or two away. Made her think of being shipboard. She’d spent a lot of nights at sea, listening to rain on the deck above.

Kedger slept in a ball at the bottom of the bed, picking the one spot where he’d get kicked every time she turned over. He had a wide streak of perversity, that ferret.

Time to be up and doing. It took half a minute to pull her working kit from under the bed, Kedger nosing and sniffing at it the whole time. She didn’t want to get caught roaming the halls with these useful toys, so she folded them into a shawl and put it in place, secure and unobtrusive, around her shoulders.

Carrying a candle, she went down the stairs, stealthy as thin soup, with Kedger loping along behind her.

Dark closed in behind her as she passed. Dark waited everywhere outside the circle of light. She knew about Dark. Dark is huge. At night it slithers out of the cellars and rears up, solid and powerful, big as half the world. It stretches out on every side, all the way to dawn. Dark was hungry for her. She could feel it staring at her back, every step she took. If she stopped and held her breath, she’d hear the rustle of it in the corners.

Pitiful, when a woman her age was scared of the dark.

She was on the second-floor hall now, where the family slept. She set her feet down softly. She knew—somehow she was absolutely certain of it—that Sebastian was a light sleeper. She had to be, as she used to tell her old thieving cronies, quieter than an army of mice.

Down the hall. This was Claudia’s room. It smelled faintly of violet pastilles. Quentin’s room. That was soap and leather polish. Then she was outside the Captain’s bedroom, just across the hall from his study. Kedger sniffed along the bottom of the study door and passed it as empty. She jiggled the skeleton key in the lock. The tumblers turned over, silent as water, and she slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

She lifted the candle, shielding it with her hand. Captain Kennett’s study. Hers for the taking.

His office was like him, practical and shipshape and—if she was going to be honest—intimidating. His desk sat foursquare in the center and commanded the place. Rolled maps were in the rack in the corner, ledgers in a bookcase at the wall. Newspapers were piled up and tied with string. She did that, too. She saved newspapers and journals and took them on board. Mornings, when the sky was clear and there was nothing but blue water to the horizon, she’d haul a chair on deck and put her feet up on a coil of rope and drink coffee from a mug and catch up on stale old news.

Kedger wandered off to investigate the desk, looking for quill pens. She padded over to take her own intelligent interest in the Captain’s affairs.

There’d be evidence here, if Kennett was Cinq. Not a letter signed with a pair of dice, but names and places and numbers that didn’t add up. There’d be a whiff of corruption in the accounting. She was hoping not to find anything.

A big folder sat in the middle of his desk. When she untied the ribbon and opened it up, she found a nice collection of lithographs and watercolors, and some maps. Maps so old they crumbled at the edges. She couldn’t judge art, not the way Papa did, but these looked very fine. They’d have been a temptation to her, some years back, when she was still thieving. She retied the ribbon, getting the bow exactly right. “More like it was than it was to start with,” Lazarus used to say.

Then she sat herself down comfy in Sebastian’s chair to do some invading of his privacy. Sebastian’s desk smelled like the ocean. He carried the sea home with him in his pockets, rolled it up in his maps, buckled it into the leather telescope case. Salt water smell.

She lit candles on his desk—there were five of them in the lamp under the green shade—and blew hers out. It was quiet in the West End this time of night. Under the wind, the house creaked like a ship. If she listened hard, she’d hear the Captain breathing. He wasn’t that far away.

He struck her as a man who’d sleep naked. He’d be stretched out long and lean in the sheets, relaxed, rocking a little with his breath, like a ship at dock. If the Captain had been a ship, he’d be one of those Revenue cutters. He’d be all prow and proud lines and boards lapped down tight. Deft and shipshape. Implacable, the way Revenue cutters were. Skillful in motion. Wise with the sea. Powerful.

He was strong and fierce and sleek-bodied. She wasn’t thinking about coastal vessels anymore. She was imagining his body above her. Herself, rocking under him, being the sea that held his ship. Opening to him. Rising up to meet him.

And that was a waste of time and a frustration and just a blatant invitation to madness, thinking like this.

The first three drawers in his desk slid out easy as butter. Citadels of dullness. When honest folk had something to hide, they locked it up. Saved a thief endless trouble.

If she just went and got into the Captain’s bed and didn’t make any more fuss about it, she’d stop lying awake at night. She’d stop jerking out of sleep, sweating and gasping, her body twisted around her pillow. She’d stop dreaming about him. She’d sleep like a rock in the Captain’s bed, after they were through with each other. There was nothing like the sleep after lovemaking. That was sleep of some profundity.

Morals that would make an alleycat blush, that’s what she had.

What she wanted was in the bottom drawer. Well, well, well . . . Eureka, as one of her governesses was fond of saying when she found her knitting bag. We have found something worth locking up. She pulled out the metal box.

The little felt packet was wrapped up in her shawl. It unrolled to reveal the whole sweet set of lockpicks, each resting in its pocket. Her charms, she’d called them in the old days, when she used them fairly often. They were accustomed and friendly as her own fingers.

She crossed her legs and cradled the strongbox into her lap. Not heavy. That was good. That meant she wasn’t about to waste her time breaking in on jewelry or coin. And look what a delightful lock was adorning this pretty box. Louis Girard made these in Lyon, every one sneaky and excellent. Had to be something interesting hiding behind all that intricacy.

What are you hiding, Captain? What do you care about this much?

She closed her eyes to pick, the way she always did. Lord, but it was satisfying to be busy with something she loved. Back when she used to go a-stealing, the men she worked with told her she whistled under her breath when she picked a lock. She never noticed it herself, but it used to make them nervous as hell. They were always breaking her concentration to tell her to shut up.

She never got annoyed at locks the way some people did. It was such a joy when your fingers finally saw how the tumblers fitted together, and the whole sweet mechanism lay in your hands, ready to swing open.

Maybe this was how Sebastian felt when he was trying to seduce her . . . like he was opening a complicated lock. Except he was more like that Greek cove who just cut the whole business in half with a sword. Her governess had been right. There was more to those Greek stories than you’d think.

The clock marked the half hour. Kedger balanced up on his back feet and stood up and watched her. The lock made tiny, contented, burring sounds, like a pigeon, as she eased the picks around.

She’d learned lockpicking from Lazarus. He’d stolen dozens of locks for her to practice on. He didn’t let her pick pockets, not from the day he bought her. It made sense, of course. It had to be more profitable robbing a strongbox than a pocket, and it was no more dangerous, since you got hanged either way.