Page 43 of This Earl of Mine

“Well, in the first instance, it’s unlikely the submarine has been moved very far from its original location. Blackwall is a busy place—ships unload at all hours of the day and night. Such an unusual vessel would be extremely conspicuous, which suggests they would have limited the time it was visible to the public. Plus, it has to be built close to the river, because they’ll need to test it, so that narrows your search even further.”

He rested his elbows on the desk, mirroring her position.“All that makes perfect sense, Captain Caversteed”—his lips quirked at the teasing nickname—“but even if itissomewhere near Blackwall, there are still hundreds of wharves and warehouses to look at.”

Georgie pulled the paper toward her and pointed at the craft. “Johnstone cannot be building this alone. Look at how complicated it is. It takes a whole team of men to make something even as simple as a rowboat. You need carpenters and block makers, caulkers to pitch the seams, rope makers, riggers to fit the spars and sails, anchor smiths and blacksmiths to provide the chains and all the brass fittings. That’s before you even get to these more unusual, bespoke parts.” She drew her finger over the section that detailed various complicated-looking portholes, piping, and mechanical instruments. “This requires all sorts of gauges and valves.”

She glanced up, and the blood rushed to her face as she realized Wylde was watching her with an amused, intent expression. It was the same kind of look she imagined visitors to a zoo bestowed on some perplexing new creature they’d never encountered before.

Oh, wonderful.Young ladies were supposed to go into raptures over the latest fashion plates in theJournal de Desmoiselles,not display an unseemly interest in technical drawings.

Well, she wasn’t going to hide her curiosity. Wylde would just have to take her as she was.

She cleared her throat. “I know many of the tradesmen who supply the shipbuilding yards, and I can tell you there are very few with the skills to make such complicated bits of machinery.”

His slow smile made her stomach flutter. “I think you might be onto something, Mrs. Wylde. Go on.”

She tried to ignore the feeling his appreciative gaze produced; it was as if she were basking in the warm glowof his approval. But it was a rare thing, to encounter a man who was neither astonished nor disgusted by her knowledge.

“The man who makes the instruments for my ships would be one of those experts,” she said. “His name is Mr. Harrison. Perhaps he can give you some insight. He may have supplied parts for this submarine or be able to suggest the name of someone else who might have.”

“That is a capital idea.” Wylde slapped his palms on his knees and stood, apparently having decided it was time for her to leave. Georgie did the same, swallowing a twinge of pique. She’d been enjoying their discussion.

He stepped around the desk, picked up her bonnet, and handed it to her. “Since you know this chap, and where he works, that makes you the ideal person to accompany me and make the introductions. Shall we say tomorrow, ten o’clock?”

She paused in the act of retying the ribbon of her bonnet and tried not to let her inner leap of excitement show. “You want me to pursue this case with you?”

He placed his hands on his hips in a vaguely combative stance. “What of it? Fate, or luck, or whatever else you want to call it—maybe some higher power with an exceptionally warped sense of humor—seems to have thrust you, someone with an exceptional knowledge of seafaring matters, into an investigation that requires precisely those same skills. Who am I to ignore that kind of assistance, hmm?”

She had no answer to that.

“Don’t think you’ll be getting half the reward money if we catch Johnstone, though,” he cautioned. “This is still my case. You’re just assisting.”

“I wasn’t even thinking of it,” Georgie protested truthfully.

“Well, good. You have quite enough money of your own.”

She choked back a surprised laugh. Nobody had ever dismissed her fortune with such casual levity before.

He tilted his head and surveyed her from head to toe. “I never thought you’d end up beinguseful, Mrs. Wylde. Decorative, yes. Irritating? Undoubtedly. But useful? Never.”

Georgie opened her mouth to berate him, but he laid his index finger over her lips, and she sucked in a little gasp of surprise. Her stomach swooped as if she’d just driven over a jolt in the road or cleared a fence on her horse. The contact of his warm skin made her lips tingle.

“Perhaps if we’re successful, I’ll quit Bow Street and we can set up a rival agency: Wylde and Wylde, independent investigators. No job too small. No reward too big.”

He was joking, of course. The idea of them having such a close association once the season was over was impossible. But his crooked smile did funny things to her insides. He lifted his finger and tapped her playfully on the nose, and Georgie laughed to cover her confusion. She’d hoped he was about to kiss her.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get away from your mother tomorrow?”

“Yes. I visit our own warehouse every month, so she won’t be surprised if I go to the docks. I’ll have to bring Pieter with me, of course, but we’ll pick you up on the way.”

Wylde ushered her to the door, and Georgie suppressed a sigh. Here she was, an unchaperoned young lady in the private rooms of a rogue—a rogue, moreover, to whom she was legally married and had kissed quite comprehensively several times—but who apparently had no inclination to further their acquaintance.

Had he only been teasing when he made his offer to introduce her to passion? Or had he changed his mind, having kissed her and found her wanting? Perhaps he looked at every woman with that same hungry look he sometimes sent her. The thought was rather demoralizing.

Still, she was looking forward to tomorrow.

Chapter 23.

Georgie donned her most practical dress for their visit to the wharves. Pieter, seated up front of the nondescript carriage she’d purchased precisely for her monthly visits to Blackwall, made his opinion of her fraternizing with a “disreputable cove” like Wylde evident with an eloquent, disapproving sniff.

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