Joseph Chance paced back and forth at the gates to St. Katharine Docks, casting shrewd glances at the morning hustle. A rank-smelling crowd of laborers loitered behind him, shiftless in the wake of being passed over by the foreman. Hired men grunted and swore just inside the gates, applying their muscle to the backbreaking work of unloading cargo. Everywhere, drunken sailors wove in and out, staggered to vessels after a night on leave. Swabbing crews sloshed pails of filthy water and shipwrights cursed their apprentices. Up and down the quay, messdecks were emptied into the Thames with an intermittent chorus of heavy, slurping plops.

“Absolutely no place for a woman,” Joseph ground out. “No place. It’s not safe. It’s not decent. It smells like . . . like . . . rot.”

“What did you expect?” drawled Stoker, leaning on the gatepost behind him. The smoke from his cheroot masked the other grime-and-gin-fueled odors that hung like a dead animal in the air.

“How could I have known she was dashing about the docks of London, trying to . . . trying to . . . ?” Joseph swore, unable to define all that his wife seemed to have achieved in the months since he sailed away. Behind him, a drunken sailor emptied the contents of his stomach into a boot.

Joseph swore again and spun away. Stoker was correct, of course. What had Joseph expected? That St. Katharine Docks was somehow different from any other port in any other corner of the bloody world? Clean and tidy and populated with respectful, gentlemanly men?

They’d managed to dock the brig by sundown, but only just, and a moonless night had precluded Joseph’s opportunity to take a proper look around. It was a new dock after all, barely two years old, and known mostly for luxury goods. In the light of day, he could see that it was exactly like any other dock he’d known before, complete with vomiting sailors.

“Look sharp,” mumbled Stoker, and Joseph turned back.

There was a commotion at the far end of East Smithfield Street. Sailors shouted and leapt from the path of a briskly moving carriage. The driver, smartly dressed but not livered, ignored them, navigating the busy road as if he knew it well.

Tessa. It could be no other. It occurred to him suddenly that he had sailed from England without arranging a vehicle for her. In truth, he’d left England without providing for her in any tangible way, except a bit of money. The fine carriage must belong to Willow.

My wife has made her way around London in a borrowed conveyance.

To arrange for my business.

Shame burned his face. He’d felt so betrayed when he left, he had not thought beyond his own anger to consider how her daily existence would play out. In his view, Tessa had overtaken his life, what more could he give? In hindsight, he might have given any number of simple things, things that were negligible to him but would lend convenience and status to her difficult months ahead.

Joseph made a mental note to write to Cassin and Willow and ask to buy Willow’s carriage if Tessa liked it. Or perhaps he would have a new carriage built for the—

A footman leapt down from the bench and opened the door.

Joseph felt an unfamiliar gush of anticipation. He narrowed his eyes. There was movement inside carriage. He held his breath, he leaned in. He braced himself for—?

What?

The dock logistics she would now walk him through? Who anticipated logistics?

The balance of the money from the canceled slip? She could keep the money.

News of her move?

Her regret?

Her penance?

And then he realized. He braced himself simply for the sight of her. Those blue eyes. That infectious smile.

He’d always braced himself. The response of his body and heart threatened to overwhelm him.

Even now? he wondered, tightening his gloves.

Even now.

From the carriage door, he saw steel-grey silk. Next, black glove, black bonnet, black boot. More grey silk.

And then there she was, stepping lightly down, notebook clutched to her chest. She waved smoothly to him. She shaded her eyes with a gloved hand to stare at the tall ships in a line along the quay.

“Is it here? Have you docked?” she asked excitedly.

Joseph nodded, allowing the sight of her to wash over him. She seemed barely to notice him, staring up with enthusiasm at the boats. Her face was lit by the sunshine and unmasked anticipation. She’d worn another horrible dress—dark grey mottled fabric with brown-black trim. She looked like a pearl inside the hard grey shell of an oyster.

Oyster or not, he struggled to absorb the sight of Tessa Chance on a London dock. He was reminded of a sparrow in a church. He understood how she got in, but he had to stifle the urge not to whip off his coat and spirit her safely back the way she’d come.

“Which one is it?” she prodded, waving the carriage away. She stepped lightly around a trio of laborers who bickered over an open flask.

“There,” said Stoker from the gatepost. “Third brig.”

“Mr. Stoker?” Tessa gushed, turning her smile to him. “How lovely to see you! I apologize for this change of plan with the docks. I am gratified to see that you’ve found a place to rest your head after all.”

“Thanks to you,” he said, stomping out his cheroot.

“But where is Cassin?” she asked, speaking of their third partner.

Stoker made a hissing noise. “Halfway to Yorkshire by now.” He drew a timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “He set out on horseback from Canvey Island yesterday.”

“Home to see Willow . . .” Tessa sighed, her smile softening. “Of course he did. It was so difficult for Willow to say good-bye to him again after she’d settled at Caldera.”

Joseph watched her closely. There had been happiness all around when Cassin and Willow’s marriage of convenience grew into earnest love; but now Willow and Cassin appeared to be the very last thing on her mind. She stared up at the brig with an expression of fascination. Joseph felt something squeeze in his gut. He had delighted in her enthusiasm over many things at Berymede. Enthusiasm from Tessa had been as reliable as the sunrise. But she had exclaimed over snowflakes, the ribbons on her shoes, the shine on his boots. He rolled his shoulders, admitting that this new enthusiasm was no less alluring.

“Tessa,” he heard himself say, “we’ve given the crew an eighteen-hour furlough.” He sounded as if he were reading a speech, and he cleared his throat. “They’ll be back by sunset, and we’ll need to know our length of time in port. I’m prepared to take over from here—with our deepest gratitude for all you have done—but you’ll have to explain what they’ve told you about the warehouse space. And . . .” he hesitated “. . . I will need to know what’s become of the money. From the canceled warehouses at your father’s docks.”

“Oh, yes.” She swung her attention back to him. “But there is no need to be cryptic about the money. Every shilling rests safely in an account in the long room of the dock house. Do you have the manifest? The searcher’s office is just here.” She pointed. “Hopefully Mr. Cosgrove won’t be too behind for today. I arrived as early as I could. There’s no point in coming before he’s unlocked and taken his coffee. Oh, and I have my own copy of the dock warrant, in case you’ve mislaid the one I gave you yesterday.”

“I have the warrant,” Joseph said.

She isn’t going, he thought, and he felt a rush of relief. He’d been afraid she’d give him an overview and disappear, return to her little townhouse and her new life. Without him.

She isn’t going, he thought again. There is more.

He looked at the line of men filing into the stone outpost that bore the sign Customs and Levies.

“I have the manifest,” said Stoker.

“Lovely,” Tessa said, sidestepping two more laborers and an overturned barrel of chum. She strode to the customs office as if she’d done it every day for a month. Joseph and Stoker were given little choice but to follow.

Stoker shot Joseph a look. “Chin up, mate,” he said.

The events that followed, first in Customs with the searcher and then with the auxiliary examiner, and after that with the cargo ledger clerk in the dock office, and finally with the indecipherable hierarchy of dock and warehouse workers, were nothing short of astounding.

Tessa presided over it all with a balance of studied authority and delight. He thought she might actually clap her hands as she watched each new development fall into place. In Joseph’s experience, making port and warehousing cargo was a slow, tedious process; to Tessa, it was like opening night of an operetta—with her in the director’s chair.

“You’ll be amazed at how quickly the ship will be unloaded,” she told Joseph as they stood quayside and stared up the hull of the brig. Stoker had boarded to work with the auxiliary examiner to weigh their barrels.

“I’m told,” she went on, “that docking at St. Katharine is five times faster than any other dock on the river. You see how the cranes remove the barrels from the hold and swing them directly into the warehouse? From Point A to Point C. So efficient.”

“Indeed,” said Joseph, watching cranes rise barrels of guano lightly into the air, fly them across the dockyard and lower them onto a warehouse ramp. He cast a sideline glance at Tessa. She watched the same machination with cheeks flushed and eyes that sparkled.

I thought you enjoyed roses, he thought. And bunnies. And the sugar glaze on strawberry cake.

The auxiliary examiner clomped down the gangplank, studying his bill for the tax they would owe on their cargo. When he reached them, he faltered. His eyes darted uncertainly back and forth between Mr. Chance and Mrs. Chance.

“Do you mind?” Joseph asked Tessa respectfully. If she wished to facilitate the levy payment, he would not usurp her.

“Please,” she encouraged him. When the examiner handed the bill to Joseph, Tessa nodded to the man. “Thank you, Mr. Hammond. Is it what we expected?”

“Very nearly, Mrs. Chance,” said the examiner, walking on.

Without thinking, Joseph held out the bill so his wife could see it.

“Can you pay that sum?” she asked, looking at him. She winced a little. The levy they owed was not small by any stretch, but of course he had planned for this.

“I can pay it,” he said. The question did not irritate him so much as rile some unforeseen defensiveness. “Despite this being my first time at St. Katharine,” he went on, “I have brought goods to port in the city of London before—hence my professional distinction as importer. The expertise you’ve collected in three months’ quick study may seem like a lot of common sense to you, but—”

“Common sense?” she laughed. “Oh, Joseph. If only you knew the hours, the days I have spent at this dock, observing, taking notes, asking questions, making a nuisance of myself. Learning the very basics of what’s happened this morning has been like . . . like, like learning to fly. Please be patient with me.” She screwed up her face. “I’m still learning.”

Joseph shook his head. “I don’t mean to be impatient. I . . . I . . .” He blew out a breath. “My hesitation says it all, doesn’t it? I find myself rather speechless.”

She waited, and it occurred to him that he should find the words.

“It is astounding what you have accomplished,” he said. “You should . . . you should be very proud.”

It was a true statement, he was astounded. And she should be proud. Hell, he was proud and he had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Tessa beamed again, an expression that pierced his heart.

“And did you see? I’ve managed considerable savings compared to your previous arrangement. St. Katharine Docks is very keen to take business from West India, and the warehouse space was far less expensive.” She began flipping through her notes.

Joseph had done the calculations in his head in the long room. She had saved them money. She had also negotiated more space and a longer time in port. This said nothing of the English-milled fabric she’d arranged for them to take under sail when they returned back to Barbadoes—also for a larger fee.

But the notion of returning to Barbadoes—a priority just one day ago—seemed suddenly wildly reckless, shortsighted, impossible. The loose plan had always been for Stoker and Joseph to return to the island. They had sailed with a full hold, but there was more guano to be had.

That said, it now felt precipitous for him to the Caribbean so soon. He’d achieved not one item from his Plan for the Future. He’d not called on the Earl of Falcondale, his mentor. His reunion with Tessa might have been accelerated, but had it been a proper reunion? They’d discussed levies and warehouses, for God’s sake.

And what of her new manner and appearance and the way she bloody . . . passed her days? It was so far and away from what he had expected—literally nothing about her was as he had expected.

No, the script he’d anticipated for their discussion of His Future would have to be reconsidered. After more time spent together. Much more time.

He glanced at her. But did she wish to spend time with him outside of docks and warehouses? His eyes darted surreptitiously to her lips, the delicate line of her jaw, her perfect ear.

She startled him by gasping, “Oh!” She held up a finger. “I’ve a letter from Sabine that I’m meant to give to Mr. Stoker.” Her eyes widened conspiratorially. “Can you believe it?” she whispered.

I no longer know what to believe, he thought, but he simply shook his head.

It occurred to him that, more than anything, more than settling the warehouse space or contacting the buyers or making the rounds at all of his favorite London shops or calling on Falcondale, he wanted to solve the mystery of Tessa Chance. To finally, perhaps, truly understand her. Intimacy? Reconciliation? He would not yet allow himself to hope for those. He would begin with understanding.

It was a dangerous endeavor—she had already broken his heart once. Was it foolhardy to study the very qualities that had once enchanted him? Perhaps, but he struggled to see how she could rebreak an organ that had never fully healed. The resulting calluses would protect him, along with the bitter grudge he’d muscled on like a coat of armor for the past ten months.

She was, after all, his wife. Their futures, however impersonal, were forever linked. It was only fair to make some effort to understand her. And if he could also make peace with her, more’s the better.

He watched her call to Stoker from the gangplank and hand him the letter. Stoker studied it for the briefest second, frowned, and then shoved it in the pocket of his waistcoat. She gave a little wave and then returned to Joseph, her step light. She looked so very happy.

He considered various ways to ask her to meet him to discuss . . . something more. Despite his poetic regard for the calluses on his heart and the armor-like grudge, the thought of her rejecting his invitation made him sweat.

She was nearly to him before he lit on the perfect, undeniable request.

“Tessa,” he said casually, staring indifferently out on the Thames, “if you would permit it, I should like to meet the baby. When you are ready.”