Ten months later, Joseph Chance returned to England with a plan to salvage his future. The plan had five tenets (six, if you counted the research he’d already done on Parliamentary districts).

“Six tenets,” Joseph told Stoker as they strode down Upper Belgrave Street, autumn leaves swirling at their feet, “and not one of them includes hunting down my wife.”

Stoker grunted, clearly disinterested, and Joseph amended, “Forgive me, my estranged wife.”

“You could hardly return to London and not see her at all,” sighed Stoker. “You were always going to call on her eventually.”

“Yes,” agreed Joseph, “eventually. In a fortnight. Or two months. The date was not important because it was never meant to be today, our first morning back. We’ve scarcely been on dry land for two hours. I’ve not even had a proper English breakfast or a bath.”

After five weeks on rough seas, the partners had sailed into the Thames Estuary just after midnight. Stoker’s brig sat low in the water, weighted down by 150 barrels of guano squeezed into the hold. The haul represented nearly a million pounds in profit from anxious buyers, pending delivery.

Pending being the pivotal word.

“This does not happen to me,” Joseph grumbled. “It happens to other shipping merchants. To careless amateurs. Reckless, lazy men with no foresight.”

“It happens to everyone,” said Stoker.

“Not to me,” said Joseph emphatically. “By design, it has never happened to me.”

Joseph and his partners were, at the moment, adrift. Their heavy-laden brig and sea-weary crew had coasted just outside of London and dropped anchor. Joseph and Stoker and two crew members had rowed a small tender boat to shore and checked in at the West India Docks to claim their docking rights for the brig. Joseph had reserved a slip, their spot in docks, more than a year before. But, when they presented themselves to the mooring officer, they learned their long-reserved slip had been canceled. Given over to another ship. Let go.

By one Tessa Chance.

“Is it a ploy?” Joseph asked Stoker angrily. “A joke?”

“Honestly,” Stoker sighed, “this is the least of what I might expect. Considering.”

Joseph continued, “This is a woman who could not have shown less interest in the brig or the island or the guano when she and I met. Her previous interests were fashion and dancing and kittens. And now she’s canceled my docking privileges and made off with hundreds of pounds?”

“Things rarely carry out exactly as you plan them, Joe. Especially when you’ve been out of the country for the better part of a year. You know this.”

Joseph ignored him. “What I don’t know is why. Why would she begin to meddle now? Is she trying to drive me out? Is that it? Did she believe that barring us from her father’s precious dock would actually keep us from reaching London at all?”

Joseph had reserved a slip at the West India Docks in Blackwall, the most established dockyard and warehouse space in London. Their sail date had been unknown, and he’d paid the highest price to guarantee a slip whenever they returned. It was true, Tessa’s father sat on the board of the West India Docks, but the slip had been bought and paid for before he’d even met the St. Croixs.

“You believe her father is behind the canceled slip?” asked Stoker.

“That’s not what the mooring officer said, was it?” Joseph ground his teeth together, remembering the scene in the dock house just hours before.

“’Tis all been canceled, sir,” the jolly man had informed Joseph and Stoker. “More than four months ago.”

“Canceled?” Joseph had repeated stupidly. “Canceled by whom?”

“Well, by your wife, of course, Mr. Chance. She saw to it all.”

“I beg your pardon?” Joseph had been certain he’d misheard.

“It’s all been taken care of, never you fear. Your wife was very thorough and emphatic.”

The conversation had revealed little more than this revised reality: the spot he had reserved to dock their brig upon return from Barbadoes had been let go by his wife.

The River Thames was the busiest shipping port in the world. Without the guaranteed slip, he and his partners would have no place to dock their brig on the crowded river, a circumstance that could extend for weeks, if not months.

“This might mean finding a dock outside of London,” Joseph said. “Imagine the losses. And that says nothing of the warehouse space.”

“Before you convict her, ask her,” said Stoker. “She may have some surprise solution.”

“Oh, she’s full of surprises,” scoffed Joseph.

They rounded the corner at Chesham Place, bound for Wilton Crescent. Joseph scowled at the shiny new sign that marked the street. He’d left Tessa at the last townhome on this street some ten months ago.

“If she’s bolted from that house, I swear,” Joseph said, “I cannot be held accountable for my actions.”

“I’m on the brink of bolting myself,” said Stoker. “I only agreed to come as far as Hyde Park. You’re on your own when we reach the house, Joe. I’ve no wish to see Sabine.”

“And I’ve no wish to see Tessa,” said Joseph.

“That remains to be seen.”

They walked half a block in silence, looking up and down the street. Belgravia was a hive of activity; lurching wagons, crews of masons and carpenters, and lines of men digging to contain the endless mud. The neighborhood held the promise of great majesty and aplomb, but at the moment, it was still being built, block by block.

Joseph had visited the neighborhood only twice. Once before his wife’s confession of her pregnancy, and once after. On the first visit, he had regarded their forthcoming union as an unexpected love match—and how lucky they were. He’d gone to Belgravia to ensure that the house in which his new bride would live was safe and comfortable, and to make the introduction of the aunt with whom she and the other brides would live.

On the second visit, he’d known the truth, and his heart and pride were in tatters. He came only to deposit Mrs. Tessa Chance with her friends and go.

And now the third visit: an unscheduled call for which he did not have time, to ascertain why a cancella—

A bell jingled across the street and Joseph looked up. They had just made the corner at West Halkin. The bell rang again, a shop door opened and closed.

Directly in front of him, not three yards away, stood a petite young woman in a drab beige dress and a bonnet the color of mud. Her arms were loaded with parcels. A lock of pale hair, bright against the dark silk, dropped from her hat and fell across her face. She blew it away. The September sun was bright and she paused on the sidewalk and turned her face up to the warm light.

Joseph stopped walking. Stoker continued and Joseph held out a hand to stop him. And now, everything stopped, the whole rest of the world.

Her dress and hat were different, but she looked almost exactly as she had the very first time he had ever seen her.

Tessa.

Joseph grabbed a handful of Stoker’s shirt in his fist. Stoker swore and shoved him off, but Joseph didn’t notice. The only sound was blood rushing in his ears. He was shot through with a jolt of anticipation, like the snap of a mandolin string.

But what did he anticipate? Confronting her? Demanding answers? Boasting about what a great success the expedition had been?

His throat began to close. He drew a ragged breath. He was sweating.

And then he felt the soft, buoyant feeling of his heart, rising in his chest. He felt . . . delight.

And desire. Hot, hungry desire.

His outrage took on a new shape, its true shape, and it had nothing to do with the cock-up with the docks or the lost money.

The true outrage was that he wanted her still. Mind. Soul. Body. All of her. Even now, even after all these many months, after all the deceit and subterfuge.

Joseph gritted his teeth, furious with himself for his reaction. He’d only glanced at her for a split second, for God’s sake, and from the width of the road.

This, he thought, was why he had planned to stay away as long as he could.

This was why her interference infuriated him.

“Go, Stoker,” Joseph said, not looking away from her.

“Gladly. But Joe—”

“Go,” Joseph repeated.

Stoker eyed him for a second, glanced at Tessa, whistled low under his breath, and was gone.