The little cottage had no bell or knocker, so for the second time in a fortnight Charlie rapped on the door panel.

The first time he had come here, of course, he had crawled through a window.

A crumbling abode of two uncertain stories, with rose vines and ivy vying to overtake the stone, nevertheless it boasted a neatly swept stoop and cheerful curtains peeking out from windows that were kept clean. He already knew that, inside, the furniture had once been fine but was now ancient and in need of repair, the walls showed darker squares where paintings had hung but had since been sold to pay for necessities, and the kitchen cupboards were nearly bare. This was genteel poverty, of the sort from which his father had come and about which he had warned his sons throughout their lives.

Not for the first time Charlie imagined Josiah Brittle Senior’s horror were he to discover how far his younger son had fallen.

The door remained closed. He tested the handle, found the door unlocked, and entered.

In the cozy front parlor the woman, wrinkled and white-haired and far too light of flesh, was sitting in the same rocking chair in which she had greeted him the first time he had called on her, swathed in soft blankets that swallowed her.

He crouched down beside the chair.

“Mrs. Wallis,” he said quietly.

Her eyes opened. Like many elderly folks’ eyes, they were moist, and hers were pale blue. They crinkled as her face lit with pleasure.

“Dear boy,” she said. “How delightful of you to call.” She made movements to stand and he went to her side and assisted. The Englishwoman was all skin and bones, thinner even than a sennight ago, and much paler too. “Have you come for more biscuits? That lovely Mrs. Allen sent another batch yesterday, and heaven knows I cannot eat them all myself.”

“I would not think of eating them without you.”

“I will brew some tea.”

“I will brew the tea,” he said, and guided her to a chair in the kitchen onto which she sank with a grateful sigh. He reached for the kettle and lit the stove from the single oil lamp burning in the entire house. “You should lock your door, Mrs. Wallis.”

“What is the use of living in the country if one must lock everything up tight as a sinner’s bible? And now that Douglass is gone,” she added upon a weak sigh, “I’ve no cause to care who comes or goes.”

Remarkable how guilt could feel like an awl drilling a hole in a man’s ribs.

“He will return. I am certain of it.” He set the teapot on the table before her, and two cups.

In general he did not care for tea. On his previous visit he had come on the pretense that he was looking for work—carpentry, painting, repairs to be done about the house. She had promptly invited him in for tea, a lonely old soul seeking company wherever she could. On that occasion he had learned that she would not drink or eat unless he did too.

“As I entered,” he said, “I noticed the exterior wall of one side of the house needs a fresh coat of paint. May I?”

“You have already done enough, dear boy.”

“Yet more needs doing.” The house was in sore need of refurbishment, but the widow had no funds to hire help.

“Haven’t you a sweet old grandmother who needs your help more than a poor old stranger?”

“I’ve no one.” Which was true. “And you are no longer a stranger.”

After purchasing the books at auction, he would have a dozen or so guineas to spare. He would hire Rory and the boys to see to this house’s restoration. They needed honest work, and it would keep them away from the docks.

He poured the tea.

“Now if you will, ma’am, tell me again the story of your spoiled nephew who ate through an entire fruitcake in one evening.”

“Did you enjoy that story?” she said with a smile.

“I enjoyed how the little brute was ill for days afterward.” Her nephew had reminded him of Josiah, all selfish, brassy bravado.

Mrs. Wallis’s eyes twinkled. “You’ve a rascally soul, Charles.”

“That I do.” He knew that now, at least. Taking her hand, he curled it around her teacup. “Now, ma’am, on with your story.”

The following morning after too few hours of sleep, Esme greeted the master perfumers with tired eyes but exceptionally good humor. After taking a cup of coffee with Monsieur Cadence and engaging in a spirited debate with several other members of the Society, she listened to two fascinating lectures during which her mind continually tried to wander to the kiss, but she did not allow it.

Her purpose in Scotland was not to become a silly widgeon over a man she would never see again simply because they had shared an earth-shattering kiss. It was to impress Monsieur Poe.

With that in mind, she spent the remainder of the morning attending to every word he spoke and trying not to cringe when he insulted other perfumers and turned up his nose—literally—at yet another of her favorite fragrances.

At lunchtime the president of the Society called a recess for the afternoon to allow for a meeting of the directors, and Monsieur Cadence invited her to luncheon with two other perfumers. Afterward, as she walked home to the boardinghouse, she finally allowed herself to think about the man who had kept her mind whirling till the wee hours.

He was gone, off to find the dog and then perhaps to sea again. She would never know where he went, nor whether he had escaped the danger that had inspired him to seek her help. Instead she would forever remember that kiss and the fever in his eyes when he had bid her goodbye.

Charles Brittle had kissed her. It had unsettled him.

She had not expected either—ever—not of the respectable London printer nor of the fugitive pirate. She was fully prepared to tuck it away as a confusing and breathtaking memory when the pirate in question came walking toward her.

Relief filled her alongside a very unwise euphoria.

“What are you doing here?” she said. She was still many blocks from the Hart and Rose.

“Good day to you too, Miss Astell.” He was gorgeous, all tan and big and now smiling at her with only his eyes. Yet he moved the same as he always had, without ostentation. His brother, Josiah, always burst into a room, like sunshine when one suddenly pulls open the draperies. Not Charles Brittle: he never demanded attention, never raised his voice above conversational level, never shouted or ranted or lost his temper.

She had fallen in love with him because of that. Because he had been as different from her uncle as two men could be. That she realized this only now as he fell into step beside her created an odd, disconcerting ache in her chest.

“I thought I would never see you again,” she said.

“Yet here I am.”

“Why are you on this street?”

“I was on my way to investigate this Society of Perfumers. Why are you walking away from it?”

“You wish to investigate the Society?” she said in disbelief. “Why?”

“To ensure your safety. Who are these men, after all, who invite a young, beautiful woman into their midst, without a matron in sight? It is disgraceful. Scandalous. I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

“Charles Westley Brittle, you are—”

“Overprotective. I know. I have heard that before. From Gabrielle. Also blockheaded and dull, although those insults came from my brother, who is an idiot, so I always discounted them.”

“I was about to say wonderfully amusing.” She lifted a brow. “But if you prefer criticism . . .”

He smiled.

Butterflies did country dances beneath her ribs.

“You are not concerned about my safety at the Society.”

He shook his head.

“Why not? For I am, in fact, the only woman attending.”

“I have no doubt, Miss Astell, that you are capable of making wise choices.”

“Wise choices? Such as dressing up in stolen clothing and pretending to be an employee of a public hall and climbing up the side of a building?” And kissing a pirate beyond all modesty.

“Precisely,” he said.

Pleasure skittering all across her skin, she started walking again. “The meeting is in recess this afternoon.”

“How did you receive an invitation to it?”

“Questions now? I thought my business was irrelevant to you.”

“I require your assistance.”

The words made her far too happy. “Again?”

“I’ve need of a decent set of clothing.”

“And you wish me to help Rory and the boys steal them? From one of the perfumers? Charles Westley Brittle, I will not jeo—”

“Jeopardize your purpose here.” He was smiling again. “How is it that you know my middle name?”

“I—I don’t know. I must have heard someone say it. Mrs. Brittle perhaps?”

“Speaking of my mother, although I am somewhat ashamed to admit it, she used to purchase my clothing. She enjoyed doing so, while I did not. I would appreciate your assistance in a trip to the tailor.”

“And before demanding that I help you—again—you thought to make pleasant conversation about the Society.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

She pinched her lips over her smile. “Be off with you, ruffian, before I summon a constable.”

They paused at a corner for a cart to drive by.

“In truth,” he said, glancing down at her. He wore no coat today, and his jaw was lightly shadowed with whiskers, the hat pulled down over his dye-darkened hair and shadowing his eyes. “How did you arrange to attend the meeting?”

“That nice man who often shops on Gracechurch Street, Mr. George, wrote a letter of introduction for me to the president of the Society.”

“You traveled to Scotland alone on the faith of a man you barely know?”

“I have spoken to him more than I have ever spoken to you, in point of fact,” she said, and crossed the street. “Gabrielle told us that you do not trust other men easily.”

“Given my brother’s habits with women, I have good reason.”

Neither needed to mention aloud now how, years earlier, Jo Junior had cruelly used and hurt Gabrielle.

“Do you intend to return to London?” she could not resist asking. When he had first disappeared, she did not blame him for leaving the moment Gabrielle went off with her naval commander. But she had thought, hoped, he would eventually return. “Ever?”

“No.”

Her stomach abruptly tied itself in knots. “You sound certain.”

“I am. I have had enough of my brother and that shop for a lifetime.”

“I understand.”

“You do?” he said with a glance at her. “You are fond of your siblings, are you not?”

“Oh, yes. I am here for them. Rather, for me and for them. And my mother.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Their situation at the farm is—well, it’s not ideal. I had hoped to earn enough to support them in London until my sister Mary could find work too, and together we can care for Colleen and our mother. But Mr. Skinner refuses to increase my wages. So I have come here to find a successful perfumer who will take me on as an apprentice. It is the next step to becoming a master perfumer.”

“I see.” He seemed thoughtful.

“But when I said you have no reason to return to London, I was not referring to your brother, of course. She is no longer at the shop. Why would you return?”

“She?”

“Gabrielle.” She walked three strides during which he did not respond and then she said, “You were in love with her, of course.”

He glanced at her. “I? With Gabrielle?”

“Yes.”

“I cared for Gabrielle,” he said. “She is a fine person. And she was a good friend. But I’d no stronger feelings for her, Esme. Rather, I was in love with besting my brother at something.”

She halted before the boardinghouse and he did so as well, and her heart was beating very swiftly.

“But you . . . We all thought . . . We believed you had strong feelings for Gabrielle.”

“You all?”

“Minnie was convinced of it.”

“Minneola Dawson has a vivid imagination and a flare for drama.” He was looking into her eyes. “Deny it.”

She laughed. “I cannot.” A marvelous lightness was filling her up, lifting her feet off the ground until she was on her toes. “You never cared for Gabrielle as more than—that is, as more than a dear friend?”

“Perhaps I considered it. Occasionally. And I will not deny that my decision to set off to sea was influenced by her departure with a famous naval hero. But nights on the watch, Esme, hours and hours in silence and darkness lit only by a million stars . . . Nights like that allow a man plenty of time to think.”

“I imagine they do.”

“During those endless hours, Gabrielle Flood was not the woman who commanded my thoughts.”

Abruptly there was no city street, no hawker on the corner selling tickets to a museum exhibition, no flower girl selling winter violets or other pedestrians or the noises of horses and carriages. There was only Esme’s wildly beating heart and an enigmatic message in his usually expressive eyes.

“Scholar! We’ve been looking all over for you!” Rory came to a sliding halt beside them, three of the other boys in his wake. “Where’ve you been, sir?” he panted.

“Strolling with a lady, as you can see. Greet the lady, now, boys.”

All four of them tore their hats from their matted hair and made excellent attempts at bows. Rory’s bright blue eyes were trained earnestly on her face.

“Good day, miss! We returned the clothes well an’ good as you wished last night, none the worse for wear.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He blushed to the roots of his grubby hair, then turned again to Charlie.

“We found out five o’ the six, sir, no’ counting the duke. Ronnie be hunting down the last.”

“Good work, boys.”

“Why not the duke?” Esme asked.

“The Devil’s Duke be too far gone in wickedness to grab a wee dug, miss,” Rory said with a wise nod of his head, then returned his attention to Charlie. “The one with the purple trousers, John Foxcombe, lives in a flat with his mum just up the street here. The boys n’ I’ll—”

“No. I will take it from here.”

“Aw, now, Scholar. You’ll have all the fun while the lads an’ me dinna get none?”

“I’ll not have you nabbed for stealing, Rory, not even for stealing back what has been stolen. Now tell me the names of the five and directions for them.”

They did so. After instructing the boys to meet him in the morning at the Hart and Rose, Charlie sent them after their comrade Ronnie in search of the seventh man’s identity.

“Why do the boys really call you Scholar?” she said. “And don’t brush off the question this time.”

“On board, whenever I finished my work, I read.” The pleasure had gone from his voice and eyes. “And when we took other vessels, I searched for books.”

Her stomach felt sick. “I suppose pirates do not typically loot other ships for books?”

“Food, livestock, and fresh water. Firearms. Ammunition. Gunpowder. Navigational charts. And gold, of course.”

“I am coming with you.”

His eyes arrested. “Coming with—”

“To Mr. Foxcombe’s flat.”

“No.”

“What do you intend to do if his mother is home? Burst in looking all—all . . .”

“All?”

“Big and coatless and—and pirate-like, and simply demand she hand over the dog?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Don’t be absurd. This is not the open sea. This is a thickly populated city. She might scream—why, he might scream, and twenty people would come running in an instant. Then your neck would be in a noose and I would weep bitterly into a kerchief as I watched you hang and then of course I would be obliged to break my promise not to tell anyone on Gracechurch Street about what happened to you, and I would never forgive myself for that.”

“For that? You would never forgive yourself?”

“Of course not. I am an honest woman from the countryside, where the worst sorts of crimes we must face are an occasional chicken theft. You, a scurvy brigand, could never understand that.”

“I am not scurvy.”

“Why do you need—” Glancing at his waistcoat she was immediately reminded of the hard muscle beneath it that her hands had explored the night before. Her cheeks heated. “That is—why must you go clothes shopping today?”

“If all goes well with this dog situation,” he said in an entirely altered tone, “within the sennight I intend to board a ship to Boston.”

The air left her lungs.

“Boston?” She hardly knew how the word came forth without air to propel it.

“There is a position waiting there for me. A modest position, in truth, but mine if I arrive by summer.”

“What sort of position?” she said, not entirely steadily.

“In a rare book shop. The position is merely clerk, to keep the ledgers and such. But I will be glad for it.”

An exceedingly uncomfortable mélange of confusion and despair was clogging her throat.

“But why would you go all the way to Boston when your family owns a hugely lucrative business in London?”

“I already told you, Esme. That life is over for me. I will never return there.”

A carriage clattered by, and by the time it had passed she was able to say with credible élan, “Shall we make our way to Mr. Foxcombe’s flat now?”

“I will. You will not.”

“Charles Westley Brittle, I am not the wilting violet you seem to imagine I am, whose will crumbles beneath a man’s glower.”

“I imagine nothing of the sort.”

“Come along then,” she said, moving away from him. “No reason to delay.”

“If we are caught you will lose your welcome with the Society.”

“Then we mustn’t get caught. Obviously. What sort of pirate are you anyway? For heaven’s sake, it seems I have more natural criminal instincts than you, after all.”

He only smiled, and Esme told herself to be content with that, and with a few more hours of his company. Before she boarded the mail coach for London, and he a ship for America, she would steal as many hours with him as she could.

Just like a pirate.