"Be rid of us?" she finished for him, seating herself at a table. Jason came and sat next to her. The barman appeared, poured him a cup of coffee. At least that, he felt, would be ingestible.

He sipped it.

It was not.

"I don't blame you, you know," she said, taking a bite of a scone and then swallowing, hard. "We are not the most sterling company I could think of."

"No!" Jason cried. "I do not begrudge you the trip. I have business in the area . . . and the conversation in the carriage is wholly agreeable . . . some of the time."

"Of course it is." She laughed. A very pleasant laugh. "As long as I'm not nervously tapping my foot and George isn't retching out the window."

"That's not your fault."

"Actually," she whispered, "it somewhat is."

His eyebrow went up.

"I might have slipped some ipecac into his tea yesterday morning," she confessed.

"Why?" Jason asked. "I don't think your cousin can be dissuaded from accompanying you."

"I had to try," she admitted. "What comes next would be so much easier if I didn't have to worry about George following me."

"What comes next?" he asked.

She flushed, and took another bite of hard scone. "Switzerland, seeking out the letters that prove the painting's authenticity. Or lack thereof."

She became quiet then-either she thought her answer sufficient or she was too occupied chewing. "God, this is awful," she finally said, choking down her bite of scone.

And in that moment, Jason realized, he liked this woman. Not in a romantic sense of course-Winnifred Crane didn't seem to have a romantic bone in her body. But he could respect her desire to seek out her own path in life, as it were. It was an opportunity he had never been granted. And although he could not begrudge the luxuries of a Dukedom, he could appreciate her fervor. It made him . . . think. Of the what-ifs of his own life.

Stop, he told himself. This is nothing but foolish wistfulness. Admire her he did. Still, he would feel better when he no longer had a hand in her affairs.

"Miss Crane," he said, leaning forward, "I truly wish you luck on your journey."

"Thank you," she replied, taken aback.

"And"-he reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a few coins-"if you happen to-"

"Your Grace, please," she said, shaking her head. "It is completely unnecessary, I have enough funds to pay for my trip."

"This isn't for your trip." He took her hand and pressed the coins into her palm. "It's for a bottle of Burgundy '93. If you happen across it." He leaned in ever so slightly closer. "I should hate for your entire trip to be without a little leisure."

They stayed there, frozen for the barest of seconds, their hands connected around a few discs of metal. The smallest zing of electricity passed through their fingers when he met her eyes. Jason's breath caught. And if he wasn't mistaken . . . Miss Crane's did, too.

Curious. The kind of curious that Jason might wonder about, but he would not have the chance.

"Lord love a duck," George said, thundering down the stairs, "I'm starved. Are there any kippers with these eggs?"

"For the love of all that is holy, George," Totty said, following after him, "you spent all yesterday losing your lunch. Do you really think it best to stuff your gullet today?"

And as their hands fell apart, and Miss Crane picked at her scone, the moment passed without comment.

The Port of Dover was a clamor of activity at morning tide. Ships being loaded with passengers and cargo, most heading for Calais, located just across the Channel, but some headed for points further east in Europe, such as Amsterdam or Brussels. Different voices, different languages lapped over each other in a cacophony of noise that tumbled together incomprehensibly. Men supervising pulleys and flats of goods from the Continent made little time or space for novice ship goers, crowding them out of the way.

They had been late setting off from the inn. First Winn wanted to double-check that she had everything, then Totty was certain she was missing one of her trunks.

Jason considered them lucky to have arrived in Dover in the time they did-he must remember to reward Bones's abilities under pressure.

"Stay here," Jason commanded of Bones, who was unable to force their carriage any further into the fray. Jason eyed the teeming masses as he helped Totty and Miss Crane disembark. "This little adventure may take longer than anticipated."

The four of them pushed through the gauntlet of fish sellers, ticket agents, importers inspecting their wares, and sailors still drunk from their shore leave last night. They made a curious line of ants, threading their way along the pier, followed by the porters who carried the travelers' trunks up to the gangplank of the Phoenix, the packet that made one round trip daily to Calais, where a ticket agent waited impatiently.

"You all are cutting it rather close. We're off in five minutes," the ticket agent said to the eager Winnifred, the ambivalent Totty, and the begrudged George in turn, issuing them each paper tickets. A quick shrill of his whistle, and the porters jostled past them and were told where to deposit the luggage for loading. It all happened so fast.

Jason hadn't thought that his mission would be executed so cleanly. So quickly. But there they were, standing at the gangplank of her ship, and he was five minutes from being done with Miss Crane and cleared of his obligation to Lord Forrester.

"Oh no, I'll keep this one with me," Miss Crane was saying to a porter as she held fast to her small portmanteau with one hand while worrying at that heart-shaped locket around her neck with the other. She turned to him, saw that he was watching her, and smiled. "It's so crowded here, I simply don't want it to get lost in the shuffle."

"Yes," Jason agreed, "I'm impressed we found the ship in good time."

"I know!" She laughed awkwardly. "It's very confusing. I confess, I thought for a moment we would end up on ship to Denmark or some such thing."

As noisy and crowded as it was on the dock, silence fell between them, as they both searched for something more to say.

"Come along, Winn," Totty called from halfway up the gangplank. "We're about to cast off!"

"Yes, Winnifred," George concurred from in front of her, "and I would like nothing more than to find our accommodations and go back to sleep!"

"Hurry up then, George," Totty grumbled, pushing at the much larger man, urging him up the gangplank.

"Mrs. Tottendale, Mr. Bambridge," Jason called up to them, "best of luck on your journey!"

He didn't know if they heard him, intent as they were on boarding, but Totty turned and waved back, giving a pointed look to Miss Crane as she did so.

"Yes," Miss Crane said, her hand still clasping her locket. "It seems I must go, else miss my own adventure. Thank you for your kindness in escorting me thus far."

Jason gently removed that hand from the piece of gold at her throat, and bowed over it. "Good-bye, Miss Crane. And enjoy your adventure. I'm eager to know how it will turn out."

"You and the rest of the Historical Society, no doubt." She smiled. "I'll do my best to make the story as entertaining as possible."

And with that their hands parted and they parted company. As Miss Winnifred Crane took her first steps up the gangplank of the ship that would convey her to Calais, Jason turned away and wended his way back through the crowds.

It was good, he thought, as he wandered slowly along the pier. His duty was done, and Miss Crane was launched on the world. He was free. And while some small part of him was melancholy at the thought of this unprotected sparrow being thrust out into the world, another small part was jealous of the adventure she would have.

No, that was not fair. He had already had his European tour, he thought as he sidestepped a rather disgusting looking pile of fish guts, which turned his growling and empty stomach over. What came next for him lay in London, in marriage, in the hard work of running a ducal estate.

Well, best of luck to Miss Crane. If he had not enjoyed her company, then at least he'd found it surprising, and the comic stock of players and villains she surrounded herself with, amusing. And with that, he banished any further thought of her from his mind.

Partially because he needed to be concerned with his own future. He looked ahead in time and saw himself finding his mother's emerald ring in the family jewel safe. Saw himself slipping it on Sarah Forrester's finger and, soon after, taking an easy, contented stroll down the matrimonial aisle. Saw himself rigorously enjoying what came after a wedding-the time-honored tradition of a wedding night. And the hazy, vision of a calm, quiet life thereafter.

Yes, he allowed himself to forget about Miss Crane, partially for those reasons. But mostly because, as he passed a stall selling hot sticky buns, he realized he was monumentally hungry.

He stopped, took in the scent, and nearly ravaged the old lady selling the delightful, sugary treats. He had skipped breakfast, after all. Instead, he contented himself with purchasing half a dozen buns-never having outgrown the propensity to think with his stomach when famished-and the minute he had them in hand, took the first out of the paper wrappings and held it up to his lips.

He didn't bite. Not at first. But there was something so right about this moment, this one lovely yeasty smell found amid all the horrid dockside odors of fish and foreigners. Representational of him finally finding his path in life? No, he wrinkled his nose. That was far too poetic for so early in the morning. Likely hunger made him wax rhapsodic, and such silliness was easily remedied.

He turned to watch the ships madly loading their cargo and passengers, opened his mouth, and . . .

Something was wrong.

Not with the bun-although he never tasted it. Something must be wrong with his vision, because Jason was certain he was seeing Winnifred Crane, the little sparrow, dart her way up the gangplank of the wrong ship.

No, it was hunger that was clouding his vision. It must be. He glanced over to the Phoenix, just about to release its moorings. He had deposited Miss Crane there. He was certain of it.

Then why was he equally certain that he saw the petite form of Miss Crane on board this other ship in front of him, clutching her portmanteau and nervously playing with her locket?

The packet of hot, delicious, fragrant, sticky buns was dropped to the ground, and Jason set out at a full run, ducking and weaving his way through the crowds to the ship. He bumped up against a small boy, who gave a quick "Oy!" and then was swatted at by a man whom he presumed was the boy's father. But he had no time to stop or even shout an apology. He ran up this new ship's gangplank, not even stopping when he heard the loud, long whistle of the crew chief fire after him.

Had she gotten lost? Turned around in the shuffle of people, or followed the wrong crewman?

On board the ship, pushing his way through the various sailors and crewmen, most of whom jabbered on in a foreign language Jason hadn't the time to identify, he finally found the small form of the only woman he could see on board.

As he grabbed her by the arm, she turned with a shriek.

Luckily she didn't hit him.

"Oh!" Miss Crane cried, looking up into his face. "Your Grace, it's you. Thank goodness. But, why are you on-"

"On . . . the wrong . . . ship . . ." Jason managed in between heaving gasps, bending at the waist. Crikey, had it really been so long since he had taken exercise that he was this out of breath?

"Beg pardon?" she asked, confused. "I couldn't understand."

"Does this man bothering you, fraulein?" A burly crewman came over, speaking in what Jason recognized as a Prussian accent as thick as the man's biceps.

"No, thank you," she replied. "He's a friend. But I don't know what he's doing here."

"You're on the wrong ship!" Jason repeated, though clearly this time. He stood up straight. "This is not the Phoenix."

There was a great deal of commotion around them, men moving to and fro, pulling on this rope and pushing that wheel, but Jason paid no attention. He took Miss Crane by the arm and pulled her through the traffic.

"Totty and Bambridge must be mad looking for you. Come, we can still make it, the Phoenix hasn't cast off yet." But the little sparrow resisted with all her strength. The Prussian crewman was in protective pursuit, calling, "Achtung! Stop!" to gather the attention of his brethren.

"We have to hurry," Jason cried. "We can still make it, we simply have to move fas-"

But that was all he was destined to hear for a while, because the thick-armed and accented Prussian crewman had caught up to them, making his presence known with a quick blow to the back of Jason's head.

The soft, rocking motions kept Jason's eyes closed far longer than they should have. It was a pleasant, drifting sensation, akin to being in the cradle, and as such, he indulged. Mornings should always be like this. He could sleep in, just a few more minutes . . . the warm sun above, the soft pillow under his head . . . although it didn't feel like his usual feather down pillow. It was soft, yes, but stronger, and radiated its own warmth, like the valley of a lady's lap.

Jason opened one eye, a bare fraction. And realized, when he saw the brown twill fabric on which he rested his head, that it was indeed a lady's lap. The sparrow's.

And just as suddenly, the sounds around him, murmured voices and lapping water, rushed into focus, sharp and painful to his ears.

"He's coming around," she said, leaning into his line of vision. "Oh, Your Grace, I was so worried."

"Why . . . do I keep getting hit around you?" Jason asked blearily.

"I'm so sorry," she replied as another gentleman leaned into vision. The burly Prussian. "Crewman Reinhardt thought you were abducting me."

Jason sat up with a bolt, his head reeling from the action, but having just remembered the circumstances he was in, it was necessary.

"Miss Crane-you're on the wrong ship. This is not the packet to Calais." He spoke in a rush, his gaze darting from Miss Crane to her German protector. "We have to go. Maybe we can still catch the Phoenix . . ."

"I'm afraid we cannot," she said calmly. "They have already cast off . . . and so have we."

Jason looked up then. All the commotion, all the movement-the ship had pulled up anchor. That whistle he'd heard, it had not been calling for the watch to stop him from boarding, it had been the signal for the crew to cast off! And suddenly he felt sick, his empty stomach roiling. He stood, bobbled, managed to stumble to the railing, and . . . all he could see was water. And Dover, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

"Holy hell," Jason breathed. His mind was racing. "Tell them to turn back."

"Nein," said the crewman, "we would lose a day with the tide."

"But you've got passengers on board the wrong ship!"

"It's not the wrong ship," Miss Crane supplied meekly. "At least not for me."

Jason turned his gaze to her then, his muddled mind striking upon the truth, confusion quickly giving way to clarity. "You lost Totty and George in the crowd and then purchased passage on this ship?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"On purpose."

"Yes."

"And, no doubt, given that man's accent, this ship is not headed to Calais, wherein I would be able to return within the space of a day?"

"I don't believe it is, no."

"Miss Crane," he spoke very carefully, all too aware of the docks getting smaller in the distance, "would you please tell me where this ship is going?"

Winnifred turned to the crewman, who stood righteously by. "Herr Reinhardt-where are we headed, sir?"

"Hamburg," he replied.

She turned to him with a trepidatious smile. "Hamburg."