He has a point. There are so many horrible landowners that even common decency can seem grounds for sainthood.

The question now is what to do. We believe we have walked into a trap, and yet Emily is still the unwitting bait. Do we dare presume her uncle will not harm her?

We are leaning together to whisper again when a board creaks overhead. Nicolas’s hand goes to his sword as we both look up. Another creak comes. I glance around. He motions for me to follow.

Nicolas opens a door with care and looks inside. The room is on the port side of the ship, meaning it is above the water. We need to physically pull ourselves inside so we don’t slide back out again on the tilted floor. Once we are in, Nicolas closes the door all but a crack.

The ladder creaks. Someone is coming down. I long to tug Nicolas back from the door so I can see, but I stifle the impulse and hold myself still.

When he pulls back, he looks alarmed.

“It is Mr. Jenkins,” he says.

“Emily’s father?”

He nods. “He is sneaking along the corridor. He can hear Emily in the captain’s quarters, and now he is heading that way.”

I curse under my breath.

We have a decision to make here. Emily’s father has come to her rescue. We should let him do that, should we not?

An easy choice if Mr. Jenkins knows what exactly is happening. If he knows his brother-in-law is behind the abduction. If he is prepared to fight for his daughter.

“Is he armed?” I whisper.

“He has a sword but . . .” Nicolas makes a face. “I do not wish to be insulting, but I have always presumed it is merely an affectation of fashion.”

Nicolas carries one because he was a privateer and he is a fugitive; he knows how to use it. It could be a holdover from when doctors carried swords as a sign of status, but for him, it is mostly a weapon.

I’ve noticed men in the area wearing them, more than I would expect. Is that another holdover, this one in a more rural part of the country? Is it because Norrington—being a former admiral—wears one? All I know is that it seems to be part of the local couture. For men like Mr. Jenkins—a middle-aged clerk—it might not even be a usable weapon.

Sword or not, I suspect Jenkins is ill-equipped to fight for his daughter. From the look on Nicolas’s face, he agrees.

“Do we . . . leave him to it?” I ask hesitantly.

“In good conscience, I cannot.”

I exhale. “Nor I. It is agreed, then.” I clasp my gladius. “We must at least warn him.”

While I watch Nicolas’s back, he eases open the door. There’s an intake of breath from the hall, and I wince, but it isn’t loud enough to alarm the guard, who seems to be still dealing with his difficult prisoner.