The idea had some merit. The thought of traveling with an aching head held no appeal. Besides, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he disliked the thought of Miss Harriet Ward brangling with the bank official. He had no doubt she would hold her own, but at what cost? Any cost was too high. She was far too young to pay the price of her own father’s shortsightedness. Chase had a sister who was almost the same age he judged Harriet to be, and the entire situation was untenable.

Chase eyed Mrs. Ward. “Tell me more about Captain Frakenham.”

Mrs. Ward straightened her lace cap. “More? Of course! Let’s see, your name is Captain John Frakenham and you have a large ship.”

“That much, I know. Do I have any brothers or sisters?”

She bit her lip. “I’m not sure.”

“Where was I born?”

“Devonshire, perhaps. Or maybe Yorkshire. No, wait!” She beamed. “The Lake District! It’s lovely up there; I traveled through it with my uncle when I was ten, and it was just breathtaking.”

“You don’t know where I’m from.”

Her smile faded. “Well…not really. No one ever asked.” She caught his gaze and added quickly, “And you never told us. The topic simply never came up.”

“Hm. How long have I been sailing.”

“I—I—”

“And what items do I deal in? Tea? Silks? What?”

“I don’t—”

“How old am I?”

“Old?” Her gaze grew somewhat glazed. “I’m sure I don’t know. But it’s not important. All you need to remember for your interview with Mr. Gower is that you’re engaged to Harriet and stand to receive a large amount of money very soon.”

Chase wondered if he should press the issue and force Mrs. Ward to confess her deception, but then he thought he caught the glint of tears in her soft brown eyes.

His humor fled. Not tears. He could never hold his own against a crying female; it was his one weakness. When he’d been growing up and his little sister Sara had cried, he’d always given in. Always.

Sara was married now, a countess in her own right and the mother of two children. But even today, if she were to come to Chase, a tear on her cheek, he would do anything she asked. It was one of the things that drove him mad thinking about the woman he’d run down with his carriage. Had she cried? Had anyone heard her? Helped her?

Or had she been left to die alone in the middle of a cold, rain-washed street?

His throat tightened, his head aching anew. How could he live with this? How could he expect his brothers to live with it? He touched his forehead where it ached. He’d figure out what to do. As soon as he felt better. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, a surge of irritation washing through him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to let that slip.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “That’s quite all right. Mr. Ward was renowned for just such slippage.”