The lift takes Jamie, the steward, and me to B-Deck. So, Mr. Stewart is staying on Mrs. Sloane’s level after all. I hope he isn’t in the Cabbage Patch, an area I’m anxious to avoid. The lift operator opens the collapsible gate, and to my surprise, the petite man with the discreet bearing of a potted plant quietly greets us. “Mr. and Miss Luck.”

“Mr. Croggy,” I greet Mr. Stewart’s valet, remembering too late that we’ve never been introduced.

One of his threadbare eyebrows crooks a fraction. “It’s actually ‘Crawford.’”

The blood leaches from my face. “Croggy” must be a nickname, possibly one only Mr. Stewart uses. Now he must wonder how a lowly acrobat he has never met knows it.

Jamie throws me a questioning glance, but I shake my head, hoping my slipup hasn’t ruined everything.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Crawford,” Jamie says smoothly.

The valet recovers his neutral face, then leads us in the opposite direction from the Cabbage Patch. Room B-47 catches my eye. I’ll need to return April’s clothes to her, somehow. Will she notice that the Merry Widow has disappeared? I wish her the best. She has done me a good turn here on the Titanic, and I won’t forget it.

Crawford guides us through another set of felt doors to a quiet section in the bow. His slight figure moves at a pace that neither lingers nor hurries.

“Don’t seem too eager,” Jamie drops in my ear. “See what he has to offer before running off with the bone. And don’t make excuses about being late. It begs too many questions.”

“But—”

“Shh.” He knocks my arm with his elbow as Crawford swivels his thin neck back at us.

Crawford stops and knocks on a door. “Sir? Your guests are here.”

“Show them in,” replies Mr. Stewart.

The room is half as wide as Mrs. Sloane’s suite, with a single bed opposite a couch, a carved armoire on one end, and a mirrored dressing table on the other. The walls are wainscoted in cream, with crown molding gracefully flared to the ceilings.

Mr. Stewart sits reading a book on one side of the couch, which is intricately patterned in reds and golds. His bowler and chesterfield coat have been placed atop the finely crafted mahogany bed. Save for a little fuzz above his ears, the man is bald as a buoy.

He rises from his seat. “Ah, Valor and Virtue.”

Jamie extends a hand. “You can call me Jamie, and this is Valora. We’re very sorry for our delay.”