The noise of the lobby dampens as the doors swing shut. This corridor seems even nicer than the one I just rattled through. It’s quieter, with an expensive smell to it, like roses and cinnamon spice. Is Mr. Albert Ankeny Stewart in this section? I will need to find a guest list.

I read the room numbers set in gold letters and numbers: B-86, B-84.

A steward approaches. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Afternoon,” I reply curtly, striding away. My heart pounds like a fist calling for drinks.

Another steward backs out of a room in front of me. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” He’s an Irishman, pronouncing his long i’s like “oy’s.”

“These are not high-quality cigars,” barks the room’s occupant. “Don’t you know your cigars?”

“Yes, I do. I worked in a cigar factory, and let me assure you, these are triple-A rated—”

“Silence. I expect better than this on my ship. Find me better ones, or I shall report you.”

The steward bows. One tab of his collared shirt has flipped up, and his tie has pulled free from his buttoned-up black jacket. “Again, I apologize, Mr. Ismay.”

I halt at the name. That must be Mr. J. Bruce Ismay, the chairman of White Star Line. Of course, the shipping tycoon is on the maiden voyage of the Titanic to take his bows. If he is staying here, these must indeed be the royal suites.

The door slams in the steward’s face, knocking his tray off kilter. He keeps a tight grip on the tray, but the floor suddenly dips, and he falls. The contents of his tray—a silver bowl of cigars and another of nuts—spill everywhere.

I bite my lip, annoyed at Mr. Ismay for putting this stone in my path when I am busy trying to stow away on his ship. I quickly collect cigars and nuts. The sooner I help this man clean up, the sooner I can go about my business.

“No, no, ma’am, please, it’s not your place.”

Is he mocking me? The steward’s plump cheeks flush red beneath his muttonchop whiskers, which are dappled grey and brown. Of course he isn’t mocking me. He can’t see who I am. I put on the posh accent that the Sloanes use. “It’s no trouble.”

As I help him gather up nuts, I’m tempted to store a few in my mouth like a squirrel for later. “At least it wasn’t hot tea and your best china.”

The steward smiles. “True enough, ma’am.”

We put the last of the nuts back in the bowl, and I collect my feet, hoping to make a hasty retreat.

“Do you need help finding your room?”

I hesitate. If B-42 is locked, he might help me open it. “B-42.”

“B-42? That can’t be right. I just put a gentleman in 42. What’s your name?”