“Of course, Percival and I had hoped to enjoy our cruise together, much like”—I cast my mournful eyes toward Sir Duff-Gordon—“you and your lovely wife.”

Sir Duff-Gordon pats his wife’s hand, which is tucked into his arm, and she bats her lashes at him.

Captain Smith clears his throat. “Why, of course you did.”

“We’d hoped to enjoy all the wonderful amenities the ship has to offer—the dining, the dancing, the Turkish baths, the squash courts . . .”

The captain opens his magnanimous hands. “If you’d like, we can arrange for you—”

“I would never dream of doing any of those things without him,” I snap. “It would be an insult to his memory.”

The captain’s face deepens in color, and his smile disappears. He’s a man unused to being interrupted, but I must have a bite if I’m to leave a mark.

Sir Duff-Gordon nods at me. Probably he’s the sort who expects his wife to refrain from enjoyment when he goes off to his reward. Lucy frowns, she likely the sort who will continue doing whatever the bloody hell she likes.

The captain runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “Of course.”

“If only there were some . . . spectacle that might comfort me.”

“Er, spectacle?”

“Percy loved the shows. Horse racing, opera, theater. My life has been so colorless without him. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to have horse races or opera here.”

“I love opera.” Lucy presses a gloved hand to her heart. “The Royal Opera House used some of my designs for their latest performance of Don Giovanni.”

“That docking bridge seems made for a stage,” I throw in. May as well go big. I’ll have to revise the routine for the narrow strip, but the docking bridge offers the most dramatic and eye-catching stage on the ship. “But alas! Perhaps no such diversion exists for a poor widow like me.”

There. That should widen the hoop through which Mr. Stewart can toss his ball.

“Well, that’s a shame.” Lucy’s head shakes lightly atop its alabaster pedestal. She crooks a satin-covered finger at the captain. “You really should have brought an act aboard. You said yourself the ship is built for pleasure. What could be more pleasant than being entertained?” My unexpected ally lifts her face to her husband’s as if for confirmation, and he gives her an indulgent smile.

“I will certainly suggest it to my employers,” says Captain Smith.

“I suppose I will retire now,” I say listlessly.

“If there’s anything else at all we can do, please do not hesitate to ask.” The captain gives me a dutiful bow, and Sir Duff-Gordon also inclines his head. My eyes catch on the single rosebud in Sir Duff-Gordon’s lapel, the same deep scarlet as the one worn by the cheeky headwaiter with the door-knocker beard who gave us the bread heels.