He caught her eye and smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made it seem as though he knew what she was thinking. He probably did; she hadn’t been very shy about what she wanted. And what she didn’t want, she recalled, thinking of the night before.

He had to know she had changed her mind, but he also had to know her well enough by now to realize she would have to be the one to tell him. And she would. As soon as they had gotten some sort of news about Sarah’s Henry, and Della could see the crease of worry leave her friend’s face.

And she had taken care of purchasing a method to prevent adding a sibling to Nora’s life. As well as some soft-soled shoes.

So many things to take care of.

“Well.” The man had returned, easing himself back into his seat, putting a binder on his desk. Whorls of dust rose into the air, proof that the Naval Office did not consult these records often.

The man withdrew a large handkerchief from his inside pocket just in time to sneeze. Della wished some of her pupils were as prescient.

“I believe we have a record of your Mr. Wattings,” the man said, opening the binder and pulling out a yellowed slip of paper. She and Griffith both leapt out of their seats, going to either side of the man, whose eyes widened in alarm behind his spectacles.

“Uh,” he began, touching his fingertip to the paper, “Mr. Wattings was last at this address near Timber Wharf.” He looked up, first at Della and then at Griffith. “Surely this will help locate him.”

“That’s at the docks?” she asked. Griffith nodded in confirmation. “So if we go there to this address it’s likely someone will know where he went?”

Griffith straightened, holding his hand out to the desk clerk. “Thank you for your help, Mr.—?”

“Hastings,” the man replied. He took Griffith’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Yes, you are welcome. I do hope you find your missing seaman.”

Griffith clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder, making him jump. “I will be sure to mention how helpful you’ve been to the House of Lords.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The man looked awestruck. Della would not point out that speaking to the entire House of Lords about one desk clerk was not a thing that was usually possible.

“And, my lady, I need to get you home, it is getting late.”

Della narrowed her eyes before she glanced at the clock on Mr. Hastings’s desk. It was late. How had she lost track of time?

Being in his undeniably intoxicating presence was probably the reason, a sly voice said inside her head.

She inclined her head to Mr. Hastings before exiting the room, Griffith close behind her.