She snorted, making him feel entirely nonplussed. Per the usual, he had to admit.

“A ne’er-do-well? I have to remember that one for Sarah.”

“You haven’t answered the question,” he said. “I am concerned for your safety.”

She patted him on the arm. “Thank you for your worry, my lord. I am just fine. I can open and shut doors all by myself.”

“That is not the issue, and you know it.”

She exhaled in an exaggerated way, sending strands of hair flying up into her face. “I cannot imagine anyone more ne’er-do-well than you, my lord. Unless you’re suggesting I refuse you entry?”

“At least let me get you some sort of protection,” he grumbled.

She looked taken aback. “What kind of protection? A pistol?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “You’d likely shoot your own foot as an intruder. I meant that I could hire some of my crew to stand guard here. It will take them all a while to find new assignments, and I might as well try to make use of them so they can earn something while they wait.”

“Ah, so you are pretending to be worried about my safety so you can disguise your altruism toward your crew. Well done, my lord,” she said.

“That’s—never mind. Yes. That is what I am doing, you annoying woman.”

She gave him a bright smile. “Well, now that that is settled, shall we head to the docks?”

Griffith glanced around the hallway. “Don’t you need that girl to come with you?”

Della grinned wickedly back at him. “No, she is with Sarah and the girls. I do not need a chaperone when I am with my beloved betrothed, Lord Hugely Handsome.”

Griffith leaned his head back in laughter. “Well, then, Lady Stubborn, let us go make our inquiries.”

“Took you long enough,” she grumbled, but with a humorous note in her voice.

“Wattings,” Griffith repeated. “Henry Wattings. About five feet ten inches, broad in the chest. A black man who might have been looking for work as an able seaman.”

The man paused in winding the rope around his elbow, and Della had a moment of hope, only to be dashed when he shook his head. “Nope, don’t recall anybody like that. We’ve got plenty of sailors about, but nobody matching that description.”

“It would have been about three years ago,” Della added.

The man grunted, then spat on the ground. “Yer gentleman said that already.”

Della opened her mouth to snap back at him, only to remain quiet as Lord Stanbury put a hand on her arm as though cautioning her. He wasn’t wrong, even though she wanted to shake him off.

“The Holdfast Arms is where most of the black sailors drink when ashore,” the man said. “You’d be best asking there for your missing man. It’s that way,” he continued, gesturing down the docks to the right.