Of course they’d stared, no matter how much he tried to block her with his body. Even catching a glimpse of her was bound to make anybody’s eyes start out of their sockets.

“Well,” the prim man said, a trifle less primly, “this would seem to be the place to find one.”

Della leaned forward, placing one hand on the desk to address the man. “It is actually one sailor in particular. A Mr. Henry Wattings, he was aboard the Royal Lady three years back. And perhaps the Righteous Lady six months ago?”

The man was shaking his head no before she had even finished her words.

“You haven’t heard all of it,” Griffith said, feeling a fierce desire to punch the man in the nose. His usual reaction, to be honest. “I am the Viscount Stanbury, heir to the Duke of Northam, and the family is quite desirous of locating this particular sailor. So if you could scurry on back through your records perhaps we won’t have to involve the House of Lords in the investigation.”

Griff had no idea if the House of Lords would care or be allowed to become involved in such a situation, but he suspected this desk worker didn’t know either. Or if he did, he certainly wouldn’t argue the point with a duke’s heir.

“Let me check.” Apparently the duke’s heir mention did work after all. “Three years ago, you say?” The man rose, pushing his spectacles farther up his nose. “You can wait in this office while I take a look. The Royal Lady?”

“Yes,” Griff confirmed.

The man nodded and walked through a small door behind his desk.

Griff gestured to two chairs in the corner. “It appears we will be stuck here for a moment, unless our assistant is a lot more adept at unraveling naval paperwork than anybody I’ve ever seen.”

Della smiled in reply, going to sit down in the farther chair. It was reminiscent of a chair Griff might have seen in his own captain’s quarters, if he cared about making a good impression on his men. Or more accurately, if he cared about making that kind of good impression on his men; his preferred method included a focused mission, clearly defined goals, and the tools needed to achieve them. Not fancy chairs.

But at least she would be comfortable for the next few hours.

She had to admit to liking it when he got all aggressively masterful. Even though that made her a thorough hypocrite; after all, she definitely did not like it when he focused that masterful aggression on her.

Or perhaps she would, given the right circumstances.