Bronwyn had known that someone was on her heels. She’d felt the pursuit in the hairs rising on her nape when the steady echo of a long stride reached her ears. Those frenetic nerves of hers had fired again, an anxious, unsteady version of herself storming to the fore, instead of practical, capable Bronwyn.

Heart pounding, she changed her mind about taking some air outside at the last minute. It might have been Thornbury, or it could have been any of the other persistent gentlemen from the ballroom. Once she realized that someone was trailing her, instead of turning and confronting her pursuer in a public space as she should have done, she had panicked and taken the next staircase she’d seen.

It had led her to the servants’ quarters. The space was tighter on the lower levels of the ship…the hallways narrower, the chambers smaller, and the sturdy furniture chosen for practicality rather than elegance. It was much warmer, too. Bronwyn could feel the beads of perspiration making her underclothes cling to her skin. She did not want to end up in the boiler room by accident!

Another set of stairs beckoned at the end of one hallway, and she gratefully climbed it. To her surprise, it led to yet another staircase. Curiosity overtook her fears. She’d seen the upper decks while strolling on the main sundeck of the ship and had always wondered what was up there.

As she grew closer to the door at the end, the boisterous sounds of a fiddle filtered down from the upper level, the sounds of laughter and stomping feet growing louder as she approached. Where on earth was she going?

Taking that chance was a much better option than wandering back down through a maze of corridors and inviting trouble. Too much drink could turn the sweetest man into a cheeky scoundrel, and a public space was always safer than being trapped in a private one. She had been told too many stories by her mother of young ladies being compromised by unscrupulous gentlemen to ignore those warnings.

Bronwyn pushed open the heavy door, the delicious smell of salt and ocean blowing into her overheated face. Oh, that was lovely! Her trek upward had led to a private deck, she surmised, and a crowded one from the looks of it. She blinked, taking in the sounds as well as the sights. Her mouth gaped. Dear Lord, was that Lady Finley dancing near the railing? She was a widowed marchioness and looked to be having the time of her life.

The more Bronwyn parsed the crowd, the more familiar faces she caught sight of—lords and ladies whose normally stiff-upper-lipped mien seemed to be much more relaxed up here out in the open air. How had she not known this revelry was here? This was where the real party was, not in the staid ballroom downstairs.

“My lady!” a frantic voice hissed. “What are you doing?”