Georgie watched her sister’s rapturous departure with a sense of utter fatigue. The day’s events had left her exhausted. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to have a lie down before dinner.”

“Of course.” Mother nodded absently, already deep in thought about how to handle Juliet’s forthcoming betrothal and, presumably, the wedding of the decade.

“We missed all the fun,” Seb said gloomily, as soon as Benedict strode into the Tricorn’s dining room. “Willis and his men nabbed Johnstone while we were larking about in Hampstead with your woman.”

Benedict stopped in the doorway. “What? Truly? Bloody hell.” Biting back a howl of frustration, he crossed to the sideboard, poured himself a generous splash of brandy, and took a healthy swallow. The alcohol warmed his belly but did nothing to ease the bitter taste of disappointment. “There goes five hundred pounds of reward money, then. Bollocks.”

He sank into a comfy leather wing chair beside Alex, who nodded in confirmation.

“We stopped in at Bow Street after we left you. They’ve got Johnstone and another of his men in the cells. Admiral Cockburn was there questioning them, but neither one was talking.”

Benedict groaned. That five hundred pounds could have started the repairs on Morcott’s stable roof or paid off a chunk of mortgaged land. Damn it all. Why in God’s name had he tried to impress Georgie by refusing to take her money? He couldn’t afford such stupid, quixotic gestures.

“I told Cockburn you knew someone who could sail the submarine down to Woolwich,” Seb said. “Didn’t tell him it was a girl, of course. He thinks all women are useless gossips, like his wife. He would have refused on principle. So I told him you’d found a lad who was a powder monkey at Trafalgar. He said to go ahead.”

Benedict closed his eyes and rested his head back against the chair. He tried to feel some sense of satisfaction that Johnstone had been contained and the scheme to rescue Bonaparte foiled, but he failed miserably. Patriotic sentiment was all well and good, but it didn’t solve any of his financial problems. Or the conundrum of his wife.

“I’ll tell Georgie,” he murmured. “She can meet us at the Ore Street warehouse one night this week.”

She’d be delighted, he thought with an inward smile. The challenge of sailing an unmanageable boat down the Thames in the dead of night was exactly the kind of caper she’d relish. At least with Johnstone in custody, the risk to her would be minimal. As long as the damn thing floated, she’d be fine.