The warehouse smelled of sawdust and tar, turpentine—and the unmistakable tang of fresh gunpowder. Benedict frowned. He shouldn’t be able to smell that. There was no way the barrels he’d dampened could have dried out in just a few days. He strode across to the stack and flicked back the oilcloth. “Bollocks.”

Alex materialized out of the shadows, silent as a cat. “What is it?”

“Johnstone’s taken a new delivery of gunpowder. I ruined the last lot.”

“Good thing none of us smokes, then, isn’t it?” Seb added dryly.

They unlatched the double doors at the far end of the warehouse and slid them aside to reveal a slanted wooden slipway that disappeared into the dark water. The tide was fully up, lapping hungrily only a few feet from the top of the ramp. Intermittent moonlight glimmered on the murky water as the boats moored along the sides of the small harbor creaked and rocked on their ropes.

Georgie came to stand beside him. “We have a problem. The hull still hasn’t been sealed with tar. It’ll float, but the gaps between the planks will let in water.”

“How much water?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, Johnstone was obviously going to risk it. Let’s get it in there and see if it sinks.”

Benedict took hold of one of the mooring ropes attached to the boat’s hull while Alex and Seb kicked away the wooden chocks that had prevented it from running along the metal launch rails. With a wooden groan of protest, the small vessel started to move, sliding down the angled slipway exactly as it had been designed to do, gathering speed until it entered the opaque brown water with a splash.

All four of them stood and looked at it.

“It floats,” Alex said.

“I feel like we should give it a name,” Seb added. “All ships need a name, don’t they?”

Benedict smiled. “The Georgiana.” He tugged on the rope so the vessel floated parallel to the ramp and clasped Georgie’s hand. “Care to hop aboard, Mrs. Wylde?” When she nodded, he picked her up as if she were weightless and deposited her on the rocking deck. She crawled over to the hatch and peered down into the dark interior. “I can’t see anything. Can you pass me a lantern?”

Alex produced a tinder box from his pocket and lit one of the paraffin lamps on the workbench.

“There’s a slow leak,” she confirmed, “but we should make it to Woolwich without sinking.” She handed the lantern back to Ben, who extinguished it.

A sudden flurry of movement had them all glancing toward the side window. Jem dropped through the casement and landed in a scruffy heap on the floor. “Time’s up, gents,” he wheezed. “Johnstone’s ’ere. Look sharp!”

Benedict beckoned him over. “Quick! Get into the sub.”