“Most irregular, sir,” the admiral muttered. He sent Georgie a paternal glare, his white whiskers twitching. “Does your mother know you’re gallivantin’ all over town dressed as a powder monkey, my girl?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but Benedict spoke first. “If I might have a word?” He sent her a wicked, conspiratorial look, and she just knew he was about to do something scandalous.

“I should tell you, sir, that Miss Caversteed has done me the very great honor of agreeing to become my wife. I trust I can rely on your discretion?”

Georgie’s gasp was drowned out by the admiral’s jovial chuckle. “Married, eh? Well, congratulations, Wylde. Capital.” He pumped Benedict’s hand again.

Georgie stifled a snort. Discretion? She didn’t believe for one moment that the admiral could keep such momentous news to himself. He wouldn’t be able to resist telling his wife, and Clara Cockburn was the worst gossip in London. The news would be all over the ton by breakfast. Benedict might as well have taken out a full-page announcement in The Times.

The admiral nodded. “You look as if you could do with a change of clothes, Wylde. There are some spare uniforms in the mess if you’d care to use them.” He indicated a series of dark buildings behind them. “And no doubt you’re keen to get the lady home. I’ll arrange for a carriage for you.” He turned and strode down the dock.

Georgie lost no time in rounding on Benedict. “Why did you go and tell him that? Now there’s bound to be a dreadful scandal.”

He gave an infuriating shrug. “There’ll be a scandal whatever happens. It’s your fault. You were the one who insisted on an adventure.”

She was about to berate him some more when he shifted into the light and she caught sight of his shirtsleeve. It was stained pink with blood. “Oh! I forgot. You’re hurt!” She reached for him, but he stepped away from her questing hands. He tugged the neck of his shirt off his shoulder and inspected the damage.

“It’s nothing, look. Just a graze. Not even a through-and-through.”

It was as he said. The bullet had gouged a deep furrow on the outside edge of his bicep. The torn flesh was ugly, still seeping blood, but it was better than Georgie had feared. “Well, you still need to clean it out and bandage it,” she said. “That river water is revolting. It could easily become infected.”

He untied the neckerchief from around his throat and handed it to her. “You do it. I can’t with one hand.”