He nodded. “John shouldn’t have to shoulder it alone. We both grew up at Morcott Hall. Its servants and tenants practically raised us, they’re as much family as my own flesh and blood. We need to support them, to keep the village school open so their children have a chance to better themselves. Just think of all the wasted talent if you’d never been taught to add a column of figures. You’d never have discovered your own abilities, never had the chance to get so far in life.”

His eyes gleamed as he spoke, his face was animated; he was clearly passionate about the subject.

“One of those children might end up being the next Shakespeare or Sir Christopher Wren.” He glanced out of the carriage window and waved his hand at the narrow, crowded streets. “I’ve seen the results of a lack of education, a lack of options, both here in London, and during the war in France and Spain. It’s awful. Children forced to beg and steal, to work in foul conditions for a pittance. Young girls selling themselves for a scrap of bread. We owe it to our tenants to give them that chance. A new landlord might not be so caring.”

Georgie nodded, delighted that his thoughts on the subject so closely correlated with her own beliefs. Wylde was the polar opposite of her cousin; Josiah firmly believed that the lower classes should stay where they had been put and be grateful.

Feeling the need to lighten the atmosphere, she sent him a sparkling glance. “You’re so lucky to have had such adventures. And a brother. I confess I’m a little jealous. Juliet was never daring enough for me. I could never convince her to climb trees or come sailing on the lake. It’s always better with friends. To have someone with whom to say, ‘Remember that time we—’ instead of, ‘This one time, I—’ don’t you think?”

Wylde sent her a smile that, while clearly meant to be more friendly than flirtatious, nevertheless warmed her insides with a happy glow.

“You’ll get your adventures someday, Mrs. Wylde,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

Georgie rather hoped those adventures would include him.

Soon they were rattling past Wapping and the West India Docks until they finally reached Blackwall, where Georgie’s ships unloaded directly into Caversteed Shipping’s warehouses.

It was low tide. The earthy, fecund scent of the Thames was stronger here, and she caught a glimpse of several mudlarks—filthy young children—scouring the water’s edge for pickings amongst the mud and rubble of the shoreline, looking for anything they could sell.