The streets surrounding the docks were, unsurprisingly, filled with a vast assortment of businesses that not only catered to the demands of the shipbuilding industry, but also sold the wares that were unloaded every day. It was all so vibrant and bustling, so different from the sedate, genteel pace of Mayfair. Georgie felt infused with energy every time she came here.

Tea and coffeehouses, taverns, silk merchants, and spice vendors vied for space with cordwainers, sailmakers, and clockmakers. As they rattled down Poplar Street, past the inventively named Eel Pie Lane and the Mayflower pub, Georgie knocked on the carriage roof with her knuckles to signal Pieter to stop.

A swinging sign above the door of the bow-fronted shop outside read, T. HARRISON, PRECISION MARINE INSTRUMENTS.

“Here we are.”

Pieter handed her down from the carriage, and Georgie entered the shop with Wylde close behind. She loved coming here. Mr. Harrison was, in her humble opinion, a technical genius, and the shop interior reflected the chaotic yet brilliant state of the man’s mind. Every way one turned, there was a new wonder to behold. The counters and shelves were crammed to bursting with scientific instruments, some complete and for sale, others in various stages of construction or deconstruction. A three-draw brass-and-leather telescope teetered next to a brass sextant and a hygrometer for measuring atmospheric pressure, while a mechanical figure of a monkey and an organ-grinder lay in pieces on one side.

Wylde sucked in a breath as he ducked his head to avoid various barometers and other instruments that swung from the low ceiling. A smile stretched Georgie’s lips. He looked like Gulliver from Mr. Defoe’s tale, a giant in a land of midgets.

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” She bustled over to the shop counter, which was almost invisible beneath a pile of springs, cogs, wood shavings, and assorted tools, and rang a small bell. “Mr. Harrison?” She peered toward the back room. “He has a small foundry out the back,” she explained to Wylde. “Sometimes he can’t hear very well over the noise of the bellows.”

Wylde was examining a complicated mechanism near his elbow. “What is this? A clock?”

“A marine chronometer. See how it is gimbled so it always stays level, even in the worst seas? Knowing the precise time of day is of vital importance when it comes to navigation. Mr. Harrison makes the best chronometers in the country. I have just fitted my entire fleet with them.”

He raised his brows. “That sounds expensive.”

Georgie shrugged. “It was. But a correctly functioning instrument can mean the difference between life or death at sea. Didn’t you read about the Arniston last year?”

“I don’t believe I did.”