“Come closer.” Kate fanned her hands impatiently for Lily to approach.

She stumbled as she attempted to traverse the narrow, cleared path between the desk, ottoman, and chair, so Kate stood up and snatched the paper out of her hand.

“Sit,” she ordered, waving at the ottoman.

Lily was happy to be off her feet, but her nerves, on the other hand, were unhappy. Everything depended on this idea, and more importantly, it hinged on Kate believing Lily was capable of such a task.

“Wanted by an esteemed gentleman just beginning housekeeping,” Kate started, clearing her throat for dramatic effect, “a refined lady between eighteen and twenty-four years of age, with a proper education, and a fortune not less than five thousand pounds...”

Kate dropped the newsprint to her lap, her mouth agape. “You cannot mean⁠—”

“Oh, yes,” Lily said with a wide grin. “If I cannot attract a husband, then I shall fetch one who needs me.”

The rooster’s crow was worse than the boatswain’s whistle.

Rafe groaned, grabbing his pillow and stuffing it over his head before burying himself down into the old, musty bed mattress at Cliffstone Manor. The bed frame wobbled, knocking against the small bedside table. He heard the whisky he had poured only hours before sloshing over the chipped glass’s edge and spilling onto the threadbare and decrepit carpet.

“Damn it, Pete!”

Pete, the rooster, that is.

There were perks to spending years away at sea. At twenty-nine, he had spent nearly eighteen of

those years on a ship.

But then again, he wished to be back in London rather than at the crumbling estate his older brother Henry had recently inherited unexpectedly from their father’s cousin.

Henry was now Earl Devlin, and Rafe was a naval lieutenant currently without a ship. Rafe’s bad behavior had landed him here, on the Isle of Wight, in the least exciting spot on Earth. Of that, he was certain.

Which probably accounted for why he felt as if he were losing his mind. He was cut adrift, each day more or less the same, holding on to some faint glimmer of a boyhood dream. That promise. But it was growing dimmer, and he wasn’t sure if he saw a future for himself. But that often came after a night of drinking. A habit he had tried to avoid for the past few months after being tossed in the gaol one time too many in London.

But one could never strive for utter perfection.

Rafe sat up, drained the last bit of whisky from the glass, and glanced toward the opened letter on the table.

There were whispers Rafe was to be promoted to captain and not a moment too soon. But the letter he received from his friend Liam Hawkins yesterday was a far more interesting proposition. One that would change life as he knew it.

Which was precisely why he broke out whisky and cigars last evening and read the majority of The Mysteries of Udolpho.

He folded the letter up and tucked it away before dressing. He would sleep in another lifetime; he was far too used to being up for sunrise on the ship.

The sun was finally in the sky as he rounded the bend on the gravel walk toward the Chapmans’ cottage. Their cat, Tulip, followed close on his heels, chirping as if Rafe was late for the visit.

The door to the small stone cottage wrenched open, shaking the ivy by the trembling thick red sashes. A robin flew out and settled into the apple tree in the front garden. A short elderly woman, twisted from old age, stood in the doorway and grabbed his hand.

“Oh, it’s a lovely morning now that you’re here.” She adjusted her cap, her smile frail but warm. “Come in now, come in. Have a seat, Mr. Davies.”

“What a warm welcome, Mrs. Chapman. A lovely day indeed.”

“Och, now.” The elderly woman turned around, a blush heavy on her creased cheeks. She swatted him playfully before leading him into the small kitchen area of the three-room cottage in the village.

The last earl had dragged the entire Cliffstone estate into near ruin, running up bad debts and neglecting tenants’ needs. It was a nightmare to untangle. Luckily, Henry considered combing over ledgers and re-establishing lines of credit among pleasurable activities. He rarely ventured into the village, however, so those duties fell upon Rafe for the time being.

Mr. Chapman shuffled forward, clasping a pie plate. Rafe admired how the man’s hair always looked as if he had storm clouds on his head, with wild tufts of white and gray raging about over dark, fluffy eyebrows. “Mr. Davies, so good of you to come.”

“How are you feeling today, sir?”

“Well, I couldn’t sleep a wink from the cough. Woke up early this morning and decided to try my hand at gooseberry pie. Have a slice, won’t you?”

Rafe’s stomach growled.

“That would be kind. Thank you.” He sat down at the table and cleared away a stack of books for the incoming pie plate.

“I told him it was too early to bake. Told him gooseberry pie was a shame when the rhubarb came in like a wild flush in the garden this spring.”

“Husbands,” Rafe said, volleying between the bickering married couple. “What would we men do without you lovely women?”

“Starve,” the old woman answered with a wheezing laugh. Even Mr. Chapman chuckled. “You wait,” Mrs. Chapman warned. “One day you’re going to lose that handsome heart of yours, Mr. Davies, and you’ll find yourself a bride who turns your world upside down.”

“I’m married to the sea, Mrs. Chapman.”

After eighteen years in the Royal Navy, Rafe knew more about brothels than love. And he was fine with that. Rafe didn’t wish for a bride any more than he wished for a piece of the gooseberry pie when Mr. Chapman cut into it. He nearly gagged as the runny, gold green interior of the pie oozed onto the plate.

“Hmm, not sure it took.” Mr. Chapman’s sloped shoulders rounded forward in defeat. “Should have stuck with strawberry.”

“I think it admirable to learn to bake at your age.” Rafe reached for the offered plate and forced a grin. He never wished not to be eating more in his life, unless it were kippers. Then he would detest those more.

“Must keep young, my boy. This body of mine is wearing out, but I’m stubborn and won’t go without a fight, and my brain is still in it.”

“As it should be.”

Rafe smiled, so utterly charmed by the kind couple who embraced his efforts to help in the village. Others didn’t trust him yet, and perhaps they shouldn’t. He almost always let everyone down. And besides, he didn’t plan to stay on. He and his brother were barely speaking any longer after London. And he would need to decide on his next posting soon.

“Now, where is my patient?” Rafe asked around a mouthful of revolting gooseberry pie.

Mrs. Chapman clapped her hands together. “Oh, he’s eating it, darling. See. You made a wonderful pie.”

Rafe forced down a bite, then stood, welcoming the distraction as Tulip brushed against his legs.

“Go on now,” Mrs. Chapman said, leading him to the back room. “She’s doing so well.”

He poked his head into the small room, struck with gratitude and something else… that same ringing hollowness that had followed him around lately. He set eyes on the mother goat, recovering from being struck by a wagon, and her two nursing kids.

Mr. Chapman stood behind him, beaming. “Well done, Mr. Davies. Our Carol is well on the mend, and these two kids will be back to health in no time.”

They never asked where he had acquired the skill of stitching up wounds, and it was best they didn’t. But there was a reason the floors were painted red in the officer’s quarters on a ship. He had seen too many bleed out after cannon fire ricocheted in the air, and men screaming while enemy fire pierced the hull and expelled deadly splinters through the air.