She looked around and saw him. Brian Morse. He was deep in discussion with two men some twenty yards away, standing at the gangway of a small sloop. She stared at him, for a moment unable to believe her eyes. What could Brian possibly be doing here? As she gazed across at him, something changed hands, then Brian moved away from the two men. He raised his head and for one dreadful instant his eyes met Phoebe’s across the distance that separated them.

Phoebe’s stomach seemed to plunge into her boots. Had he recognized her? A cold wave of nameless panic crept up the back of her neck, shivered her scalp, brought a light dew of icy perspiration to her forehead. She felt the same terror she’d felt in the stable yard, when she’d had a glimpse of his true character beneath the urbane facade. Now she could almost fancy she could see the aura of malevolence emanating from him. It was fanciful, Phoebe knew, but she had a deep and absolute conviction of evil. Meg was always right.

Her hand instinctively went into the pocket of her cloak, closing comfortingly over the leather purse that lay heavily against her thigh. Without conscious intention she swung around to the gangway behind her leading onto the White Lady. It was for the moment deserted.

Phoebe darted up it, aware only of the overpowering need to get away from Brian before he saw her, if he hadn’t already done so. She told herself he couldn’t have recognized her, huddled in her cloak as she was. It wasn’t as if he could have been expecting to see her.

Once she had felt that he was within an inch of hurting her; had felt that he was absolutely capable of cold, ruthless hurting if it suited him. And just then she’d seen that same look in his eyes, despite the distance between them. Maybe he hadn’t seen her.- Maybe it it wasn’t directed at her. But it terrified her nevertheless.

She reached the deck and plunged into the shadow of the deck rail. Her heart was beating far too fast, her palms clammy.

“Eh, an‘ jest who might you be?”

Phoebe spun around at the voice at her elbow and found herself face to face with a fresh-faced lad of about her own age. He stared at her curiously.

“What’s it to you?” Phoebe demanded, unconsciously lifting her chin, her voice taking on the slight chill of hauteur.

“I’m a sailor,” the lad said proudly. “An‘ I works the White Lady. An’ it’s my business to watch who comes on an‘ who goes off in port, see.”

Phoebe regarded him closely. “You don’t look much like a sailor to me,” she said, gesturing to his ragged britches fastened at the waist with string, his bare feet, and the threadbare shirt. “You look more like a vagabond than a sailor.”

The lad’s grimy face took on a slightly crestfallen expression. “I’m the cabin boy,” he stated. “An‘ it’s my business to watch the gangplank in port.”

Phoebe considered this. Once again her hand closed over the purse in her pocket. Something was taking shape in the back of her mind, something so audacious, so exciting, she hardly dared admit it to full consciousness.

Slowly she said, “I’m Lady Granville. Lord Granville has taken passage on this ship.”

The lad’s eyes sharpened. He said, “Aye, that ‘e has. But nobody’s said nothin’ about a Lady Granville.”

“No,” Phoebe said. “I don’t imagine they have.” She drew out the purse, hefting it thoughtfully in her hand. “Lord Granville isn’t exactly expecting me, but I’ll give you a guinea if you’ll show me to his cabin so I can leave a letter for him when he comes on board.”

“A guinea?” The cabin boy stared at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “An ‘ole guinea.”

Phoebe nodded and loosened the purse strings. She extracted a coin and held it up so that the light from the stern lamps caught the gleam of gold. “Show me to Lord Granville’s cabin and don’t tell a soul before he comes on board, and I’ll give you this.”

The boy gazed at the coin. He licked his lips. It was more money than he’d ever seen, let alone possessed. “This a-way.” He jerked his head towards the companionway and darted forward.

Phoebe followed him in the grip of a compulsion that made her shiver even as it enthralled her. She climbed down the narrow companionway in the wake of the lad and along a short, dark passage.

“In ‘ere.” The lad opened a door halfway down the passage, adding helpfully, “Mind the step.”

Phoebe stepped over the high threshold into a small, cramped space. An oil lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling, throwing a shadowy light over the two narrow bunks set one atop the other in the bulwark, and illuminating the table and stool that were bolted to the floor beneath a round porthole. Cato’s portmanteau stood on the floor beneath the table.

Phoebe put the coin into the lad’s eager palm. “Just a minute,” she said, laying a hand on his scrawny arm as he made for the door again. “There’ll be another one, if you don’t say a word of this to anyone until we’re… we’re…”

She considered for an instant, then said determinedly, “Until we’re in the middle of the sea.” Phoebe had but a hazy notion of what the middle of the sea might be like, but it sounded suitably far away for her purposes.

“I thought you said you was jest goin‘ to leave ’is lordship a letter.” The cabin boy frowned at her even as he clutched the coin tightly in his palm.

“Well, I’ve just changed my mind. I’m going to stay,” Phoebe said. “How long does it take to get to Italy?”

The lad shrugged. “ ‘Ow should I know, never been there… don’t ’spect I ever will.”

“But the ship is going there now,” Phoebe said, bewildered.

He laughed raucously, as if at some trick of a fairground freak. “We’re goin‘ to Rotterdam, in ’Olland, ye daft ‘apoth!” He doubled over with a gust of exaggerated mirth.

Phoebe, however, was too incensed at this piece of information to take immediate exception to his mockery. Cato had lied to her. An out-and-out lie.

“The White Lady always goes to the Low Countries from ‘ere,” the cabin boy continued with a most infuriating air of superiority. “We got to cross the North Sea. Can’t get to no Italy from there.”

Phoebe was silent. Geography had never been her strong suit. But why had Cato lied to her? He had lied to everyone, except, presumably, Giles Crampton, she thought bitterly. It was yet another example of his refusal to trust his wife, to take her into his confidence. Did he think she’d betray his secrets if he asked her to keep them? Oh, he was impossible! Infuriating! She’d done nothing to deserve such lack of confidence.

Well, that was about to change. She repeated decidedly, “Another guinea if you don’t say anything about me being here until we’re in the middle of the sea.”

The boy looked a little doubtful. “Aye,” he said slowly. “That’s all very well. But if the bosun gets to ‘ear of it, I’ll get the rope’s end, I will.”

Phoebe said persuasively, “If anyone asks, I’ll say I came on board while you were looking the other way, and found my own way to my husband’s cabin.”

The boy gazed down at the coin winking in the lamplight on his palm. He put it to his mouth and bit it. The gold was hard and metallic tasting. He examined it carefully. It was round and smooth, no sign of clipped edges.

“Another one?” He raised his eyes to Phoebe’s. She nodded. “Just like that one.”

“Lord love a duck,” he muttered. It was riches beyond imagining, worth even a painful session with the rope’s end. It wasn’t as if he was letting on board a gang of ruffians. It was only his lordship’s wife, after all. No great crime. Not one to bring down drastic punishment.

“But you mustn’t say a word,” Phoebe insisted again. “Not one single word to anyone. You understand.”

“All right,” he said after a minute, his fingers closing over the coin. “I’d best be off now.”

He ducked out of the cabin, leaving Phoebe to look around her surroundings and wonder whether she was quite mad. When she’d left the inn, she hadn’t intended doing anything so unimaginable.