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A large central funnel released a light steam, while six more masts rose high above them. The sails were tied up, and the wooden decking shone in the sunlight. The rigging ropes were as thick as his wrist, the ratlines stretching up to the top mast.

As he looked aft, he saw the wheelhouse enclosed within glass windows. The Orpheus had made its first voyage only a month ago, and the ship was in prime condition.

It felt strange, being a first-class passenger.

Michael tugged at the tight sleeves of his new double-breasted black cloth frockcoat.

Though it was a fine cut, he felt conspicuous in the expensive clothing.

The shawl collar and cravat abraded his neck, and he felt stiff.

His attire had cost more than three years’ salary, and he longed for the familiarity of his own worn clothing.

He hadn’t wanted to transform his appearance, but the Graf had insisted. “If you are, in fact, related to the royal family, then you must dress as such. No one will accept your rank unless you appear as the king’s son.”

“I may not be his son.”

But he’d succumbed to the changes because his only other attire was his military uniform. The Graf insisted that he travel under the guise of a nobleman, reminding him that his cooperation would help improve the living conditions of the soldiers.

Hundreds of men on the Crimean Peninsula had starved to death due to lack of rations.

It made him sick to think about the shipments of vegetables and meat left to rot because there was no one to transport the supplies to the soldiers’ camp.

There would be changes when he returned to the front—he would see to it.

Michael gripped the cuffs of his coat, the guilt erasing any enjoyment he might have had from this journey. He didn’t deserve fine clothing or luxurious accommodations upon a steamship bound for Bremerhaven.

His gaze drifted downward to the gleaming buttons on the coat.

Bide your time , he warned himself. Already the Graf had given him two new suits of clothing that he could sell.

He’d loaned hundreds of pounds in spending money, meant for a new wardrobe, once they arrived in Lohenberg.

Michael didn’t intend to touch a penny, if at all possible.

Behind him, he heard the conversations of more passengers boarding the ship. He’d made arrangements for Mrs. Turner to be brought with the servants, not trusting anyone to look after her welfare. She’d be lost within a week and forget to eat.

The Graf had protested, but Michael’s insistence had won over. No doubt Mrs. Turner was pestering the servants about her trunk, making sure no one bumped it or put a scratch upon the wood.

He heard the tones of her voice, anxious and excited, while she inspected the ship. With a quick glance, he saw that today was one of her more lucid moments. She stared up at the tall masts and funnels, shielding her eyes from the sun while a broad smile creased her cheeks.

God help him, he hadn’t told her their true destination. He’d let her believe that it was a trip to Germany and had ordered the other servants not to reveal their true destination. There was no reason to upset her.

Other passengers boarded the ship, pretending as if they didn’t see the elderly woman. He could guess their ranks, without knowing a single name. Dukes and viscounts, ladies and lords. Those who believed themselves too good to mingle with the public.

Michael kept an eye upon Mrs. Turner, watching to ensure that no one bothered her. A few of the men cast quizzical looks towards him, as though trying to decide whether or not they were acquainted.

He pretended as though he didn’t see, for he didn’t belong among them. He’d learned that on the night he’d dared to accept Whitmore’s ball invitation.

There was no use in attempting a conversation with London’s elite. What could he say to them, anyway? Have you shot any men recently?

No, he couldn’t mingle with them. Far better to stay away. But then, he heard the soft tones of another woman’s voice. He knew her voice, knew the timbre and the familiar way it rose and fell.

Lady Hannah Chesterfield. What in the name of God was she doing upon this ship? Had she followed him?

Michael spun around, intending to confront her. When her gaze met his, she blushed and nodded in greeting.

Clearly, she’d known they would be traveling upon the same ship. Why hadn’t she mentioned it the last time he’d seen her?

She wore a grey cashmere pelisse trimmed with a fringe, and beneath the outer garment, he caught a glimpse of a dark blue gown. Her grey bonnet was adorned with lace, ribbons and cream roses. Impeccably attired, she held herself like a queen.

From the vast quantity of trunks and luggage brought on to the ship by her servants, it appeared that she was traveling for an extended period of time. Her brother Quentin followed the last of the servants, and he spoke softly to his sister, offering an embrace. It was a farewell.

What was going on? Michael didn’t believe for a moment that her presence upon the ship was a mere coincidence, even if the Orpheus was one of the most luxurious passenger steamers.

His question was answered a moment later, when the Graf brought Lady Hannah toward him.

“Lieutenant Thorpe, there will be an addition to our traveling party,” he said.

“The Marquess of Rothburne asked me to escort his daughter, Lady Hannah Chesterfield, to their cousins’ estate in Germany after he learned I was returning home. ”

There was no doubt in his mind that the Lohenberg Graf had arranged this little detail for a reason—most probably as a means of manipulating him. Michael wouldn’t allow any harm to come to Lady Hannah, and the Graf knew it.

“Lady Hannah,” Michael greeted her. He let nothing betray his emotions, for he didn’t want her caught in the middle of his disagreement with Von Reischor.

Like him, Hannah kept her reaction cool and veiled. “Lieutenant Thorpe.”

It was as if an icy wall had gone up between them. If Michael hadn’t been there himself, he’d have doubted that their kiss had ever taken place. The prim and proper Lady Hannah was back, with no glimpse of the woman who had struck down her last suitor with a candlestick.

Graf von Reischor cleared his throat to interrupt them. “Lieutenant Thorpe has agreed to accompany me to Lohenberg, conducting business on behalf of the British Army.”

“I am glad to hear that you have been tasked with something so important.” Although she had already known of his orders, he suspected Lady Hannah was itching to ask more questions. Nonetheless, he didn’t want her to know anything about the Graf’s theory with regard to his heritage.

“When did your father make the decision about this journey?” he inquired, directing the conversation back to her.

“A few days ago.” Hannah twisted at one of her gloves, and the conversation fell flat between them.

Exile was a better word for it. The Princess would be locked away in a tower, away from those who might scorn her.

“Forgive me,” Graf von Reischor excused himself. “I must speak with the Captain about our cabin arrangements. I shall return shortly.” He gestured for one of Hannah’s maids to remain nearby, as a chaperone.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Michael lowered his voice. “Why would your father choose Von Reischor for an escort? Has he lost his wits?”

Hannah seemed taken aback, but a moment later, she raised her chin. “Papa wants me to wed a foreign count or duke, and Graf von Reischor has many acquaintances.”

That didn’t surprise him at all. Lady Hannah was the sort of woman who belonged among high society, her blue blood too good for anything less. If the London suitors wouldn’t have her, certainly her father’s money would pave the way for a foreign wedding.

“So long as he has the proper title and enough money, not much else matters, does it?” The words came out before he could stop them. He felt like a bastard for voicing them.

But proper to a fault, Hannah didn’t let any hurt feelings show. “I am not allowed to marry a man who does not possess the means to take care of a family.”

“Your father wouldn’t let you wed a merchant, sweet. Not even if he possessed a million pounds.” Men like the marquess were only interested in bettering the family name. “The higher the title, the more likely you are to gain his permission.”

“There are titled gentlemen who are good men,” she pointed out. “Not all of them are like Belgrave. Many would value a virtuous woman who wants to provide a comfortable home for him.”

“Like you?”

She turned crimson, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. None of this had been her fault. He ought to reassure her that nothing had changed, that she was still the same woman as before. But that was a lie. She would never be the same, not with a scandal shadowing her.

Then, too, he hadn’t behaved with honorable intentions, either. He’d taken full advantage of Hannah’s innocence, claiming stolen embraces and touching her in a way that was forbidden.

Right now, she was perfectly composed, every button fastened, every hair in its proper place. She looked nothing like the woman who had clung to him in the shed, kissing him as though time were running out.

The high-collared pelisse hid her neck, and he asked, “Did you receive your necklace back?”

“I did. You could have returned it yourself.” There was a hint of scolding in her tone.

“I thought it best not to see you again.” His voice came out rougher than he’d intended.

The wind buffeted Hannah’s bonnet, and she kept her gaze fastened upon a seagull circling the boat. Her green eyes were almost gray this morning, mirroring the darkness of the water.

“You’re right, of course.” She drew the edges of her pelisse tighter against her body. “We’ve caused enough scandal. It’s better for us to stay away from one another.”