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obeyed the rules of her parents and society, Mr. Calhoun flouted convention and took his own path. Perhaps his very lack of protocol would make him see the sense in her plan, then.
    One of the stevedores struck up a bawdy song in Portuguese, the strong, operatic voice ringing across the waterfront. Women’s body parts sounded so much more poetic in Portuguese, Isadora observed, trying her best not to blush. She headed up to the main deck and then climbed to the…she consulted her memory as she progressed. The afterdeck—yes, that was it—reached by means of a gangway and companion ladder.
    She had burned the gaslight late the night before, studying a tome of nautical terms. At their meeting in the garden, Captain Calhoun had nearly exhausted her supply of knowledge, and she had stocked up on more. A deceptive practice, yes, but Isadora was desperate.
    She could hear young Timothy Datty shouting to her from the dock far below, but with the singing stevedore and the screech of lifting gear, she couldn’t hear him. And why was he jumping up and down and waving his arms?
    The deserted main deck had been cleared of crates and barrels, though a few remnants of the revelry remained—stray chicken feathers, a broken bottle, a spent cigar. She tucked away her apprehension and made her way to the captain’s stateroom, finding the door slightly ajar. Within, she could hear a faint thumping sound.
    Clearing her throat, she knocked at the door. “Captain Calhoun, are you there?”
    “Al…almost…” His voice sounded ragged, and he let out a gasp and a moan.
    He was ill! Dear heaven, he might be dying in there. She pushed the door open and marched inside. “I’m here, Captain. Do you need any help?”
    “I—oh, for Christ’s sake.” The crude words came from within a draped alcove.
    “What the hell’s going on?” asked a female voice, also behind the drapes.
    Isadora stopped in her tracks, frozen like a hunted rabbit. Heavens be, he was with a woman. In flagrante delicto. That must have been what Timothy had been trying to tell her. She willed herself to flee, willed her feet to turn toward the door, but she was too horrified to obey even common sense.
    A hand, and then a head, appeared through the drapes. Isadora recognized the woman from the night of the party, the one with yellow hair and red lips and huge—
    “I’m so sorry,” Isadora managed to whisper.
    “Not half as sorry as me,” the woman said in a coarse voice. She exited from the bed, pushing her feet into a pair of slippers and tugging up her bodice as she clumped to the door. “Don’t summon me again unless you have time for me,” she called over her shoulder, then left in a huff.
    Isadora knew she should follow, but horror held her rooted. She looked anywhere but at the bunk, trying to distract herself by cataloguing the details of her surroundings, but all appeared as a blur; she couldn’t concentrate.
    “You are like a bad rash,” Ryan Calhoun said, coming out of the bed and jerking the curtain shut. “You won’t go away.” Grumbling peevishly, he pulled on a tall boot.
    Isadora caught her breath. Seeing a gentleman with his shirt open at the throat, its tails loose over his trousers, his hair in tousled disarray, was a new experience to her. She even forgot to be insulted.
    He yanked on the second boot and scowled at her. “Miss Peabody, I paid you the honor of a personal visit to tell you why I cannot bring you along on the voyage. So why are you here?”
    “Because I need you,” she blurted, letting out her breath in a rush. Mortified, she cleared her throat, composing herself. “I mean, I was hoping you would see the sense in engaging my services as translator so that I wouldn’t have to prevail on Mr. Easterbrook.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “I’m afraid you left me no choice.” She took a folded letter from her reticule and handed it to him. “Your refusal compelled me to take matters into my own hands.”
    Almost viciously,