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looked around at everyone from where he sat. “So, can I get up now?”
    â€œOf course,” Wellington said, reaching down to him.
    The man bent down to pick up his hat, keeping his own intent stare on Eliza as he dusted it off.
    â€œPartnered with ‘Wild Bill’ Wheatley.” She sniffed, returning his gaze. “Thank God my corset’s been reinforced.”
    â€œSounds like you got a problem with the American way of doing things,” Bill snapped. “I do what I do, and get results. I’m thorough.”
    â€œIs that what you call it? Thorough?” Eliza began, planting her hands on her hips, knowing full well she was perilously close to looking like a fishwife.
    â€œI hate to interrupt this—I believe you would call it in the Americas—Mexican standoff, but if I recall, Miss Lovelace was about to brief us on why we have been called here.” Wellington gave a nod to Bill. “Mr. Pot.” He then turned to Eliza. “Miss Kettle. Follow me, if you please?”
    â€œYour partner there,” the American spoke right by her ear, “he’s not quite right, is he?”
    Eliza answered, but kept her eyes on Wellington. “In many ways, but he grows on you.”
    â€œNice punch there, Braun,” the American mumbled.
    â€œThank you,” she said, dropping him a little curtsey. “I have been working on it since San Francisco.”
    He shot her a rueful glance and then swept a quite passable bow. “Then shall we join our partners, before they get restless?”
    â€œYes, let’s.” She led the way to the table, where they both took seats with far less tension than on their initial meeting. The barkeep had already refreshed their drinks and even included a freshly pulled beer for Bill. Felicity was casting her eyes wildly from bartender to patron as her fingers nervously tapped a large envelope.
    â€œFelicity, come on now, these boys don’t really care about our business. Unless we got leads to a fishing spot or a sunken ironclad, we are just having drinks and looking at a map of the beach.” Bill took up the beer and winked. “I know this place.”
    â€œAs well as you knew that contact in San Francisco?” Felicity asked, her eyebrow arching slightly. Bill paused just as his beer was about to reach his lips, but she merely shrugged. “It’s worth asking.”
    â€œJust educate them, darlin’,” he replied, before taking a long sip, “’cause that is what you do.”
    Felicity pursed her lips for a moment before opening the envelope. She spread out a map of the United States’ eastern seaboard before them, and tapped upon the state directly underneath Virginia. “Just south of us is a small strip of land connected to North Carolina that is comprised of several townships—Currituck, Nags Head, Kitty Hawk, Hatteras, Ocracoke, and so on. Collectively, this area is referred to as the Outer Banks.”
    â€œAnd if memory serves, this area,” Wellington said, running his fingers along a stretch of ocean off the North Carolina coast, “carries the charming moniker of Graveyard of the Atlantic. Well over five hundred wrecks within these waters, yes?”
    She looked up from the map in surprise. “You know about the Outer Banks?”
    â€œI know that rather treacherous currents and particularly shallow sandbars have given this stretch of the Atlantic a rather dubious reputation.” Wellington tilted his head. “I also carefully read your rather thorough case summary.”
    â€œYou thought it was thorough?” Felicity asked, her cheeks reddening the longer she considered Wellington. “I did spend quite a bit of time on it.” Clearing her throat, she produced from an envelope a section of transparent cellulose with a variety of markings on it. A continuous line matched the jagged coastline of Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina. The