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into the Atlantic that he had the sensation of being warm on the inside.
    He stood. If no one was going to come to him—
    "Now where do you think you're going?" The no-nonsense voice belonged to Mrs. Davis, Jonna Remington's housekeeper. She was carrying a warming pan in front of her as if she meant to do battle with it. Though small of stature, she had a militant look about her even when she wasn't harried as she was at this time. Normally her apron was as crisp as her speech and stiff as her upper lip. The wrinkles in it now suggested Mrs. Davis had indulged herself briefly in a little hand-wringing. Her white cap was slightly askew on her graying hair, and there was a hint of puffiness beneath her eyes. The tip of her thin nose was pink. Her handkerchief was a visible bulge under her sleeve. "Back in bed with you," she ordered. Brooking no argument, she advanced with the warming pan.
    "Miss Remington?" The weakness in his voice was unexpected. He wasn't sure he was even understood.
    Her face looked about to crumple, but she busied herself exchanging the warming pan in her hand for the one under Decker's sheets, this bit of industry helping her recover. "The doctor's been and gone," Mrs. Davis said.
    What exactly did that mean? "Then Miss Remington is..."
    "In her room." Mrs. Davis plumped the pillows, smoothed the covers, and, pressing Decker's shoulder firmly, directed him to lie down again. Her eyes watered as she studied his drawn features. There was a certain tightness in his jaw that she could not recall seeing before, and a muscle worked in his cheek. She thought of his careless smile only because it was absent. "You should rest, Mr. Thorne," she said quietly. "Though I suppose it's Captain now. Mr. Quincy tells us you mastered the clipper when he took to his bed." Mrs. Davis felt absently along her forearm for the handkerchief she'd tucked under her sleeve. Tears threatened to fall. "He told us what you did in the harbor... how you risked yourself to pull Miss Remington free. We're grateful." A tear that she could not blink back fell over her delicately lined cheek. "I just thought you should know." Her cheeks turned pink. She gave up trying to find the handkerchief and began to walk hurriedly away.
    Decker pushed himself up on his elbows. "Here, Mrs. Davis. I think you're looking for this."
    She stopped, turned, and saw Decker holding her handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger. She'd heard stories about him. All the servants had. It seemed an odd time to verify there might be some truth in them. Her tears dried of their own accord. She would have to set the maids to counting the silver as long as he was a guest. Mrs. Davis took the crumpled square of linen back. "How did you do that?"
    The incorrigible grin surfaced now. "Habit."
    * * *
    Decker waited several minutes before he left the room. He belted the dressing gown he had found in the armoire and stepped into the empty hallway. He had only been in the Remington home on two occasions, both times with Jack Quincy on business matters, and he had never been above stairs. He knew from the view from the street that the mansion was laid out in two distinct wings. If the portrait above the mantel was any indicator, then the bedchamber in which he had been placed to recover had belonged to the master and mistress of the house. Would Jonna's room have been in the same wing as her parents' or would it have been elsewhere?
    Decker thought about the woman in the painting. Charlotte Reid would have wanted her child close. He started to open the door to the room next to his, then stopped. Jonna would have struck out independently sometime on her way to adulthood. Decker was sure of that. He closed the door carefully and padded on bare feet to the west wing.
    He really hadn't expected to make it to her room without discovery, and he had no hope that he would find her alone. Yet no one stopped him in the hall, and when he found her bedchamber she was quite without