Pieter dropped them off at the corner of Ore Street, and they entered a bow-fronted coffeehouse directly across from the entrance to White Lion Yard. Georgie glanced around the dimly lit interior. She’d never set foot in a coffeehouse before, and this one appeared delightfully dingy. Clusters of patrons, from bootblacks to bewigged clergymen, lounged around rough wooden tables and argued nosily over the contents of the day’s newspapers. The strong scents of tobacco, coffee, sweat, and warm beer assaulted her nose.
Wylde thrust her into a vacant booth in the bay window and ordered two coffees from the bored-looking barmaid. Georgie stared down at the steaming brew with mingled disgust and delight.
“‘Black as hell, strong as death, sweet as love,’ as the old Turkish proverb goes,” Wylde murmured dryly. “Drink up.” He clinked his tankard against hers.
She took an experimental sip and discovered her fears were unfounded. The coffee was exquisite. She groaned appreciatively, then blushed as she caught Wylde’s intense gaze. Tension arced between them as she licked a drop from her lip, deliberately provoking, and enjoyed the way his jaw tightened. He desired her.
The knowledge of her newfound feminine power was like a drug. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers, like a fever in her blood. Desire pooled low in her stomach. In a few short hours, this man was going to make her a woman. She would be a virgin no more. She couldn’t wait.
“Stop it,” he growled.
She shot him an innocent glance from beneath her lashes, her confidence bolstered by the fact that they were in a public place. It was safe to taunt him here. “So, now what?”
He tilted his head at the cluster of buildings opposite. “Now we watch and wait. This is the boring part of undercover work. I can’t tell you how many hours Seb, Alex, and I have spent sitting around waiting for someone or other to show up.”
And wait they did, for over half an hour. Georgie squinted through the grimy window, but there was no movement from the warehouse. There were no deliveries. Nobody went in or out. She puffed out her lower lip and blew the hair up from her forehead with a little gust of air. “This is dull.”
Wylde, who had availed himself of one of the crumpled, coffee-stained news sheets and proceeded to ignore her, tilted down the corner and peered at her. “I told you.” With a sigh, he flicked his long fingers and summoned one of the scruffy-looking potboys who were lounging near the fire.
“What’s to do, guvn’r?”
He tilted his head across the road. “See that building there? Go and knock on the door. If someone answers, ask for Mr. Keating. There won’t be any Keating there, so say you must have been given the wrong address. Then come back here.”
“Woss in it fer me?” The boy sniffed.
“A shilling.”
The lad touched his forelock. “Done.” He scampered out into the street, and Georgie held her breath as he raced across the road and only narrowly avoided being trampled by a horse pulling a cart full of barrels. He rapped at the warehouse door and waited. When there was no response, he shrugged and jogged back across the road.
Wylde flipped a coin into his outstretched hand, and Georgie shot him a pleading look. “There’s obviously nobody there. Can’t we take a little look? Just a peek?”
He sighed. “Oh, all right.” He turned to the boy again. “What’s your name?”
“Mouse, guv.”
“All right, Mouse. Another shilling if you’ll stand watch and whistle if anyone comes.”
“Done.” The boy nodded eagerly. “I can whistle good.”
Wylde bypassed the front door of the warehouse and instead tugged her into the narrow alleyway that separated it from its grimy neighbor. A short flight of steps led down to the river at the far end, and Georgie put her hand over her nose to mask the fetid stench coming from the piles of refuse heaped amid the rusty shipbuilding materials that had been abandoned on either side. Thank goodness she’d worn an ugly dress. She’d burn it after this.
Wylde dragged a wooden crate under one of the warehouse’s dirty windows and climbed up. She was about to tell him he had little hope of seeing anything through such filthy glass when he produced a pocketknife and flicked open the casement with a practiced turn of the wrist. With a grin, he turned and offered her his hand.
“Ladies first.”
She sent him a scornful, doubtful glance. “You want me to climb through the window?”
“This was your idea, remember? If you want to get back in the carriage—”
That did it. Georgie grasped his wrist and let him haul her up. She gasped when he caught her around the waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the sill, then gathered her skirts, swiveled around, and dropped into the empty building. Wylde followed close behind.
She brushed the cobwebs off her skirt as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Dim light filtered down from a series of grimy skylights in the roof, enough to see the iron rails that ran along the floor to help launch a ship through the double doors at the far end, and the workbenches laden with woodworking tools. In the center of the space stood the unmistakable shape of the vessel she’d seen on paper.
Georgie let out an awed breath. “That’s it! Fulton’s ship. Look.”
She ran her hand along the rough planks of the ship’s side. Externally, at least, it looked like any other boat, with a wooden mast and spar, rudder, and anchor dangling from a chain. The familiar smell of fresh-cut wood and tar—used to waterproof the planks—filled her lungs.
Desperate to see how much had been completed, she stepped up onto the ladder that was propped against the side and peered over the rail. Unlike on a conventional boat, the deck was completely enclosed. There was just one funnel-shaped opening in front of the main mast, with a hatch to allow entry inside.
“I’m taking a closer look,” she whispered down to Wylde. He nodded, steadying the ladder for her, and she clambered onto the deck and peered down into the workings of the beast.
The inner chamber was around six feet square and curved on either side like a barrel, following the shape of the ship. She could just make out the twisted shapes of various pipes, handles, and levers in the gloom.
“It looks almost complete,” she called, her head still down the hatch. Wylde’s body brushed hers as he crouched beside her, and she bumped the back of her head as she jolted in shock. His nearness made her quivery, as if snakes coiled in her belly.
“There’s the handle and crank for the anchor,” she muttered, “and the bilge pump. Those other controls must be for the letting in of water or air for ballast and flotation.”
Wylde’s gravelly voice sounded directly behind her. “Have you ever noticed the preponderance of double entendres in maritime terminology? It seems to me there’s an alarming number of hand pumps, cocks, and screws.”
Georgie stifled an unladylike snort. “I’ve never really thought about it.” She brought her head back up, and he waggled his eyebrows at her.
“I mean, bilge pump? I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds filthy.”
She rolled her eyes. “That is so—”
A shrill whistle interrupted whatever she’d been about to say.
“Shit,” Wylde said. “Someone’s coming.” He nodded at the hatch. “Quick. Get in there.”