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“Eastbourne Hall currently looks as though a brothel threw up on a circus. Nobody needs that much gilt or red velvet. And even the drapes are soaked in perfume.”

“It’s very striking by candlelight.”

“In the daylight it makes my eyeballs itch.”

She smiled. She couldn’t help it.

“So, no, it does not make you odd,” he continued. “I feel the same way.”

“I think that just means we’re both odd,” she pointed out.

“Perhaps.” He was smiling again when he said it, just a bit.

She followed the trail of little black birds, hastily painted. They flew over the rafters, along the headboard, across the windowsill. There were eight in all, but she had no idea if that meant anything.

The little blue bird painted on the edge of the stone at the foot of the hearth definitely meant something. Especially as the stone was just loose enough to pry free.

Underneath: dirt, a startled spider.

And another key.

This one was different than the first, longer, with scrollwork.

They checked again to make sure there was nothing else hidden away that the lock might open, floorboards that could be pried up, hollow table legs. There was not. Only more dust, a mouse nest, and splinters. Clara drew her hand away from the underside of the rough table with a sharp inhale. Bram was instantly at her side. “Just a splinter,” she said, taking off her half-glove, which was now torn. She tried to work it free, but it was too deep. “Some detective I am,” she added drily.

“Let me see,” Bram demanded.

“It’s nothing,” she said, but he was already reaching for her.

He scowled at her tiny wound as though she had been shot through with a musket. She curled her fingers into her palm, but he wouldn’t let her. He brushed his thumb over the end of the splinter, too small to grasp, but just sharp enough to make her wince. He immediately stopped. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just a pinch. I’m sure it will work itself out eventually.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “It comes out now, and then we’ll wash it when we get back to the Hall. The smallest wounds fester.”

“Are there a lot of splinter-related injuries on ships?” she asked, half joking.

“The splinters from cannon strikes can be as serious as any other weapons. They might easily take out eyes, fester in limbs, shred a sailor to ribbons.”

“This is hardly that. No explosions. Just a little dust.” Had he received his scars from cannon fire? “Is it rotten boards that make it so dangerous? Or do enemies paint noxious substances on the canon balls before they fire them?”

“They do not.” His mouth quirked. “But they should. The Royal Navy should take you on as an advisor.”

“Priya is the one with the poisons.”

“And yet you’re the one to watch.” He lifted her hand and—before she could wonder if he meant to dig it out with a knife or a needle, and why he had such things on his person—sucked her finger into his mouth.

The feeling took her entirely by surprise. His tongue ran over her skin, and then he sucked her fingertip harder into his warm mouth. There were answering tingles in her throat, her belly, knees. There was a single jolt between her thighs, and she nearly gasped. His eyes met hers, flaring blue as the heart of a flame. She swallowed when he sucked harder, then soothed her with this tongue.

He slowly released her, finally looking away. “There,” he said hoarsely, pulling the rest of the splinter free.

It was work to swallow and find her voice. “Thank you.”

Chapter Twelve

Bram needed a moment to get himself under control, not to mention get his bearings. There were too many warnings in that cottage, too many of those dammed black doves. Missing girls, keys.

And something else.