“Mr. Grayson sent all able men away in the boat, save Mr. Linnet.” She searched out Davy’s smooth face in the crowd. “And together they shot down the mast with the Kestrel’s own cannon, dousing the fire in the sea.”

“Remarkable,” the judge whispered.

“Is it not?” Pride brought a smile to her face. “It was the truest act of valor I have ever witnessed. Mr. Grayson saved many lives that day. Including the life of Captain Mallory, who now has the malicious cowardice to accuse innocent men of piracy rather than lose his own ship as salvage.”

Sophia leaned closer. “Do you know, Mr. Fitzhugh, that Captain Mallory would have denied his injured crewmen medical attention, when a port was only a few days’ sail away? This is why Mr. Grayson seized the Kestrel, sending his own ship ahead with the wounded. If that be an act of piracy, then he is the most honorable pirate to ever live. And as I also joined the crew that seized the Kestrel, I am proud to declare myself a pirate, too.”

“You joined the crew?”

“Yes, I became ship’s cook. They were undermanned, you see.” Sophia loosened one glove and removed it, revealing her calloused, knife-scored hand. “Your honor, I am a gentlewoman. I have never performed such labor in my life, but I was glad to do it to help these men. My life changed the day of that storm. I shall never be the same again.” In more ways than youwould suspect, she thought with some amusement. But the statement was the truth.

She turned to Gray, who wore a half-smile of his own. It was a comfort to know they still shared something, if only a private joke.

“Even now, this innocent man would sacrifice himself to save his brother and crewmen from the hangman’s noose. Mr. Grayson’s courage and fortitude are an example to me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief. “They should be an example to us all.”

Oh come now, Gray’s smirk chided her. Don’t take it too far.

“An example …” Fitzhugh spoke in a slow tone of discovery. “Of honor?”

“She’s a liar!” Mr. Brackett pushed to the front of the room, carving his way through the assembly with his blade-thin nose and sharp elbows. “She’s a liar and a whore. They’re lovers, she and Grayson. Her whole story is a falsehood, fabricated to save his miserable neck.”

Sophia’s heart seized. The crowd held its breath. Please don’t ask it, she silently implored the judge. It felt so good to finally stand before Gray, these men, the world, and tell the truth. Could she bring herself to deny him now, even to save his life? Please, just don’t ask.

“Miss Hathaway?” The judge adjusted his spectacles and peered at her.

“What, precisely, is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Grayson?”

“My … relationship?” Turning away, Sophia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. I’m sorry, she mouthed to Gray. He gave her a barely perceptible nod, his expression hard. He was wiping all emotion from his face, expecting her denial.

She had to say it; she had no choice. “I love him.”

Surprise melted the ice in his gaze. Soon his eyes were shining with approval. Approval, and love.

Her heart soared. For this one moment, they loved each other, and the rest of the world could go hang. “I love him,” she repeated, simply because she could. Because it was the truth.

Now the truth was out, suspended in the humid silence—a sketch of it, at least. It still remained within Sophia’s ability to shade it. Collecting herself, she took advantage of the stunned pause. “As is my Christian duty, your honor. To say I felt anything less for him would be not only a falsehood, but a sacrilege.”

The judge scratched his wig.

“No,” Brackett protested. “She’s a liar, I tell you!”

“I assure you, I speak only the truth. What motive do I have to lie?”

Sophia tugged on her glove, working her fingers into the slender tips.

“Indeed, I have come to care deeply for many of the men in this courtroom. But anyone who would insinuate that I give this truthful testimony in hopes of resuming some relationship with Mr. Grayson, friendly or otherwise, would be mistaken. I esteem the man, your honor. I admire him greatly, and his example of honesty and courage has altered the course of my life. But beyond today, I do not expect to ever meet with him again.”

Gray took a step forward. “You can’t mean—”

Sophia froze him with a look. “Yes, Mr. Grayson, I mean that my mission here has already been completed.”

He stared at her, clearly baffled. Adorably so.

“Since leaving England, I have resolved to never marry,” she said, directing her statement at the judge, “but to devote my fortune to charity. I have twenty thousand pounds, you see—or I shall have in a matter of days, when I reach my majority. It was to have been my dowry, but this very morning I have pledged it toward the purchase of Eleanora plantation from Mr. George Waltham, to establish a sugar cooperative for freedmen.”

“A sugar cooperative?” Gray and Fitzhugh spoke as one.

There. Now Gray and Joss had nothing further to argue over, no years-old dispute to drive them apart. They could start over, sit down and discuss their future with open minds and open hearts. It was likely too late for Sophia’s own family, but she could not pass up this chance to heal theirs.

“Mr. Wilson and Miss Grayson can provide you with any evidence you may require on that matter.” She folded her handkerchief. “As for me, I fear I must be going.”

“Going?” Again, Gray and Fitzhugh spoke in unison, and each glared at the other, clearly annoyed.

“Now that my mission has been completed, I must return to England. I have given only earnest money, you see, some six hundred pounds. The rest of the transaction must be completed in London. And I … I must return to my family, though I do not know how they will receive me. After this adventure, I doubt I shall be received by even my closest friends. Most certainly not by the likes of Mr. Grayson’s family.” He had to understand this, the reason she must leave.

“Mr. Grayson’s family?” the judge asked.

“Didn’t you know? Your honor, he is the nephew of a duke. I played cards with his aunt, the Duchess of Aldonbury, every third Wednesday.” She gave Gray a cautious look. “Her granddaughter, Lady Clementina Morton, was at school with me. I was even so fortunate as to be a guest in their home, your honor, but that is not a plea sure I shall ever have again. Her Grace is a lady of elevated rank and limited forgiveness. Were I the ambitious sort, Mr. Fitzhugh, I should not wish to cross her.”

The judge blanched to the color of parchment.

Sophia busied herself with the cord of her reticule. “No, I shall be ruined in society’s eyes, though my conscience is clear. I must go home and throw myself on the mercy of my family. If they spurn me …” She shrugged.

“Perhaps I shall become a governess.”

A sense of satisfaction filled her. Yesterday, she’d planned to lie—to walk into this courtroom and pretend to be the sort of honest, selfless woman who could have helped Gray’s cause. Now she had given everything—her fortune, her reputation, her future—to make it the truth. Not just to save Gray

’s life, but to redeem hers.

What a fool she’d been, always blaming the world for not seeing the person beneath the vast fortune. The truth was, she’d spent her life afraid—hiding behind wild lies and fantasies—because she hadn’t believed in herself, in her own value.

That all ended today. Here, in this courtroom, the truth was worth something. She was worth something. The world was welcome to shun her now. For the first time in a long while, Sophia liked herself. She would have no regrets.

She turned a slow circle, letting her gaze linger on each of her friends one last time. “I sail for Antigua immediately, where I understand I may board an English frigate.” Her gaze settled on Gray. “So this is good-bye.”

Gray nodded. Of course, now that he understood everything—how her past would inevitably poison his family’s future—he was letting her go.

“Farewell, then. Unless …” She addressed Fitzhugh with perfect innocence. “But you didn’t really mean to charge us all with piracy?”

He blinked.

Sophia smiled. “I didn’t think so.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Whether one strolled the park or traveled the globe, the journey home invariably seemed shorter than the journey abroad. It felt only a matter of hours before the Polaris crossed the Tropic, although Sophia knew days had passed. Very little fanfare had accompanied the occasion: a bit of singing among the sailors, a collection of shillings in a tarred cap, to which she contributed from her dwindling purse.

Perhaps the subdued celebration could be credited to the scarcity of passengers aboard the frigate. She was accompanied only by the ship’s supercargo, and the widow and two grown sons of an Antiguan planter. However, Sophia thought it more likely that the character of the captain, the perpetually dour Captain Herring, was to blame. As herrings went, he seemed to be of the kippered variety.

No, the Polaris was not the Aphrodite, nor even the Kestrel. And for this, perhaps Sophia ought to have been grateful. In an atmosphere of camaraderie and merriment, her melancholy might have drawn notice. But if anyone took note of her remote behavior or persistently moist eyes, it was only to suggest a remedy for cold.

If only there were a cure for heartache.

On fine afternoons like these, she spent long hours staring out over the sea. She had no more paper or canvas; even her little trunk of paint and brushes had been left behind. But it soothed her, blending pigments in her mind to capture the ever-shifting colors of the waves: today, a base of Prussian blue, tinted with cobalt green. The same shade would be reflected in his eyes, if Gray were there with her. She could almost imagine he was. Almost.

Sophia shook her head, dismayed. It would seem she’d finally discovered the limits of her vivid imagination.

Still, whenever a sail appeared on the horizon, a ridiculous hope bloomed in her heart. She peered out over the waves, anxious to glimpse the profile of the ship, the style of its rigging. Any square-rigged ship spurred an irrational acceleration of her pulse. When a closer view—or the ship’s disappearance over the curve of the earth—proved it was not the Aphrodite, she would chide herself for her foolish tears.

He knows the truth now, she told herself. He understands everything.And he has let you go.

When a sail appeared this afternoon, her ordeal was mercifully brief. The ship sighted at their stern quickly revealed itself to be a schooner, its large, triangular sails jutting up from the sea like a row of shark’s teeth. As the ship drew closer, unease spread through the crew like a contagion.

“Don’t like it,” the first mate said. “The way she’s bearing down on us, as if she were in pursuit. If they want to speak, why don’t they fire a signal?”

“What colors is she flying?” the captain asked. “That’s a Baltimore-built ship, to be sure. Could be privateers, though, sailing under a Venezuelan flag.”

“Not flying any colors that I can see,” the officer reported, squinting into his spyglass. “She’s heavily armed, riding high on the waves. Can’t be much cargo to speak of in that hold.”

“Pirates.” The captain let out a string of oaths. Not particularly imaginative ones, but uttered with conviction nonetheless. Sophia drifted toward the stern, drawn by the sight of the jagged sails slicing toward them.

“She has the advantage of the wind, Captain. Gaining fast. Still no colors, but I can almost make out the name of the craft. Hold there … she’s tacking to the wind. Ah.” He lowered the spyglass. “Named the Sophia.”

Her heart gave a queer flip. No. It couldn’t be. Surely it was merely oneof life’s cruel coincidences.