The girl looked surprised. Something akin to respect flickered across her face before she curtseyed and departed. Perhaps Elizabeth could become like her mother after all.
She opened the small rosewood chest. After depositing her trunk key into it upon arrival, she hadn’t looked inside once. As Florie indicated, the brooch sat atop the bits of pearly shell she’d collected as a child and alongside the miniature. She fingered the brooch. It was heavy for its size, perhaps made of gold. Bits of glass or rubies spelled out the letter H. Interesting. The mate’s name was Mr. Buetsch, if she remembered correctly. Perhaps it belonged to his mother’s family. Regardless, this brooch must be returned to him so the charges would be dropped against Rourke.
Father could do that.
She descended the steps and knocked on the study door.
“Come in.” Father sounded tired.
Elizabeth cracked the door. “It’s me.”
“Elizabeth.” He closed the folio on his desk and rose to greet her. “Please sit.”
She shook her head. “I wanted to ask a favor.”
He rounded the desk to lead her to one of the twin chairs. “I understand tonight did not go well. Mr. Finch is perhaps a bit too eager, but I believe his affections are genuine.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Finch.”
His eyebrows jerked upward. “Then what is troubling you?”
“This brooch.” Elizabeth opened her hand to reveal the golden pin. “I found it in our cabin on the Victory and forgot to return it.”
Father took the brooch and examined it in the light of the oil lamp. “You found it lying about the cabin, you say?”
“Not exactly. I was looking for footing after the ship grounded and pulled out the bottom desk drawer to use as a step. The brooch was on the floor under the drawer.”
“I see.” He turned it over and over, appearing deep in thought. “It bears your mother’s initial.”
The melancholy in his voice brought a lump to her throat, but she could not let emotion deter her, not when she could clear Rourke’s name. “I believe Mr. Buetsch gave up his cabin to us. This must belong to him. Could you please return it?”
“Dear, honest Elizabeth. You always think of others before yourself. That is how I know you will make the right choice concerning Mr. Finch.” He closed his fingers around the brooch. “I’m not certain if Mr. Buetsch is still here.”
“Mr. Finch led me to believe he was.”
Father frowned. “Percival mentioned the man? Perhaps he saw him about town.”
This did not fit with Mr. Finch’s account. Surely Father would know that Rourke had been charged with theft. Unless Mr. Finch was lying. She could believe that, but he’d had a look of earnestness about him, as if eager to pass along information that he believed would dispel her interest in Rourke.
“You still look troubled,” Father said.
Elizabeth could not speak ill of Mr. Finch. Father would never believe his clerk capable of deceit. Yet Rourke’s innocence must be assured. “Please locate Mr. Buetsch and show him the brooch.”
“Certainly.” Father pocketed the piece. “Though I suspect it’s only a trinket of glass and polished brass.”
“But Mr. Finch said Captain O’Malley has been accused of theft. I thought perhaps it concerned this brooch.”
He laughed and encircled her shoulders with his arm. “Dear Elizabeth. Don’t fret over what happens in court. I will take care of everything.”
She breathed a bit easier. “Thank you. I cannot believe any ill of Captain O’Malley. He saved my life. He saved all our lives.”
“Many men worked to bring you home.” He tweaked her chin. “I’m glad to have you here, sunshine.”
“You are?” Elizabeth warmed in the glow of his seldom-bestowed smile. Father had not called her by that pet name in years.
“Of course. You’re my only daughter. If I sometimes seem gruff or demanding, it’s only because I want the best for you. Always remember that.” He enveloped her in an embrace.
Elizabeth soaked up the familiar scents of wool and pipe tobacco. She had finally come home.
Rourke did not care to cross paths with Charles Benjamin just yet. When he saw the man headed toward him, his first instinct was to turn around. This part of town did not lie on the route between Benjamin’s home and either his office or the courthouse. The man must have business to attend to, and judging from the way he’d homed in on Rourke, that business was with him.
“Captain O’Malley.” Benjamin planted himself in front of Rourke.
“Mr. Benjamin.” Rourke nodded curtly, wishing he’d worn his Sunday clothes rather than sailors’ garb. “I’m headed to my ship.”
“A fine sloop she is, fastest in the Florida Straits, I’ve heard.”
Rourke’s guard went up. Benjamin did not give compliments. “That she is.”
“How long does the crossing to Harbour Island take?”
“Depends on the wind, sir.” Rourke hedged, uncertain where this discussion was headed. “With a stiff breeze off her forward quarter, she’ll make the crossing in two or three days. Why?”