And it seemed, for not the first time in his life and certainly not the last, Raphael had been right in his estimation of this woman's intentions. He'd always had a knack for charming women—the only reason he'd put a halt on his womanizing was because of her: the woman he tried not to think about, but who he found difficult not to whenever he made a move on a woman who didn't live in the whorehouse.

His smile may have faltered if not for her laugh, which he decided very quickly he liked the sound of. It was not so perfected and melodic as many of the laughs the women of his station had, but it felt more... unique. Unperfected. A little scratchy, he would admit, but he'd be able to pick it out in a crowd.

"In the dark," he admitted, his closed-lipped smile spreading a little more, "but I assure you, I am plenty good at playing rescuer." And he was—back on the ship he had helped rescue Yaxley as much as she'd rescued him, and he'd left Portugal feeling far too proud of himself.

In the dark he was the only one with a light source, but it was not lost on him how strange it would look for him to be guiding the brooch-less lady up the stairs without her own light to guide her. No, it probably would be safe to look elsewhere. "But would it not be best to look outside first? I would hate for someone to pick it up." His hand crept to his own lapel pin, where the urge to let it fall to the ground overwhelmed him like an old addiction that he'd been tempted back into.

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