Read Chapter 8: The Tailor's Tale

The first-class dining saloon on A-Deck swam in candlelight and the low murmur of money. Crystal chattered against china. Champagne corks popped in distant corners like pistol shots. Jack O’Leary, dressed in a borrowed steward's jacket that fit two sizes too loose, stood near the service pantry with a measuring tape coiled around his neck and a leather notebook in his hand.

He looked the part. That was the trick. Look like you belong and no one asks why you're there.

"Mr. Ashworth?" Jack said to a passing waiter, affecting a clipped London accent he'd practiced in a mirror for an hour. "I'm here for the fitting. Mr. Whitmore's party. Table eight."

The waiter—a reedy man with a soup stain on his cuff—glanced at the tape measure. "You're the tailor? Bit young, aren't you?"

"Apprenticed to my father since I could hold a needle. He sends his regrets, but the gout keeps him abed." Jack patted his notebook with practiced ease. "A last-minute alteration. Mr. Whitmore is particular."

The waiter shrugged and gestured toward the far end of the saloon, where a long table sat beneath a garland of white roses. "They're just being seated. Mind you don't bother the ladies while they're eating."

Jack tipped an imaginary cap and moved through the room, weaving between tables laden with silver tureens and towering floral arrangements. His eyes swept the space, cataloging exits, faces, uniforms. The purser's office had been easy enough to slip away from—a bribe of five dollars to a junior clerk had given him access to the passenger manifests, and from there it had taken only a moment of clever mathematics to identify Margaret Hayes.

Second class. Booked as a companion to a Mrs. Eugenia Whitmore of Philadelphia. Steel magnate's widow. Traveling with her son, Douglas, who apparently required a new dinner jacket before docking.

The tailor's ruse was simple enough. Douglas Whitmore hadn't actually requested any such fitting, but gentlemen rarely remembered their own appointments. And if he was challenged, Jack had a dozen stories ready.

The table came into view. Mrs. Whitmore, a formidable stack of velvet and pearls, sat at the head. Beside her, a young man with a weak chin and an expression of perpetual boredom picked at his asparagus. And at the far end, almost separate from the group, sat a woman in her late twenties with auburn hair pinned up in a style that suggested she'd dressed herself rather than relying on a maid.

Margaret Hayes.

She wore a simple navy gown, a shade too plain for the company, and her eyes had the careful watchfulness of someone accustomed to being overlooked. She was looking at the window when Jack approached, and for a moment he saw something in her profile—a weariness that felt familiar.

"Mr. Whitmore?" Jack said, stopping beside the young man.

Douglas Whitmore looked up, annoyed. "Yes?"

"Terrence Finchley, tailor. My father's shop on Savile Row received your cable about the alteration. I've brought samples." Jack opened his notebook to reveal swatches of fabric he'd pinched from the ship's alteration room. "The navy serge you requested, sir. And the midnight wool, if you prefer."

Whitmore blinked. "I didn't—"

"Of course you didn't," Mrs. Whitmore cut in, her voice carrying the weight of a woman accustomed to managing household affairs. "I cabled you myself. Douglas, you've been meaning to see to that jacket for weeks. Stand up and let the man measure you."

Douglas rose with a put-upon sigh, and Jack produced the tape measure with practiced efficiency. He worked quickly, calling out numbers he invented on the spot, scribbling them in his notebook. The fabric of Whitmore's jacket was expensive—superfine wool, likely from a house on Bond Street. Jack noted the cut, the stitching, the telltale signs of wealth that came from never having to think about the cost of anything.

"Your father was Thomas Finchley?" Mrs. Whitmore asked, watching him with hawk-like attention. "Of the Savile Row Finchleys?"

Jack's hands stilled for half a second. A trap. She was testing him. "My uncle, madam. My father ran the Dublin branch until the fire took it in '08. We consolidated after."

The lie slid out smooth as butter on warm bread. Mrs. Whitmore's expression softened marginally. The fire had been real—a well-known disaster that had destroyed a dozen tailoring shops near Grafton Street. Jack had read about it in a newspaper years ago, and the detail had stuck.

"Terrible business," Mrs. Whitmore said. "I remember. Your family lost everything."

"We rebuilt, madam. Slowly, but we rebuilt."

Margaret Hayes glanced at him then. Just a flicker, but Jack caught it. Something in her eyes said she'd heard a lie dressed up in fine clothes before, and recognized the stitching.

Douglas sat back down, and Jack made a show of finishing his notes. He was about to withdraw when a steward arrived with a bottle of wine, and in the shuffle of glasses and plates, Margaret's napkin slid from her lap. Jack caught it before it hit the carpet.

"Careful, miss," he said, handing it back. "Wouldn't want a stain on a dress that fine."

Her eyes met his. Up close, they were the color of winter sea. "It's not fine at all," she said softly. "But it's the best I own."

"Then it deserves protecting."

She studied him for a moment longer, and Jack felt a strange prickle at the back of his neck. This woman wasn't fooled. Not entirely. But she wasn't calling for the purser either, and that was something.

Later, when the meal wound down and the party rose to disperse toward the smoking room or the promenade, Jack lingered near the service corridor, packing his notebook with theatrical care. He counted the seconds until the others filed out, planning his exit through the galley—

"I know you're not a tailor."

Jack turned. Margaret Hayes stood in the corridor's mouth, arms folded. Her voice was low, calm, without accusation.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You measure a man's inseam like you're picking his pocket." A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "And you've been watching the exits since you sat down. No real tailor does that."

Jack's throat tightened. He considered running, but she didn't look like she was about to raise an alarm. She looked curious. And curiosity, he knew, could be shaped into something useful.

"The truth?" he said. "I'm a tailor's apprentice who owes money to the wrong people in London. I came aboard to escape them, and I've been told there are—opportunities—in New York if I can present myself well." He spread his hands. "I thought I'd practice on the rich before I got there."

Margaret studied him. The lie had enough truth in it to pass if she didn't push too hard. And something in her expression told him she understood what it meant to be running.

"I'm a companion," she said. "A paid friend to a woman who doesn't like me. I'm expected to laugh at her jokes and pretend I don't see Douglas staring at my neckline." She tilted her head. "Tell me, tailor—what's your name, the real one?"

"Jack," he said. "Jack O'Leary."

"Margaret Hayes." She extended a hand, and he shook it. Her grip was firm, callused in ways a companion's shouldn't be. "If you need help navigating these waters, Jack O'Leary—I know every whisper in the first-class lounge. And I keep track of who's listening."

Jack filed that away. An ally. Unexpected, but useful as a blade hidden in a boot.

"What do you want in return?"

"I want off this ship in New York with more than my wages." She smiled, and there was something steely beneath it. "I suspect a man who knows how to pick a pocket and spin a lie might have ideas about how a woman in my position could—improve hers."

Before Jack could answer, a commotion rose from the main saloon. Tables scraped. Voices lifted. He peered around the corner and saw two men in dark suits speaking to a head steward, showing him a photograph. The steward's face had gone pale.

Big Nose Moran. And someone Jack didn't recognize. They were scanning the room.

Margaret followed his gaze. "Trouble?"

"Old debts," Jack said, already moving. "I need to disappear."

"Deck C, cabin 213," she said quickly. "The steward there owes me a favor. Tell him Margaret sent you, and he'll hide you till morning."

Jack paused. "Why?"

"Because I'm tired of being overlooked." Her eyes held his. "And I've just decided you're worth watching."

He slipped into the service corridor as Moran's head turned toward the table he'd just left. The photograph in the enforcer's hand was Jack's own face, grinning up from a London police mugshot.

The game had just gotten faster.