The private balcony of the first-class cabin was battered by a cold, salty wind rolling off the Atlantic.
Shaneunbuttoned his camel hair coat and let the sea air sting his face. The voyage had been long, the air damp with smoke and brine, and the endless rhythm of the waves had begun to dull his mind. He reached into his inner pocket, his fingers brushing a folded slip of stiff paper. It wasn't the old photograph.
He unfolded it.
One sentence, scrawled hastily in rough handwriting, stared back at him:
"If the circus fails, burn the lions."
He recognized Old Henry's penmanship instantly. The edge of the paper was torn, as if ripped from a notebook in haste.
Shane stared at the words for a long while, then refolded the note and tucked it deeper into his coat.
In the cargo hold several decks below, the air reeked of engine oil, saltwater, and wet timber. Dim bulbs flickered above the crates.
Mikhail had a young man pinned against a wall of wooden boxes, his hand fisted in the man's collar.
"Who sent you?" Mikhail's voice was low and dangerous.
"What did you see?"
"Who's your boss?"
The young man's lips quivered. He tried to speak, but each attempt was crushed beneath another harsh question. The sound of the engines drowned most of his stammered words.
Three thousand miles away, in a suite at The Savoy Hotel, London, a fire snapped and crackled in the hearth.
Harry Crocker slit open a telegram with an ivory-handled paper knife. On the crisp sheet, written in Chaplin's hurried hand, was a single line:
"Make him bleed percentage."
Crocker stared at the words, his mouth curving into something colder than a smile. He let the telegram slip into the fireplace. The paper curled, blackened, and vanished in flame.
Back on the RMS Olympic, the wind tore across the deck, carrying icy spray from the ship's wake.
Shane leaned against the stern railing. The metal bit through his coat as he looked out at the endless dark. Below, the propellers churned white foam against the gray waves.
He lit a Havana cigar—Henry's gift—and watched the ember flare orange in the gloom. The smoke trailed upward, lost in the biting wind.
From his pocket, he pulled out a yellowed photograph. A young Charlie Chaplin, backstage in a New York vaudeville hall, grinning like a fool, a button missing from his shirt.
Shane brushed a thumb along the photo's edge. His thoughts were interrupted by an argument nearby.
"My dear Gertrude, your moods change faster than the Atlantic weather!"
The sharp, polished tones of an Oxford accent cut through the air.
Shane turned his head.
A man in a perfectly cut black tailcoat stood with his back to him, facing a striking woman whose pearl headdress glittered beneath the deck lights. Her catlike eyes flashed with fury.
"Noël, If you dare change another line of my monologue," she snapped, tapping his chest with her silver cigarette holder, "I'll make sure the entire West End knows what you've been doing with the Countess!"
The man—clearly not one unused to drama—threw up his hands in mock despair and turned away, accidentally bumping into Shane's shoulder.
Their eyes met. Shane's face was expressionless, but his mind was racing.
"Aha!" the man exclaimed, the annoyance in his eyes instantly replaced by excitement, as if he'd discovered a new toy.
His gaze swept over Shane—custom suit, handmade leather shoes—and lingered briefly on the Patek Philippe wristwatch.
"A silent witness!" he declared, spreading his hands. "It seems the gods of Olympus have finally sent us a proper arbiter!"
The woman seized the moment, slipping her arm through Shane's. The scent of Chanelmixed with a trace of martini on her breath.
"Kid, you be the judge," she said, voice sweet but sharp. "This playwright insists on turning my heroine into a shrieking fool, just to please those old critics with powdered wigs."
Shane's face didn't move. He calmly slid her hand off his arm and said in his low Irish tone, "Ma'am, in New York, we usually buy someone a drink before deciding whether to keep their secrets."
The man laughed aloud. He flicked open a gilded cigarette case, its silver gleaming.
"To that brilliant bit of American wisdom!" he said, bowing lightly. "I owe you a bottle of champagne. Noël Coward, playwright, and this delightful menace beside me—Gertrude Lawrence. May we tempt you with a drink?"
In the warm glow of the first-class bar, crystal glasses clinked and the soft hum of conversation filled the air.
Noël Coward sat across from Shane, cutting a large ice sphere into shape with a small silver knife. Nearby, men in Savile Row suits sipped cognac and discussed markets and art, their laughter blending with the piano's gentle notes.
Lawrence lounged beside them, tapping her champagne glass with her diamond bracelet, the light scattering across her skin.
In a shadowed corner, Jay sat alone, a glass of whiskey untouched in front of him, his sharp eyes watching Noël Coward.
Coward tossed the ice sphere into Shane's glass with an effortless flick. "Business in London, is it?" His voice carried that effortless mix of curiosity and mischief. "Let me guess—whoever sent you probably forgot to mention the midnight tours of the Bank of England's vaults."
Under the table, Lawrence's foot brushed Shane's leg—light, deliberate.
"Don't listen to him," she said with a coy smile. "But… that photograph in your pocket—it's Charlie Chaplin, isn't it? The one from his Keystone days?"
Shane's fingers tapped his whiskey glass once. "Seems the eyes on this ship are sharper than any lighthouse in the Atlantic."
The pianist shifted into Debussy's "Clair de Lune." The room softened under its calm, melancholic melody.
Coward twirled his silver knife, plucking an olive and dropping it neatly into his martini. "Chaplin in 1915," he murmured, "was worth more than gold. I heard Keystone nearly emptied its vaults just to keep him."
Shane smiled faintly. "He's skiing in Switzerland."
That caught both their attention—their gazes locked on him.
Lawrence laughed softly. "You'll scare our American friend, Noel. Why don't we make this interesting? A little game."
Coward's fingers moved like a magician's as he pulled out a deck of cards, shuffling with easy elegance. "Blackjack? Faro? Or perhaps we raise the stakes. You tell us the real reason you're sailing to London."
Shane slowly unbuttoned his suit, letting the photo slip halfway into view.
"I thought gentlemen of the West End preferred bridge," he said, voice even. "It demands patience."
Coward bent to pick up the photo. For a brief moment, the playfulness drained from his face.
"Ah," he murmured. "Charlie Chaplin, 1915. Back then, he was still in the Fred Karno Company, earning six pounds a week, dreaming of playing Hamlet."
Lawrence leaned over. "He looks like a lost college boy."
Coward placed the photograph back on the table, his smirk returning. "You don't carry something like this across the Atlantic for nostalgia, kid. Let me guess—you're on your way to see Sir Victor Claire, the collector of every Chaplin photograph, right?"