Under the watchful eyes of Emily Smith, William Sullivan truly found himself at a loss. In fact, saving a few Hongmen disciples didn’t really matter to him. Although the Taiping Army, Hongmen, and Qing Army alike would not bring a bright future to China, and William Sullivan had no particular fondness for any of these factions, if one set aside their historical limitations, there were always some righteous men among them who sacrificed their lives for their ideals—such people were still worthy of respect.

At the very least, the The Smith Siblings seemed to be such people. It was said they came from a powerful Hakka family in Guangxi, not rebels driven by hunger, nor fugitives who had turned against the authorities after committing violent crimes.

What frustrated William Sullivan most was that everything he was doing now seemed forced, as if he were being toyed with by a little girl two years younger than himself. Especially considering he was a modern person with knowledge from over a hundred years in the future, William Sullivan might be lazy, but he would never let himself be bullied—let alone by a little girl.

However, William Sullivan also knew that, though Emily Smith was young, her breadth of experience and the dramatic, perilous events she had lived through far surpassed his own. Emily Smith bore the lives of thousands on her shoulders. If this were a hundred years later, at seventeen, she would just be an ignorant student.

Thinking about it, William Sullivan couldn’t help but feel both admiration and pity—what a hard fate this was.

“Miss Smith, let’s make a gentleman’s agreement—three rules. What do you think? From now on, no matter who I write to or meet with, even if it’s your greatest enemy, you’re not allowed to act out. Once your brother is rescued, we’ll be even. After that, if you see me again and want to kill or flay me, it’ll be up to you.”

Emily Smith thought for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Of course.”

Only then did William Sullivan tell David Harris to ask Big Teapot to prepare the writing materials. Although there was a rosewood desk by the window, William Sullivan knew that Charles Bennett’s place would never be associated with books or ink.

“No writing in Manchu.” Before William Sullivan could start, Emily Smith came over to the desk, clearly not trusting William Sullivan, afraid this little trickster would play some trick.

William Sullivan just smiled. “Miss, you can read?”

Emily Smith thought to herself that this little rascal was quick-witted, and nodded slightly, her cheeks tinged pink. “A few characters.”

William Sullivan said no more. He picked up the brush and, though his strokes looked bold and free, the writing came out crooked and awkward. He really had no talent for calligraphy.

He quickly wrote a simple note: “Charles Bennett: Come to Yanchun Courtyard at once, urgent. Brother: William Sullivan.” After finishing, William Sullivan sheepishly handed it to Emily Smith for review—he had just said that writing a letter wouldn’t bring Charles Bennett here.

Emily Smith didn’t say much, just nodded gently.

William Sullivan folded the note and handed it to David Harris, then said, “I don’t know where he is right now, or if he’s on duty. You can go to the front gate guard post first. If he’s not there, then go to the Duke Fuguo’s residence in Donggaofang Hutong.”

Charles Bennett was a descendant of Yiqinwang Sahalin, the third son of Prince Dai Shan, one of the Eight Iron-Cap Princes. But he had little contact with the main family, who had inherited the title for generations—after all, two hundred years and more than a dozen generations had passed. Though of the same clan, they were as distant as could be.

This branch of Charles Bennett’s family had even lost their title at one point. It wasn’t until Charles Bennett’s grandfather’s generation that they recovered, thanks to the late Prince Johnson’s recommendation to the Jiaqing Emperor, which won imperial favor and earned the title of Duke Fuguo—the sixth rank after Prince, Junwang, Beile, Beizi, and Duke Zhenguo. In Beijing, there were thousands upon thousands of yellow-banded nobles, with twelve ranks of imperial titles, and countless idle clansmen without any title at all. Charles Bennett was at least ambitious enough to seek a post, hoping for favor from above, while most yellow-banded nobles just idled away their days, living off the fourth-rank stipend for idle clansmen.

After David Harris left, the room fell silent for a while. Suddenly, William Sullivan asked, “Miss Smith, does your foot still hurt?” As soon as he said it, he wished he could slap himself. She already thought he was a lecher, and here he was saying something so inappropriate. Was he staring at her feet the whole time?

William Sullivan had noticed earlier that, according to Guangxi Hakka custom, Emily Smith did not have bound feet. But the first time he met her, to fool the madam, she had squeezed into a pair of tiny shoes. After William Sullivan was knocked out and woke up, he realized this. Wanting to chat with Emily Smith, he didn’t know how he ended up asking such a question.

In truth, it wasn’t really William Sullivan’s fault. Though he’d been in this world for twenty years, he’d hardly interacted with young women of this era. The maids and old women in his household were all timid and wooden. He had no wife or concubines, had turned down many marriage proposals, and as for a principal wife, that would require a match arranged by the Imperial Clan Court or even the Emperor.

The Prince’s consort had always let him be, but in the past year or two, she’d started dropping hints, probably wanting a grandson. Unmarried at twenty, and a member of the imperial clan—he was considered old for marriage in this era.

Having always lived in such an environment, this was really the first time William Sullivan had interacted with an unfamiliar young woman. Out of habit from his previous life, he couldn’t help but say something inappropriate, and it was inevitable he’d be seen as a lecher.

Sure enough, Emily Smith’s pretty face darkened slightly. She picked up her green teacup and sipped her tea, giving William Sullivan the cold shoulder. If William Sullivan didn’t still have “use value,” he might well have ended up with a few more holes in his body.

William Sullivan rubbed his nose awkwardly and picked up his own teacup.