Elizabeth Powell (2 page)

Amanda’s cheeks grew hot. She took another deep breath and counted to five, unclenched her hands, and silently reminded herself that she needed Harry, no matter how much she wanted to slap him.

“You told me that you’d do anything to help Grandmama and me, especially now. Are you a man of your word?”

Harry started and drew himself up indignantly. “Of course.”

“Then you know how much this means to me.” Amanda spread her hands. “Please, Harry—I need you. If I don’t succeed at the party, I will take Grandmama back to Dorset and put all of this behind us.” She hated herself for spinning this web of lies, but she had to circumvent Harry’s stalwart sense of honesty. He would never agree to help her if he knew the truth.

Harry wavered. He tugged at his black neckcloth. “What makes you think I can get an invitation?”

“Because you come from a family with a lengthy history of naval service, because your father is a viscount, because your captain is one of the most well-respected in the entire fleet, and because you’re a promising young officer.” She ticked off each item on a gloved finger.

Harry thought about that for several moments, then sighed. “This cork-brained scheme is one of your worst, Amanda,” he groused. “Promise me at the very least that you won’t cause a scandal.”

Amanda rewarded him with her best, most dazzling smile. “I promise I won’t do anything to hurt your career, Harry. I know how fond you are of that new lieutenant’s uniform.”

A telltale flush rose from the young man’s collar. He threw up his hands. “All right, though I’m the biggest sapscull in the world for going along with this. I’ll pick you up at your lodgings, then. What times does this folderol start?”

“Nine o’clock.” Exhilaration cascaded through her. “But do not come to our rooms; I will meet you down at the street.”

Confusion creased Harry’s brow. “Eh? Why? Afraid of what your grandmother will say?”

Amanda dropped her guilty gaze. “Partially. She doesn’t know about the party.” Or about her granddaughter’s plans …

“But what worries me most,” she added, “is that Mrs. Jennings has the ears of an elephant, the tongue of an adder, and enough curiosity to kill a hundred cats. I mustn’t give her any reason to start asking questions about Grandmama and me. The last time our landlord found out who we were, he barely gave us time to gather our belongings before he threw us into the street. I can’t take any chances.”

Harry cast her one last, probing glance, then nodded. “Deuced queer, if you ask me, but I gave you my word.”

“Thank you, Harry!” Amanda threw decorum to the wind; she stood on tiptoes and placed a quick kiss on his weather-roughened cheek. “You are my very dearest friend.”

“You said that just before we raided Squire Templeton’s prized orchard,” grumbled Harry, his face now quite red. “I couldn’t sit down for a week after that. And you said it again before the incident at the mill, and the fracas with Throckmorton at the pond—”

Amanda sobered. “You have always been my dearest friend, Harry. I would never say such a thing lightly. And I would not ask you to do this unless it were of the utmost importance.”

Harry muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Just don’t make me regret this.” He straightened and tugged at his jacket. “If we fail, it’ll mean far worse than a tanned hide—we’ll both be in the suds.”

“We won’t fail, Harry, I’m sure of it.”

Amanda gave him another quick hug, then took her leave and hastened back toward Oxford Street. Dear, dear Harry! With his help, she would spike the enemy’s guns and reveal him for what he truly was. She lowered her head against the first volley of raindrops that pelted down from the ominous bank of clouds overhead, and quickened her pace. She had to hurry; she had plans to make.

Captain Jack Everly did not need to look up at the leaden sky or smell the wet breeze to know that a storm
was imminent. His right leg throbbed with a deep, teeth-gritting ache; the wound was mostly healed, but his refusal to remain sedentary and damp, chill conditions aggravated the pain. He knew when it would rain even before clouds appeared in the sky. A supreme stroke of irony, this. His own body was now more reliable than any ship’s glass.

He descended gingerly from the carriage and stared at the flight of steps before him. If he had been thinking at all this morning, he would have ignored his pride and brought his cane with him. Like it or not, there were days when he needed its support. But he could not put off the admiral’s summons, nor would he. He was recovered and ready for command, and this was his opportunity to prove it—if he had to spend any more time ashore, he would go mad. He straightened his jacket, placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and, his face grim, made his way up the stairs to the town house door.

Once inside, Everly realized that the front steps were only the beginning. He handed his heavy cloak to a footman, removed his braided bicorne, and tried to ignore the graceful sweep of mahogany stairs that arched above him to the first floor. More bloody stairs. He grimaced, but erased the gesture when the admiral’s butler appeared.

Parkin greeted him with a stiff bow. “Good morning, Captain Everly. A pleasure to see you again, sir, if I may say so.”

“Thank you, Parkin. I believe the admiral is expecting me.” Everly resisted the sudden urge to smile. In all his many visits to this house, he had never seen the butler’s expression deviate from wooden correctness. The admiral ran a tight ship, and expected the utmost discipline from his subordinates. Everly wondered if poor Parkin’s face had frozen in place over the course of the years.

“Indeed, sir. If you will follow me.” Parkin headed for the staircase. Everly gritted his teeth and followed.

By the time they reached the admiral’s study, Everly was cursing himself for leaving his cane behind. His leg ached with merciless intent; he could feel the skin around
his eyes and mouth draw tighter the more he tried to suppress the pain. He hoped his face was not as white as his waistcoat. Admiral Lord St. Vincent was no fool.

Parkin opened the paneled oak door and stepped aside. “Captain Sir Jonathan Everly,” he announced in stentorian tones.

Hearing his name pronounced so formally made Everly hesitate on the threshold. He wasn’t used to the title, even after six months. Every time he heard it, he wanted to look over his shoulder to see who “Sir Jonathan Everly” was, as if the name belonged to a complete stranger.

“Confound it, Parkin, stop shouting. I’m not half as deaf as you’d like to think me,” came the irascible reply from the depths of the room. “Well, boy, don’t stand there gawking like a green midshipman. Come in.”

Despite his discomfort, Everly’s mouth twitched into a half smile as he stepped into the admiral’s study. His patron was the only man who could get away with calling him “boy.” Everly’s good humor, however, faded as he surveyed the room.

Admiral Lord St. Vincent, once known as Sir John Jervis, was an exacting man whom many credited with whipping His Majesty’s Navy into fighting trim. At the age of seventy-six, “Old Jervie” still retained the fierce intelligence and acerbic wit that made him a legend in the British Navy. Although no longer in command of a ship, he maintained an orderly, regimented life, and his house reflected this sense of discipline. Today, though, Everly was astonished to see charts and papers strewn about the admiral’s desk, weighted down by several books and a half-empty decanter of brandy. Despite the advanced hour of the morning, the heavy curtains remained closed. A low fire smoked in the hearth and did little to relieve the pervading gloom. The heavy, musty smells of old leather, books, and ashes formed an incipient sneeze at the back of Everly’s throat.

The admiral himself, his gold-braided uniform jacket creased and rumpled, stood behind his desk and scowled at the documents in his hand. Weariness lined the elderly
man’s face and hunched his shoulders; veiled rage burned in his eyes.

Everly assumed a carefully neutral expression as he came to stand before the admiral’s desk. He drew himself to attention. “Good morning, my lord,” he ventured.

The older man harrumphed and tossed the stack of papers onto his desk. He clasped his hands behind his back and fixed Everly with a penetrating gaze. “I understand you’ve been to see the First Lord.”

News traveled quickly. The captain started in spite of himself. “Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“The Earl of Hardwicke retains the opinion that I am not yet well enough for command.” Everly’s jaw flexed at the memory of that dismissive meeting.

“And I’ll wager you would like me to convince him otherwise.” St. Vincent paced to the window and peered out through the gap between the fringed velvet panels.

“I would, sir. I am recovered, and wish to reassume command of the
Hyperion
, or any other available ship, as soon as possible. I am anxious to be back at sea.”

The admiral’s narrowed eyes scanned the younger man up and down. “Out of the question,” he pronounced.

A hot stab of anger lanced through Everly. He felt the tips of his ears begin to glow. “Might I inquire as to why not, sir?” Speaking became more difficult when he had to force his words through his teeth.

“Because any man with eyes in his head can see you’re still in pain from that leg wound. You’re pale as a ghost.” St. Vincent seemed to relax; his expression eased. He sank into his cracked leather desk chair and waved a hand in his protégé’s direction. “Sit down, Everly, sit down.”

The captain lowered himself into an overstuffed wing chair, grateful to be off his feet but stung that the admiral had read him so easily. Neither the First Lord nor his own commanding officer believed him ready, and now his patron had added his voice to theirs. Admiral Lord St. Vincent was one of the most influential men in the Royal Navy; Everly
had
to convince his patron that he
was fit for duty. Time to try another tack. “Sir, I ask you to reconsider. Other captains have sustained similar wounds or worse, and been returned to their ships.”

“I know you feel out of place on land, Everly,” St. Vincent replied with a slight, tired smile, “but the navy needs its captains—especially promising men like yourself—in one piece. You were damn fortunate, boy, that you did not die at Lissa.”

Everly nodded once, loath to open that Pandora’s box of remembrance. The battle of Lissa seemed so long ago, yet only six months had passed since he led a small squadron of frigates to fend off Commodore Dubordieu’s superior forces. The battle had been a crucial victory for the Royal Navy; the French attempt to use Nelson’s own tactics against the British resulted in the death or capture of over one thousand French sailors, and the ultimate loss of French naval power in the Adriatic Sea.

But that was not the first thing that came to Everly’s mind. What he remembered most was chaos and agony and blazing heat and the screams of his men when the shell from a French 18-pounder plowed into the quarterdeck of the
Hyperion.
The explosion had sent him careening down to the deck below in a hail of shattered wood, breaking his right leg near the hip. A stray splinter had sliced his left cheek down to the bone. Given the horrific conditions at the hospital in Malta, Everly knew he had been fortunate to avoid gangrene, blood poisoning, and other potentially fatal complications. He had survived, but his senior lieutenant, one of his young midshipmen, and the ship’s master had not. He would bear the mental and physical scars of that battle for the rest of his life.

“I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, lad,” Admiral St. Vincent said gruffly. “You know as well as I the bitter brew that is a captain’s life.”

Everly clenched his teeth, disturbed that these powerful emotions still held such sway over him, even after all these months, and even more disturbed that his face displayed them so openly. But he wasn’t ready to strike his colors yet.

“I belong at sea, my lord, with my men,” he insisted. “My duty lies with them.”

The admiral’s eyes glowed with renewed fury. He pounded the desktop with his fist and sent papers scattering. “Your duty is to England, sir, and the Admiralty decides how you will serve it best!”

Everly started to apologize, but St. Vincent waved him to silence.

“Never mind, boy, never mind,” the earl muttered. “Damn dirty business has me out of temper.” He rose from his seat and resumed his restless pacing. “You’ll be returned to command soon enough, but there is something you must do first.”

“My lord?” Perplexed by his patron’s words, as well as by his uncharacteristic moodiness, Everly leaned forward in his seat. “Would this have anything to do with why you asked me to your house rather than your office at the Admiralty, and why you keep looking out the window as if expecting someone else to arrive?”

“Clever man.” St. Vincent smiled and passed a weary hand over his brow. “Awake on all suits. That’s just what we need.”

The mantel clock had just wheezed the three-quarter hour when the door to the study creaked open on its massive hinges. Parkin reappeared and stood just over the threshold. “The Earl of Carlisle and the Honorable Grayson MacAllister,” he announced.

Everly mused that Parkin would have made an excellent ship’s master; his voice could be heard from the farthest reaches of the quarterdeck even in the worst gale. He pushed himself to his feet as the new arrivals entered the room. Parkin secured the door behind them.

“About bloody time, man,” the admiral blustered. “You’re late. Dawdling over your sherry, were you?”

The taller of the two gentlemen smiled slightly and inclined his head in greeting. “I thought it better if my driver took a more circuitous route and brought us in by your stables, out of sight. I apologize if my sense of discretion inconvenienced you, Admiral.”

St. Vincent harrumphed, his pale cheeks tinged with
red. “Dirty business,” he muttered again. “Well, let’s get on with this. Carlisle, may I present Captain Sir Jonathan Everly, late of the frigate
Hyperion.
Everly, this is the Earl of Carlisle, one of Castlereagh’s spymasters.”

Lord Carlisle quirked an eyebrow. “You flatter me, Admiral,” he drawled. He turned and extended a hand to Everly. “Captain. I’ve heard a great deal about you. You’re quite a hero. London was all abuzz after your exploits in the Adriatic.”