“Well, I wish to express my gratitude for all you’ve done for me, Father. Up ’til now, mind.”
“Piss on your thanks, boy.”
“Need me anymore? No? Well, I shall go pack then.”
“That has been done for you.” Sir Hugo told him. “You’ll not spend another hour under my roof.”
“You will surely give time to gather a few keepsakes—”
“That has been done as well. Including your hidden money. I am sure there won’t be a dry eye in Drury Lane when word gets out you’ve gone. Your wastrel friends will think you all brave and noble. Quite unlike you, but we have to maintain appearances. You were born a low bastard in a knocking shop, but thankfully you’re no longer my bastard to worry about. Once you leave here, you’re welcome to go to hell in your own way.”
“As are you, Father. And what regiment am I due for?”
“Regiment? Oh, yes. Morton, have that Captain Bevan come up, would you?”
The mysterious guest that Alan had seen by the parlor fireplace entered the room a moment later, no longer tented by his dark blue cape.
The stranger wore white breeches and waistcoat, a dark blue coat with white turnbacks at cuff and collar, trimmed heavily in gold, with gold buttons that bore fouled anchors.
“The Navy.” Alan was suddenly aware of what waited for him. “Sweet Jesus, no! Not the bloody Navy. I’d … I’d sooner go to Ireland. Even Bedlam—”
“I am so pleased by your reaction. Captain Bevan shall take you to Portsmouth, where you shall enter the King’s service as a midshipman, a gentleman volunteer. He shall supervise the purchase of your kit, and see you into a suitable vessel.”
“You are now under King’s Regulations and the Articles of War, boy,” Captain Bevan told him. “Desertion from my custody is a hanging offense. To prevent that I have brought my coxswain with me.”
That petty officer stood in the doorway, a solid block of lowbrowed elephantine muscle with a devilish black expression on his face. He wore a brace of imposing pistols in the waistband of his loose striped sailor’s trousers, and a heavy cutlass hung on a baldric over his shoulder. His hands dangled loose, near enough to draw his personal choice at a moment’s notice, and while he might appear slow to make up his mind just which instrument he preferred under a particular circumstance, once committed he appeared altogether competent.
“And you call me a bastard?” Alan shook his head. Damn ’em all to hell, they’ll sit on me all the way to Portsmouth. Probably some chink in it for them, too. I am so well and truly … fucked. Ah, well, nothing for it but to go game …
“Father, it’s farewell, then.” Alan said manfully. “And you have my most sincere wish that you rot in hell as soon as possible.”
Morton took him by the arms again, and began to hustle him into the tender custody of the Navy.
“Give my regards to Belinda, too,” Alan called out. “Have you not tried her already, you’ll find her a right short-heeled wench, and a most obliging sort of girl.”
Alan saw a look cross his father’s face and had to laugh in spite of the circumstances. “By God, I believe you already have.”
“Shameless. Come on, you,” Captain Bevan ordered.
“I’ll pay you all back, you know,” Alan threatened as the coxswain took charge of him at the door with huge hard hands. “You, and Belinda, and Gerald, and that pettifogger Pilchard, and your brainless helpmeet Morton.”
Gerald was waiting at the base of the stairs, pleased with the world. “Do us all proud at sea, won’t you, Alan dear? Don’t bother to write, though.”
“My brother, Captain Bevan,” Alan said by way of a hasty introduction. “Sews his own dresses and, what’s the naval term … he goes in for the windward passage? God rot you too, Gerald. I hope to see you in the stocks for buggery one day, you poxy sodomite.”
There was no servant present in the front hall, just a valise and his cloak and hat awaiting him, a much too small tricorne trimmed in white lace and adorned with a long feather. It was jammed onto his head, but without his usual tall, oversize wig it came off once they were in the street.
“Have you no shame?” Bevan demanded. “Comport yourself quietly into the coach, for your own sake, if not for your poor family’s.”
“Then have your trained bear let go of me.”
He shrugged himself into his coat and cloak, picked up his fallen hat and entered the coach. The coxswain got in and sat across from him.
“My name’s Bell,” the man announced in a deep rumble.
“Do you really believe I give a damn what your name is?”
“Give me an excuse ta cut yer nutmegs awrf, boy. Ya sing small wi’ me an’ sit quiet er ya won’t live ta sign aboard a ship.”
“Take your choice, young ’un,” Captain Bevan said, seating himself next to his coxswain and sweeping back his cloak to reveal a pair of small pistols in his waistcoat. “Go a gentleman, or suffer the consequences.”
“I shall keep that in mind, thank you, Captain Bevan,” Alan replied archly, wrapping his cloak closer about him. Even a windy and wet January morning could not explain the sudden coldness he felt as their coach rattled off to rendezvous with the “Dilly” for Portsmouth.
Chapter 1
A sullen, icy wind blew across the King’s Stairs in the city of Portsmouth as Midshipman Alan Lewrie waited for the boat to fetch him out to his ship, the sixty-four-gun 3rd Rate Ariadne. Many naval vessels tossed and gyrated on the heaving grey green harbor waters, and Alan swallowed hard, and became a touch ill just watching them. He was also still in a mild form of shock over his fall from grace, and his sudden banishment. From one moment of being a buck of the first head and caterwauling with his friends all over London, chasing women, eating and drinking his fill, gambling and playing, and with little thought for the morrow, to this seaborne exile was just too hellish a wrench.
The trip down had been rough; bad roads and bad company, with both Bell and Bevan eyeing him like hawks. Even a bath and a shave at the inn had not revived his spirits. There had been no chance to escape. To listen to Bevan, it wasn’t that bad a fate to go to sea, and over the past few days, the terror of it had slipped away. He would be a midshipman, not a common sailor, a junior petty officer with authority, carried on the ship’s books as a gentleman, berthed with others of his kind, with servants and stewards to care for his clothing and his table.
Bevan had told him about prize money, and how some ships’ crews had become rich beyond measure, and how midshipmen took a larger share; of how fellows much like himself had gone on to fame and fortune and had set themselves up as great men once they came home.
And during the process of buying his kit, Alan had reveled in a form of revenge on Sir Hugo. Bevan had a letter of credit from his father—he did not strike Alan as the sort one would trust with a full purse—and since it wasn’t Bevan’s money, they ended as confederates in spending it properly. Six full uniforms, three of them the best the town could boast, more silk and linen shirts than anyone could need, silk and cotton stockings, breeches and working rig slop trousers, personal stores of extra fine biscuit, jam, tea, paper, and the proper set of books, such as the latest edition of Falconer’s Marine Dictionary.
Alan was sure that even a royal bastard could not make a finer showing, and secretly, he thought he looked especially handsome in the uniform, even if it was on the plain side. There had been a saucy dark-haired chambermaid at the inn that had thought so, too, his last evening ashore. After a dinner that had filled him to bursting, two bottles of claret and several brandies, he had gone to his room to discover her ready to turn his bed down for the evening and fetch a warming pan. When he suggested she warm it instead, she was out of her sack and stays in a heartbeat. Thankfully, Bell relented and stood guard on the door, and not in the room with him, showing some mercy to him on his last free night. He had no civilian clothing anymore, so he could not have run away. Like a condemned man, he had eaten a hearty meal, and had bulled her all over the room until the sky was grey.