Admiral Rodney had gone home with his fabulous prize fleet, so Treghues had to settle for lesser lights, and led them first to Sir Onsley. Their former admiral looked even fatter than ever, ever-strangling in a neckcloth too tight for him, and Lady Maude had chosen a bilious purple-and-grey satin sackgown, a poor comparison to her complexion. If it weren’t for Sir Onsley’s uniform they would have looked like servants.
“Sir Onsley … Lady Maude. Your servant, sir…”
“Oh, Alan Lewrie,” Lady Maude said. “My, they feed you well in Desperate. You must have grown another inch since we saw you last.”
“We have been living quite well for a cruiser, Lady Maude.”
“Mister Lewrie,” Sir Onsley said, offering his hand. “You are looking ‘Bristol Fashion,’ I must say.”
“Thank you, Sir Onsley. I … I was most distressed to hear you and Lady Maude would be going back to England,” Lewrie began, trying to make his prepared speech sound natural. “May I say that I shall always be grateful for your and Lady Maude’s many kindnesses and considerations. I hope your voyage is tranquil, and your next post rewarding.”
“Thankee, Mister Lewrie. Most kind,” Sir Onsley said. “I’ll miss the islands, damme if I won’t. But, you have to make way for younger men.”
“I am certain the islands shall miss you, too, Sir Onsley. I’m sure I speak for many who served under you.” He smiled. Yes, they’ll miss the sight of Glatton sitting out there like the Pharos, Lewrie thought.
“Be odd not to have a sea command after all these years,” Sir Onsley maundered on, now well into his wine cups.
“Sir George Sinclair would have to be a most impressive officer to replace you, sir. Or match our record of success in reducing the number of privateers and all,” Lewrie said, wondering if he really knew when to stop toadying before even Sir Onsley noticed.
“We have stuck a dry bone in Brother Jonathan’s throat, have we not?” Sir Onsley chuckled. Dead-lazy or not, Sir Onsley was going home rich as Croesus from prize money reaped by his squadron.
“Only thing I regret is I’m going to miss the last act out here,” Sir Onsley said. “Here, walk with me and we’ll have some wine, boy. Do you know anything about DeGrasse?”
Something to eat? Lewrie thought. “No, sir.”
“Damn crafty Frog admiral. Left Brest back in the spring and he got down to Martinique with a huge convoy and a fleet of line-of-battle ships. Sam Hood’s crossed swords with him once so far, pretty much of a draw. But he’s here for a purpose, and it won’t be good when it comes. Met Sam Hood yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Then come with me.”
And before Lewrie knew it, he was bowing to that worthy, who looked down that long nose at him. Sir Onsley bubbled on about Lewrie’s record and what ship he was in at present.
“Yes, Mister Lewrie,” Hood said with a meager smile. “Believe I read something about Ariadne. Knew Bales long ago, you know. And it was Parrot, I believe, before Desperate?”
“Aye, sir,” Lewrie said, almost quivering with excitement. The admiral had indeed actually heard something of him.
“Damn glad to meet you, Mister Lewrie. You keep up that sort of work,” Hood told him, before shifting his eyes away.
“I shall, sir,” Lewrie promised, allowing himself to be led off by Sir Onsley.
“Put in a word for you. Never hurts for him to remember what you look like,” Sir Onsley said, now firmly playing naval politics. “He must have a thousand midshipmen, but he’ll know you.”
And you’ll be on the Board at the Admiralty, giving advice and support to Hood, so he’s amenable to a good relationship with you, but at what price? Lewrie speculated, sipping his wine, noticing for the first time that it was champagne and as cold as mortal sin.
“Ah, I see Treghues has already found our new commodore,” Sir Onsley noted, jutting his chin across the room to point at Alan’s captain and a thin, reedy stick of a man in a coat a bit too faded to be fashionable at a ball. Still, it was laced as a captain’s coat, but for the buttons set in threes. Sir George Sinclair wore a tight periwig with close side curls, emphasizing the skin as dark as any foredeck hand, making those sharp eyes and down-turned hook of a nose appear even more daunting.
“A real taut hand, is Sinclair,” Sir Onsley continued. “Put up his first broad pendant when the French came in in ’78, and was a real terror off Bordeaux, I’m told. Got knighted at Quiberon Bay in the last war and earned it three times over. We are not close, but I did have a chance to mention a few people by way of recommendation. I do not think you would mind if Sir George knew of my regard for you.”
“Not at all, sir. Your thoughtfulness at a time like this is … I cannot find the words, Sir Onsley.”
It was heady stuff to be endorsed as able by a man who now had distant control over the officers he would be answering to in future. Lewrie had not thought to wonder how well regarded Sir Onsley was when it came to choosing followers. But he had yet to hear that he was as inept as Admiral Rodney, so it might be alright for his career.
He felt success falling like a laurel wreath in some fever dream, slow and catchable, right into his outstretched hands. He had won over Captain Bales, had convinced Kenyon of his ability—even if Kenyon was a Molly, Alan still respected his skills. He had caught Sir Onsley’s eye as a comer, was well recommended to Admiral Hood (another comer), and now was most likely going to cap the evening by winning the same notice from his new admiral of the squadron!
Why had he not joined the Navy years ago, so that he then could have been entered on ships’ books for six years? There was a commission in the offing, and he knew, from asking questions of other midshipmen passed for lieutenant, that he could make a fair showing at the exam.
Sir Hugo may have done me the greatest favor of my life by making me go to sea, he realized.
But standing slightly behind and to one side of Sir George Sinclair was his flag captain, someone Lewrie had known under less auspicious circumstances, and the laurel wreath of success was snatched out of his fingers.
He almost snapped the stem of his wineglass. Not now, not him! Lewrie shivered. Good Christ!
It was Captain Bevan, the very officer who had dragged him from his father’s house. Captain Bevan, who knew enough of his background and the alleged reason for his banishment to ruin him forever. Captain Bevan, the man who had been his jailer in that damned post-chaise to Portsmouth and had shoved him into Ariadne!
“That would not be Captain Bevan with him, Sir Onsley?” Alan said, ready to run or throw up or both.
“Aye, his flag captain. Know him?” Sir Onsley asked.
“We’ve met,” Lewrie mumbled, sinking in a bleak despair.
Lewrie could not escape being led across the salon to Commodore Sinclair’s circle. Up close, the man had that predatory look that Mrs. Hillwood possessed, but Lewrie felt he was not going to get the same sort of gentle treatment.
“Sir George.”
“Sir Onsley.” It was the sound of talons rustling.
“Here’s another of your band, off Desperate. Midshipman Alan Lewrie,” Sir Onsley said proudly. “Commodore Sir George Sinclair, Mr. Lewrie.”