Margaret McPhee - Regency Debutantes - The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

It was Nathaniel who recovered first, releasing his rather overtly intimate grasp on his ship’s boy’s shoulder. The breath had stilled in his throat, alarm bells ringing in his head. But the face he presented to the captives was calm and self-assured. ‘Lieutenant Pensenby will escort you both to your quarters. Those of your men taken aboard will be held below, the remainder will be well treated upon your own ships. Please make your needs known to Mr Pensenby. I shall endeavour to call upon you in a short while.’

Only when his prisoners had been removed from earshot did Captain Hawke turn to his ship’s boy. ‘I’ll have the key, if you please.’ The handsome features appeared completely devoid of emotion. He did not trust himself to reveal a hint of the torrent that raged within him.

‘Yes, sir.’ From within her pocket she produced the cabin door key and held it to him.

He grasped it, taking care great care not to brush against her still bloodstained fingers. The dark eyes remained carefully shuttered as he turned away. A muscle twitched in the firm line of his jaw. ‘Lieutenant Anderson, escort my nephew to my night cabin. See to it that the door is locked, from the outside, and return the key to me.’

Georgiana’s turbulent blue eyes swung to meet his, but his gaze remained fixed hard and uncompromisingly ahead.

‘I’ll be in the sick berth with the surgeon, Mr Anderson.’ With that the tall figure climbed down the companion ladder and strode off to check upon the injuries his men had sustained.

A cold breeze raked across the deck, rippling the British flag above. And below John Anderson moved quietly to take hold of the boy’s arm.

Walter Praxton lifted the tankard before him and sipped at the ale. The Crown was quiet on account of the Impress Service’s activity in the area. Only once the Leander had sailed would the men return from the surrounding villages. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, lightening the grey misery of the cold December day. He barely noticed the slant of winter rain that pattered against the mullioned glass windows, so intent was he on the small weasely man seated opposite.

Bob Blakely was five foot in height, of skinny build with hair the colour of the rats that meandered leisurely through the streets of Portsmouth. A short ragged moustache perched upon his upper lip, and a peppering of stubble added to the impression that washing did not constitute one of Mr Blakely’s favourite pastimes. He sucked on a long pipe and regarded the rich gent with small glassy eyes.

‘Like I said, Mr Praxton, sir, me contact saw the boy you’re after pressed aboard a frigate that was then in dock. They don’t normally take boys, but he wasn’t alone, was he?’

Walter Praxton raised an enquiring brow that did not so much as crease the perfection of his handsome face.

‘Was with them three seamen from on the mail. It was them that the Press Gang was after. Expect they took the lad ‘cos he was there in the wrong place at the wrong time, so to speak.’

‘Which frigate?’ The ale tasted smooth and mellow to Mr Praxton’s jaded pallet.

A grubby hand displaced the runny discharge seeping from his nose before Bob Blakely saw fit to continue. He swigged at the ale, smacking his thin chapped lips as the last of it slid like nectar down his throat. ‘Could do with another of those.’ He eyed Mr Praxton hopefully.

As the ever-parched Bob had proved himself efficient in obtaining the information that he was so eager to learn, Walter averted his eyes from the black grimy fingernails cradling the empty tankard and gestured for the serving woman to fetch another jug of ale. ‘We wouldn’t want you going thirsty. Drink up, my good man. Remember the payment we’ve arranged.’

Bob Blakely tapped his nose and gave the rich man a sly wink. ‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Praxton, and if I don’t have the info that you’re after, me name’s not Bob Blakely.’

Walter stifled a retort and forced a smile to his face.

‘Was the Pallas, as sailin’ under Captain Hawke, sir. Left here start of last month, but under sealed orders. No one knows her destination, but me friend —’ he stressed the word most forcibly ‘—in a certain place, heard tell that she’s due back before Christmas. Ain’t that ‘andy. Not long to wait for that boy of yours, if he’s still alive, that is.’

In a furtive gesture Praxton slid three guinea pieces to the man and bid him good day. Pulling his hat low and turning up the collar of his great brown coat, he braced himself to face the onslaught of the hostile English weather.

‘Nice doin’ business with you, gov,’ came the contented reply, and Bob Blakely settled down to the comfort of another night within the snug warmth of the tavern.

It was the aspect of war that Nathaniel hated. The price to be paid for victory and defeat alike. Admiralty might issue the orders, but it was not the old men in their elaborate uniforms that met the round shot, or took the splinters. They did not shield the ship with their bodies, or run with valour into a fracas of whirling cutlass and musket. Men that had been pressed to the service against their will, men who risked all in the hope of sharing in the prize, a financial salve to the poverty that afflicted their lives—it was a tragic necessity of war, and it never failed to cut Nathaniel to the quick. His ship, his men, his responsibility. And just as he rejoiced in their victory, so he suffered with their loss. Each death remained scored within his mind, each fallen seaman rendered immortal by Captain Hawke. Compassion. It was his biggest strength, winning the men to his cause, buying their loyalty for a lifetime…and also his gaping weakness, to feel for ever their torment.

He touched the sailor’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. Bravely fought. How fares your leg?’

‘It’ll mend, Captain. Now that t’surgeon’s had his way, splinter’s out. Says I should keep t’leg, and gain a limp.’

‘No shame in that, Brown. There’s always a place aboard my ship for a willing seaman, limping or not.’ The captain moved on to the midshipman whose face had been sliced open by a flying splinter. ‘Mr Hartley.’

The young gentleman nodded his head, the jagged stitching on his cheek already turning a purple coloration.

‘You did a good job, Hartley. We’ve taken the day and the prize is rich indeed. A small scar won’t do your future within His Majesty’s Navy any harm. Your courage has been noted.’

Mr Hartley’s smile pulled at the weeping wound. ‘Thank you, Captain, but I fancy my young lady won’t see it that way.’

‘I have it on the best authority,’ retaliated Nathaniel, his dark eyes lightening, ‘that ladies see such marks as a badge of bravery. I’m sure it will do your reputation no harm at all.’

Captain and midshipman laughed together before Nathaniel moved on to visit the rest of his men.

‘Captain Hawke.’ The surgeon hurried over to him and walked some way along the deck beside him before raising the subject foremost in his mind. ‘Ship’s boy Robertson, sir, seems to have a wealth of medical knowledge. With whom did he study?’

Nathaniel looked at the surgeon in surprise. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Belmont.’

The surgeon blinked back at him. ‘Your neph—I mean, the boy, clearly has treated wounds before. Such knowledge is not come by easily. He must have experience of working in the surgical field. I wondered whom it was he assisted? Some of the techniques he employed were specialised to say the least. Almost as if they came straight from the pages of one of John Hunter’s medical texts.’

A vision of a blood-soaked Georgiana drifted into Nathaniel’s mind. So that was where the blood had come from. ‘Am I to understand that the boy helped in the treatment of the wounded?’