Man of War

4. "The Higher We Climb…"

The small working party of seamen had retreated from the cabin, and the screen door was closed once more.

Adam Bolitho stood by the stern windows and felt the sun warming his shoulders through the thick glass, although he knew it was still very cold on deck.

He ignored the litter of cases and bags which had just been delivered, each seaman darting a quick glance around the cabin, and at the man who had been their captain for almost four days.

He hestitated, then walked slowly to the high-backed chair which had received the particular attention of the boatswain's mate in charge, a mahogany berg ere upholstered in brass-nailed dark green leather. A chair you could doze, even sleep in, and be readily on call. Where you could plan and think, somehow separated from the ship and her routine. There were a few scratches and a dark stain on one arm rest, but it was the same chair, the one she had wanted him to have after Sir Richard had been killed in Frobisher.

He gripped it and moved it very slightly. He had sat here many times himself. Feeling it. Sharing it with his own command, Unrivalled.

"May I suggest something, sir?"

Adam turned sharply; he had forgotten that he was not alone.

John Bowles had been Captain Ritchie's servant for three years, and the previous captain's for a shorter period, until he had been killed in a sharp engagement with a French blockade-runner.

At first meeting Bowles seemed an unlikely candidate to fill the role of cabin servant. He was tall, slightly stooping because of the lack of headroom, with greying hair trained into an old-style queue, and long sideburns. His was a grave, rather melancholy face, dominated by a large, hooked nose, so that his surprisingly bright eyes seemed almost incidental.

Not a young man, and listed as forty years old on the ship's books, he was light-footed and unobtrusive, unusual for one so tall.

Adam said, "Yes?" thinking again of Napier and his clicking shoes, his earnest and often deadly serious eagerness. We take care of each other.

Bowles moved around the chair, careful not to touch it, or so it appeared. He stopped suddenly and lifted up a small flap in the deck covering.

"Just 'ere, sir." He indicated a brass ringbolt. "The chair can be shackled, nice an' safe, if the sea gets up." He looked directly at Adam for the first time. "Athena can be a lively lady in alfa gale if she feels like it." He almost smiled.

He had a London accent, and Stirling the first lieutenant had told Adam that he had been working in a riverside tavern when he had become involved in some kind of brawl at the very moment that a press gang had been passing. The rest was a familiar story in those times; the lieutenant in command of the press gang had been thankful just to lay hands on a few more men, sailors or not.

It was strange that Bowles had apparently made no attempt to quit the navy when the war with France and her allies had at last come to an end. Adam found that he was touching the chair. When my uncle was cut down.

"That sounds a sensible plan." He gestured to the other pieces of baggage but before he could speak Bowles said, "I can 'ave it all stowed by the dog watches. I am instructed that you are dining with the wardroom, so I will make sure that everything is right, sir."

Once Adam would have preferred a younger man, but it seemed unimportant now. Bowles belonged to the ship. A part of her. And I am his third captain.

Bowles said suddenly, "That is a fine old sword, sir. I 'ave some special oil that might suit." He was thinking aloud. "Though

I doubt we'll be doing much cut-an'-thrust on this commission." He bared his uneven teeth in a grin. "Us bein' a flagship an' all! "

Adam heard the sentry tap his musket on the grating outside the screen door.

"Midshipman o' the watch, sir! "

Bowles was across the cabin before Adam had seen him move, but he turned just briefly, like a conspirator, and said, "Mr. Vincent, sir."

Adam faced the door. He had met Vincent, Athena's senior 'young gentleman', but he doubted if he would have remembered his name after only four days. Almost due for examination for lieutenant. The first major step from warrant rank to quarterdeck. A King's officer.

The midshipman stepped smartly into the cabin, his hat beneath his arm. He was almost eighteen, but looked older, and very self-confident. He was in charge of Athena's signals, and Adam had seen him shouting at one of his men only a few feet away, as if he were stone deaf or a complete fool. Stirling had been nearby but had said nothing. Adam thought of the much-hated midshipman in Unrivalled, Sandell, who had gone missing over the side one night.

"Yes, Mr. Vincent, what is it?"

"There is a man who wishes to see you, sir." He had narrow nostrils which were flared now with obvious anger. "Insists, sir! "

Adam looked past him and saw Jago waiting by an open gun port a bag swinging back and forth in his hand.

"My coxswain, Mr. Vincent. He has access to me whenever so required."

Vincent was not the sort to make stupid mistakes. Jago's expected time of arrival had been in the order book almost since Adam had read himself in to the ship's company.

He said, "But only officers were allowed free access, sir."

Adam smiled, disliking him, and hoped it was convincing. "That was then, Mr. Vincent. You may return to your duties."

The door was shut again and they stood facing one another, awkward despite what they had shared. Separated, perhaps, by the ship, a stranger to them both.

Adam gripped his hand. "It is very good to see you, Luke." He felt the smile breaking through and realized just how acute the loneliness had been. In the night watches, lying in his cot,

staring into the darkness, listening to the occasional tread of a watch keeper the angle and bearing of each sound still unfamiliar. Or the movement of rigging, the slap of water alongside, two decks down now.

Jago grinned. "You too, Cap'n. I see the chair got aboard safely?"

"Have a tot and tell me about everything. I want to hear it." He sat down on the stern bench, his legs apart, his hands clasped, the young captain again.

Jago held up his fist. "Two fingers of grog, an' one of water, if it's clean! "

Adam smiled. "You will soon get used to my cox'n, Bowles."

Bowles nodded doubtfully. "And a cognac for you, sir."

The door to the pantry clicked shut.

Jago glanced at the chair again, at the broad, curving deck beams and the glistening paintwork; felt the slow movement of the hull.

"No fifth-rate, sir. Bigger than we're used to." He half-listened to the squeal of calls, and the clatter of tackle as more stores were hoisted inboard to be stowed away.

Then he said lightly, "She'll suit, sir. "I'll something better is offered! "

Adam felt his muscles relax, and accepted, perhaps for the first time, how deeply the change had affected him.

"And what about young David? Did it go off all right? I wish I could have been there."

Jago thought about it, recalling the final handshake, the sudden anxiety, the ship rising above the boat he had unofficially borrowed for the occasion. He still found it hard to believe that he had even cared. That he still did. It went against almost everything he knew.

The challenge yelled down from the ship's side, and his own firm and immediate response.

"Mr. Midshipman Napier, sir! Coming aboard to join! "

Just another 'young gentleman'.

But he said, "I was proud of him, an' that's a fact."

He took the glass from Bowles as he stooped over them and added, "An' he got his frigate, which is more than some can say! "

Bowles returned to his pantry as the cabin echoed with laughter.

Things might be very different, he thought as he polished glasses. They needed to be.

Jago wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Almost forgot, sir." He groped into his jacket. "Lady, er, Roxby, give me a letter for you."

Adam put down his glass, his bowels like ice.

Jago was saying, "I've 'eard you'll be goin' up to London again…?"

Adam flattened the paper on the bench and read it slowly. Some one had printed an address in large capitals. Almost a child's writing.

He heard himself answer, "Yes. Two days' time. The Admiralty. Final instructions, I believe." His brain refused to concentrate. Even Nancy 's scribbled words made no sense.

It is all I was given. I am still not sure I should have told you.

Adam was on his feet without realizing it, one hand on the back of the chair.

"I am still a stranger to London. I marvel that people there can find their way from one street to another." He was making a fool of himself. "The place they call Southwark? All I know of it is an inn called the George I took the coach from there to the George here in Portsmouth. That's all I can remember."

Bowles walked from the little pantry, his head lowered as if he had been listening to something elsewhere in the poop. "I knows Southwark, sir." He pronounced it "Sutherk". "I knows it, sir." He moved one of the empty glasses, his mind far away. He was thinking of the tavern where he had once worked and had a room of his own. Of the din and upheavals when sailors came ashore from the ships moored on the great river, looking for drink and willing company. And the crimes committed in those parts, the ragged corpses which dangled from the gibbets at Wapping and Greenwich as grim reminders. "It is changing with the times, I believe, sir. Not always for the best." Even the hated press gangs had trod warily where he had lived by the Thames. "Some parts, sir…" He raised his eyes, gauging the captain's mood. "It's not safe to walk alone or unarmed."

Adam nodded slowly, moved by his cautious sincerity.

"Thank you, Bowles. That was well said."

He walked to the stern windows and looked down into a lighter which was being warped beneath the counter. Faces peered up at him. There was a woman, her legs uncovered, displaying a basket of bright scarves, grinning broadly. They could have been invisible.

Nancy was afraid of offering him hope. But suppose her information held the truth? That for some reason Lowenna needed him?

Tonight he was being entertained by his officers, in his own ship, as was the time-honoured custom. Two days from now he would be in London, with Bethune. More secrets, although Jago had heard about the trip within an hour of stepping aboard.

He turned his back on the glittering water and overlapping masts and said, "Can you read this, Bowles?" He held out the letter.

"Sir?" His eyes merely blinked, but it sounded like of course.

Adam cursed his own impatience. "I meant no disrespect."

The big nose trained round again. "None taken, sir." He almost smiled. "In my old trade, the merchants I dealt with would rob you blind if you couldn't read and unravel their accounts! "

He held the letter to the reflected sunshine. "I knows that street, sir. Some wealthy folk lived there, but they fell on hard times. I'm told that things is very different now. There was some talk that a new dock was to be built close by." He handed back the letter and added apologetically, "Unless you needs to go, sir…" He did not finish.

Adam moved restlessly across the cabin. Suppose he had not been going to London at Bethune's request? Nobody could say when Athena would be ready for her passage to the West Indies, or even if the orders had been changed by some higher authority.

There would be no other opportunity. No chance to discover the value of this small, crudely printed note.

He had a command, a ship when so many others had nothing. Not Unrivalled, but a ship…

He knew what Nancy feared most, about him and for him. To her, those brief meetings with Lowenna might not be enough. They would still be strangers, and his visit could do more harm than good. He touched his coat, as if to feel the yellow rose he had seen in the portrait at Falmouth. Bethune or not, he knew he would have gone.

Unless you needs to go…

Jago interrupted his thoughts. "I'll be with you, Cap'n." Suddenly alert, tense, like all those other times. But there was something else, almost a warning.

Adam looked at him, knowing he should refuse. It was something personal, not a reason to involve him in something unlawful, dangerous.

Jago, the man who hated officers and all those who abused authority, who had been wrongfully flogged, and, although declared innocent, would carry the scars of the cat until his dying day.

The same man had made certain that David Napier had been delivered safely to his new ship with the warrant of midshipman, a breed he had been known to dismiss with contempt on many occasions. And lastly, the man who had waved aside the chance of being paid off, the opportunity of living as he chose, and traded it for this.

He said, "Can't be no worse than Algiers, sir! "

Adam smiled. "I take too much for granted, Luke. Thank you."

Bowles said, "The first lieutenant will be here shortly, sir."

Adam nodded. He had told Stirling that he wanted to go through the muster books and the watch bills, also the red punishment book, often the best gauge of any ship, and especially her officers.

Stirling would probably prepare him for the wardroom invitation to dinner, the individuals behind the uniforms he would be meeting.

He thought of the other note which was folded so carefully in his pocket. Almost falling apart now, but all that he had of hers. What might the formidable Stirling say if he knew his captain's secret fears?

He smiled a little. No wonder dear Nancy was troubled about him.

"First lieutenant, sir! "

Bolitho turned to face the screen door. The flag captain.

Lieutenant Francis Troubridge smiled regretfully, and said, "You will not be kept longer than necessary, sir. I am afraid this room is in a state of chaos."

Adam Bolitho tossed his hat on a vacant chair and looked around the big room he remembered so well from his previous visit. It looked as if it had been hit by a whirlwind. All the paintings, including Bethune's frigate engaging the two Spaniards, were arranged in a rank along one wall, numbered for removal to his house, or perhaps destined for another room in the Admiralty. Boxes and ledgers in other piles; even Bethune's handsome wine cooler was covered with a grubby sheet.

Troubridge was watching him, one hand still resting on the door handle.

"The higher we climb, the more precarious the perch, sir."

Bethune was leaving, going to an important post in the West Indies. And already another was taking his place, like a door closing behind him.

Troubridge was in his element here, Adam thought. At ease with the senior officers they had met, always ready to remind Bethune of any small detail some one else had overlooked.

A civilian member of the Board of Admiralty, a personal friend of the First Lord as Troubridge had recalled, had explained some of the complications which had followed the various acts of Parliament and treaties to control and then abolish the slave trade, once and for all. There had been an Anglo-Portuguese treaty which still allowed Portugal to continue loading slaves in her own ports, and another which made Portugal ban the trade north of the Equator, but allowed her the freedom to continue trading below it. And the same with Spain, which, to Adam, made a mockery of the original resolutions. Spain and Portugal were still able to trade freely south of the Equator, where even a simple sailor man could appreciate was the richest harvest both in the Indies and the Americas.

In Britain the slave trade was a felony. Elsewhere it was still able to make a fortune for those daring and ruthless enough to risk seizure and punishment.

Bethune's command was to be a fluid one. To co-operate with the ships of other nations, but to ensure that regular patrols continued on and around the most likely shipping routes so that any vessel carrying slaves, or fitted and equipped with the means of restraining them, could be arrested, and the owners or masters brought to trial.

Troubridge was followed by two clerks who were making copious notes about everything. They would find life aboard a King's ship very different when they joined Athena at Portsmouth.

Adam had also seen a file marked Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick. His uncle's old friend. He recalled his visit to Unrivalled in Freetown, that melting pot of the anti-slavery patrols, where some terrible scenes had ensued when overloaded slavers had been escorted into harbour, their human cargoes more dead than alive after being crammed into conditions which were like vignettes of hell.

Maps, charts, signals, information; it would be easy to lose his way in minutiae. Adam kept his mental distance, or tried to. A captain's viewpoint had to take priority: time and distance, the most favourable routes, the anchorages and safest channels, and the reliability or otherwise of charts where an unmarked reef could rip out a ship's timbers like a knife through butter. Fresh water, stores, medical supplies, and a routine which kept men fit and ready to fight if the need arose.

It was difficult to see those aspects clearly in the Admiralty's map room, impressive though it was.

If Bethune had any doubts he did not show them; he was easy-mannered, almost casual at times. Maybe that came with flag rank, too.

Another door opened and two workmen entered, an oil painting held carefully between them. Bethune and another officer, a rear-admiral, followed them.

Adam had already been introduced to the rear-admiral, Philip Lancaster, whose exploits during the second American war had brought him to their lordships' notice.

Bethune said, "I hope you'll be comfortable here, Philip." He was looking at the picture of his frigate, and it was then that Adam saw the first hint of uncertainty, perhaps dismay. He was leaving this secure world for the unknown. A ship instead of power, strategy, and ambition. Lancaster pointed to the opposite wall, by accident or choice, Adam wondered. It was where the frigate had hung, guns blazing, colours streaming above the smoke of battle.

"There, I think."

It was a full-length portrait of the man who had just spoken. It was a good likeness, a quietly determined face, with an anonymous sea as a background.

Bethune licked his lips, and smiled. "You must get it brought up to date, eh, Philip?"

In the portrait, Lancaster wore the uniform of a post captain.

It was something to say, to break the silence.

"I intended to, Sir Graham. It was all arranged." He stopped, frowning, as a servant came to stand just inside the doors, and announced, "The First Sea Lord is ready to receive you now, sir."

Bethune relaxed slowly. In charge again. "Well, what happened?"

They were picking up their hats, looking around the disturbed room; only the ornate clock had not been moved.

Lancaster adjusted his dress coat and shrugged. "It was in the Times. The artist I intended fell down dead the other day." He strode past the servant, adding, "Most inconsiderate, don't you know! " He laughed.

Troubridge waited. "Are you ready, sir?"

But Adam scarcely heard him. He wanted to go closer to the portrait, but could not. Dared not.

He did not need to examine the artist's signature. It would be the same hand which had painted the empty sleeve on the portrait of Captain James Bolitho, and the portrait of Sir Richard. He was touching his lapel. And the yellow rose on mine.

He thought suddenly of Athena's wardroom, brightly lit by candles and shining with the mess silver. The faces, some sweating badly by the end of the evening, the loud laughter at some joke made by Tarrant, the young third lieutenant. A ponderous speech by Stirling. Looking back, it seemed more a homage to the previous captain than one of welcome.

And the long journey from Portsmouth to the Admiralty, Jago sitting with him in the coach, more ill at ease than he could ever recall.

Now here. And now this.

Troubridge had moved and was facing him.

"If I may help in any way, sir?" The admiral had already been dismissed from his thoughts. This, the present moment, was suddenly important, although he could not determine why.

Adam said, "The artist he mentioned. Do you know his name?"

"Yes, sir. He once did a portrait of my father. It was Montagu… Sir Gregory. It was very sudden, I believe, sir."

The Admiralty servant coughed politely and Troubridge said, "We must go, sir. The First Lord dislikes being delayed."

Their feet made the only sound in the long corridor. Occasionally they passed a window, where carriages in the distance and, once, a troop of dragoons gave a touch of normality.

She was in that house. Like Andromeda. Helpless and alone.

The tall doors were just a few paces away: the room where the great news had broken. Trafalgar. Waterloo. And Algiers.

Troubridge said suddenly, "You can trust me, sir."

Afterwards he knew he would never be able to forget Captain Bolitho's expression. His eyes. Nor want to.

The great doors had opened as though to some signal, but Adam turned abruptly and gripped the flag lieutenant's arm as if nothing else mattered.

"I am not sure I can trust myself! "

The journey seemed endless, and Adam had lost count of the streets and squares, the gleam of water whenever the coach drove close to the river. It was late, and pitch dark, and yet there seemed to be people everywhere, and when he lowered a window he could hear the clatter of wheels and horses, smell woodsmoke and the occasional aroma of cooking whenever they passed yet another tavern. Did nobody ever sleep in the capital?

The coachman showed no uncertainty, and Adam guessed he was used to these journeys with little notice or none at all; Troubridge had said as much. He was often employed by senior officers not wishing to draw attention to themselves. Troubridge had learned fast since his appointment as Bethune's aide.

Adam wished he knew what Jago was thinking, up there beside the coachman, probably wondering what had made him insist on joining them.

Troubridge was thinking aloud.

"Getting close." He was peering through the opposite window. "That looks like the church." He hesitated. "I was here once before."

Adam saw some glowing braziers beside the road, dark figures crowded around them for warmth and companionship. Coachmen, grooms, servants, it was hard to tell. Waiting for their masters to become tired or bored with whatever pastime or indulgence had brought them here.

The houses were higher now, several storeys, some with windows lighted, chandeliers giving a hint of the district's original luxury. Much as the solemn Bowles had described. Other houses were in total darkness, shutters closed, walls neglected and flaking in the carriage lanterns.

Troubridge murmured, "Number Eighteen, sir. We're passing it now."

Adam felt even more uneasy. Cheated. It was no different from all the others.

Troubridge said doubtfully, "Looks deserted." He leaned out of the window. "Some lights up there, sir."

The coachman said nothing, and had climbed down to attend to his horses.

"What kind of people, I wonder

, Troubridge shrugged, and Adam thought he heard the clink of steel.

"Gaming rooms." Again the hesitation. "Brothels. I did hear that artists come here to earn their keep."

Jago was by the door, although he had made no sound. He said, "Some one comin' now, sir."

A group of men, perhaps six in all, one calling back to a coachman, telling him to wait without fail. A loud, slurred voice. One used to being obeyed.

They were going toward the house, Number Eighteen. One of them was laughing; another called, "Put it away, John, you can have all you want to drink inside! "

They heard the crash of the knocker, enough to wake the street.

The door was partly open, more voices, angry this time, one harsher than all the others.

"So I'm a trifle late, man! What is that to you? Just do as you're damn well told by your betters and be sharp about it! "

The door opened wider, and there was more laughter. Then silence again, and the street was empty.

Adam said, "I am going inside." Suppose I am wrong? "Stay here."

He was on the road, the horses turning their heads to watch him.

Without looking, he knew that Troubridge was following him,

while Jago had moved away to their left, almost as if he had changed his mind.

Troubridge said, "I think you should consider…"

Adam had already seized the knocker. "I must find out, " and the crash froze Troubridge into silence.

The door opened a few inches; Adam heard voices, muffled, deep inside the building.

"What do you want The shadowy figure seemed to glide backwards, the door opening completely, the voice suddenly changed, all hostility gone.

Instead he said brokenly, "Thank God. You got the message! "

The door had closed behind them; the high-ceilinged entrance was lit by only two candles and Adam could see the stains on the floor, the lighter patches on the walls where pictures had once hung, like a travesty of Bethune's room at the Admiralty.

He swung round and stared with disbelief. His first visit to the Old Glebe House; being met by the dour-faced figure, who had looked more like a priest than a servant. This same man.

Adam seized his arm; it felt like a bone through his coat.

"Tell me what is happening. Take your time." He tried to keep the urgency out of his voice, willing the other man to stay calm.

The house was suddenly silent, and very still. He could hear Troubridge's breathing, fast, unsteady. Or was it his own?

The other man said slowly, "Sir Gregory died, sir. He lost the will to live. His injury, after the fire… but for her I'm not sure what…"

Somewhere above them a door banged open and there were more shouts and laughter, one of them a woman's voice, hysterical. The door slammed and there was silence again. The late arrivals had reached their destination.

Adam's eyes were becoming accustomed to the feeble lighting. When he leaned forward he could just discern a spiral staircase rising overhead, a gilt banister, lit here and there by candle sconces, or perhaps an open door. An even larger house than it had seemed. He thought of Troubridge's comment. Gaming rooms. Brothels.

He seized the servant's arm again. "She is still up there?"

"First landing, sir. She was just about to leave when…"

The scream broke the stillness, locking mind and movement, making thought impossible.

He was running up the stairs, heedless of uneven and torn carpet snaring his shoes, guided only by the scream although it had ended as abruptly. There was a sudden crash, like some one falling, and the sound of breaking glass. On the landing above, more doors had opened

and voices made an insane chorus, like the climax to a nightmare.

Adam saw the gleam of light under a door and flung his shoulder against it. After the dark stairway the glare almost blinded him, but he took it in at a glance. Like the moment of close action. The first fall of shot. The carnage, and the wild disbelief that you had lived through it.

A studio, the same soiled and paint-daubed sheets, mock pillars and classical busts, one crowned with real laurels. And a long couch like the one he had seen at the Old Glebe House, where Lowenna had sat for Montagu's most promising students.

A tall looking-glass which he had seen used to direct light on to a subject lay in fragments, and a man was clutching a bloodied sheet to his face even as he tried to stagger to his feet.

Adam said, "Stay where you are! " He did not raise his voice, or did not think he had, but the other man fell back against the couch as if he had struck him. Some one about his own age, and vaguely familiar; he did not know or care. If he had moved, he would have killed him.

The girl stood facing him, quite still, as if posing for an artist. Only the painful thrust of her breast made a lie of her composure. She had one hand to her shoulder, where there was a tear in her gown which would become a bruise on the bare skin. In the other she was holding a brass candlestick.

She said quietly, "Adam." She repeated his name as if she believed she were mistaken. "How did you knowT

The man on the couch exclaimed, "She might have killed me! " He broke off and cringed as she raised the candlestick again.

But she tossed it under one of the sheets and said, "I was leaving. He tried to stop me. Then he tried to…"

She would have fallen if Adam had not seized her, held her, soothed her with words he scarcely understood, and did not remember. Behind him he heard the soft click of a pistol being uncocked. Troubridge had been ready.

He stroked her back, holding her without looking at her, feeling the resistance, the nearness of a complete breakdown. Remembering the secrets Montagu had told him, and what Nancy had discovered for herself. The nightmare, the brutal, lusting figures. The suffering and the shame.

He held his cheek close to the long, silky hair, his voice low, so that no one else existed.

"I wrote to you, Lowenna. I wanted you to know, to believe…"

For a moment he thought she had not heard, but felt her nod very slowly, her dark hair clinging to his face.

"I dared not. I was not sure. About myself. What I might do. It did not seem fair to you. To us…"

The man on the couch stirred, his shoes scraping on broken glass. Adam heard Troubridge say, almost gently, "Easy, now, be still, eh?" The hammer clicked again and there was silence. Even the sounds from the other rooms had faded or gone completely.

He said quietly, "I only heard about the fire when I returned to Falmouth." He held her more closely as she began to shiver. "I'll take you where you'll be safe."

"I have some friends, not far from here." She winced as the man shouted, "Whores! "

She said, "Of your making. As you would have used me! "

Then she stood back a little, his hands still around her waist, and added, "This is Sir Gregory's nephew. I think you may have seen him at one time."

Calmly said, but he could feel through his hands what it was costing her.

"I had my belongings packed, ready to go." She shook her head, trying to shut it out. "He said terrible things, taunted me, tried…" She shut her eyes. "I wanted to stop him… kill him."

A tall, painted screen shuddered to one side and Jago appeared in the room.

He said, "Found another door, Cap'n. Thought it might be a bolt-hole." He reached out casually and gripped the other man by the arm. "Stay anchored, matey. I don't like surprises, especially from your sort of filth." He did not even raise his voice. He did not need to.

Adam guided her to the empty fireplace, suddenly conscious of the cold. Hating the place, the smell of paint and oil.

She was gazing at him, her eyes unmoving, like the moment he had first seen her. On that day, Montagu's nephew had just arrived, and the bearded painter had taken him through another room to avoid a meeting. But for that…

"Take this." He undipped his cloak and folded it around her. "I have a carriage downstairs."

She had not heard him. She said, "Sir Gregory's house is locked up until legal matters have been settled. His brother is a lawyer, you see."

Adam did not see, but he could well imagine the complications Montagu's sudden death would create. And Lowenna would be completely alone.

Troubridge said, "I know a place where she can stay a while, sir. There must be some one…"

She had turned to study him, as if she had not realized any one else was there, and attempted to smile. But the nightmare was returning.

Instead, she looked very directly at Adam's face, as if to memorize each detail, as Montagu might have done before starting to paint.

She nodded again, very slowly.

"Walk with me."

Like that day in the garden, or that other day, when she had given him the rose.

Then, with her arm through his, she left the deserted studio, her head erect, her hair falling around her shoulders, even darker as they moved out on to the landing.

Troubridge followed, the pistol still dangling from his hand. He had learned a lot today in a very short while. About his captain, and about himself.

He heard Jago slam the door, and thought he called something to the man who still sat on the studio couch, the bloodied sheet pressed to his face.

Things could have gone very wrong. He might have been killed, or been forced to kill some one else. It would have meant ruin, and shame for his father, the admiral. And I was not afraid. Not once.

He also noticed that neither the captain nor the lovely woman wrapped in the boat cloak once looked back.

He thought of her voice when she had said, walk with me. All he could feel was envy.