Sword of Honour

1. Decisions

Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune put down his pen and waited for the elderly Admiralty clerk to gather up the letters and despatches he had signed. As the tall double doors closed behind him, Bethune stood up and glanced at the nearest windows. Bright sunshine; he could even feel the warmth across the room, with a sky so clear that it was almost colourless.

He heard a clock chime, and wondered how the meeting was progressing along the passageway. Senior officers, lords of Admiralty, and civilian advisers who had been called here to discuss the state of the dockyards and the needs of the medical services. At the Admiralty, it was another ordinary day.

He moved restlessly to the window and opened it, and the sounds of London rose to greet him. The clatter of carriages and the jingle of harness, the cry of a street pedlar risking the wrath of Admiralty porters to sell his wares to the passing throng.

Bethune caught his own reflection in the window, and smiled. Once he had thought he would never hold such an appointment; now he could hardly imagine anything else. After ships and the sea, it had seemed like something foreign. He touched the front of his waistcoat. Graham Bethune, Vice-Admiral of the Blue, one of the youngest flag officers on the Navy List. Like the uniform, the appointment fitted him perfectly.

He leaned over the sill and watched the procession of people. Many of the carriages were open to the sunshine, revealing women in colourful hats and fine gowns. It was April of the year 1814, but the war was still a brutal fact.

Like most serving officers, Bethune had become accustomed to the exaggerated assurances and the promises of final victory.

Reports arrived daily with news that Wellington 's armies were breaking through one French strongpoint after another; the invincible Napoleon was claimed to be on the run, deserted by all but his faithful marshals and his Old Guard.

What did all those people down there really believe, he wondered. After so many years of war with the familiar enemy, was the prospect of peace still only a dream? He moved back into the room and stared at the painting on one wall, a frigate in action, sails pitted with shot, a full broadside spitting fire at the enemy. It was Bethune's last command. He had confronted two big Spanish frigates, unfortunate odds even for a captain as eager as he had been. After a brisk engagement, he had run one Spaniard ashore and captured the other. Flag rank had followed almost immediately.

He looked at the ornate clock with its simpering cherubs and thought of the one man he admired, perhaps envied, more than any other.

Sir Richard Bolitho was back in England, fresh from that other war with the United States; Bethune had seen the letter the First Lord of the Admiralty had sent to him in Cornwall, recalling him to London. Bolitho had been his captain all those years ago in the sloop-of-war Sparrow. Another war, but they had been fighting Americans even then, a new nation born of revolution.

No reason for the recall had been offered. Surely Sir Richard Bolitho deserved a rest after all he had done? He thought, too, of the lovely Catherine Somervell, who had come to this very office to see him. He often thought of them, together.

And when the impossible had come to pass, and there was peace again, permanent or not, what would happen to Bolitho, and to all the men he had known on his way up the ladder from midshipman's berth to Admiralty? What will happen to me? It was the only life he knew. It was his world.

The streets and seaports were full of crippled and tattered remnants of war, rejected by a life which had all but destroyed them. Bethune was sometimes surprised that he could still be sensitive about such matters. Perhaps he had inherited that trait, too, from Sparrow's youthful captain.

He heard voices in the adjoining room, where his clerk held unwanted visitors at bay. He looked at the clock again. Too early for a glass.

Bethune did not drink heavily or overeat; he had seen too many of his contemporaries deteriorate because they did not heed such things. He took exercise when he could, a luxury after a ship's restricted quarters, and he enjoyed the company of women, as much as they enjoyed his. But he was discreet, or tried to be, and he told himself it was for the sake of his wife and his two young children.

His servant was standing in the doorway.

Bethune sighed. "What is it, Tolan?"

"Captain McCleod is here to see you, sir."

Bethune looked away. "Ask him to come in."

What had made him so nervous? Guilt? Thinking perhaps of Bolitho's mistress, who had faced the scandal and had triumphed?

The tall captain entered the room. He had an impassive, melancholy face; Bethune could not imagine him at sea, fighting a gale or the enemy.

"More despatches?"

The captain shook his head. Even that seemed mournful. "From Portsmouth, sir. By telegraph, just received." He glanced at the ceiling as if to see through it to the device which could link the Admiralty building to the south coast more swiftly than any courier, faster than any horse, provided the weather was perfect, as it was today.

Bethune opened it, and then hesitated. It was round, schoolboy writing, but afterwards he thought it was as though each word had been written in fire. Or blood.

He strode past his servant and the clerk at his desk, his steps seeming unusually loud in the deserted corridor. Great paintings watched him pass, sea battles: courage and heroism, without the human agony which was so seldom shown.

A lieutenant jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, sir, but the meeting is still in progress!"

Bethune did not even see him. He thrust open the door, and watched the mingled expressions of surprise, irritation, perhaps alarm.

The First Lord frowned. "Is it so urgent, Graham?"

Bethune wanted to lick his lips, to laugh, to weep. He had felt nothing like it before.

"From the admiral commanding at Portsmouth, my lord. A despatch has just been received."

The admiral said evenly, "Take your time."

Bethune tried again. It was a great moment, and he was a part of it, and yet all he could feel was sadness. "Marshal Soult's army was defeated by the Duke of Wellington at Toulouse. Totally. Napoleon has abdicated, surrendered to the Allies, four days ago."

The admiral stood, very slowly, and looked around the table. "Victory, gentlemen." The word seemed to hang in the air. "If only brave Nelson could have seen it."

Then he turned to Bethune. "I shall see the Prince Regent immediately. Attend to it for me." He dropped his voice to exclude the others. "It could mean Paris for you, Graham. I would feel more secure with you there."

Bethune found himself back in his spacious office again, without remembering the return.

When he looked out of the window once more, nothing had changed, not the people nor the horses and carriages. Even the pedlar was still standing with his tray of wares.

The elderly clerk was hovering by the desk. "Sir?"

"Pass the word to the Officer-of-the-Guard for the First Lord's carriage and escort."

"At once, sir." He hesitated. "Difficult to accept, sir. To believe.."

Bethune smiled and touched his arm, even as Bolitho might have done.

Difficult to accept? It was impossible.

Lieutenant George Avery reined his hired mount to a halt and leaned back in the saddle to admire the view. The house was beautifully designed; magnificent was the only description, he thought, and probably larger than the one where he had spent the night.

It had been a pleasant ride from central London to this place on the bank of the Thames, and it had given him time to think, to prepare for this meeting with his uncle, Lord Sillitoe of Chiswick. He had sensed the jubilant mood of the people all around him, had seen their smiles and waves when he had passed; apparently it was unusual to sight a naval officer on horseback.

But it was more than that, so much more. The impossible had become a fact, and it seemed as if every man and woman in the city was in the streets to make certain that the news was not just another cruel rumour. Napoleon, the tyrant, the oppressor who had sought to enslave a continent, was beaten, a prisoner of the victorious Allies.

This morning she had watched him while he dressed and readied himself for this meeting. He could still feel the power and the passion of their intimacy. Could this relationship, too, be more than a passing dream?

He glanced at a church clock. He was five minutes early. His uncle would expect it, even though it was said that he made a deliberate point of being late for his own appointments.

And yet, Avery scarcely knew him. His uncle, Sir Paul Sillitoe as he had been then, had suggested that he should apply for the appointment of flag lieutenant to Sir Richard Bolitho. As the date for that first meeting had drawn near, he had almost withdrawn the application, knowing that it would only end in another disappointment. He had been wounded, and had been a prisoner of war. Upon his exchange, he had been required to face a court-martial for the loss of his ship, even though she had been lost through the captain's recklessness, and his own wound had rendered him helpless and unable to prevent his men striking to a superior enemy.

The memory of his first meeting with Bolitho. the hero and the legend, was very vivid; it would never leave him, and their association had restored him, had perhaps even made him something he might otherwise never have been.

But his uncle? A man of enormous power and influence; and now that Sillitoe had also become a personal adviser to the Prince Regent, that power was greatly feared, if not respected.

He patted the horse's flank, and spoke to the stable-hand who had come running to take his rein.

"See to her, will you. I doubt that I shall be here very long."

Doors opened before he reached them, the sun streaming in to greet him from windows that faced the Thames, and the slow-moving masts of local traders making use of the tide. A fine staircase, elegant pillars, but also a spartan lack of ornaments and paintings, which his uncle would doubtless find flippant, and obtrusive.

A hard-faced servant in gilt-buttoned livery confronted him in the spacious hallway. Avery had heard it said that most of Sillitoe's servants resembled prize-fighters, and now he saw that it was true.

"If you will wait in the library, sir." He did not drop his eyes, again, like a fighter wary of a treacherous attack.

Avery nodded in acknowledgement. The man did not ask for his name; he would know. Otherwise, he would not be here.

He walked into the library and stared out across the river. Peace. He felt the pain in his wounded shoulder, always a reminder, should he need one. He thought of her body arched against his; she had insisted on seeing the deep scar, and had kissed it with such gentleness that he had been both surprised and moved.

He caught sight of himself in a tall mirror; like a stranger, he thought. He still could not get used to the single epaulette on his shoulder.

They had all endured so much together. But when he tried to imagine the future, beyond the day or the week, it was like being lost, in a fog.

The war was over. Hostilities continued along the border of Canada and the United States, but that could not last much longer. And what of us? "We Happy Few', as Bolitho had often called them. Adam Bolitho was still in Halifax as flag captain to Rear-Admiral Keen; Captain James Tyacke would be waiting for a new appointment, with the frigate Indomitable paid off to await her own fate.

He stared at his reflection. Still only a lieutenant, with streaks of grey in his dark hair to show what the war had cost him. Thirty-five years old. He grinned, surprised that he was able to consider a future without prospects, once Sir Richard Bolitho came ashore for good. In his heart, it was what Bolitho wanted, and Avery felt very privileged to know the inner, private man. Brave in his decisions, unwavering in their execution, but after the cannon had fallen silent and the enemy's flag had come down through the smoke, Avery had seen the other man, sensitive, grieving for those who had fallen, because he had required it of them.

What then for himself? A command of his own? Perhaps a little schooner like the lost Jolie, although that was unlikely. The navy would begin ridding itself of ships and men as soon as the terms for peace were settled amongst the Allies. Countless soldiers and sailors would be paid off, unwanted, left to fend for themselves. It had happened before. It would always be so.

"If you will come this way, sir."

Avery left the library, very conscious of the silence; it made him realise how empty the place was. After a noisy, lively ship, it was to be expected. All sailors were like fish out of water when they came ashore. But compared with Bolitho's house in Cornwall, with its endless comings and goings of people from the farm and the estate, neighbours or well-wishers, this splendid residence echoed like a tomb.

His uncle rose from his desk as he entered, closing a large file which he had apparently been studying, although Avery sensed that he had been sitting facing the door for some while. To compose himself? That seemed unlikely. To get it over quickly, duty done, was that it?

They shook hands, and Sillitoe said, "That will be all, Marlow." A small man whom Avery had not noticed got up from another desk and scurried away. It must be his uncle's secretary but, typically, Sillitoe did not introduce him.

He said, "I have some claret. I think you will approve of it." He faced him again and Avery was very aware of the dark, compelling eyes, the hooded lids, the gaze which took in every detail. He could well imagine people fearing him.

"I am glad you are here. It becomes ever more difficult to find the time." He frowned slightly as another servant entered with the claret and glasses. "It is fortunate you were in London, and that you received my note." The stare was impassive, no hint of triumph or contempt. He added calmly, "How is Lady Mildmay, by the way?"

"She is well, sir. It seems there are few secrets left in London."

Sillitoe gave a faint smile. "Quite so. But then, you have not exactly taken pains to conceal your… how shall we describe it? Your liaison with this lady, who, I gather, was the wife of your last captain? Of course I knew of it. And I am not certain that I approve, not that I expect you would care."

Avery sat down. What did it matter? I owe this man nothing.

He thought suddenly of Bolitho. I owe him everything.

"You will not have heard." Sillitoe took a glass and regarded it severely. "Sir Richard is recalled to London. He is needed."

Avery sipped the claret without tasting it. "I thought he was to be released from active duty, sir."

Sillitoe gazed at him over the rim of his glass, a little startled by the force of the words. He liked his nephew, and had felt moved to act on his behalf after he had been released from a French prison, only to face a court-martial. A wretched and unnecessary affair, he had thought. But then, he had little time for the navy and its strictures and traditions. His elder brother had been a captain and had been killed in action; it had been that captain who had inspired the young Avery to enter the navy, and it had been that same man who had sponsored him as a midshipman. But Avery's outburst had taken him by surprise, and he did not like surprises unless they were his own.

Avery said, as though to himself, "Then he will still need me after all."

Sillitoe frowned. "I have a deal of influence. I am also a wealthy man, some might say very wealthy. I have business interests in this country, and in Jamaica and the Indies. I need someone of integrity." He smiled briefly. "And, if you like, honour."

Avery put down his empty glass. "Are you offering me an appointment, sir?"

Sillitoe paced to the window and back. "A new life, would be a fairer description."

Avery watched him, suddenly aware of Sillitoe's discomfort. He was ill at ease, and because it was a state unknown to him, he was unable to contain it.

"Why me, sir?"

Sillitoe turned on him angrily. "Because you should have something to show for your sacrifices, and your treatment, which I thought unfair." He shook his head as if to silence some hidden voice. "And because I intend that you should be my heir." He faced him again. "My half-brother is dying of fever and a self- indulgence which would have sickened his father, hard man though he was."

The door opened a few inches.

"The carriage will be in attendance in fifteen minutes, m'lord!"

Sillitoe said, "I must see His Royal Highness. Louis of France is passing through London, en route to claim his throne." He grimaced. "There will be much to do."

Avery found himself on his feet and at the door, his hat again in his hand.

Sillitoe shaded his eyes to watch the river. "Enjoy your freedom with the beautiful Susanna." He reached out and took Avery's wrist in a grip of steel. "Then come back, and tell me your decision."

Avery heard the horses stamping impatiently.

Surprising that he should be so calm. Like that last day, when Indomitable had fought gun to gun with the enemy and men had died within inches of him. And Bolitho had been with him, depending upon him.

And suppose Sillitoe was wrong about Susanna, and that there might be something deeper than the mere fire of sexual excitement?

He said, "I thank you, sir, but I fear I do not deserve your offer." He thrust a coin into the groom's hand. "My loyalty is to Sir Richard."

Sillitoe watched him without expression. Then you are a fool."

Avery settled in the saddle and gazed down at him. "Very likely, sir." He would have said more, but as he dragged at the reins he saw his uncle perhaps for the first time. The man of power and influence.

A man completely alone.

Bryan Ferguson vaulted down from his two-wheeled trap and made sure that the pony was within reach of water.

"You bide here, Poppy." He glanced at the feed-bag, but decided against it; the pony was getting plump enough as it was.

Then he turned and looked at the low, white-painted inn, The Old Hyperion. Its sign, with the ship heeling to wind and sea, was barely moving. A warm April evening, but the inn would be empty with all the men working late on the farms. He could see the glint of water through the trees, the Helford river; it was a pleasant place. And being the only inn on the edge of Fallowfield village, it could capture what trade there was.

Earlier in the day he had been in Falmouth, and had been very aware of the changes brought about by the news of Napoleon's surrender. There had been more young men in the streets than usual, a sure sign that the dreaded press gangs had been stood down. It would take some getting used to. He flexed his one arm grimly. These days he hardly noticed that he was lacking an arm; it was equally hard to believe that he himself had been pressed into the fleet, along with John Allday.

Fate played strange tricks. Now Allday was coxswain and friend to Sir Richard Bolitho, and Ferguson was steward to the Bolitho estate. And Bolitho had been the captain of that ship, which had snatched them from the beach to serve the King.

He sighed. It was better to get it over with. They had doubtless seen or heard the trap rattle into the yard.

Unis, Allday's wife, was waiting to greet him.

"Why, Bryan, this is a surprise. You're all us at the market today!"

Ferguson walked through the doorway and glanced at the scrubbed tables, the flowers and the polished brasses. Welcoming and neat, like the woman who had greeted him.

"John's out the back, doing something or other." She smiled. "My John, that is."

The other John was Unis's brother, a one-legged soldier of the line, without whom she could never have managed with Allday at sea much of the time. Then she asked, "You want to see him? Nothing wrong up at the house, is there?"

He said, "A messenger came today, Unis." It was pointless to try and make light of it. "From the Admiralty."

She sat on a bench and stared at her arms, which were dusted with flour. "I thought… with the surrender an' that… it was all behind us. Will Sir Richard be needed again?" She touched the flour on her skin. "My John?"

"It may be so." He thought of Catherine Somervell's face after the messenger had departed. He had heard her exclaim, "It's so unfair! So wrong!"

Just weeks since his return from the war across the Atlantic. Maybe they wanted to honour him in some way.

He heard Allday scraping his shoes at the parlour door and said, "John would not be forced to go, Unis. Sir Richard would not do it."

She was quite calm again, her breathing steady. "I know that, Bryan. But you don't think like John, not about the sea an' Sir Richard."

Allday strode into the room. "Kate's asleep again, I see." He shook his friend's hand. "Going to be as smart as paint when she grows up, just like her mother!"

Unis said, "I'll fetch a wet for you, Bryan." She touched the big man's shoulder, and Ferguson saw the pain in her eyes. "You too, of course!"

Allday looked steadily at him. "She's left us alone. So what is it, bad news?"

"Sir Richard's called to London. The Admiralty." He shrugged. "Same old story, eh?"

"They didn't waste much time. When do we leave?"

Ferguson was both moved and troubled. Like the last time, and all the times before that.

"He'll not expect you to go to London, you know that, man. You've responsibilities here now, Unis and that bonny little mite sleeping in the parlour. The fighting's over, with the French anyhow, and the Yankees will never come this far!" It was no good. What had he expected?

Allday said, "My place is with him, you knows that. He needs me more than ever now. That eye of his is no better."

Ferguson said nothing. Allday trusted him with the secret, knowing he would tell nobody else, not even his wife. Especially not Grace. He loved her with all his heart, but he had to admit that she loved gossip.

Allday looked at his hands, strong hands, with scars to mark the years at sea. "Is Sir Richard put aback by the news?"

"It's hard to say. I watch him and his lady together like you, I feel proud to be a part of it, but his thoughts he keeps to himself."

Unis returned with two sweating tankards. "When my brother gets back I must tell him to set up some more ale. I think we shall be busy this evening." She looked at Ferguson. "You told him, then?"

"Aye."

Allday stared at the tankard between his hands, as if he wanted to crush it. "Can you see Sir Richard taking on somebody else? It's hard, but we don't expect things to change, not overnight."

She touched his shoulder again. "You'll never change. I'd not want you to. I'd know you were pretending, putting up with it, just for me an' Kate. She's taken a real shine to you since you got back."

She turned away, remembering the surprise and hurt he had shown when the child had gone to her brother John, as if he, her own father, was a stranger. It took time. But now he would be going away again. And she must face it.

She thought of Lady Catherine, that day when she had seen her waiting on the harbour quay at Falmouth, watching the little fleet schooner Pickle picking up her moorings, Bolitho coming home. And her own man had been with him, as always. Catherine, so brave, so defiant in the face of all the scandal and the cruel gossip. She would take it badly.

There were voices in the yard, and she said brightly, "The fish man. I asked him to stop by." She wiped her hands on her apron. "I'll deal with him."

Alone again with Allday, Ferguson said, "She's a marvel, John."

"I knows it." He looked around as if he were searching for something. "I'll go and put up some ale. It'll not take a minute. You sit there and finish your wet. I needs to think awhile."

Ferguson sighed. Next thing, Allday would be up at the house on some pretext or other, just to speak with Sir Richard, to tell him he would be ready.

He looked round, startled by a thud and something like a cough. He went quickly into the adjoining room, a cool place where the casks were stowed, ready to be tapped and moved to their trestles. One cask, a four-and-a-half- gallon pin, was lying against the wall. Allday sat with his back to it, his hands to his chest, his breathing loud and uneven, like a man dragged from the sea.

Ferguson knelt and put his arm around him.

"Easy, John! That damned wound again!" He watched his friend struggle for breath and wondered how long it had been like this. When Allday turned his head, he was shocked to see that his face was quite pale, grey beneath the weathered tan.

He said, "I'll fetch Unis."

Allday shook his head and gritted his teeth. "No! Stay with me!" He nodded heavily, and took a deep breath. "It's goin'. I'll be all right."

Ferguson watched the colour returning to his rugged face, the breathing becoming more even.

Allday allowed him to help him to his feet, and then said thickly, "Not a word, mind. It comes an' goes." He tried to grin. "See? Bright as a bullock's bayonet!"

Ferguson shook his head, resigned. He was beaten; he should have known. Allday and Bolitho, like master and faithful dog, someone had once said, each fearful for the other.

Together, they lifted the cask on to its trestle, and Allday said, "I needs something stronger than ale, an' that's no error!"

Unis found them sitting by the unlit fire, her husband holding a taper for his friend's clay pipe as if they had not a care in the world. She bit her lip to contain her despair. It was all a show, for her sake. Like the new cask on its trestle. The rest she could guess.

Ferguson said, "Must be getting back. I have to look at the books." Allday followed him out to the yard, and watched as he swung himself up on to the seat.

He said, simply, "Thanks, Bryan." He stared across the fields to the glint of the river beyond the trees. "You weren't there, see. Sir Richard, a full admiral, the finest ever, leading our boarders across on to that bloody renegade's deck like some wild lieutenant! You should have been there. To me. Indoms!" He shook his shaggy head. "I could never leave him now."

He raised one hand and grinned. It was one of the saddest things Ferguson had ever seen.

And one of the bravest.

Richard Bolitho sat in the corner of the carriage and stared out at the crowds and the horses, vehicles of every size jostling for position with apparent disregard for one another.

Despite the warm evening, he was wearing his boat cloak to conceal his uniform and rank. In the frenzied aftermath of Napoleon's surrender, any such reminder brought cheers and mobbing from ordinary people who had probably never displayed such emotion for any but Nelson.

A long day; a very long day. First Bethune, and then a meeting with the First Lord and his senior advisers. Napoleon had been sent into exile on the island of Elba; the giant who had raped a continent was to be marooned, forgotten. Even as the First Lord had said it, Bolitho had questioned the wisdom of the decision. It was like trying to cage a lion in an aviary, and it was too close, too close… The First Lord had spoken at length of the American war, and of Bolitho's participation with the squadron under his command. The Americans were being starved of trade due to the activity of the British squadrons, and the chain of command from Halifax to the Caribbean. Little short of a thousand American merchant ships had been captured, and, with France no longer a drain on the navy's resources, more men-of-war could now be sent to seal the last gaps in the blockade.

The First Lord had finished by saying that no war could be won by stalemate. An example must be made, a ready warning for the future.

Bethune had been watching Bolitho, and had tossed in some comment on the American attack on York.

The First Lord was old but he was no fool, and he had recognised in this Bethune's attempt to distract him.

"What do you think, Sir Richard? I know you hold advanced ideas on the war at sea, and I heard you myself say in this very building that the line of battle was, or should be, a thing of the past?"

Bolitho turned his head and saw the Thames, and the lucid glow which would promise a fine sunset.

"I'll stand by that, my lord. I also believe that a desire for revenge is no good reason for prolonging a war which neither side can hope to win."

Even then, he had believed that some kind of attack was being planned. Now, during this slow journey from the Admiralty to Chelsea, with time to go over it again in his mind, he was certain of it. Sir Alexander Cochrane had taken over the station; a man of action in every sense, but hardly a peacemaker.

Alone with Bethune, he had asked about Valentine Keen and about his nephew. Bethune had replied cautiously, "Rear-Admiral Keen will return to England this year. His flagship will more than likely be paid off." He had looked up from his desk, and for an instant Bolitho had seen the midshipman again. There were only a few years between them, and beneath the charm and the confidence Bethune was much the same. Above all, he was honest. Loyal. "I am certain that your nephew will find employment even with the fleet reduced, as it certainly will be."

"He is probably the best frigate captain we have. To be put on the beach after what he has done and endured would be intolerable."

It must have been at that moment that Bethune had come to his decision.

He had said, "We are good friends, Richard, and I regret that our paths have crossed only rarely." He had shrugged lightly. "As is the way of our calling. I have never forgotten that I have owed everything to you, from the moment you took command of Sparrow. And there have been many like me, who gained everything from that contact with you."

"And there were many who fell because of it, Graham."

He had shaken his head, dismissing it. "We shall see the First Lord again when he returns from his audience with the Prince Regent. Their meetings are usually brief." He paused, and the smile was gone. "I have to tell you that the First Lord will offer you Malta, will insist that you are the obvious choice for it. Until the peace is finally agreed amongst the Allies, the Mediterranean must serve as a reminder to friends and foes alike that no further territorial claims on land or at sea will be tolerated." He had watched Bolitho then in silence. "I thought you should hear it first from me."

"That was good of you, Graham." He had glanced around the spacious room. "But it can be dangerous here, also, so be warned!"

He rapped the roof of the carriage, and said, "I shall walk from here."

The coachman in his Admiralty livery barely glanced down from the box. Perhaps he had become too used to the ways of senior officers to question any whim.

He walked beside the river. Kate's London. She had made it his London now, or this small part of it, at least.

What shall I say? What must I tell her?

The First Lord had had no doubts at all. "Not since Collingwood held this command has there been stability and leadership. Your reputation, your sense of honour are more valuable now than in the line of battle!" He had neglected to mention that Collingwood, Nelson's second-in-command at Trafalgar, had died in the Mediterranean without ever being relieved of that command, despite his repeated requests to be allowed to come home, and despite the illness which had eventually killed him.

He walked on, disquieted by his thoughts.

It had been bad enough when he and Catherine had left Falmouth. Allday visiting the house, ostensibly to ensure that the swords were in good trim, then coming straight out with it. Not pleading, but insisting on his right to be at Bolitho's side, wherever his flag should lead. And his secretary, Yovell, a man of many faces, and the secretive Ozzard. His little crew. And now there was Avery to consider. Bethune had hinted that he had been offered a great opportunity, a chance of security and prosperity. God knew he would never find either as a lowly lieutenant.

The door was open and she was standing at the top of the steps, her hair piled above her ears, like silk in the candlelight.

She slipped his arm around her waist. "Come into the garden, Richard. I have some wine there. I heard you were coming." She seemed to sense his tension. "I had a visitor."

He turned. "Who?"

The strain was very evident in his face.

"George Avery. He had come on a mission, with an invitation to some reception." She caressed his hand. "Tomorrow. After that, we can leave for Falmouth."

He said nothing, and walked into the garden, into its deepening shadows. He heard her pour the wine, then she said quietly, "So it is to be Malta, Richard?"

Nothing of the anger she had shown in Falmouth. This was the poised, determined woman who had dared everything for his sake, who had even shared the ordeal in an open boat off the coast of Africa.

"I have not decided, Kate……"

She put her fingers lightly on his mouth. "But you will. I know you so well, better than any other, even yourself. All those men you have led and inspired, they will expect it. For them, and the future they have been fighting for. You told me once, they are never allowed to ask, or to question why they should sacrifice so much."

They walked together to the low wall and watched the sunset over the river.

She said, "You are my man, Richard. I will be with you, no matter how unfair or unjust I believe this decision may be. I would die rather than lose you." She touched his face, the cheekbone beneath the damaged eye. "And afterwards?"

"Afterwards, Kate. That is a very beautiful word. Nothing can or will part us again."

She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. Take me, Richard. Use me as you will, but always love me."

The wine remained in the garden, untouched.