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About the Author

MARGARET McPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.

REGENCY Debutantes

The Captain’s Lady

Mistaken Mistress

Margaret McPhee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Captain’s Lady

Margaret McPhee

Chapter One

November 1804

‘Mr Praxton, you’re mistaken in your assumption!’ Georgiana Raithwaite staggered back from the hard thin lips pressed to hers. Her hand scrubbed at her bruised mouth as she attempted to escape.

‘Come now, Miss Raithwaite, don’t play coy with me. We both know the truth of your feelings on the matter.’ Walter Praxton grasped Georgiana’s wrist, the bones of his fingers biting into her. Relentlessly he dragged her closer until she was pressed fully against his frame.

‘No! Let me go! I haven’t encouraged your interest.’ The dark green wool of his finely tailored coat scraped against her cheek, releasing a rush of cologne. ‘We’ve been gone for an age and our party will be here at any moment.’ She struggled harder. ‘Leave me be!’

He sniggered, a harsh and petty sound against the rush of the nearby river, and his ruthless mouth touched the locks of her unbound hair. Her bonnet lay crushed amidst the hawthorn bushes where he had thrown it just moments before. ‘Indeed, they will, my dear. Let them come upon our lovers’ tryst.’ His handsome face cracked with a smile that did not touch the coldness in his ice-blue eyes.

‘How dare you! My papa won’t believe your lies!’ Georgiana wrenched her face away from his. ‘Release me or I swear I’ll scream.’

Even as she sucked the breath in to fulfil her threat, his left hand snaked around the slim column of her throat, crushing with a slow even pressure that ensured her silence.

He stared into her eyes, eyes that were wide and round with fear and loathing, and whispered softly against her ear, ‘I won’t brook such disobedience when we’re married.’

The sound of voices murmured in the distance. ‘Not long now, my dear. To be caught in such a compromising situation…You’re fortunate indeed that I’m a gentleman and can be relied upon to do the honourable thing.’ His mouth contorted into a sweet smile.

It was then that Georgiana understood the exact nature of the trap closing around her. Walter Praxton meant to have her for his wife, despite all of her refusals. It did not matter that he had callously engineered the situation for his own ends. Once Mama, Papa, the Battersby-Browns and Mrs Hoskin had witnessed her in this dishevelled state, with Mr Praxton’s mouth upon hers and his odious hand kneading at her breast, nothing would save her. Her papa had worked hard to achieve a standing in society and nothing, but nothing, would be allowed to sully that, even her claims of assault. And Mr Praxton was so very suitable, the wealthy young owner of several paper mills in the area, respectable, influential. No wonder her family were irritated and incredulous that she saw fit to decline the gentleman’s addresses. But to be forced to wed against her will, and to such a man…Georgiana felt the sensation starting in her toes. It crept slowly up her legs. Once it reached her head she knew that she would pass into the black realms of oblivion…leaving Mr Praxton’s plan to successful fruition.

‘Don’t fight me, Georgiana.’ Mr Praxton’s voice scratched against her ear.

She knew she had but one chance, one hope of escaping this vile man and a life at his mercy. And she must take it now, if at all.

Her knee raised in a violent jerk, landing precisely in Mr Praxton’s closely situated groin.

‘Damnation!’ Walter Praxton’s body convulsed and he bent double, releasing his hold on Georgiana to clutch at the front of his breeches. ‘Hell and damnation, you’ll pay for that, you little bitch!’ His cheeks paled and a scowl twisted his features.

Georgiana did not delay. Immediately his grip had released, she pivoted and ran.

His voice rasped thick, tinged with malice and pain. ‘There’s nowhere to run to. Unless you can walk on water, that is.’ He leaned heavily upon his thighs and managed to straighten a little.

Georgiana looked beyond to the fast-flowing river, swollen from the heavy November rains. He was right. Dear Lord help her, but he was right. The small clearing was surrounded on three sides by dense shrubs. The gap through which Mr Praxton had coerced her was now firmly blocked by his enraged form. Her heart beat fast and furious as her skirts wrapped themselves around her fleeing legs.

‘I fear that you’ve made a very grave error, my dear, and one for which I’ll exact full payment, unless you make yourself amenable to me, Miss Raithwaite.’

In that moment Georgiana made her choice. There could be no other. Before her courage—or foolery, as her papa would term it—deserted her, she leapt from the grass banking straight into the river.

Walter Praxton’s mouth gaped with incredulity. Even the strongest swimmer would be hard pushed to survive such conditions. ‘Stupid girl, you’re going to drown yourself!’ The realisation of just what he stood to lose loomed large in his greedy mind, not to mention Edward Raithwaite’s reaction when he discovered that his stepdaughter had drowned whilst in Mr Praxton’s care. ‘Bloody hell!’ he swore through clenched teeth, and scrambled about to find a branch to hook Miss Raithwaite back to safety.

The plan was not proceeding quite as Mr Praxton had envisaged.

A scream shrilled behind him. Mrs Raithwaite collapsed into a crumpled heap and Mrs Battersby-Brown appeared to be in the throes of hysteria, not helped by Mrs Hoskin’s high-pitched screaming.

‘Good God, man! What the…? Georgiana?’ Mr Raithwaite looked at Mr Praxton, confusion clear upon his face.

Walter Praxton turned to the older man. ‘Against my advice Miss Raithwaite insisted on examining the river at close quarters. Such a wilful girl! Sir, quickly pass me that large stick, and I’ll fish her out.’ Mr Praxton’s fingers raked his perfect golden locks with ill-concealed agitation.

Georgiana’s body submerged beneath the river, its freezing waters rushing to infiltrate the snug warmth of her clothing. Already it clung like a dead weight. Ice-cold water swirled all around, dragging at her skirts, conspiring to pull her beneath its bubbling surface to the dark unknown depths below. Her lungs constricted and would not function save but to gasp for air when there was nothing but water. She tried to scream, but could find no voice. Cold terror prickled at her scalp and her head ached where the freezing water beat her down. Her arms flailed, wildly seeking something, anything, on which to anchor, even as she sank lower. And, just as the darkness closed in upon her so that she could but look up to the lightness of the sky so very far above her head, her hand found purchase. Her fingers closed upon it, clinging for dear life to that saviour. With her heart pumping fit to burst, she pulled herself up and broke the surface, coughing while gasping in air that had never tasted so sweet. She embraced the clump of reeds, unmindful of its sharp-edged leaves lacerating the palms of her hands. Still the river fought to keep her, tugging mercilessly at her grip on that one small patch of vegetation.

‘Catch hold of the end, Miss Raithwaite, and I’ll pull you to safety.’

Fortunately, or as it now transpired, unfortunately, she was some way beyond the reach of Mr Praxton or, indeed, her stepfather. Through the soaking hair plastered across her eyes she saw Walter Praxton extend the branch towards her. Heard his cruel voice turned velvet with concern. Time stopped still. The river roared in silence, battering her body into numbness. Mama lay motionless upon the ground, and Mrs Battersby-Brown’s and Mrs Hoskin’s mouths moved in the shape of screams. But for that single instant Georgiana knew nothing, felt nothing, except the terrible certainty that by her own rash actions she had just played right into her unwanted suitor’s hands. How well he feigned the hero. And how well her papa would reward him for saving her life. Walter Praxton knew it too. She could see it in his narrow calculating focus.

‘Miss Raithwaite, Georgiana!’ His honeyed voice pulled her back to consciousness. ‘The stick…’

For all that she despised the man and his cruelties, she had not the courage, nor the folly, to sacrifice herself to the river. Death was more fearsome than Walter Praxton. Even as she reached to grasp the stick she saw the glimmer of a smile flicker across his lips, and all the while those cold pale eyes held hers, filled with the promise of what was to come.

Slowly, painfully, he dragged her closer, inching her towards the safety of the bank and the danger of what stood with such concern upon it. ‘Nearly there. Just a little more. Hold tight, my dear.’ Never once did she shift her gaze, fixed so markedly upon her rescuer.

‘Do as Mr Praxton bids. You’re almost within reach.’ Papa’s voice was relief edged with irritation. But then again, did he not always say she was a vexation to his soul, an inconsiderate stepdaughter with a selfish unruly streak?

‘Georgiana!’ The tips of Mr Praxton’s long fingers reached to hers.

She was his. Caught. Landed with all the skill of an expert angler delivering a fine fat trout.

‘Mr Praxton.’ Her hand stretched towards him. Reaching for her captor. Her eyes closed in anticipation of the feel of his clammy skin. She heard a scream, felt the force of the rushing water pull her with a raging ferocity, saw Walter Praxton recede with the distant bank.

The woman was still yelling. ‘Do something, Edward! Dear God, somebody help us!’ Her mother’s white face twisted with terror.

‘Mama!’ The word croaked from Georgiana’s water-filled mouth as the river swept her downstream with an urgent insistence, ripping her away from the safety of her family and the threat of Mr Praxton. Mercifully Georgiana Raithwaite knew nothing more as the turbulent water claimed her as its own, within the scenic setting of Hurstborne Park.

‘I dare say that you’re right, Freddie, I should spend more time at Collingborne. Especially now, with all that’s happened.’ Nathaniel Hawke’s grey gelding trotted contentedly next to the smaller bay.

Lord Frederick eyed his brother speculatively. ‘Then you’ll stay?’ The question was pointless. He already knew the answer.

‘I cannot, even if I wanted to. The Pallas sails in two weeks’ time under orders from the Admiralty. There’s nothing I can do to change that.’ The reins tightened beneath his fingers, but his face did not betray any hint of the emotion that struggled within. ‘Both you and Henry will be there to attend our father, and my presence is sure only to…aggravate the situation.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Lord Frederick sighed. ‘But you’ll have to confront him over this blasted nonsense at some point—he’s threatening to disinherit you from all that he can.’

Nathaniel smiled grimly at the words. ‘Have no fear for me, Freddie. I’m more than capable of making a success of my life without the Earl of Porchester’s help. And now we should talk of more important matters.’

‘More important matters?’

‘Indeed. Just how do you mean to explain your friendship with Lady Sarah to Mirabelle! That lady will eat you for breakfast, little brother.’ Nathaniel raised an eyebrow in wry amusement, and revealed his teeth in a broad grin, ready to hear the tale.

Freddie laughed, then suddenly stopped. ‘Nathaniel, what’s wrong?’

All traces of humour left his brother’s face as he stared in the direction of the river.

‘Nathaniel?’

Dark eyes opened wide in shock. ‘There’s someone in the river!’

The younger man’s brow furrowed. ‘But the water’s too high and too cold for swimming.’

‘I doubt that swimming is quite what he had in mind. Quickly, Freddie, there’s no time to lose, the fellow will soon be drowned, if he isn’t already dead.’ Nathaniel spurred the gelding to a gallop and shouted, ‘Head towards Holeham’s Hook, wait for me on the bridge.’

‘But where are you going?’ Freddie’s words flitted weakly into the wind. Worry growled in his gut. He hoped that Nathaniel wasn’t about to do something foolhardy. But wasn’t his brother’s life a string of foolhardy ventures, with scant regard for the danger in which he seemed permanently embroiled?

Nathaniel’s jaw set firm as he directed the gelding to the swollen river. Now that he had drawn closer, he could see that the boy had lost consciousness and was being dragged within the grip of the sweeping current. The slight body tossed and tumbled down the central line of the river beyond all hope of reach. Even as he weighed the situation, Nathaniel knew what he must do. Not once did he flinch from his purpose. He bellowed the words at Freddie’s blurred image, ‘I’ll meet you at the bridge. Be ready to haul us out!’ Urging the horse on, he raced alongside the river for some distance.

Just short of the muddied bank he leapt from his horse, snaring the reins over a bush as he ran. First his boots were discarded. Then his superfine coat. Just as the boy swept past Nathaniel plunged into the fast-flowing water. Icy shock bit deep and he schooled himself not to gasp. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ The curse escaped him, but there was no one to hear him over the river’s roar. With immense strength of will he forced his legs to kick and swam like he had never swum before in the direction of the poor battered body. The writhing water, pounding in his ears, stinging his eyes, transported him to his quarry.

He felt the slim arm before his saw it, and his fingers closed firm. Not far to Holeham’s Hook. Hold on. Kick hard. Steer towards the right-hand side. The thoughts came with deliberate logic even as fatigue and pain assailed his body. The lad’s heavy, so heavy. Arms growing numb. Determination focused as he fought. Hold fast. Keep his head up. Nearly there. Through the blinding water he saw the bridge coming up fast and braced himself. He turned his body to absorb the worst of the impact and grunted as it hit hard. His right hand shot up and grasped the sodden wood, striving for anchorage, pulling for safety. But the river would not relinquish her prize so readily, raging against his legs and the limp body he gripped so keenly. Slowly his fingers moved against the post, a minuscule motion, barely noted, but a portent of what was to come. ‘No!’ he cried out as his palm slid against the wood. And just as it seemed that the river had won, something warm and strong grabbed his wrist. Freddie.

After he had dragged them both out, she lay on the muddied grass beneath Nathaniel. Not a lad at all, but a young woman, her face deathly pale, her sodden clothes revealing a slim but shapely form, long dark hair splayed in the mud around her head. Working with a speed that belied his growing exhaustion, Nathaniel pressed his fingers to the side of the girl’s throat and touched his cheek to her mouth. ‘Her heart’s weak, but she’s alive.’ He looked up to meet Freddie’s concerned gaze. ‘She isn’t breathing. Help me lift her up.’ Once she was cradled in his arms, Nathaniel let her head and chest drop back low towards the ground. ‘Slap her hard on the back,’ he instructed his brother.

Freddie looked dubious.

‘Just do it, man!’

Freddie shrugged and did as he was told.

Water spilled from the girl’s mouth as she coughed and spluttered.

‘Thank God!’ Nathaniel hoisted the slim body back up into his arms and looked down into the girl’s face.

A pair of grey-blue eyes stared up into his, and in them he saw the mirror of his own surprise, before the fear closed in.

‘Don’t be afraid, miss. You’re quite safe.’ Water dripped in rivulets down his face, splashing on to her cheeks.

She tried to speak, her words but a hoarse croak.

Nathaniel’s arms tightened around her. ‘Your throat will be sore for a few days yet, but there should be no lasting damage. Don’t speak until you’re able.’

Her blue-tinged lips tightened and she nodded.

He stared down at her for a moment longer, then sprang into action. ‘Freddie, take the girl up on your horse and transport her to Mirabelle. Whoever she is, we cannot leave her here, and the sooner she’s dried and warmed, the better. Wrap your coat around her for the journey.’

His brother nodded, clambered on to his horse and reached down for the woman.

‘I’ll be right behind you.’ And so saying, a shivering Nathaniel Hawke set off across the grass in his wet-stockinged feet to retrieve his boots, his coat and his trusty steed.

It was just as his toes squelched down inside the highly polished leather that he heard the shout.

‘Excuse me, sir. You over there!’

Nathaniel looked up to see a robust grey-haired gentleman waving from the opposite bank. Two well-dressed men hovered at his side.

‘Young man!’ Mr Raithwaite shouted louder still.

‘How may I help you, sir?’ Nathaniel stood tall and, oblivious to his sodden state, executed a small bow in the man’s direction.

Edward Raithwaite peered through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. ‘Your appearance suggests that you have just suffered an encounter with the river.’

Nathaniel resisted the reply poised so readily upon his tongue. Rather, he pushed his weary shoulders back and affected to be polite. ‘That is indeed the case, sir. Have you an interest in the matter?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the corpulent man replied. ‘I’ve lost my daughter. Silly chit walked too close to the river.’ He glanced towards the young man behind him with blatant irritation. ‘Mr Praxton here tried to help, but unfortunately the water took her before he could pull her out.’

Nathaniel’s gaze sharpened with interest.

The young man pushed forward. ‘Mr Raithwaite’s daughter fell into the river about a mile upstream. Considering your appearance, we wondered if you might have tried to assist the young lady.’ He gripped the older man’s arm. ‘Her father is most distressed.’ Belatedly adding, ‘This is Mr Edward Raithwaite of Andover.’

‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, and can put your mind at ease. I pulled a girl from the river not fifteen minutes ago.’ Nathaniel shrugged into his coat. ‘Suffering from cold and shock, but no worse hurts that I could see.’

Mr Raithwaite’s elderly head sagged and he pressed his hand to his brow. ‘Thank the Lord!’

The handsome man spoke again. ‘We must be sure that it is Miss Raithwaite. Was she dark-haired and slender, wearing a yellow walking dress?’

Something in the tone grated against Nathaniel’s ear. ‘I believe the lady matched your description.’ He eyed the man with disdain and turned to address his further comments to Mr Raithwaite. ‘My brother has taken Miss Raithwaite to Farleigh Hall. It’s situated nearby and she’ll be well tended.’ He climbed upon his horse and looked directly over at the small group of gentlemen. ‘You’re welcome to attend your daughter there, sir.’

Mr Raithwaite nodded and mumbled a reply. ‘Got to see to the ladies first, then I’ll come over.’

‘You sent her to Viscount Farleigh’s residence?’ The voice was curt and heavy with suspicion.

Even Mr Raithwaite turned to look at the man by his side.

‘Indeed.’ Nathaniel raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘Why?’

Mr Raithwaite cleared his throat and touched a restraining hand to the golden-haired man’s arm. ‘Mr Praxton, don’t worry so. This gentleman means to help us and I believe his actions to be nothing but honourable.’ Turning to Nathaniel, he said by way of explanation, ‘Mr Praxton has a great fondness for my daughter and is concerned for her.’ Then, as if catching himself, ‘Please forgive my manners. These are my friends, Mr Walter Praxton and Mr Julian Battersby-Brown.’

Nathaniel acknowledged the introduction with a quick nod of his head. ‘Nathaniel Hawke, sir.’ He looked directly at Mr Praxton. ‘Viscount Farleigh is my brother.’

‘Lord Hawke!’ Mr Battersby-Brown uttered with reverence.

‘Please excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve an inclination to change my clothing.’ And with that he made off into the distance with some considerable speed.

Georgiana awoke to find herself tucked firmly into a vast four-poster bed. A fire leapt in the hearth and the room was quiet save for the crackles and spits that emitted from its warm golden flames. She remembered her arrival at the house with the fine young gentleman, but thereafter nothing. She wrinkled her brow in concentrated effort, but there was nothing except a haziness to recall. Sitting up, she became aware of the luxurious nightgown draped against her skin and that her hair was now dry, but tumbled around her shoulders. Just as her toes contacted the floor the door positioned in the far corner of the room swung open. In waltzed a petite lady wearing a fashionable dress of blue muslin.

‘Miss Raithwaite, you’re awake. Are you feeling better?’ Without waiting for an answer, the woman wafted towards her in a cloud of fragrant lavender. Her lively cornflower-blue eyes dropped to where the tips of Georgiana’s toes touched upon the carpet. ‘My dearest girl, what can you be thinking of? You must not attempt to get up just now. Doctor Boyd has said that you’re to rest, and rest you shall. You’ve suffered a shock and it’s likely to take you some time to recover.’ The lady chattered on.

Georgiana looked on in mild confusion.

‘Now, pop your feet back beneath those bedcovers and rest against the pillows. I’ll instruct Mrs Tomelty to bring you a little broth.’ She pressed a hand to her mouth in sudden consternation. ‘Oh, but whatever am I thinking of? You’ve not the faintest idea of who I am.’

‘I—’ Georgiana opened her mouth to speak.

‘No, my dear. It’s quite inexcusable of me. I’m Mirabelle Farleigh, wife to the brother of Nathaniel and Frederick, the two gentlemen who rescued you from your most unfortunate incident.’ She smiled sweetly at Georgiana and helped to rearrange the covers upon the great bed. ‘My husband is Henry, Viscount Farleigh.’

‘I must thank you, ma’am, for your kindness and for taking me into your home.’ Georgiana’s voice was husky.

Lady Farleigh’s golden ringlets bounced as she shook her head. ‘Think nothing of it, dear Miss Raithwaite. You’re very welcome.’ Her small pink mouth crinkled into a smile again.

‘You already know my name, ma’am?’ Georgiana’s brow lifted in surprise.

‘But of course, Nathaniel has told us all. And let’s dispense with all this “ma’am-ing”, please call me Mirabelle.’

Georgiana smiled at the small woman before her. ‘Thank you…Mirabelle, and, of course, you must call me Georgiana. But how did you come to know my name? Has my papa—?’

‘Forgive me, my dear.’ Lady Farleigh interrupted. ‘I’m ahead of myself as usual. Let me retell the story in full just as Nathaniel did.’

‘That would be very kind. Thank you, Mirabelle.’ Georgiana’s eyebrow twitched slightly, but she made no further comment as she leaned back against the pillows and prepared to listen.

Mirabelle settled herself into a chair close by the bed. ‘I had just visited baby Richard in the nursery when—’

A brisk knock rapped and not one, but two, gentlemen entered the bedroom.

Georgiana pulled the bedcovers higher to meet her chin and eyed them with suspicion.

Lady Farleigh gave a squeak of delight. ‘Nathaniel, Freddie! You’ve come to check upon poor Miss Raithwaite! What impeccable timing you have. I was just about to explain all about Nathaniel’s meeting with Mr Raithwaite, but now that you’re here I’ll leave all that to you. Miss Raithwaite is positively agog to know how we came to discover her name.’

An uncharitable thought popped into Georgiana’s mind.

Would Lord Nathaniel, whichever of the two men he happened to be, be able to squeeze a word in edgeways in the presence of the effusive Mirabelle? And then she had the grace to blush at her quite appalling lapse.

Nathaniel Hawke looked at the subtle play of emotions flitting so clearly across Miss Raithwaite’s surprisingly fine features. Curiosity followed suspicion, guilt trailed humour. Mirabelle’s chatter allowed him to study the girl with her pale skin and expressive eyes. Her long ebony-coloured hair splashed its dark luxury against the stark white of the nightgown, sweeping down to hang as two heavy curtains. Nathaniel experienced an urge to tangle his fingers in it. She was young, and a lady to boot. Two very good reasons why he should resist the compelling physical attraction he felt towards her.

Mirabelle had paused in her introductions and was pushing him forward with pride. ‘Nathaniel really is quite the hero despite his protestations.’

The grey-blue eyes glanced up to meet his…and stopped.

‘Miss Raithwaite, I’m glad to see that you’re somewhat recovered from your ordeal.’ He held her gaze, and smiled.

Georgiana’s mouth suddenly felt dry, and the room hot. Indeed, her cheeks burned uncommonly warm. ‘Sir,’ she managed to croak at the man standing before her. She owed him her life, of that she was certain. It was his strong arms that had pulled her from the river, his courage that had saved her from a watery grave. Those same dark eyes that had held such concern on the riverbank were now regarding her with amusement. The hair that had hung in sodden strands now sprang in mahogany-coloured curls around his rugged face. She should have proclaimed her gratitude from the very rooftops. But Miss Raithwaite, who had been raised to behave with the utmost decorum, suddenly found that it had deserted her, along with every other rational thought. For Lord Nathaniel Hawke was having a most peculiar effect upon her sensibilities. And she was certain that she did not care at all for such a situation.

The wicked smile crooked upon his face deepened as if he sensed the riot of emotion that roared within her. Dear Lord, surely he could do no such thing? The mere thought heightened the intensity of the two rosy patches glowing upon her otherwise pale cheeks. She cleared her raw throat and struggled to regain some measure of composure. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’ She glanced towards Lord Frederick standing further back. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it were not for you.’

Freddie smiled and stepped closer. ‘It was Nathaniel who went into the water to save you. My part was relatively minor in the whole affair.’ He looked towards his brother.

‘And where would both Miss Raithwaite and I be without your presence on the bridge?’ Nathaniel demanded. ‘I won’t take the credit for your part in the rescue.’ Turning once more to the girl, he offered an explanation. ‘Freddie pulled us from the water. Indeed, we both owe him our lives.’

Freddie’s face coloured in pleasure and he mumbled, ‘Nonsense.’

It seemed that Nathaniel was determined to share the glory.

‘Thank you both.’ Miss Raithwaite smiled shyly.

Freddie’s cheeks grew redder.

So his brother had noticed Miss Raithwaite’s attributes. The girl was undeniably fetching, but as the daughter of the owner of several coaching inns, she was strictly off limits to both of them. Neither marriageable material nor otherwise. He had best have a word with Freddie.

‘Miss Raithwaite,’ he continued, ‘before leaving Hurstborne Park I had the good fortune to meet your father and his companions. Naturally they were concerned about you, and I reassured them of your safety. Your family know that you’re here and will call as soon as possible.’

‘Oh,’ Georgiana Raithwaite said in a small voice. The memory of Mr Praxton’s outrageous actions appeared with clarity. Having survived the river, she now felt that her biggest ordeal was yet to come. Just for a moment a look of horror and desperation flitted across her face before she masked it once more with polite indifference. ‘Thank you, my lord, you’re most kind.’ She settled her wounded hands together in a demure gesture. Only Nathaniel noticed just how white her knuckles shone.

Nathaniel Hawke swirled the brandy around the finely engraved balloon glass. ‘Our Miss Raithwaite didn’t seem to regard being reunited with her family as entirely favourable. Did you see the expression upon her face when I mentioned her father?’

‘Mmm.’ Freddie regarded him quizzically as he lounged back in the winged chair. ‘You think there’s more to the matter than meets the eye?’

‘Perhaps. We shall discover soon enough.’

Gravel crunched from the drive and a carriage emptying its passengers sounded through the library window.

‘Mr Raithwaite,’ Freddie said distractedly. ‘Georgiana’s a fine-looking girl, don’t you think?’

Nathaniel’s face became somewhat grim. ‘Don’t get drawn down that line, little brother. There’s no dalliance to be had there. Miss Raithwaite is a coaching-inn owner’s daughter, albeit a wealthy one. Our father would most heartily disapprove, and you don’t want to risk becoming as black a sheep as me.’ He twitched an eyebrow, and offered an imitation of the Earl of Porchester’s voice, ‘Think of the scandal, dear boy, the scandal.’

Laughing, the brothers departed the library and went to meet Mr Edward Raithwaite.

Georgiana’s back scarcely felt the soft plumpness of the pillows supporting it. Nor did she notice the cosy warmth of the finely-stitched quilt covering the length of her body. Mirabelle had lent her a dressing gown and sent her own maid to dress her hair so that she might feel more comfortable with receiving visitors. But none of the small woman’s kindness could obliterate the uneasy feeling in the pit of Georgiana’s stomach. She stretched a smile upon her mouth and turned to face her stepfather.

‘Georgiana, thank goodness you’re safe and well. Your poor mother is distraught with worry. She’s taken the headache and been forced to bed,’ Mr Raithwaite chided his stepdaughter, but his relief was plain for all to see.

‘Poor Mama, I didn’t mean to worry her.’

‘Quite so, quite so.’ He nodded. ‘I dread to think what would have happened without the quick actions of the two gentlemen. We would have lost you for sure.’

‘I’m sorry to have caused such distress, Papa, but—’

‘And how did you come to fall into the river? Do you know no better than a child?’

Georgiana lowered her eyes. ‘I …’ She paused. ‘There…’

Mr Praxton stepped forward, looking immaculate in his green coat. ‘I’m sure Georgiana has had ample time to consider her folly in strolling so close to the river’s edge. She’s given herself a nasty fright as well as the rest of us, and is not likely to repeat the same mistake again.’ He touched a hand to Edward Raithwaite’s sleeve. ‘Mr Raithwaite, I beg of you, don’t be too hard on the girl.’

‘You’re too damned soft with her, Praxton,’ the old man growled, then spoke to his daughter once more. ‘Do you hear how Mr Praxton pleads your excuses? And what have you to say in your defence?’

Walter Praxton threw a long-suffering smile at Lady Farleigh. The indulgent suitor to perfection.

It did not escape Georgiana’s notice. Neither did Lady Farleigh’s subtle knowing nod.

Her body tensed in anger. Walter Praxton was a conniving knave. And it seemed he had hoodwinked them all. Well, if he thought her fool enough to stay silent over the precise cause of her winter plunge, he had another think coming. ‘Papa, I have no excuses, only reasons. As they are of a delicate nature, I would prefer to discuss them with you in private.’

Mr Raithwaite looked at her knowingly. ‘Mr Praxton has already spoken to me of the matter, and, much as I cannot pretend that I’m happy with your behaviour—’ he stroked his chin ‘—I understand that young women are somewhat excitable in response to such declarations.’

‘Exactly what has Mr Praxton revealed?’ Georgiana’s grey-blue eyes glittered dangerously, her temper soaring by the minute.

‘Georgiana!’ He glanced apologetically at Lady Farleigh. ‘Have a care with your manners. Now is clearly not the time to discuss the matter.’ His countenance was turning ruddier by the minute.

‘Oh, please do excuse me, Mr Raithwaite, Mr Praxton, Georgiana,’ Lady Farleigh said. ‘I’ve just recalled a pressing matter downstairs.’ Mirabelle fluttered out of the bedroom and straight to the library to apprise her relatives of the news that the delectable Miss Raithwaite had indulged in scandalous behaviour with Mr Praxton. And who could blame her with such a thoroughly handsome beau?

Georgiana looked from her father to Mr Praxton and back again. ‘Lady Farleigh has left us. Surely we can speak of the matter now.’ Her teeth gripped firmly together.

‘You’re trying my patience, girl. When will you learn to leave things be? Is it not enough that you’ve…that you behaved in such a way? Your mother would be shocked to hear of it. Mr Praxton and I have decided that Mrs Raithwaite should not learn of your actions prior to this afternoon’s incident. We informed her only of the betrothal.’ Mr Raithwaite nodded sagely.

She could feel the steady pulse beating at her neck, pumping the anger throughout her body. ‘I don’t know what untruths Mr Praxton has told you but be assured, Papa, that I’ve done nothing dishonourable. I’m neither compromised nor ruined, and marriage to Mr Praxton is not necessary. You may tell the truth to Mama.’

‘Enough!’ Mr Raithwaite said. ‘I’ll hear no more. Mr Praxton has confessed the truth of those stolen kisses. As a gentleman, he felt it his implicit duty to do so.’ His cheeks bulged a puce discoloration. ‘He will make you a good husband, Georgiana.’

Walter Praxton was fairly glowing with angelic piety. ‘I’m afraid Miss Raithwaite has stolen my heart, sir.’ He sighed and glanced down at the rug.

Mr Raithwaite looked at him strangely. ‘Then you had best take more care of her. She is not yet your wife, Mr Praxton.’

Their eyes locked for a few silent moments before the younger man inclined his head in subtle compliance.

The elderly hand moved to stroke the grizzled beard. ‘That said, I believe the wedding should be convened with some haste.’

The blood beat strongly in Georgiana’s ears. How could her stepfather take the word of an acquaintance over hers? Did he truly judge her character so lightly? ‘Papa,’ she tried again.

Edward Raithwaite turned a steely eye upon his stepdaughter. ‘Say no more, Georgiana. It’s clear that your experience this afternoon has adversely affected your mind. I trust that a good night’s rest will return you to your senses. I’ll have the carriage sent round to collect you tomorrow.’

‘Adieu, Miss Raithwaite, until tomorrow.’ Mr Praxton bowed.

Together the two gentlemen turned and left the room.

An irate Georgiana stared at the door that closed so firmly behind them. Her jaw clenched with determination and her fingers stole to worry at the lobe of her ear. If Papa thought the affair settled, he was to be grossly disappointed.

It was some time later that Georgiana heard the discreet knock at the door and found Nathaniel Hawke entering the bedroom for the second time that day. The Italian fell limply from her fingers, pages fanning open to lose the sentence she had been forcing herself to concentrate upon just moments before. She glanced up to find him walking purposefully towards her with a large tray in his hands. The elderly and rather rotund Mrs Tomelty hobbled in his wake. Setting the tray down upon the table positioned beside the bed, he gestured towards the cook. ‘Mrs Tomelty has made you some of her famous broth. If you would care to try a little, I can personally vouch for its healing properties.’

Georgiana’s gaze flicked from the strong tanned fingers that curled around the handles of the tray to the dark warmth of his eyes. Lord Nathaniel had brought her the broth, in person! Unwittingly a crinkle of suspicion crept across the bridge of her nose. She wetted her suddenly dry lips and looked at the cook.

‘That he can, miss,’ beamed Mrs Tomelty. ‘Could never get enough of my broth, could Lord Nathaniel. Always had to have a bowl full to the brim every time he fell out of a tree or come off his horse. Never known a little ‘un like him for getting himself into mischief. Why, I remember the time him and Lord Henry were swimming, bare as the day they were born, in the—’

‘Thank you, Mrs Tomelty,’ said Nathaniel rather forcefully.

A smile tugged at the corners of Georgiana’s mouth. Suddenly the tall, athletic gentleman standing only a few feet from where she lay in bed didn’t seem quite so intimidating.

Mrs Tomelty moved forward to pat Georgiana’s hand. ‘Now, duck, you eat that up, and it’ll do you the world of good. I’ll be just over there in that chair by the fireplace so that there won’t be no problems ‘bout Lord Nathaniel bein’ in a young lady’s bedroom.’ The elderly servant remained blissfully unaware of the ghost of a grimace that flitted across Nathaniel’s face. She hobbled the distance to the fireplace, eased herself into the rose brocade chair, and made herself comfortable.

‘Please forgive my intrusion, Miss Raithwaite. I know that I should not be here, but I wished to speak to you…alone…to reassure myself that you are well.’ There was a slight uneasiness about him, as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know quite how to go about saying it.

Georgiana’s suspicion should have escalated, but it didn’t. Instead, it fizzled away to be replaced with an intrinsic trust. Has your experience with Mr Praxton taught you nothing of gentlemen? the little voice inside her head insisted. But something outside of logic and common sense assured her that the man standing before her now was nothing like Walter Praxton. Mr Praxton revolted her, but Lord Nathaniel…A shiver tingled up her spine and she deliberately turned her mind from that vein of thought. ‘I am very well, thank you, my lord,’ she managed with a politeness of which Mama would have been proud.

He was looking at her as if he knew the words that tripped from her tongue for the lie that they were.

The pause stretched.

Georgiana felt the first hint of a flush touch her cheeks. Lord, but he couldn’t possibly know the truth. She must stop acting like a ninny-hammer and pull herself together.

‘I wanted to ask you about your accident. Were you alone with Mr Praxton when it happened?’

The gentle hint of colour in Georgiana’s face ignited with all the subtlety of a beacon. Her heart set up a thudding reverberation in her chest. She swallowed once, and then again. ‘Yes.’ Her fingers moved to gather hold of Mrs Radcliffe’s book lying atop the bedcovers. She gripped the ornately gilded leather and took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’ This time more strongly. ‘Mr Praxton wished to show me an interesting botanical species that grows close to the river.’ Or so he said. ‘My parents and their friends were following in a walk of their own.’

One dark eyebrow raised in a minuscule motion.

Georgiana saw it and found herself swamped in a feeling of wretched shame and anger. She knew very well the path his mind was taking. ‘We were not alone for long.’ Long enough for Walter Praxton to make clear the exact nature of his intent! She knew she was only exposing her own guilt. Drat the man, why was he looking at her like that? She had a sudden urge to confess all, tell him exactly what Mr Praxton had done and why. But when all was said and done, Nathaniel Hawke was a stranger and a man…a very attractive man. And she couldn’t reveal such sordid details, especially not to him.

‘And what was it that you were doing to come to land in the river, Miss Raithwaite?’ He stepped closer to the bed and lowered his voice.

‘I…I was …’ She glanced up to meet the strength of his gaze.

‘Examining the botanical specimen?’ he suggested.

‘No.’

‘Then what?’

She could give him no answer that would not compromise herself and she did not think that she could bear to see the condemnation in his eyes that was sure to follow. So she said nothing, just shook her head.

‘And what was Mr Praxton doing to allow you to fall?’

I didn’t fall, I jumped! And Mr Praxton was doing precisely as you suspect! she wanted to shout, but couldn’t. ‘We had a disagreement, and…that is when I went into the river.’ Subconsciously her fingers slid to tug at her ear lobe.

Nathaniel took another step closer. He made as if to reach his hand out to her, then checked the action. ‘Miss Raithwaite,’ he said quietly, ‘I have the notion that you’re fearful of returning home. Who are you afraid of?’ He waited, before prompting, ‘If Mr Praxton has done aught that he should not have…’

The beautiful grey-blue eyes widened in shock and for the briefest moment he thought she was about to tell him something of the greatest significance. Then she faltered, and the moment was gone.

‘No.’ The temptation was great. She wanted to tell him. The words had crept to the tip of her tongue before she’d had the sense to restrain them.

‘Then, your father?’

The intensity of his gaze made her shiver. It was as if he could see past her defences to the truth. She willed herself to stay calm. ‘Why should I be afraid of my papa?’

‘Perhaps he does not approve of your friendship with Mr Praxton.’

If only that were the case! Had she imagined his subtle emphasis on the word ‘friendship’? She bristled at the implication. ‘I have no friendship with Mr Praxton. My papa is more approving of our betrothal than you could possibly realise.’

Hell’s teeth, but the girl was infuriating. He’d come here to assail the nagging doubt that there was more to Georgiana’s story than she was telling—something that wasn’t quite right. Fear, desperation, anger, indignation, he was sure he’d seen them all marked clearly on her face. Damn it, he hadn’t even known her this time yesterday. Now here he was, behaving like the village idiot, in the chit’s bedroom of all places, with the foolish chivalric notion that she needed his help. So Mirabelle had been right. Miss Raithwaite had been indulging in some compromising behaviour with the man and she was to marry him. The thought irked him more than it should have. ‘You are betrothed to Mr Praxton?’ He struggled to keep the scowl from his face.

‘Mr Praxton is very determined to marry me.’ She spoke so quietly that he struggled to hear her answer, strange as it was.

He thought he saw her lower lip tremble, but before he could be certain it was caught in a nip by her teeth. Praxton was clearly capable of eliciting strong emotion in her. Again that surge of disquiet made itself known.

Nathaniel looked at the girl with her flushed cheeks and glittering eyes for a moment longer. ‘Then, you have my felicitations, Miss Raithwaite. I will leave you to your rest.’ He bowed and strode from the room as if it was a matter of the smallest consideration. Georgiana Raithwaite’s future was none of his concern. But he could not rid himself of the unsettled feeling for the rest of the day.

Chapter Two

Nathaniel Hawke dropped a chaste kiss on to his brother’s wife’s cheek, only to find himself embraced in a bear hug. Mirabelle’s arms barely stretched around him and she stepped on the tips of her toes to reach up to him. ‘Dearest Nathaniel, promise me that you’ll take care on both your journey to Portsmouth and your voyage, wherever it may take you.’

His mouth opened to reply.

‘And make sure that you send Henry back from Collingborne. He’s been away for an age and I’m sure that your father will manage perfectly well with Freddie instead.’

Nathaniel’s eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘I’m quite sure that—’

‘Shall we see you again soon?’ Mirabelle disengaged her hold and launched herself in Freddie’s direction.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t received my sailing orders yet so I cannot answer your question.’

Freddie suffered a similar mauling at Mirabelle’s hands and grimaced when she pinched his cheek. ‘You grow more like Henry every day!’

He groaned. ‘Mirabelle!’

‘Well, fortunately for you it’s true. Now, off with you both. It’s time for my visit to the nursery and I can hear Charlie and Richard bawling from here. Such lungs!’

Having taken their farewells of Mirabelle, their nephews and a rather wan Miss Raithwaite, the brothers headed out at a steady pace south along the Gosport Road.

Freddie screwed up his face. ‘The prospect of an increasing similarity between Henry and myself is most depressing!’

Nathaniel laughed. ‘Why? Surely a marked resemblance to our distinguished sibling can be nothing but good? I mean, Henry has wisdom, good judgement and a deal of sense. What more could a fellow want?’

‘A sense of humour springs to mind, along with a number of other criteria. Henry’s a fine chap and all that, but he’s a trifle dull. All work and no play, et cetera, et cetera!’

‘Beneath that stuffy exterior is a good man.’

‘I know, I know. But can you imagine Henry jumping into the River Borne to rescue Miss Raithwaite? Poor girl would have drowned, and I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of carrying her back to Farleigh Hall.’ A wicked expression crossed Freddie’s face. ‘Delicious! Quite a figure beneath all those clothes!’

Nathaniel affected shock, but laughed just the same. ‘Frederick Hawke, that’s no way to speak of a lady.’

Freddie’s grin deepened, and his eyes twinkled. ‘But if Mirabelle is to be believed, our Miss Raithwaite is hardly a lady. Lucky Mr Praxton.’

‘Ah, Mr Praxton. I’d lay the blame for Miss Raithwaite’s misdemeanours firmly at his door. Taking advantage of the girl he is betrothed to.’ Nathaniel looked directly at his brother. ‘There’s something rather unsavoury about the man, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘He seemed perfectly fine to me. Rather a fashionable good-looking chap. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have too much trouble with the ladies, if you know what I mean.’ Freddie winked.

‘Perhaps you’re right. But my instinct sets me against him, however unfair that may seem. Still, what’s it to us? We shall likely never set eyes on Mr Praxton or Miss Raithwaite again.’ He twitched the reins beneath his fingers. ‘I wonder if she knows what she’s getting herself into, tangling with such a man?’

Freddie snorted. ‘You’re growing suspicious in your old age. I think it must be time that we stopped for some refreshments to soothe your poor addled brain. The George Inn isn’t far ahead. I’ll race you to it!’

It seemed to Mirabelle Farleigh that Georgiana’s health had suffered not so much from her plunge into the River Borne, but from the visit of her father and the man to whom she was betrothed. Subsequent to their leaving the girl appeared pale and listless. Scarcely a morsel of food had passed her lips since and she declined to be drawn by the brightest of conversation that her ladyship had to offer. Not that any sign of fever or pain could be seen to account for her behaviour. But something was wrong, very wrong. Georgiana wore the air of a woman condemned, not of one about to marry her lover. Lady Farleigh, who had an innate interest in such things, had every intention of getting to the bottom of the mysterious affair.

‘My dear Georgiana, I’ve spoken to your stepfather’s man and explained that you’re not sufficiently recovered to travel home today. Why, such a journey would be sure to leave you with a chill, and is quite out of the question. The carriage has departed with a letter to your stepfather explaining my decision.’ Mirabelle did not miss the brief flicker in Georgiana’s bleak eyes.

‘My father did not come in person?’

Mirabelle shook her head. ‘No, my dear. I’m sure he must have important matters to deal with that prevent his presence. Don’t concern yourself over it. It’s well and good that he didn’t come here himself, as he’s clearly busy, and gentlemen do so dislike a wasted journey.’ She adjusted her skirts and sat herself down on the bed. Taking hold of Georgiana’s hand, she studied the girl’s face with undue attention. ‘I understand that you would be much happier to be going home today.’

A careful guard slotted in place over the white features.

‘But can you reconcile yourself as a guest at Farleigh Hall for a few more days?’

The grey-blue eyes widened in surprise.

Mirabelle saw the blatant relief, felt the lapse of tension in the hand positioned beneath her own.

‘Of course. Thank you, Lady Farleigh…Mirabelle. I have been feeling a little unwell,’ Georgiana lied. The river experience had caused exhaustion, bruising, a sore throat and some cuts to her hands, nothing more. But the knowledge that Walter Praxton had tricked them all to force her into marriage affected her far more deeply. And the loathing that it engendered made her wonder just how she could endure such a thing. He stood for everything that she despised and now she had no choice but to marry him. ‘No choice at all.’ The mumbled words had escaped her before she realised what she was about. Her eyes slid to Lady Farleigh’s in a panic and she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to stopper any further traitorous disclosures.

Her ladyship’s bright blue eyes looked back, and Georgiana could have sworn that they held in them an understanding that belied the lady’s blithe manner. She held her breath and waited.

‘If something is wrong, Georgiana, you need only tell me and I will try to help.’ Her small face was unusually still.

Georgiana pressed her palms to her forehead. Dare she trust Mirabelle Farleigh? ‘I’m afraid that it’s a matter of some delicacy, ma’am.’

Lady Farleigh gently touched Georgiana’s arm. ‘I thought it might be, my dear. Rest assured I won’t discuss your story with anyone else.’

She so desperately needed to speak to someone, to tell another of Walter Praxton’s lies. She remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern and how he’d offered her the opportunity to confide in him. But he was a man, and a very attractive one at that. And she didn’t doubt that he had mistaken her situation with Walter Praxton entirely. Why else had she been forced to reveal the wretched betrothal? Lady Farleigh was different altogether. She undoubtedly liked to chatter. That wasn’t what worried Georgiana. The nature of her concern lay more in whether the lady’s preferences stretched to gossip. She twisted her fingers nervously together and contemplated further. If that was the case, then the damage was already done, for Georgiana was certain that the conversation witnessed by Lady Farleigh could do nothing but lead her to conclude that Georgiana had indulged in grossly inappropriate behaviour with Mr Praxton. And that man’s—she could no longer say gentleman’s—manner had done everything to foster the impression that he was her suitor. Heaven forbid that Lady Farleigh thought Georgiana and Walter Praxton lovers as Lord Nathaniel had done! The greatest harm had happened. Telling the truth couldn’t make it worse, and might even go some way to helping her situation. The prospect seemed appealing.

All the while Mirabelle Farleigh had sat, quietly watching the play of conflicting emotions on Georgiana’s face. ‘If you choose not to speak of what’s bothering you, then I’ll say nothing further on the matter other than there’s always a choice, no matter what you might think, and you must always remember that.’

The words confirmed Georgiana’s decision and with a sigh she uttered, ‘There’s so much to tell, I scarcely know where to begin.’

Mirabelle’s curls swayed as she lowered her head. ‘You must start at the beginning, it is usually the best place.’ And, so saying, she made herself comfortable upon the bedcovers and prepared to hear Georgiana’s tale.

It was some considerable time later that Lady Farleigh had heard it all. Her ladyship was fairly bursting with indignation. ‘I cannot conceive that a gentleman could be so profoundly dishonest and despicable. Indeed, his actions are most definitely not those of a gentleman and I refuse to call him that.’ She paced up and down the bedroom, her hands pulling at her skirts, her cheeks a blaze of furious colour. ‘Of course you won’t marry him.’ She honed her gimlet eye upon Georgiana, who was already feeling much better for having unburdened herself.

‘No. I had no intention of accepting his addresses when he indicated that his affections lay in my direction. I made sure that he fully understood that I wouldn’t look favourably upon him—that’s why he resorted to this scheme.’ She had swung her legs from beneath the covers and was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Lady Farleigh struggled to understand the motivation behind such a dastardly deed. ‘He must be mad for love of you; when he realised that you’d no intention of accepting his suit, it forced him to take desperate measures. What other explanation can there be?’

‘I don’t know.’ Georgiana shook her head. ‘But I cannot believe that he loves me, for all his declarations.’ She moved her bare toes across the rug. ‘Indeed, I cannot believe that he loves anyone other than himself. My friends, Sarah and Fanny, can barely contain themselves in his presence. They swear that he’s quite the most handsome man they’ve seen. Their response seems ludicrous to me, for I cannot find him handsome in the slightest. He’s a cruel and unfeeling man with no regard for the welfare of others.’

The small woman was regarding her quizzically. ‘Have you seen evidence of his nature to reach such a conclusion?’

Georgiana stood up and found herself a full head taller than her hostess. ‘Mirabelle,’ she implored, casting her hands out before her, ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He owns the paper mill in Whitchurch and, because of his friendship with my family, invited us to visit. I attended with my mama and papa and explored all through the mill. Oh, Mirabelle, you wouldn’t believe how that man treats his employees. It’s truly awful. I saw one poor boy, who couldn’t have been more than five years old, running around gathering any rags that had fallen on the floor. He was as thin as a stick and couldn’t stop coughing. The child had the misfortune to drop a piece of material close to Mr Praxton—not that it touched him in any way at all. And do you know what that man did?’ Georgiana’s face contorted with anger. She swept on heedless of Mirabelle’s reply, fuelled by wrathful indignation. ‘He struck the boy hard across the head with his cane. Can you believe it?’ Her breast heaved dramatically, leaving Lady Farleigh in no doubt as to the extent of Miss Raithwaite’s feelings. ‘Blood ran from the child’s crown and the boy didn’t dare to utter a sound. Not one sound. That is the essence of Mr Praxton’s nature. Nothing excuses such callous behaviour.’ Georgiana’s eyes flashed with all the fervour of the stormiest sea, grey and green lights shimmering in their depths. ‘These people have nothing, Mirabelle. They steal bread to feed their families, such is their plight. And for that crime, Walter Praxton would have them flogged as thieves. He was the one who reported Tom Jenkins, and you know what fate that poor soul met.’

Lady Farleigh nodded. ‘Flogged through the streets before transportation for seven years.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Theft is indeed a crime, but the punishment seems a trifle harsh.’

‘Harsh?’ The word erupted from Georgiana with all the force of Mr Trevithick’s new Wylam locomotive. ‘That must be the greatest understatement I’ve heard.’

‘Georgiana, I understand that you feel sorry for these people, but you’re becoming distracted from the point. Mr Praxton is reprehensible to you. He’s behaved abominably and it’s quite clear that you cannot allow your stepfather to believe his lies.’

The fire surging through Georgiana’s blood mellowed and she let out a sigh. ‘I’ve tried. He won’t listen.’

‘Perhaps if you spoke to your mama, she would intercede for you.’

Georgiana wrung her hands miserably. ‘Mama loves me dearly, of that I’m sure, but she would never stand against my stepfather, not for anything in the world. She says that a good wife must do her husband’s bidding, for he always knows best.’

Exactly what Mirabelle Farleigh thought of that statement was written all over her face, but she made no mention of it.

‘Please, Mirabelle, do not blame her. My own dear papa died when I was fourteen years old, leaving Mama and me quite alone. After his death she was so lonely and afraid…and then she met Mr Raithwaite, and everything changed.’

Mirabelle laid a hand across Georgiana’s white knuckles and said gently, ‘Try to speak to your stepfather again. I’m sure that, once the truth is revealed to Mr Raithwaite, he’ll send Walter Praxton packing with a flea in his ear. You must speak to him, Georgiana, even if he doesn’t want to listen.’

Later that night, as Georgiana lay snug beneath the blankets within the four-poster bed she mulled over Mirabelle’s advice. It was the most sensible approach of course. No more moping. No more lying in bed. Mirabelle was right. Papa would be horrified to learn that Walter Praxton had used them both miserably and all talk of marriage would be dismissed. But first she just had to make Papa listen; knowing what she knew of her stepfather, that was not likely to prove an easy prospect. It was very late before Georgiana finally found sleep.

Two days later, and Georgiana had left the sanctuary of Farleigh Hall. The clock ticked its frantic pace upon the mantelpiece as she faced her stepfather across his study. She stood tall with her head high, her hands held tightly behind her back, trying hard to convey an air of confidence that she did not feel. From the moment of her entry to the room, it was clear that Mr Raithwaite’s annoyance with his stepdaughter had not mellowed since their last meeting in Farleigh Hall. He continued to write, refusing even to acknowledge her presence, never mind actually look at her. Georgiana waited in silence. The only sound in the room was the frenzied ticking. And still Edward Raithwaite concentrated on the papers lying neatly on the desk before him. Some fifteen minutes passed.

‘Papa.’ She uttered the word softly, as if to diffuse any notion of confrontation or insult it might contain.

Mr Raithwaite’s flowing script did not falter, his hand continuing its steady pace across the page.

She thought he had not heard or was intent on refusing any means of communication with her when he placed his pen upon the desk with the utmost care. Finally he raised his eyes to meet hers and they were filled with such unrelenting severity as to almost unnerve Georgiana before she even started.

‘Have you come to apologise for your appalling behaviour and the lack of respect with which you treated me the other day?’ His thick wrinkled hands lay calm and still upon the polished wood veneer, a stark contrast to Georgiana’s fingers, which were gripping onto each other behind her back.

‘I meant no disrespect to you, sir, and I’m sorry if my words sounded as such.’

Mr Raithwaite’s austere demeanour relaxed a little. ‘No doubt the shock of falling into the river was responsible for your harsh words. And now that you’ve had time to reflect upon the whole affair, you see the error of your ways.’ The elderly brow cleared a little more. ‘Mmm.’

A woman was expected to be obedient and unquestioning, first to her father, and then to her husband. Her stepfather was an old-fashioned man, fully supportive of the view that his wife and children were merely chattels. Nothing would be gained by antagonising him, or so Georgiana reasoned. The best strategy was to agree with most of what he said, even though it rankled with her to do so, and then, when he was at his most amenable, to reveal Mr Praxton’s lies. Not for the first time, Georgiana wished that she’d been born a man. The feeble weapons of women were not those she would have preferred to use. But they were the only ones available to her. She forced her face into a smile. ‘Indeed, Papa. I didn’t mean to be ill mannered with you. I know that you only have my best interests at heart.’

The old man nodded and looked at her with a strange speculative gleam in his eye. ‘Never a truer word has been spoken, Georgiana. Your welfare lies at the heart of all of my actions of late. It’s well that you realise that.’ And then he looked away, and the peculiar intensity of the moment had vanished.

It was precisely the opening Georgiana was looking for. ‘I never should have doubted it, and it’s with such an understanding in mind that I must speak with you. I ask only that you listen to me, for what I have to say is the truth. I would never lie to you, Papa, you must know that.’

He cleared his throat, rose, and meandered over to stand before the window. ‘Then say what you must, child, and be quick about it.’

The time had come. Now she would reveal Mr Praxton for the man he truly was. She pressed her cold clammy palms tighter and began to speak in what she hoped was a calm and controlled voice. Any hint of emotion could condemn her as a hysterical female, not worthy of Mr Raithwaite’s attention. ‘I’m aware that Mr Praxton has spoken to you regarding what happened prior to my accident. And I also know that you hold that same gentleman in high regard.’ She swallowed hard. ‘But I must tell you, sir, that Mr Praxton has not spoken the truth. I would never entertain an improper dalliance with any gentleman, let alone Mr Praxton. You know that I’ve never encouraged his attentions. Why should I then behave in the absurd manner he’s claimed? I swear that I’m innocent of his charges. He’s trying to make fools of us both.’ Her heart was pounding and her lips cracked dry. She waited to hear his understanding, his proud belief in her virtue, his condemnation of Walter Praxton.

Silence, save for the clock’s incessant ticking.

Georgiana longed to still its maniacal movement, but she waited with restrained patience.

Eventually her stepfather turned from the window to face her. ‘No man, or woman for that matter, makes a fool of me.’ His voice was slow and measured.

The breath escaped her in a small sigh of relief. The deed was done, the truth told. Mr Praxton would be banished from her life.

‘How could you even think it?’ He surveyed her with a closed look. ‘Whether you did, or did not, indulge in unladylike behaviour no longer matters. Your marriage to Mr Praxton has been arranged and in time you’ll come to see that it’s a good thing for both our families. Mr Praxton thinks very highly of you and I trust you will endeavour to become a good wife.’

A strangled laugh escaped Georgiana’s lips as she stared at her stepfather with growing disbelief. ‘He lied to you, tried to destroy my reputation. Does that mean nothing? You would still have me wed him?’

Edward Raithwaite’s manner was carefully impassive. ‘There was never any threat to your reputation until you started your foolish twittering in front of Lady Farleigh. Any damage to your reputation was effected by your own hand, my dear. But your forthcoming marriage will rectify any harm that has been done.’

‘You cannot seriously expect me to marry him!’ Georgiana’s voice increased in volume and she placed her hands against the desk’s cool wooden surface, leaning forward towards her stepfather.

‘Sit down, Georgiana,’ he snapped, ‘and do not raise your voice to me.’

Georgiana took a tentative step backwards, but remained standing.

Mr Raithwaite’s face darkened. ‘I said, sit down,’ and his enunciation was meticulous.

Her legs retreated further and she stumbled into the closely positioned chair.

Gone was the bumbling genteel man. Mr Raithwaite’s eyes focused with a shrewd clarity. ‘A woman must marry as her father directs, to consolidate power and wealth, to open up new opportunities for the family. It’s the way of the world. If you’re labouring under some childish notion of love or romance, then I’m here to tell you that it’s nonsense. I didn’t send you to that expensive ladies’ academy to learn such foolishness. No, Georgiana. Walter Praxton is as best a match as can be expected. You will marry him and behave as behoves a decent young lady. And that, my dear, will be an end to the matter. Forget all else.’

Georgiana stared at Edward Raithwaite as if seeing him for the first time. A tightening nausea was growing within her stomach and she could feel the sweat bead upon her upper lip. The terrible sinking sensation arose not so much from what her stepfather had just said, but rather from that which he had not. Her scalp prickled with unease as she struggled to comprehend the enormity of what she had just learned. All his talk of childish notions and nonsense was a distraction, an attempt to divert her from the real issue. But Georgiana would not be distracted so easily. Her mind had grasped the problem in full. ‘You knew,’ she said in a quiet voice, and never once did her eyes leave Edward Raithwaite’s face. ‘You knew all along.’

Mr Raithwaite sent her a look that held nothing of affection. ‘The water has sent a fever to your brain.’

The harsh chill of the truth seeped through to scrape at her bones. Now that she had started she could not stop. ‘It was an agreement between the two of you. That’s why you were so content to allow me to walk alone with him in Hurstborne Park, even when you knew that I didn’t want to go. The seduction was planned.’ She stared at him, the full extent of the horror uncoiling. ‘And Mama…surely she could not have known too?’

‘Your ranting renders you fit for nowhere but Bedlam, an amusing spectacle for the aristocracy, nothing more. Be careful what you say, Georgiana. I would not have your mother any further upset than she already is. I must warn her to watch for any signs of a brain fever in you.’ He sighed and, removing his spectacles, pinched at the bridge of his nose. ‘Both Mr Praxton and I only want what is best for you.’

Her mouth cracked to form a cynical smile that did not touch her eyes, eyes that faded to a bleak grey-blue. ‘How my leap into the River Borne must have dismayed you both.’

‘You jumped?’ Raithwaite’s brow lowered.

Georgiana’s smile intensified. ‘Oh, yes, dear Papa, I’d rather face death in a swollen river than submit to Walter Praxton’s cruel lips.’

‘You’re mistaken about him. It’s a measure of your youthful ignorance, and I won’t let you throw away the chance of a good marriage because of it. You’re one and twenty, and in danger of being left on the shelf. This is the best opportunity you’ll get.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘He is not a kind man, Papa. How can you justify what you’ve done?’

Edward Raithwaite slowly sat himself down in the comfortable chair behind his desk. ‘I said that my actions are for the best, and so they are. The end justifies the means, my dear. You’ll thank me in the years to come. Now, our discussion is at a close. It would be well if you did not mention that of which we have spoken to your mother. I will not have you run bleating to her. Do not seek to flout my judgement, Georgiana, for, if you refuse to marry Walter Praxton, then I’ll have you deemed of unsound mind, and I don’t need to explain what the consequences of that would be.’ His mouth shut in a tight grim line.

Indeed, he did not need to offer any explanation at all. It was with a very heavy heart that Georgiana made her way out of the study.

Nathaniel propped himself against the sturdy wooden gate and was content to enjoy the view before him. Collingborne was set amidst the soft rolling splendour of the Hampshire countryside, close to Harting Down. The green velvet of fields stretched ahead, dotted periodically with prehistoric mounds. Above yawned a rich russet canopy, its seasonal castings rustling gently around his feet. The air was damp and still, the sky grey with cloud. Within the hour the light would fade to darkness and the gentle patter of winter rain begin…and he would be back within the great house to suffer the hatred of his father. A robin flitted between the branches overhead, singing its distinctive call, alone in a field of crows and starlings and magpies. It was a feeling that Nathaniel knew well, and not one on which he wished to dwell. This was his respite, his time of peace, and from it he gathered the strength to face the sombre house once more. He would be gone tomorrow, and he could endure all that his father would throw at him until then. The leaves crunched beneath the soles of his riding boots as he strolled with purposeful resignation towards the place he could not call home.

‘Mirabelle?’ Nathaniel halted in surprise upon the gravel drive.

‘Nathaniel!’ His sister by marriage clambered down from the travelling coach. ‘You’ll think that I’m following you! But I couldn’t wait four more weeks for that dratted brother of yours to return. He sent me a letter saying that he couldn’t leave until then. So I decided right then and there to come. And here I am. Won’t Henry be surprised?’

Nathaniel thought that perhaps surprise might not be Henry’s primary sentiment when he viewed the arrival of his wife and children. Not that his brother did not care for them, it was just that Mirabelle’s presence was not entirely conducive to performing matters of business. Quite how the relationship between his straight-faced sibling and Henry’s vivacious wife worked was something that Nathaniel was often given to speculate upon. Mirabelle certainly brought happiness to his brother. Perhaps there was more to the lady than her chatterbox ways would suggest.

Behind Lady Farleigh a stout woman had just emerged from the carriage carrying one small child wrapped within a blanket, and holding another by the hand. ‘Unc Nath!’ The child loosed Nurse’s hand and threw himself towards Nathaniel. On reaching the now mud-splattered high boots, the small boy stopped, looked solemnly up with his big pansy-brown eyes, and raised his chubby arms towards Nathaniel. ‘Up, please, sir,’ he said in a polite voice, and waited patiently for Nathaniel to respond.

Nurse tutted and stepped forward to reclaim her errant charge.

But without a further thought Nathaniel lifted the child against him, unmindful of the buckled shoes scraping against his smart country coat, and the small sticky fingers pressing against his cheeks. ‘Have you missed your uncle Nathaniel?’

The curly head nodded seriously.

‘And have you been a good boy, Charlie?’

Again the head nodded and the arms tightened around his neck, rendering his carefully arranged neckcloth a mass of crushed linen.

‘Then I think we’ll have to play a game of horses.’

A broad grin spread across Charlie’s face and he uttered with reverence, ‘Horses, yes, play horses.’

To which Nathaniel set the boy upon the ground, turned around and crouched down as low as he could. Charlie clambered upon Nathaniel’s back, gaining a firm hold around his uncle’s neck. He was secured in place by Nathaniel’s arms and then the pair were off and running, galloping up the broad stone stairs in front of Collingborne House, accompanied by Mirabelle’s laughter and Nurse’s snorts of disapproval.

Charlie’s giggles reverberated around the ornate hallway, up the splendid sweep of the staircase and along the full length of the picture gallery, through the green drawing room and back down the servants’ stairwell. The boy squealed with delight as his uncle attempted some neighing noises and stamped his boots against the marble floor to simulate the clatter of hooves. Just as they rounded the corner to head back to the blue drawing room and Mirabelle, Nathaniel stopped dead in his tracks. For there, not two feet in front of them, in imminent danger of being mown down by Nathaniel and his small passenger, stood the Earl of Porchester and Viscount Farleigh. Both heads swivelled round to view the intruders, the old man’s face haughty with censure, the younger’s gaping with shock.

‘Charles?’ Henry managed to utter, as he regained a grip on himself. His countenance resumed its normal staid facade and he raised his eyebrows in enquiry to his brother.

The earl said nothing, only looked briefly at Nathaniel with sharp brown eyes. His cool, unwelcoming expression altered as his gaze shifted to his grandson, and although it could hardly be described as a smile, there was a definite thawing in its glacial manner.

‘Papa!’ Charlie’s sticky hands reached out towards his father.

Nathaniel shifted the child round and handed the small squat body to his brother. ‘Mirabelle and the children have just arrived. She wanted it to be something of a surprise for you. I left her in the blue drawing room.’

‘Quite.’ There was no disputing the disapproving tone in the earl’s voice. He did not look at Nathaniel.

‘We had better take you to find your mother, young man.’ Henry tried unsuccessfully to disengage his son’s arms from around his neck. ‘Be careful of Papa’s neckcloth, Charles.’

Charlie completely ignored the caution and pressed a slobbery kiss to his father’s cheek.

Henry sighed, but Nathaniel could see the pride and affection in his brother’s eyes as he turned and headed off to meet his wife.

The two men stood facing one another, an uneasy silence between them. Up until this point they had managed to avoid any close meeting.

‘You’ll be leaving tomorrow?’ the earl said sourly.

Nathaniel inclined his head. ‘Yes, sir. My ship sails in one week and there’s much to be prepared.’ He looked into the old man’s face, so very like his own, knowing as he did before every voyage that this might be the last time he looked upon it. ‘I’d like to speak to you, sir, before I leave Collingborne, if that’s agreeable to you.’

‘Agreeable is hardly a word I’d use to describe how I feel, but—’ he waved his gaunt hand in a nonchalant gesture ‘—I’m prepared to listen. Get on and say what you must, boy.’

‘Perhaps the library would be a more suitable surrounding?’ Nathaniel indicated the door close by.

The earl grunted noncommittally, but walked towards the door anyway.

Once within the library, Porchester lowered himself into one of the large winged chairs and lounged comfortably back. He eyed his son with disdain. ‘Well? What is it that you want to say?’

Nathaniel still stood, not having been invited to sit. He knew his father was cantankerous with him at the best of times. He moved towards the fireplace and eyed the blackened grate before facing his father once more. ‘Will you take a drink?’

The old face broke into a cynical smile. ‘Is what you have to say really that bad?’ When Nathaniel did not reply, he continued, ‘Why not? A port might help make your words a trifle more palatable.’

Nathaniel reached for the decanter, poured two glasses and handed one to his father. ‘Your good health, sir.’ He raised his glass.

The earl pointedly ignored him and proceeded to sip his port.

Despite his father’s blatantly hostile manner, Nathaniel knew he had to try. The ill feeling between them had festered unchecked for too long, and was spilling over to affect the rest of the family. He knew that it had hurt his mother and that was something he bitterly regretted. But with her death it was too late for recriminations on that score. Her going had taken its toll on the earl. Porchester had aged in the last years. For the first time Nathaniel saw in him a frailty, a weak old man where before there was only strength and vitality. And it shocked him. They had always argued, his mother blaming it on the similarity in their temperaments. Nathaniel thought otherwise. The matter with Kitty Wakefield had only brought things to a head. He could not go away to sea without at least one more attempt at a reconciliation.

‘Is it money you’re after or do you find that you need my influence with the Admiralty after all?’ Porchester’s insult was cutting in the extreme.

The corner of Nathaniel’s mouth twitched and the colour drained from beneath his tanned cheeks. He controlled his response with commendable restraint. ‘Neither. I wish to have an end to this disagreement. The…incident…with Kitty Wakefield happened a long time ago and she’s since married. I’m sorry that it has led us to where we’re at now.’

The earl looked at him, a hard gleam in his eyes. ‘You weren’t sorry then, as I recall, seducing a young innocent girl and then refusing to marry her!’

‘Kitty Wakefield was no innocent, whatever her father led you to believe. She engineered the situation to her own ends, thinking to force a marriage.’

The earl gave a cynical snort and took a large gulp of port. ‘So you claim. Where’s your sense of honour? If you didn’t want to wed the girl, you should have controlled your appetite.’

The glass stem slowly rotated within his fingers and he let out a gentle expulsion of breath. ‘If you won’t forgive me on my own account, won’t you at least agree to some kind of reconciliation for my mother’s sake?’

The Earl of Porchester became suddenly animated. His previously slouched body straightened and he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Don’t dare to utter her name. It was the scandal associated with your debauchery and gambling that drove her to the grave!’ He shouted the words, then collapsed back against the chair. His voice became barely more than a whisper. ‘You broke her heart, lad, and that is something for which I’ll never forgive you.’

The muscle twitched again in Nathaniel’s jaw and his eyes hardened. ‘That’s unworthy of you, sir.’

‘Unworthy!’ the old man roared. He struggled upright, leaning heavily upon the ebony stick beneath his white-knuckled fingers. ‘That’s a word descriptive of yourself, boy! How dare you? Get out and don’t come back here until you’ve changed your ways. You’d do well to take a leaf out of Henry’s book. He’s not out chasing women, drinking and gambling. Thank God that at least one of my sons can face up to responsibility. He knows his duty, has settled down and is filling his nursery. It’s about time you grew up enough to do the same.’

The accusation was unfair. The earl’s estimation of his character was sadly misinformed, but Nathaniel knew that any protestations would fall on deaf ears. The discussion was at an end and he had succeeded only in making the matter worse. He should have let the words go unanswered, but he could not. Such was the hurt that he stuffed it away and hid it beneath a veneer of irony. ‘There’s hardly a proliferation of suitable ladies available to court upon the high seas, and, as that’s where I’ll be spending most of my time, it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to meet with your suggestion. I’m sorry to disappoint you yet again.’

‘It’s nothing other than I’ve come to expect,’ came the reply.

They finished their drinks in silence before Nathaniel took his leave.

Chapter Three

Georgiana urged the mare to a canter and looked around for her groom. The news that Lady Farleigh had gone to Collingborne and was not due to return for at least two months had come as a severe disappointment. It felt as if yet another door had slammed firmly shut in Georgiana’s face, for if there was anyone who could help her out of her present predicament it was Mirabelle Farleigh.

The interview with her stepfather the previous day had left her shocked and disillusioned. The faint nausea of betrayal lingered with her still. Never could she have entertained the notion that he would have used her so, even if he was labouring under the misapprehension that he was doing what was best. She’d been so sure of his understanding, so confident of his support. All of those beliefs had shattered like the fragile illusions that they were. Her stepfather had clearly misread Walter Praxton’s character to have agreed to such a devious plan. She swallowed down the pain as she recalled his zealous principles in which he had instructed them all. His actions made a mockery of them. She did not doubt for one minute that he would make good on his threat. He had made it clear what would happen if she made any appeal to Mama. And, if she refused Mr Praxton, her life was effectively over—her papa’s influence would see to that. She would be an example to Prudence so that he would never have to deal with such insurgent behaviour from her little stepsister, or from Francis or Theo for that matter. The dapple-grey mare shied away from the street hawkers’ carts, forcing Georgiana to leave her troubled thoughts and concentrate on Main Street and its normal chaos. It was not long before they reached Tythecock Crescent and home.

Immediately that she entered the house Harry, the youngest footman, directed her to her father’s study.

‘Where have you been?’ Her stepfather was standing by the window and had obviously witnessed her return.

She smoothed the midnight-blue riding habit beneath her fingers and tried to appear calm. ‘I called on Lady Farleigh. She asked if I would visit and I wanted to thank her for her kind hospitality.’ Georgiana was just about to explain that the lady had not been present when Mr Raithwaite interrupted.

‘I hardly think such a trip is in order. If you remember correctly, my dear, you left Lady Farleigh with rather a tawdry view of your reputation and it wouldn’t do to remind her of that until we’ve remedied the affair. Once you’re married then I’ve no objection to your seeing her, and I don’t suppose that Mr Praxton will have either.’ He touched his hands together as if he were about to pray, moving them until the tips of his fingers rested against his grizzled grey beard.

What would he say if he knew the extent of that which she had confided in Mirabelle? Georgiana looked directly at her stepfather, unaware that distaste and pity were displayed so clearly on her face.

Edward Raithwaite saw the emotions and they stirred nothing but contempt and frustration. ‘In fact, it would be better if you remained within this house until the day of the wedding. We don’t want to encourage any idle chatter, now, do we?’

‘I’m to be a prisoner in my own home?’ Georgiana could not prevent the words’ escape.

‘Let’s just say confined for your protection, and in my home, Georgiana.’

She glowered at him, but said nothing.

‘The wedding will take place in two weeks’ time at All Hallows Church. Your mother has arranged for a mantua-maker to attend you here tomorrow to prepare your trousseau.’ He looked away and picked distractedly at the nail on his left thumb. ‘That will be all, at present.’

And with that summary dismissal Georgiana made her way to her room.

The moon was high in the night sky and still Georgiana lay rigid upon the bed. Thoughts of her stepfather’s and Walter Praxton’s treachery whirled in her brain, ceaseless in their battery, until her head felt as if it would burst. Such a tirade would not help her situation. She must stop. Think. Not the same angry thoughts of injustice and self-pity, but those of the options that lay before her. What options? Marry Mr Praxton and ally herself with the very devil, or have her sanity questioned and be sent to the Bethlehem Royal Hospital in London? Neither choice was to Georgiana’s liking. She calmed herself and set to more productive thinking. Why had Papa confined her to the house? What was it that he was so afraid of? And quite suddenly she knew the answer to the question—a runaway stepdaughter. With the realisation came the seed of an idea that might just prove her salvation.

Within five minutes she was standing alone inside the laundry room, her bare feet cold against the stone-flagged floor, the candle in her hand sending ghostly shadows to dance upon the whitewashed walls. It did not take long to locate what she was looking for and, stuffing her prize inside the wrapper of her dressing gown, she crept back up to her bedroom. After her booty had been carefully stowed under the bed, she climbed once more beneath the covers, blew out the candle and fell straight to sleep. A smile curved upon her lips and her dreams were filled with her plan to foil Papa’s curfew and his arrangement for marriage.

During the subsequent days, it appeared that Georgiana was content to pass her time in harmless activity, and all within the confines of the house in Tythecock Crescent. She amused her youngest siblings Prudence and Theo and spent some considerable time conversing with her stepbrother Francis who, at fourteen, had been summoned home from school to attend the wedding. Surprisingly Francis’s bored manner, while still managing to insult his sister at any given opportunity, did not seem to annoy Georgiana, who was the very model of a well-bred young lady.

Mrs Raithwaite was much impressed by this novel behaviour, attributing it to Mr Raithwaite’s firm stance. It seemed that her daughter had at last overcome her initial reservations to an alliance with Mr Praxton. Not that Clara Raithwaite had an inkling of comprehension as to just why Georgiana had taken such an apparently unprovoked dislike for that perfectly respectable gentleman. He seemed to Clara a most handsome fellow with commendable prospects. And he had so far managed to ignore Georgiana’s stubborn tendencies.

Mrs Raithwaite’s delight abounded when her daughter entered a conversation regarding Madame Chantel and her wedding dress. Quite clearly Georgiana had resigned herself to the marriage and the Raithwaite household could at last breathe easy. They, therefore, were most understanding when two days later Georgiana complained of the headache and was forced to retire early to bed. Mrs Raithwaite ascribed it to a combination of excitement and nerves, which she proclaimed were perfectly normal in any young lady about to be married. And when Georgiana hugged her mother and told her that she loved her and hoped she would be forgiven for being such a troublesome daughter, Mrs Raithwaite knew she was right. For once, Clara Raithwaite’s diagnosis of her eldest daughter’s emotional state was accurate.

Georgiana had forced herself to lie still beneath the bedcovers, feigning sleep when her mother came in to check on her. Only once the door had closed and her mother’s footsteps receded along the passageway did she throw back the covers and set about her activity. With all the precision of the best-planned ventures, Georgiana moved without sound, aided only by the occasional shaft of moonlight stealing through her window. Her actions held a certain deliberation, a calm efficiency rather than a frenzied rushing.

From beneath the bed she retrieved her looted goods and set about stripping off her night attire, never pausing even for one minute. Time was of the essence and there was none to spare. With one fell snip of the scissors, purloined from Mrs Andrew’s kitchen, her long braid of hair had been removed. Georgiana suppressed a sigh. This was not the time for sentimentality. At last she had finished and raised the hand mirror from the dressing table to survey the final result. An approving smile beamed back at her, and deepened to become a most unladylike grin. The effect was really rather good, better even than she had anticipated. Now all she had to do was hope that the coachman and postboys would not see through the disguise.

She loosed the few paltry coins that she could call her own upon the bed and, gathering them up, tucked them carefully into her pocket. The rest of her meagre provisions were stowed within a rather shabby bag that she’d managed to acquire from one of the footmen. Everything was in place. It was time to go.

She could only hope that Mama would forgive her. It wasn’t as if she was just running away. No. She’d never been a coward and didn’t mean to start now. It was advice and help that she needed, and Lady Farleigh had offered both. The trouble was that Mirabelle Farleigh had gone to Collingborne. And so it was to precisely that same destination that Georgiana intended to travel. Fleetingly she remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern. Who are you afraid of? If Mr Praxton has done aught that he should not have … Would it have come to this if she’d told him the truth? Too late for such thoughts. One last look around her bedroom, then she turned, and slowly walked towards the window.

If a casual observer had happened to glance in the direction of Number 42 Tythecock Crescent at that particular time, a most peculiar sight would have greeted his eyes. A young lad climbed out of the ground-floor window, a small bag of goods clutched within his hands. From the boy’s fast and furtive manner it could be surmised that he was clearly up to no good, and was acting without the knowledge of the good family Raithwaite, who occupied that fine house. Alas and alack that the moral fibre of society was so sadly lacking.

Georgiana sped out along the back yard, down Chancery Lane, meeting back up with Tythecock Crescent some hundred yards down the road. Even at this time of night the street was not quiet, and she was careful to keep her head lowered in case any one of the bodies meandering past might recognise Mr Raithwaite’s daughter beneath the guise of the skinny boy. It was not far to her stepfather’s coaching house, the Star and Garter, and she reached its gates within a matter of minutes. Fortunately for Georgiana, there was still room upon the mail to Gosport, and she soon found herself squashed between a burly man of indiscernible age, and a well-endowed elderly lady. Ironically, no member of the Raithwaite family had ever travelled by mail, and it was not far into the journey when Georgiana came to realise the reason. The burly man was travelling with two other men seated opposite; all three smelled as if they had not washed in some time and insisted on making loud and bawdy comments. As if that were not bad enough, the straggle-haired one opposite Georgiana spotted the young woman positioned further along and proceeded to eye her in a manner that made Georgiana feel distinctly uncomfortable, and profoundly glad that she had had the foresight to disguise herself in Francis’s clothes.

‘Come on, darlin’, give us a smile.’ The man flashed his blackened teeth at the woman who, seemingly completely unaffected, did not deign to reply.

The burly chap beside Georgiana sniggered. ‘Won’t even smile at some fellows that are bound for sea to keep out that tyrant Boney! It’s us seamen that saves the likes of you, missy, our bravery that lets you sleep easy in your bed at night.’

‘Yeh!’ his companion grunted in agreement. His beady eyes narrowed and his expression became sly. ‘If you won’t give us a smile, darlin', maybe you’ll give us one of your sweet kisses instead?’

Georgiana felt a rough elbow dig into her ribs, and a boom of laughter. ‘What do you ‘ave to say about it, young master, eh?’

Georgiana’s heart leapt to her chest and she didn’t dare to look round.

The man persisted. ‘Oi, with all that fancy clobber, he thinks he’s too good to talk to the likes of us. Is that it?’

‘No, sir.’ She forced the voice as a low rumble, and shook her head.

‘Want to give that lass a kiss?’

Georgiana looked at the floor and shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

The third sailor spoke up at last. ‘Leave the lad alone, Jack. He’s still wet behind the ears, just a young ‘un. Let’s get some sleep on this bloody coach while we can.’

‘I was only ‘avin’ a laugh,’ Jack protested, ‘weren’t I, lad?’

The journey seemed long in the extreme, although it took little more than three hours. By the time they arrived in Fareham, close by Portsmouth, Georgiana was cold, hungry and tired, having been exhausted by excitement and nerves. And she had yet to travel to Havant from where she could catch the mail in the direction of Petersfield, thus allowing her to make her way to Collingborne. To make matters worse, the first stagecoach to Havant did not leave until early the next morning. After all this she could only hope that at the end of her travels, she would not be turned away from Collingborne House and that Mirabelle Farleigh would offer her the help she so desperately needed. Pray God that it would be so.

Captain Nathaniel Hawke stood on the quarterdeck of the Pallas and surveyed the busy commotion on his ship. The Pallas was a frigate, a long, low sailing ship, the eyes and ears of the navy. Before the quarterdeck a chain of men were hauling spare spars, placing them down beside the rowing boats on the open deck beams. Others scoured water casks ready for refilling. Shouts sounded from those up high checking the rigging, climbing barefoot and confident, white trousers and blue jackets billowing in the strong sea breeze. The smell of fresh paint drifted to the captain’s nose, as the men dangling over the bulwark on their roped seats, brushes in hands, applied the last few strokes of black across the gunport lids of the broadside. The black coloration contrasted starkly with the ochre yellow banding around the gunports themselves, setting up the smart so-called ‘Nelson’s Chequer’. In the distance, beyond the forecastle, the finely carved lion figurehead glinted proudly in the sunlight. ‘How fares Mr Hutton with his repairs?’

‘He’s completed all of the gunports on the starboard broadside and is halfway through those on the larboard. Mr Longley is continuing with caulking the hull and estimates that the job will be complete by this evening.’ First Lieutenant John Anderson faced his captain, resplendent in the full naval uniform that he had so recently purchased. He held himself with pride and eyed Captain Hawke with a mixture of respect and admiration. ‘The men are working hard, Captain, and all should be ready in two days. We’ll meet the sailing time.’ There was a strength and enthusiasm in his voice.

Nathaniel turned from his view of a chaotic Portsmouth Point and faced his second-in-command. The lad had everything that it took to make a good first lieutenant except experience. And that was something that would not be long in coming if Nathaniel had his way. ‘Indeed, Lieutenant, they’ve worked like Trojans, we all have. You’re right in your estimation of the work. But it’s not the repairs that threaten to postpone our departure.’ He glanced away, out to where the open sea beckoned. ‘We both know the real problem—our lack of manpower. We’ve not enough crew to properly man this ship and I cannot take her out as we currently stand. The men that we have are good and true, all came forward willingly to serve on the Pallas because she’s widely known to be a fair and lucky ship.’

Don’t be misled, sir. The men are here because Captain Nathaniel Hawke is reputed to be one of the best post captains to sail under and all that have sailed with him previously have been made rich with the prizes he captured. But the lieutenant knew better than to speak his thoughts.

Nathaniel’s face had grown grim. ‘But for all that, we’ve insufficient numbers to sail. It seems that we’re forced once more to turn to Captain Bodmin to supply the extra men needed.’ The knowledge curled his top lip.

Lieutenant Anderson sensed the captain’s reticence in the matter. ‘Most of the ships that sail from here require Captain Bodmin’s services and a good proportion of their crews comprise pressed men. It’s no reflection on you, Captain. Be assured of that.’

‘Thank you, Mr Anderson.’ He clasped his fingers together. ‘It seems that we’ve no choice, for if we’re to sail we must have men, even pressed men who’ve never set foot off land before and lack any seafaring skills. Not that that is what presents the biggest problem. They’ve no desire to be on board and so will cause any manner of trouble to illustrate the point. Little wonder when they’ve been forcibly deprived of their freedom. God knows, Mr Anderson, the Press Gang is very much a last resort. Better one volunteer than three pressed men.’

Both men turned and looked once more out across the crowded harbour of Portsmouth.

Georgiana was not feeling at her best as she huddled in the yard of the Red Lion. She felt as stiff as an old woman and she’d long since eaten any vestige of food contained within the bag pressed against her chest. The delicious aroma of hot mutton pies wafted from the pie seller just beyond the courtyard gates.

‘George, fancy a pie?’ The gruff voice surprised her.

Georgiana looked down and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, sir,’ she uttered in as manly a tone as she could manage. Her stomach protested with a fierce growl.

Burly Jack, as she’d taken to calling him, although not to his face, whispered to Tom, ‘Lad’s not the full shilling, but he’s ‘armless enough. Reminds me of me nephew.’ He straightened up and raised his voice in Georgiana’s direction. ‘Come on, now, boy, don’t be too proud for your own good. You must be starvin'. I ‘aven’t seen you eat nothin’ all night.’ Jack advanced, carrying three steaming pies, and thrust one towards her.

An audible rumbling erupted from Georgiana’s stomach.

Tom laughed. ‘Don’t try tellin’ us you ain’t hungry. They must have heard that stomach growl in the streets of London!’

The pie loomed before Georgiana, all hot and aromatic. She felt her mouth fill with saliva and could not help but lick her lips.

‘Come on, lad.’

The pie danced closer, calling to Georgiana with an allure that she had never experienced before. Her hand reached out and enclosed around the vision of temptation.

Burly Jack delivered an affectionate blow to her arm before the trio headed off towards the closest tavern.

Georgiana slumped against the wall. She bit through the pastry until delicious gravy spurted into her mouth, so hot that she could see the wisps of steam escape into the coolness of the surrounding air. Squatting down, she leaned her back against the rough-hewn stone behind her and chewed upon the heavenly chunks of mutton. It was strange just how contenting the simple act of filling one’s empty belly could be. Gravy trickled down her chin and she lapped it back up. She was just wiping the grease from her fingers down Francis’s brown woollen breeches when it happened.

Yells. Thuds. The sound of Burly Jack’s voice raised in anger and fear.

Georgiana started up like a scared rabbit, peering all around. The voices came from the other side of the wall. Darting through the gate she ran round and into the narrow alleyway. ‘Jack!’ Her voice rang out clear and true.

In the gloom of the alley her travelling companions had been set upon by several men. There was much flying of fists and kicking of legs, but Georgiana could just see that Burly Jack was being thoroughly bested. Without pausing to consider her own position, she launched herself upon Jack’s attacker, ripping at his hair and boxing his ears for all she was worth.

‘Run, lad!’ Jack’s voice echoed in her ear. It was the last thing she heard before she was felled by a hefty blow to the back of her head. And then there was nothing.

Georgiana awoke to a giddy nauseous feeling. There was an undoubted sensation of swaying that would not still whether she opened her eyes or closed them. Not that it made any difference to what she could see within the dense blackness of where she now found herself.

She tried to sit up, but the throbbing of her head increased so dramatically that she thought the remnants of the mutton pie would leap from her stomach.

‘George, is you awake yet?’ The unmistakable tone of Burly Jack’s voice sounded.

‘Yes, sir.’ She groaned. ‘Where are we? I can’t see anythin'.’

A hand landed on her thigh and she let out a squeak.

‘There you are, lad. Did them bastards ‘urt you? Looked like they landed you a right good ‘un on the ‘ead.’ Jack’s hand moved up to her arm. She prayed it would stray no further.

‘I’ll mend,’ she uttered, trying to quell the queasiness rising in her stomach, and struggled to a sitting position.

Jack’s hand patted her arm. ‘That’s the spirit. Tom and Bill’s ‘ere too. Bastards got us all, and two others by the name of Jim and Rad.’

‘The lad sounds young.’ Rad’s voice came out of the gloom. ‘Voice ain’t broken yet.’

‘He is young, so don’t be startin’ nothin’ with ‘im or you’ll ‘ave me to answer to.’ Burly Jack’s voice had lost its soft edge.

It seemed that Georgiana had found something of a protector within the smelly dark hovel. Would he remain so if he fathomed her secret? It was not a question that she wished to test. The rocking motion seemed to be getting worse, just as her eyes had adjusted to see grey shapes within the surrounding darkness. And with it grew her nausea. ‘Dear Lord!’ The curse escaped her as the retching began.

‘Easy, lad.’ Burly Jack’s voice sounded close. ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough and then it won’t never come back. Seasickness ain’t a pleasant feeling, but there ain’t nothin’ can be done about it.’

‘Seasickness?’ Georgiana questioned with a feeble tone.

‘Oh, aye, lad. What d’you think them fellows wanted with us? They’re the bloody Press Gang and you’re aboard ship now.’ Jack’s words had a horrible nightmarish quality about them.

She blinked her eyes into the darkness. ‘You must be wrong, sir.’

‘Nope,’ Jack replied with a definite cheery tone. ‘You’re a ship’s boy on the Pallas now, young George, whether you like it or not. Best get used to the idea before the bosun comes to fetch us.’

Georgiana let out a load groan and dropped her head into her hands. She was once again in a diabolical situation as the result of her own foolhardy actions. But this time there would be no handsome Lord Nathaniel Hawke to jump headlong in and save her.

‘You’ve interviewed them all, Mr Anderson. So what do we have?’ Nathaniel continued in his stride towards the small group of men standing at the far end of the main deck.

Lieutenant Anderson walked briskly alongside. ‘Good news, Captain Hawke, sir. There are five men, three of whom have plenty of experience at sea. I’ve rated them as able seamen, sir. The other two are landsmen, never set foot on a ship before, but I estimate that they’ll be quick to learn. All are now registered on the Pallas’ books.’

Nathaniel’s face was grim. ‘It sickens me to the pit of my stomach that I’m forced to resort to such a thing. I’d rather have them here willingly or not at all.’

‘You’re only following orders, Captain,’ the first lieutenant pointed out. ‘And I fancy that they’ll soon change their minds as to a life at sea once they’ve sailed on the Pallas.’

Nathaniel remained unconvinced, but he had a job to do and he had best get on with it, no matter that having pressed men aboard his ship left a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘Three able seamen, you say?’

‘Oh, and there’s a lad of fourteen as well. It seems that he was with the sailors when they were taken by Captain Bodmin’s men. We’re still short on ship’s boys, so I’ve rated him as a third class. Mr Adams is under the impression that the boy is dim-witted; indeed, I did notice that he keeps his head down and mumbles when spoken to. But I thought…well, with the need to leave port that …’ John Anderson struggled to find the words.

Nathaniel came to the rescue. ‘Given the right instruction I’m sure that the boy will learn. You did right, Mr Anderson. Better that he ends up here with his friends than alone aboard another ship.’ He pushed the stories of what had happened to lone youngsters on certain other ships out of his head. Not while Nathaniel Hawke had breath in his body would any such depravity take place on the Pallas.

The pressed men stood separately from the rest of the crew, forming a small distinct group. As Nathaniel and John Anderson approached, the group stiffened and stood to attention.

‘Stand at ease, men,’ Lieutenant Anderson commanded.

The men responded.

Nathaniel stood before his crew and surveyed the latest additions. ‘Welcome to the Pallas. Some of you may not be here by your own free choice, but you’re here to serve your king and country nevertheless. Our voyage may be long and difficult. Indeed, we will be exposed to many perils and threats. But as men of England I know that you will fight, as we all fight, to retain our freedom. For if our great navy does not fight, we may as well collect Bonaparte ourselves and deliver him to London’s door.’

He looked into each man’s eyes in turn.

‘This voyage is not an easy walk. I demand your obedience, your loyalty and your diligence.’

The first two faces in the line were pale, their skin tinged with a greenish hue—the landsmen, no doubt. They were listening despite their rancid stomachs.

‘In return I offer you adventure, and the chance of wealth. There are prizes out there, gentlemen, and they are ours for the taking.’

The next three were ruddy and vigorous. Two fellows of medium build and one large bear of a man. All were intent on his words.

‘But with the biggest prizes come the biggest dangers. And only the best crews will win them in the end. With drilling, with perseverance, with determination, gentlemen, we can be the best of crews; we can win the best of prizes.’

He swung his arms in a wide encompassing gesture to the massed crew. ‘Gentlemen, I give you the best of me, and I demand the very best of you, each and every one of you. We sailed yesterday under sealed orders. We have reached the specified longitude and latitude and I can reveal to you all that the Pallas will proceed to the Azores and cruise there to capture any enemy vessels encountered. The pickings will be rich indeed. What say you, men, will you give me your best?’

The deck resounded to raucous cheering. Even Burly Jack, Bill and Tom clapped one another on the back and raised their voices. Jack laughed down at Georgiana and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘This is much better than the poxy vessel we were bound for. We’ll be rich, lad, rich!’

Nathaniel’s voice sounded above the din, and an immediate hush spread. ‘Then let us commence our voyage as we mean to finish it.’ As the crowd dispersed, Nathaniel glanced at the boy hovering by the elbow of the large man. Lieutenant Anderson had been accurate in his description, for the lad’s gaze was trained firmly on the wooden floor, his head bent low. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

The boy’s head bent lower, as if he wished the deck to open and swallow him up. ‘George, Captain, sir.’

Nathaniel had to strain to catch the low-pitched mumble. ‘And your family name?’

The small boots standing before him shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Robertson, Captain, sir.’

‘Well then, Master Robertson, my first command to you is that you stand up straight at all times and look whoever may be talking to you directly in the eye. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Captain, sir,’ the faint reply came back.

The boy’s head remained averted.

Perhaps Mr Adams had been right in his estimation of the boy’s wits. Nathaniel frowned. ‘Master Robertson,’ he said somewhat more forcefully.

The large sailor nudged the boy and hissed between blackened teeth, ‘Do as the Captain says, George. Stand up straight. Look up.’ He turned back to the captain. ‘Sorry, Captain, he’s a bit slow, but he’s a good lad.’

Nathaniel’s gaze drifted back to the stooped figure.

Slowly but surely Georgiana straightened her shoulders and raised her face to look directly at Captain Hawke.

Nathaniel blinked. There was something familiar about the dirt-smeared little face that looked up at him. A memory stirred far in the recesses of his mind, but escaped capture. Surely he must be mistaken? The boy was clearly no one he had ever seen before. He tried to shrug the feeling off. And all the while George Robertson’s youthful grey-blue eyes were wide with shock. ‘That’s how I prefer to see you at all times, Master Robertson. A seaman should be proud of himself, and as a boy aboard my ship, you’ve much to be proud of.’ Captain Nathaniel Hawke returned to his cabin with a faint glimmer of unease that could not quite be fathomed.

Georgiana’s knees set up a tremor and she pressed her hand to her mouth. She thought that her nausea had subsided with the fresh sea air of the open deck. The sight of the gentleman striding purposefully towards them brought it back in an instant. Dear Lord, but he bore an uncanny resemblance to Lord Nathaniel Hawke. It was a complete impossibility, of course, or so she told herself. Many men were tall with dark hair that glowed red in the sunlight. But as he came closer, and Georgiana was able to look upon those brown expressive eyes, fine straight nose and chiselled jaw line, she knew that her first impression had not been mistaken.

Her sudden gasp went unnoticed as Lord Nathaniel addressed the surrounding men. Shock gave way to relief. Providence, in the guise of Nathaniel Hawke, had helped her before and was about to do so again, or so it seemed. Even as her spirit leapt, the stark reality of her circumstance made itself known to her. Only two kinds of women came aboard ships, the wives of officers, and those who belonged to what she had heard termed the oldest profession in the world. Georgiana belonged to neither group. Yet the Pallas had sailed from Portsmouth two days since. Her position was precarious in the extreme. The very presence of an unmarried lady aboard Nathaniel Hawke’s ship was likely to place him in a difficult situation. Her own reputation no longer mattered, but she had no wish to cause trouble for the man who had saved her life. There seemed to be no other alternative than to continue with her deception as the simple-minded boy. She dropped her gaze to the spotless wooden decking and played her part well, hoping all the time that Nathaniel Hawke would not recognise any trace of Miss Georgiana Raithwaite.

‘Oi, dopey!’ The rough-edged voice sounded across the deck. ‘Have you got cabbage for brains or what?’ The fat gunner’s mate delivered a hefty slap to Georgiana’s ear. ‘Get this bloody place cleaned up before Mr Pensenby arrives. If he sees it in this state, you’ll be on reduced rations again. Now get a bloody move on.’

In the two weeks that had passed since the Pallas’ departure from Portsmouth harbour, Georgiana had managed to avoid the worst of trouble and had retained her disguise. All trace of seasickness had vanished thanks to her daily consumption of grog. It might have tasted foul, but it had settled her stomach when she thought it would never be settled again. Her hands still bore some open blisters, although most had healed to calluses upon her palms. Her hair was matted and itchy beneath the dirty black woollen cap that she permanently wore and her feet were rubbed and sore from clambering barefoot over the slippery decks. As if that were not bad enough, she seemed to be covered from head to toe in a layer of filth from her newly appointed position of gunroom servant. Heaven only knew quite how scrubbing floors and tables, washing plates and glasses, and being at the beck and call of every officer and young midshipman, as well as waiting at their dining table, could have got her into such a state! It was not an easy job, but it was infinitely preferable to that of the ‘Captain of the Head', young Sam Wilson, who had the unenviable task of cleaning the lavatories at the head of the ship. Sam was only eight years old and she had taken the little lad under her wing.

She saw little of Jack and the others except at the odd meal time, when his hearty laughter allowed her to find him amidst the rows of rough wooden tables and benches set between the guns that transformed the upper deck into a mess each mealtime. As Georgiana grew accustomed to daily routine on board ship, she began to think that perhaps she might just survive the voyage in the guise of George Robertson, but she had reckoned without the interference of the second lieutenant, Cyril Pensenby.

‘Lieutenant Pensenby, sir!’ The gunner’s mate straightened and saluted the poker-faced young gentleman who had just strolled into the room.

‘Holmes.’ Georgiana watched as the officer’s snowy white breeches brushed inadvertently against one of the narrow wooden benches. The lieutenant glanced down and stopped dead still. He raised his eyes and looked accusingly at Georgiana, whose own gaze remained riveted to the discoloured smear that now sullied the material stretched across the gentleman’s leg. ‘Master Robertson,’ his cultured voice lisped, ‘you will scrub this room from top to bottom until it has not one grain of dust, not one smear of dirt. And when you’ve finished you shall scrub yourself clean in a similar fashion. There is a bathing cask up on deck. See that you make use of it. I shall return before the first dog watch to inspect the work you’ve undertaken. I hope for your sake, boy, that it meets with my approval.’

Georgiana stared wordlessly at the retreating figure.

The gunner’s mate eased his corpulent frame on to the bench. ‘Best get started, lad. The lieutenant ain’t a man to be trifled with and he won’t cut you no slack on account of your simple-minded ways. Gunner won’t be best pleased either.’

Three hours later the gunroom was shining like a new pin. Please don’t let anyone mess it up before he sees it, Georgiana prayed, before setting about cleaning the worst of the ingrained muck from her face and hands in a small wooden basin. Most of the dirt had been brushed out of her blue culottes and jacket before Lieutenant Pensenby returned.

He perused the gunroom down the end of his long thin nose, saying nothing, before turning his scrutiny to Georgiana herself. ‘Roll up your sleeve, Robertson,’ the curt voice commanded.

Georgiana did as she was told, holding one grubby arm up for inspection.

‘You have not bathed.’

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, sir, but I cleaned myself just as you told me.’ Georgiana tried to retrieve her arm from beneath the gentleman’s fingers.

Cyril Pensenby’s thumbnail scraped against her skin, releasing a layer of blackened grime. ‘The evidence speaks for itself, boy.’

‘No, sir, you’re mistaken, sir,’ Georgiana mumbled in as low a tone as she could muster.

Mr Pensenby’s brows lowered and he thrust Georgiana’s arm angrily away. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Robertson?’

What had started as a small matter was rapidly escalating out of control. ‘No, Lieutenant, sir.’ She bit at her bottom lip and focused on the decking around Mr Pensenby’s feet.

Pensenby turned to the gunner’s mate. ‘See that this boy is scrubbed clean in a cask bath. Immediately, Holmes.’

‘Aye, Lieutenant Pensenby, I’ll see to it personally, sir.’

Georgiana’s eyes widened in terror as she realised what was about to happen. ‘No!’ She made to run past the two men, but fat fingers closed cruelly over her wrist and dragged her back.

‘Come along, Master Robertson, ain’t nothin’ so very bad about havin’ a bath. Let’s be havin’ you up on deck, lad.’

Georgiana wriggled and squirmed, but nothing, it seemed, could dislodge the gunner’s mate’s firm grasp. By the time they had reached the deck she could scarcely catch her breath.

‘Hoist up the cask!’ the gunner’s mate instructed, and attempted to remove the simpleton’s jacket.

Georgiana yelled for all she was worth, her voice rising higher in her panic. ‘Jack! Jack!’ She plunged her teeth into the fat man’s hand and kicked as hard as she could at his shins.

‘Ouch! You little bugger!’ Holmes released the skinny arm to deliver a weighty cuff to the lad’s ear.

It was the opportunity that Georgiana had been waiting for and she needed no invitation. Before the gunner’s mate could recover, she legged it straight up the rigging of the main mast. She didn’t dare look down, just kept on climbing up towards the topgallant mast. The wind blasted cold and icy, contriving to knock her from her precarious perch, but she clung to the ropes until her fingers hurt. Voices murmured from far below, their words lost to the wind. Her heart pounded in her chest and she watched with rising misery as the light diminished in the surrounding sky.

‘What the hell is going on?’ The men scattered before Captain Hawke.

Lieutenant Pensenby stepped forward. ‘Ship’s boy Robertson disobeyed a direct command, sir. He attacked Holmes here when he tried to effect that order.’

‘And what exactly was the command, Mr Pensenby?’

Pensenby’s thin face flushed. ‘The boy and the gunroom were filthy, Captain. Indeed, it wasn’t possible to enter the place without soiling my own uniform. As I am adverse to having such a dirty specimen serve the food upon my plate, or, indeed, to sup in unclean surroundings, I instructed that he clean both himself and the room. He complied with the room, but is most reticent to bathe himself, sir.’

Nathaniel groaned to himself. This was the last thing he needed. That half the ship’s company was lacking in personal hygiene could not have escaped Pensenby’s notice. Indeed, most of the men saw bathing as something undertaken only by eccentrics. But flouting of any order was not something that could be taken lightly, especially when it had been issued by the second lieutenant. ‘And where is the boy now?’

All eyes looked up into the rigging.

‘Ah,’ the captain murmured by way of understanding. ‘Fetch able seaman Grimly.’

Someone was coming up to fetch her. She dared a look and saw Jack not far below.

‘What the ‘ell ‘ave you been doin'?’ the gruff voice queried. ‘Pensenby’s got his dander up about you and no mistake and I ain’t gonna be able to stop ‘im.’ Burly Jack sighed. ‘Bathin’ ain’t exactly my delight, but couldn’t you ‘ave just ‘ad a quick duck in and out?’

Georgiana’s hands wove themselves tighter through the ropes. ‘No, Jack. Don’t make me go down. I won’t have a bath. I can’t.’ The words were barely more than a hoarse whisper into the wind.

‘If you don’t come down with me they’ll just send someone else to get you. Come on, lad, don’t make it worse than it already is.’

He was right. Pensenby would never leave her be. There was nothing else for it, she would have to throw herself upon Nathaniel Hawke’s mercy and hope for the best.

Chapter Four

‘Master Robertson, no man or boy on this ship is exempt from the line of command. To disobey an order from an officer is an offence, and one that merits disciplinary action.’ A chill wind blew hard across the deck, carrying in its wake the damp smell of rain. Darkness was closing in fast, and the lanterns were being lit. Nathaniel felt a pang of sympathy for the lad; nevertheless, it was the first direct contravention of an order and his response was likely to set a precedent amongst the men. ‘Lieutenant Pensenby has instructed you to bathe and bathe you shall. See to it, Mr Holmes.’

‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ The boy was so pale he looked as if all the blood had left his body. Holmes quelled the thought, he had a job to do. ‘You ain’t got nothin’ different from the rest of us, lad. Let’s get on with it.’

Panic constricted Georgiana’s breathing. ‘No! Wait!’

Holmes’s hand clamped upon her shoulder and Captain Hawke made to walk away.

‘Captain Hawke, please wait, sir. I can explain.’ Her usual hushed mumble was forgotten. She lashed out at the man beside her. ‘Leave me be!’

It was imperative that he remain indifferent to the boy’s pleading voice. Such scenes were always difficult for Nathaniel, but he could not back down. He continued towards the forecastle.

‘You will not address the captain, Robertson, it is not your place to do so,’ Pensenby interrupted.

Her jacket had been removed and Holmes was tugging at her culottes. Georgiana bellowed as loudly as she could, and tried hard to maintain the slight edge to her accent. ‘I must speak with you, Captain, sir. Please, sir!’

Still she saw only the receding view of his deep blue coat, his shoulders squared, his golden epaulettes glinting in the lantern light.

‘It concerns Farleigh Hall, sir.’

Nathaniel ceased his measured steps and swung round. Surely he had misheard? ‘What did you say, boy?’ He drew his brows together in perplexity and walked slowly back to where the gunner’s mate held the boy in a neck lock.

‘Farleigh Hall,’ Georgiana managed to choke the words out.

Something was most definitely amiss. How did a simpleton third-rate ship’s boy know of his brother’s house? An uneasy feeling was gathering in his gut. ‘Release the boy, Mr Holmes. I would hear what he has to say.’

With considerable relief Georgiana lurched forward, her hand pressed to the bruising on her throat. ‘It’s private, Captain, sir. I must speak with you alone, sir.’

If Nathaniel observed that his previously tongue-tied ship’s boy had suddenly developed a clear and coherent manner of speech, he forbore to mention it.

Pensenby’s countenance was growing tarter by the minute. ‘How dare you?’ he spluttered with the indignation of a man who could not quite believe what he had just heard. ‘I’ve never seen a more audacious manner in a boy.’ The second lieutenant’s temper was wearing dangerously thin. ‘You will be punished for this insolence.’

‘Make ‘im kiss the gunner’s daughter,’ a coarse voice added from the background.

The prospect of being bent over one of the long guns and caned on the backside was enough to make Georgiana’s hair to stand on end. ‘Lady Mirabelle,’ she squeaked in defiance, and, ‘Lord Frederick,’ just for good measure.

Nathaniel’s mind was decided in an instant. ‘I’ll interview the boy in my cabin. Have him brought down immediately.’

Georgiana’s knees almost gave way with relief as Holmes dragged her along in the captain’s wake.

‘But …’ Lieutenant Pensenby’s jaw dropped.

‘Thank you, Mr Pensenby. Continue with your duties.’ Captain Hawke’s clipped tones floated back to reach him.

The captain’s cabin, positioned at the rear of the gun deck, was incredibly large in comparison with the cramped conditions endured by the rest of the crew, and furnished well, if not luxuriously. As well as a desk, captain’s chair, dining table, six dining chairs and a small chest of drawers, there was a large and very fine oil painting depicting Lord Nelson’s victory against the French Admiral Brueys at the Battle of the Nile. Amidst the elegance of the décor were two large eighteen-pounder long guns, shone to a brilliant black finish. Nathaniel Hawke leaned back against the desk, stretching his legs out before him. The cocked hat was removed and positioned carefully on a pile of papers to his left. An errant lock of hair swept across his forehead and his eyes glowed deep and dark.

‘Well, young Robertson, tell your tale.’

Georgiana felt the tension mount within her, and quickly slipped on the torn jacket that Holmes had replaced in her hands. An extra layer of protection against what was to come. And what was to come? She had no notion what Captain Hawke’s reaction would be. No notion at all. She licked her dry, salt-encrusted lips and began. ‘Thank you for agreeing to my request for privacy. I’m sure that you’ll agree to its necessity once you’ve heard the truth.’

‘Indeed?’ One winged eyebrow raised itself. ‘You suddenly have a most eloquent turn of phrase, Master Robertson. The prospect of a bath seems to have overcome your tendency to the whispered mumbling of a simpleton.’

Georgiana cleared her throat and clutched her hands together. How did one go about imparting such a revelation? ‘Quite,’ she muttered softly.

The silence stretched between them.

Nathaniel’s hands stretched flat upon the desk and he leaned forward. ‘I believe that you have something to tell me.’

Such long strong fingers, so representative of the power within the man himself. An image of those fingers stroking her cheek popped into her mind and she flushed with guilty anger. How could she think such a thought, and at a time like this? A warm blush rose in her cheeks and she rapidly averted her gaze.

Nathaniel did not miss the emotions that flashed so readily across the boy’s face, nor the telltale rosy stain beneath the dirt-stained cheeks. He waited, curiosity rising.

‘I…You …’ She paused, unable to find the words. Oh, heaven help her! Taking a deep breath, she launched into the story. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Captain Hawke, so I’ll strive to be brief and to the point. Please remember throughout that I…that I never intended the position in which I now find myself. Such a possibility never entered my mind.’ She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wide and clear, her voice elegant and polite. ‘The fact of the matter is that I’m not who I appear to be.’ She paused, her breathing coming fast and furious, almost as if she had ran the length of the ship.

‘I’d gathered that much. And you’re now about to do me the honour of revealing your true identity.’ His tone was dry, but there was an encouraging gentleness in his eyes and Georgiana knew that Nathaniel Hawke was a fair man. The knowledge gave her the confidence she so desperately needed to continue.

‘Yes.’ The single word slipped softly into the silence of the cabin.

Nathaniel experienced a reflexive tensing of his muscles and an overwhelming intuitive certainty that the next words to be uttered by the ragamuffin boy standing so quietly before him would change his life for ever.

The boy’s chin forced up high. The grey-blue eyes met his without flinching. The narrow chest expanded with a deep breath. ‘I am Miss Georgiana Raithwaite, recently of your acquaintance at Farleigh Hall.’ Still the breath held, tightly squeezed within her lungs. She waited. Waited. And never once did her gaze wander from those dark eyes that were staring back at her with an undisguised disbelief.

Silence.

The blood ran cold in Nathaniel’s veins and a shiver flitted down his spine. It was not possible. The ragged boy, Miss Raithwaite. ‘You cannot be Miss Raithwaite. You’re a…’

Georgiana endured the roving scrutiny of his eyes without moving. ‘Now you understand why I couldn’t comply with Lieutenant Pensenby’s command.’ She raised her eyebrows wryly and bit her bottom lip.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Nathaniel cursed and stood upright. A horrible sinking sensation was starting within his stomach, for beneath the grubby urchin face he could see what had previously eluded him—the fine features of the young woman he had pulled from the River Borne. ‘Your hair…Have you—?’

‘Naturally,’ replied Georgiana. ‘It wouldn’t have been much of a disguise otherwise.’ She whipped the cap from her head to reveal her sheared and matted locks.

‘Dear God!’ Nathaniel could not suppress the exclamation.

‘Yes, quite. It’s in a horrible filthy state, as is the rest of me. How ironic that my present trouble has arisen from my refusal to bathe when that is one of the things I’ve longed so ardently to do these two weeks past.’ She smiled then, a smile that lit up her face.

Nathaniel stared, and stared some more. Inadvertently his eyes dropped lower, as if he would see what lay beneath the torn blue jacket. ‘You show no external signs of…of, um…’

‘Bindings. Terribly uncomfortable things to wear, if you must know,’ she said stoutly.

Captain Hawke’s swarthy complexion flushed. ‘Yes, quite.’

‘But it wouldn’t have done at all for Burly Jack or the others to have discovered otherwise.’

‘Burly Jack?’ Nathaniel’s brows knitted.

‘Able Seamen Grimly, sir.’ She sighed. ‘He’s been looking out for me, you see, since we became acquainted on the mailcoach to Fareham.’

There was a definite pain starting behind his eyes. The tanned fingers rubbed at his forehead. ‘No, Miss Raithwaite, I don’t see at all. I think you had better explain all that has happened since I saw you last.’ He gestured towards a wooden chair and said politely, as if they were both in the drawing room of Farleigh Hall, ‘Please be seated.’ He then lowered himself into the red leather captain’s chair and prepared to listen.

Georgiana started to talk and, with only the occasional interruption from the captain, continued to do so for some considerable length of time.

‘So let me check that I have understood you correctly, Miss Raithwaite.’ He watched her with a quizzical expression. ‘Following a disagreement with your father, you ran away from home, by mail, to seek refuge with a friend who lives near Portsmouth, and were mistakenly taken by the Press Gang?’

‘Yes.’ She folded her hands before her and tried to look composed.

He wasn’t fooled for an instant. Nathaniel Hawke knew guilt when he saw it. ‘And may I enquire as to the nature of your disagreement?’

Her fingers pressed to each other. ‘I cannot reveal that, my lord. It regards a personal issue.’

‘Such as your betrothal to Mr Praxton?’ he asked softly.

Her eyes met his, then dropped to scan the mahogany surface of his desk as colour flooded her cheeks.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

A small silence elapsed.

‘Then I’ll write to your father and at least let him know that you’re safe.’

‘No!’ Georgiana was out of her seat and facing him with a look of pure horror. ‘No, I beg of you,’ she pleaded. ‘If you have the smallest consideration for me at all, my lord, please do no such thing.’

He felt her distress as keenly as if it were his own. ‘Very well, but if I’m to help you I must ask that you tell me the truth, all of it.’

The moment had come. She swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. The truth, whatever it was, had affected her dearly. He watched her gather her courage, watched her sweet lips open in preparation. ‘When I said that my father approved of my betrothal to Mr Praxton, I was not telling you the whole story. He…he and Mr Praxton …’ It seemed that she could not find the words. ‘After what happened in Hurstborne Park with Mr Praxton’s…plan, Papa was so angry with me, and I with him. I just couldn’t believe what he meant to do. Papa knew how I felt and still he didn’t care. He was determined to have his own way, wouldn’t even listen to me. In my heart I knew that I couldn’t do as he bade, so…so I decided to run away.’

A horrible sensation was settling on Captain Hawke. He thought he could see exactly where Miss Raithwaite’s tale was leading. And that somewhere was in the direction of a disapproving father and an elopement. There would be no friend near Portsmouth, of that he was sure, only Walter Praxton waiting at their chosen place of assignation. Damn the scoundrel! He schooled the emotion from his voice. ‘Your father’s response to Mr Praxton’s actions in the park is understandable. No man would condone such treatment of his daughter. It’s hardly surprising that he won’t have you wed Praxton. The man is a knave.’

‘No, you misunderstand. Mr Praxton—’

‘Is no gentleman to behave as he did. I cannot think you would believe anything other. Think, Miss Raithwaite, what kind of gentleman would have encouraged you to such actions? Deserting your family, dressing as a boy, travelling across country alone, and on the mail of all things. Why, anything could have happened to you!’ He raked his fingers through his hair with mounting exasperation. Hell, but did the girl have no inkling as to what sort of man Praxton was? Little idiot! The thought of Miss Raithwaite allowing Praxton liberties made his blood boil.

‘Captain Hawke, you’re mistaken in what you think. Mr Praxton is indeed a—’

Nathaniel knew exactly what Praxton was. He didn’t want to hear the woman before him plead the wretch’s case. ‘I suppose you mean to tell me next that you love him and that is excuse enough.’ It was a brutal statement, brutal and angry and disappointed.

Her mouth gaped open and beneath the dirt he could have sworn that her skin had drained of any last vestige of colour. She gripped the edge of his desk, leaned forward towards him and said in her most indignant voice, ‘I beg your pardon, sir!’

‘If you speak a trifle louder, Miss Raithwaite, you need adopt your guise no longer, for every man on the ship will have heard a woman’s voice from within my cabin.’

The grey-blue eyes closed momentarily before fluttering back open. ‘I’m sorry, Captain Hawke. I’m trying to tell you that your beliefs concerning Mr Praxton are quite wrong. The incident in the park was not how—’

But Nathaniel had no intention of listening to Miss Raithwaite defend the scoundrel. It was hard enough knowing that she had feelings for him. ‘I do not wish to hear your thoughts on Mr Praxton. Whatever your plans were, they can be no more. We must concentrate on the situation we now find ourselves in.’

Those clear fine eyes stared at him with such wounded disbelief as to render him the cruellest tyrant on earth.

‘It seems that you have made up your mind on the matter and nothing I can say will change it.’

There was a melancholy in her voice that he had not heard before. Why did he have the sudden sensation that he had just made the worst blunder of his life? Damnation, the truth was harsh, but it was kinder than letting her believe Praxton’s lies. And she was right, nothing would make him warm to the rogue. ‘The Atlantic Ocean lies between you and Mr Praxton now. You had best forget him, Miss Raithwaite. He cannot reach you here.’

When she bowed her head and did not answer, he knew that nothing he could say would affect the girl’s affection for the villain. He battened down his own feelings and moved to deal with the practicalities of disguising a lady’s presence on board his ship, all the while oblivious to the relief that his last comment had wrought in Miss Raithwaite.

Quite why Nathaniel was so adverse to hearing the truth about Walter Praxton escaped her. If only he had let her explain. But perhaps it was better this way, for heaven only knew what a man like Nathaniel Hawke would do if he understood exactly what Mr Praxton and her papa had been about. And that was sure only to make matters worse, for them all. Let him think the worst if it would prevent him becoming embroiled with Mr Praxton. Besides, he was right. That she had set out to seek Mirabelle’s advice no longer mattered, for she was far beyond any help that lady could now offer. On a social standing, even Mr Praxton’s loathsome attentions paled in contrast to the circumstance into which she had now stumbled…well, thrown herself. She was under no illusion as to exactly what she had done to her reputation just by running away. And then there was the small matter of being pressed aboard a naval frigate…as a boy.

At least her papa’s evil plan had been foiled. No man, not even Mr Praxton, would wish to wed her now. Even so, she could not help but be glad at Nathaniel’s words: the Atlantic Ocean lies between you and Mr Praxton…He cannot reach you here. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Somehow, she doubted that she had heard the last of Walter Praxton.

The door opened to reveal Captain Hawke’s head. ‘Morris, organise that a large tub of warmed sea water be brought to my night cabin. And also a jug of warmed fresh water.’

‘Aye, Captain.’ As the captain’s head disappeared once more the young marine sent a look of bewilderment to his opposite sentry, shrugged his shoulders and scurried off to do as he was bid.

Neither did the captain’s steward or his valet blink an eyelid when he requested fresh bedding and clean clothes of a size to fit Master Robinson. But it did not take long for the news to spread far and wide aboard the Pallas. Indeed, in a matter of hours, both Lieutenants Anderson and Pensenby had heard the rumours.

‘I cannot credit that he’s treating the boy in such a way.’ The tip of Mr Pensenby’s long nose trembled at the very thought. ‘There is no doubt some unsavoury motive at play. Robertson openly flouted my command and what does he receive in return? A flogging? Reduced rations? Crow’s nest watch? Oh, no. Master Robertson is treated to a private warmed bath within the captain’s own cabin. There’s something very much amiss.’

John Anderson’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m sure that there must be some perfectly reasonable explanation for what has happened. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. No doubt the captain will inform us of anything that we should know.’

‘Mark my words, Mr Anderson, only trouble will come of this. Trouble and nothing else.’ His wide thin lips compressed. ‘We both know the direction the men’s thoughts will take.’

Lieutenant Anderson said nothing, but turned his attention once more to the log he was writing.

The water lapped warm and luxuriant against Georgiana’s naked skin. She sighed and relaxed back within the captain’s personal hip bath, bending her knees until her soapy head submerged beneath the surface. When the worst of the lather had been removed, she reached for the jug and poured its freshwater contents over her cropped hair. The ebony locks squeaked clean, and Georgiana marvelled at Nathaniel Hawke’s generosity. Freshwater was precious; she did not know how long it would be before they would have an opportunity to replenish the supply. And yet he had not expected her hair to suffer the coarse drying effects of seawater. As she stepped dripping from the tub and wrapped the cloth around her, she looked with curiosity at the small room around her, marked so clearly as belonging to Captain Hawke. Besides the furniture she’d already noticed, there were a case of books, a small table and chair, a heavy sea chest, a basin, shaving accoutrements, a mirror fixed upon the wall…and the cot. A shiver ran down her spine and she dried herself briskly, stepping into the clean clothes that Nathaniel had provided for her.

She folded the cloth and could not resist inspecting her reflection in the mirror. A pale face with short dark hair stared back at her. There was a purple bruise to the side of her right eye and a cut upon her lip. Now that the dirt was gone, she felt naked, exposed, as if anyone who looked at her would know who she really was, what she really was. She arranged the straggle of hair as best she could using only her fingers, then stepped away with deliberate care towards the flimsy connecting door, and paused. He believed that she loved Walter Praxton, that her father had forbidden her marriage to the man. As if anything could have been further from the truth! How could he even think that she would let that rogue so much as touch her? Her gorge rose at the memory of Walter Praxton’s roving hands, his greedy mouth. She swallowed it down, pushed the shame and disgust away, determined never to think of it again.

Nathaniel Hawke was a good man, a man that attracted her in a way she’d never felt before. She’d tried to tell him, wanted to shout the truth when he’d misunderstood. But she couldn’t, not if she wanted to stop him challenging Mr Praxton and her papa. She was nothing to Captain Hawke save a problem, a thorn in his side, turning up at the worst of times, like a bad penny. It was bad enough that he’d already risked drowning to save her. And now here she was, on his ship, in the middle of the sea, alone, and in the guise of a boy! Little wonder that he was angry. Best to remember her place, quell such inappropriate feelings for the man and get on with surviving the consequences of her own foolish actions. With this resolution in mind, she knocked softly upon the wooden panels and passed through from Captain Hawke’s night cabin to the one that he used during the day.

The man himself was sitting at his desk, a glass of brandy held loosely in his hand. Grey winter light from the large windows behind the desk contrasted against the stark outline of his broad shoulders. He appeared to be deep in thought, a distant gaze in his eyes. Georgiana’s resolution wavered at the sight of him. The errant curl still dangled temptingly on his forehead and her fingers itched to smooth it back to its rightful place. She suppressed the urge, blushed that she should have thought such a thing, and sat down in the chair across from Captain Hawke.

‘Thank you, sir, I feel so much better now that I’m clean. And I’ll no longer be a cause of offence to Lieutenant Pensenby.’ She smiled and felt suddenly shy.

Nathaniel could have groaned aloud. How could he have ever thought that the girl before him was anything other? The delicate bone structure, straight little nose and full pink lips. Her eyes twinkled blue washed with shades of grey, and her eyelashes were sooty and long. How could any man fail to see what was right in front of his very eyes? The dirt had camouflaged her well and now that it was gone he wondered if the rest of the crew would see what he did. And that wasn’t all the dirt had hidden. He frowned and, reaching forward, gently clasped his fingers to her chin.

‘How did you come by these marks?’ His voice was gruff, belying the careful touch of his fingers as he tilted her face to view the bruising near her eye. He couldn’t help but notice how white her skin was next to the brown of his hand. And soft…so very, very soft.

Her skin burned beneath his touch, and a strange lightheaded feeling came over her. For some inexplicable reason she found herself unable to reply, unable even to think of anything other than his strong warm fingers that touched like a feather to her face. The pulse leapt to a frenzy in her neck, so that she was sure that he would see it. But still she could not move, frozen by her own response to the man sitting before her.

Nathaniel looked down into Miss Raithwaite’s shimmering eyes and experienced an urge to pull that slender body into his arms and kiss her. And not in the least chaste or polite manner. The kissing that he had in mind was of an extremely thorough nature. He watched as her lips parted, almost as in invitation. His fingers caressed her chin, moving up to capture the smoothness of her cheek. His heart thumped loudly within his chest, he lowered his mouth towards hers and—’

A short sharp knock sounded at the door.

Brandy splashed on to the captain’s desk. Georgiana jumped so high that Nathaniel’s hand brushed against her breast. Even through the depth of her bindings she felt his warmth. She gasped. Blue eyes held brown in confused horror.

‘Quickly, slip into the night cabin and don’t make a sound,’ Nathaniel whispered in her ear. His large hand covered hers, gave one brief squeeze of reassurance and was gone.

She reacted instinctively, moving quickly and quietly to the connecting door.

When Lieutenant Anderson entered, it was to find the captain engrossed in some charts, and no sign of ship’s boy Robertson.

‘First Lieutenant Anderson.’ Nathaniel’s voice was laconic and mellow, betraying nothing of the turbulent emotions simmering so recently in his breast.

‘Captain Hawke, sir. I beg your pardon for the intrusion, but my hourly report is due.’ The young man’s face appeared a trifle flushed.

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair and surveyed his lieutenant. ‘Indeed, it is, Mr Anderson. Please proceed.’

John Anderson cleared his throat and recited his list. ‘All stations have been checked. The first dog watch passed without event and the first watch proper commenced. All is in order. Ernie Dobson’s tooth has been extracted and he’s been allocated an extra quart of grog. There’s no change in the weather and we are continuing on course as per your instructions. That is all I have to report, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mr Anderson. That will be all.’

But the first lieutenant stayed firmly rooted to the spot, an awkward expression plastered across his face.

‘Was there something else, Mr Anderson?’ Nathaniel had a fairly accurate idea of what was causing John Anderson to linger.

‘No, Captain…Well, perhaps …’ Mr Anderson appeared to be finding a spot upon the cabin floor of immense interest.

Nathaniel decided to put the officer out of his misery. ‘Would you care for a brandy, Mr Anderson?’

The first lieutenant looked up in surprise. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

‘There’s been talk of my dealings with ship’s boy Robertson.’ It was a statement, not a question. He passed the glass to Anderson.

‘Yes, sir.’ His cheeks were glowing with all the subtlety of two beacons.

Nathaniel’s jaw clenched grimly. That the captain had ordered a private bath for the boy within his own cabin would be known by every man on the Pallas by now. He was under no illusion as to what the common interpretation of his action would be, and that was something that would have to be dispelled as quickly as possibly. Nathaniel was thinking and thinking very fast. John Anderson’s green eyes had raised to his in quiet anticipation. Whatever Nathaniel told him, it could not be the truth. ‘It’s a delicate matter over which discretion is required. I trust that I have your complete confidence in the matter?’

‘Of course, sir!’ Lieutenant Anderson had drawn himself up to his full height and was regarding his captain with more than a little curiosity. He sipped at the brandy.

‘The boy, Robertson, is not who he seems.’

Anderson’s eyes were positively agog. ‘No?’

‘No.’ Nathaniel’s tone was conspiratorial. ‘Indeed, Robertson is a pseudonym he’s used to his own ends.’

John Anderson nodded triumphantly. ‘I knew that all wasn’t as it appeared, sir.’

‘Master Robertson—we’ll continue to call him that for reasons that will soon become apparent—should not be aboard the Pallas or any ship. Mr Anderson, the boy is my nephew.’ He paused for effect. ‘My brother, Viscount Farleigh, has strictly forbidden George a career at sea. The boy, naturally, wants nothing else. He has therefore run away from home to pursue his dream. He didn’t, of course, anticipate a brush with Captain Bodmin’s men. I don’t need to impress on you, Mr Anderson, exactly what my brother’s response would be should any harm come to George while he’s in my care. It’s bad enough that I failed to recognise the wretched boy beneath his disguise of filth and rags and halfwit trickery.’ Nathaniel sighed and took a gulp of brandy. ‘I suppose Henry’s overprotectiveness is understandable, given that George is his oldest son and therefore ultimately heir to the earldom of Porchester.’

‘Dear Lord!’ Mr Anderson exclaimed with feeling.

‘Puts me in a bit of a quandary and no mistake. Until I can deliver the boy back to my brother, I’ll have to keep a very close eye on him. If Henry knew that his son had been sleeping in a hammock squashed amongst those of the midshipmen, he’d have a fit!’

The lieutenant saw an opportunity to solve the captain’s problem. ‘The boy may share my cabin, sir, and I’ll see to it that he’s kept safe.’

The thought of Miss Raithwaite sharing a cabin with the most personable First Lieutenant Anderson brought an uncommonly disgruntled feeling to Nathaniel Hawke. If he had not known better, he would have thought it reminiscent of jealousy. ‘An admirable offer, Lieutenant, but quite unnecessary. I mean to have the boy as my personal servant. He shall sleep within my own cabin.’

Georgiana, whose ear was pressed firmly to the wooden connecting door, almost fell against the supporting structure at Captain Hawke’s words. She had to admit that the story Nathaniel had concocted at such short notice was reasonably believable; in fact, she’d been admiring the gentleman’s quick wits and imagination—up until his last utterance.

Nathaniel continued, blissfully unaware of Georgiana’s rising indignation at the other side of the door. ‘This apparent favouritism is bound to lead to supposition by the men. And it will be all the worse if the true nature of our relationship is not known.’

Mr Anderson’s sharp intake of air at Captain Hawke’s remark led to an inhalation of brandy and a subsequent plethora of coughing and spluttering. ‘Quite so, sir.’

‘Perhaps I could rely on you to see that the men are informed, by covert means, of course. A chance remark in Mr Pensenby’s ear should suffice.’

The first lieutenant smiled. ‘I’ll see to it right away, sir.’ He finished the brandy without coughing. ‘It’ll be all round the ship by lunchtime tomorrow.’

Captain Hawke raised his glass in salute. ‘That will do nicely, Mr Anderson, very nicely indeed.’

By the time First Lieutenant Anderson exited Captain Hawke’s day cabin, Georgiana was adamant that there was no way on earth that she would share a cabin with Nathaniel Hawke. She had even rehearsed a polite refusal of his offer, for undoubtedly he thought it the gentlemanly thing to do. Thank you, Captain Hawke. You are most kind in your offer, but I cannot comply. It would be quite unseemly behaviour for a lady. But then, Georgiana reflected, hadn’t the vast majority of her behaviour of late come under that description? She sat down on the bed, touched her left hand to the lobe of her ear and worried at it as she set about thinking what her best course of action should be. In truth, there were not a great many options available. She was still mulling over various scenarios when Captain Hawke entered. Georgiana jumped up from the bed.

‘You didn’t knock,’ she said, and her voice sounded breathless within the small confines of the cabin.

Nathaniel’s eyebrow lifted and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Raithwaite—or should I say George? Now that I’ve revealed to Mr Anderson that you are in truth my nephew, Lord George Hawke, it’s advisable that we stay in our respective roles at all times. Just think what he would say if I mistakenly referred to Miss Raithwaite!’ Nathaniel pulled such a comical expression that the ponderous burden of anxiety eased itself from Georgiana’s shoulders and she laughed.

‘Should I then call you Uncle Nathaniel?’ A mischievous light shone in her eyes.

Nathaniel grinned provocatively, as he stepped forward. ‘Only when we’re alone.’

She was so close that he could smell the clean soapy aroma arising from her jagged riot of ebony locks. She was still laughing as she turned her face up to his. Long sooty lashes swept up to reveal those magnificent eyes. Quite suddenly the laughter had gone and an arc of tension leapt between them. Georgiana was not a small woman, but the top of her head only met with Nathaniel’s shoulder. He experienced an urge to pull her into his arms. It was absurd and completely unreasonable. And no matter his father’s thoughts to the contrary, Captain Hawke was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of a lady in any situation. Calmly, deliberately, he moved back and looked away, pretending to examine the books lying open upon his table. ‘But as you are pretending to be my nephew, and my nephew is pretending not to be my nephew …’ he twitched his brow comically ‘…then it should suffice to call me Captain Hawke.’

A flicker of excitement exploded in Georgiana’s belly the minute she looked into those dark smouldering eyes. Eyes that seemed to enchant her will, so that she could not remain unaffected whatever her resolve. No. Sharing a cabin with this man would be positively dangerous. And as the night was drawing in they had best resolve the issue here and now. She moved the chair to the far end of the tiny cabin and sat herself down on it in a ladylike fashion.

Nathaniel tried not to notice her legs that looked to be long and shapely within the culottes.

She pressed her hands demurely together and began. ‘Captain Hawke, I couldn’t help but overhear your words to First Lieutenant Anderson.’

‘You were eavesdropping?’ He looked up with surprise.

Georgiana had the grace to blush. ‘It couldn’t be helped, sir. The wall is so very thin.’

Nathaniel raised a cynical brow in her direction.

‘It’s very clever of you to play a double bluff so that the crew think they have discovered that I’m your nephew.’

The deep dark eyes regarded her, but he did not reply.

‘I’d like to thank you for helping me. I’m aware of the difficulty my presence must present to you.’

He sincerely doubted whether Miss Raithwaite fully understood the precise nature of the difficulties that she presented, and he was not about to enlighten her. ‘It’s nothing that cannot be surmounted.’

‘Nevertheless, would it not be more sensible for me to continue as before? It would certainly be less problematic to you, and is the option that is least likely to attract attention.’

‘You’ve underestimated Mr Pensenby’s preoccupation with naval regulations. You’ve slighted him before the crew. Direct disobedience with no punishment. And all seemingly because you’re my nephew. The matter won’t sit well with my second lieutenant. Indeed, he’s probably worrying himself into a frenzy over the blatant breach in protocol. The man has a nose for subterfuge. Can sniff it out at twenty paces. Why do you think I want you under my command? Reverting to your previous role would be too risky, and I cannot allow it.’

She tossed her head in exasperation, even though she knew that he spoke the truth. Pensenby had the tenacity of an elephant, he would never forget and his curiosity had been roused. The prospect of such a man discovering her real secret was too dangerous, for who knew what Pensenby would do with the knowledge, being such a stickler for conformity and, according to Nathaniel, the nephew of Rear Admiral Stanley. ‘Yes. I believe you’re a good judge of character.’ She looked at Nathaniel shrewdly. ‘Then I’m to act as your servant?’

Nathaniel gave a brief nod of the head. ‘It’s the best I can think of to protect you,’ he said simply. ‘It will keep you close to me.’

A faint blush stole over Georgiana’s cheeks at his words. She cleared her throat and attempted to look nonchalant while not meeting his eye. ‘What of the sleeping arrangements? I know that you don’t wish me to continue in my place down in the midshipmen’s berth, but…’

‘Surely you must have heard my comment to Mr Anderson? You heard everything else.’ His eyes held a twinkle and his lips the glimmer of a wicked smile. ‘You will sleep here, Miss Raithwaite.’ He gestured towards the cot taking up most of the small cabin space.

It seemed that her heart lurched to a halt within her chest before setting off again at full tilt. She stared at him, shocked, horrified at the words he had just spoken, but beneath it all crept a tiny sliver of desire. And it was this that caused Georgiana to exclaim in a tone so frosty that it could have frozen the Thames, ‘I beg your pardon, Captain Hawke. I believe I must have misheard you.’ All thoughts of the polite refusal she had rehearsed were forgotten.

Nathaniel’s eyes glowed even more wickedly. ‘Your hearing cannot be faulted, nephew George. You will sleep in my bed.’ He tried hard not to laugh at the expression of fury that was forming upon Miss Raithwaite’s normally sweet face.

‘Captain Hawke—’ she stood up quite suddenly ‘—no gentleman would suggest such a scandalous arrangement. You cannot honestly expect me to. I assure you that it’s quite out of the question. What kind of woman do you take me for?’ Miss Raithwaite’s eyes flashed with the violence of the stormiest sea. With her head held high and her hands planted firmly on her hips, she presented an admirable sight.

Nathaniel’s fingers touched to his breast, and he feigned a look of total astonishment, which soon turned to one of most convincing wounded insult. ‘Miss Raithwaite,’ he gasped. ‘You cannot think…? You did not…? Heavens above, dear girl, what kind of man do you take me for?’

The hurricane dropped out of Georgiana’s sails. She looked suddenly very unsure of herself.

‘You will sleep in here, Miss Raithwaite, and I—I will sleep next door.’ Nathaniel was modelling his manner on the pompous Mr Pensenby. ‘Anything else would be most unseemly behaviour for a lady, most unseemly indeed.’

Her skin burned the fiery red of embarrassment. ‘Of course…Please accept my apologies, Captain Hawke, I thought—’

‘I know very well what you thought, Miss Raithwaite,’ replied Nathaniel with a grin. Something of Georgiana’s excruciating discomfort showed in her face and it tugged at Nathaniel’s heart. A pang of guilt smote him. ‘I have a confession to make.’

Georgiana’s heart trembled a little. He was in earnest. She looked at the captain with escalating suspicion.

Nathaniel’s grin cracked wider. ‘I’m teasing you.’

Her mouth opened wide. ‘Why, you…That was a most un-gentlemanly thing to do!’ She stepped towards him.

‘I couldn’t resist it. You’re so very charming when you’re angry.’ He laughed aloud.

‘You, sir, are a rogue!’ announced Georgiana with force, but her eyes had calmed to a tranquil blue and her mouth turned up at the corners.

It was Nathaniel’s turn to look sheepish. He held out his hands towards her. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t have tricked you. I do beg your pardon.’

‘I shall have to think about it, Captain Hawke,’ she said in her sweetest voice.

‘I fear the worst, sir, it’s as we thought. The hank of hair beneath her bed, the kitchen scissors within her bedroom, and the missing clothes belonging to Francis—all evidence points in one direction only. The wretched girl has brought disgrace on us all.’ Edward Raithwaite pinched the skin between his eyes and crumpled back in his chair.

The man seated opposite him rose. ‘If I may be so bold, Mr Raithwaite, as to suggest that some brandy is required.’ When Edward Raithwaite nodded limply, the man set out two balloon glasses and dispensed the tawny liquid. Passing the measure to the older man, he sat back down before resuming the conversation. ‘It’s not too late to discover her direction and halt her progress, but we must not delay our action, for every minute that we wait she travels further from the security of your home, and closer to danger.’

Mr Raithwaite’s heavy-lidded eyes had succumbed to the temptation to close. He sipped at the brandy without trying to open them. ‘How dare she do this to me? It’s just reward for the selfish pampering by her mother. Clara was always too soft with the girl. And now look where it’s got us. We shall all bear the brunt of her silly action. To be the subject of such petty gossip and infamy when all I am guilty of is living my life as a decent upstanding man of business. What have I done to deserve such a daughter, when I have struggled to do nothing but my best for her?’ He seemed content to wallow for a little longer in a quagmire of self-pity.

‘You’ve done nothing sir, save to act as a father. All of your actions have been only with Miss Raithwaite’s best interests at heart, even to the point of sending her to Mrs Tillyard’s Academy for Young Ladies. It seems that, despite your aspirations, all that she learned was to follow her own will.’

‘A stubborn and self-gratifying will at that,’ added her father.

The man inclined his golden head. ‘She is perhaps a trifle strong-willed, but, in the hands of the right husband, such a flaw could be remedied.’ He smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth to offset the pretty looks of his face.

‘Our plans fade to dust, Praxton. What desire have you for a woman whose reputation is tarnished? She has absconded, dressed as a boy! For all we know she’s run off with a lover!’ He clamped his large loose-skinned hands over his face. ‘Oh, heaven help us, for we’re soon to be a laughing stock throughout the town, and wherever else this story travels.’

Walter Praxton examined his nails before replying. ‘All is not lost, sir, for I have it on good authority that a young boy matching your daughter’s height and build was observed to take the evening mail to Gosport on the night in question. A boy that no one of the town knew, and who didn’t alight from any other coach. He was quite alone amidst the travellers, no sign of any possible lover. I rather think—’ his mouth twisted to a crooked semblance of a smile ‘—that the reason for Miss Raithwaite’s flight was due to her determination not to become my wife.’

Mr Raithwaite’s eyes opened at that. ‘Surely you’re mistaken, for, no matter what she thinks she feels, Georgiana would not disobey me so blatantly.’

‘I doubt that your daughter views the situation in quite the same way.’

The grizzled head shook once more. ‘I’ll put it about that she’s gone to stay with an elderly relative in Scotland. At least that may buy us some time with which to attempt to remedy this damnable mess. When I get my hands on her—’

Mr Praxton swiftly interrupted. ‘The betrothal is still binding. If I can discover her location, then the situation might be resolved if I were to immediately marry Miss Raithwaite. That way she could return here as my wife, with all threat of scandal avoided. Do I have your permission to force her to a speedy exchange of vows by whatever means are required?’

‘You would still wed her, after all she’s done? What if she’s dishonoured? A fallen woman? Would you take her even then?’ Edward Raithwaite’s tired eyes focused with a new clarity.

‘I would take her whatever the circumstance, provided that any threat of ensuing scandal could be extinguished.’

The older man leaned forward and with a deliberate and careful manner said, ‘Well, in that case, Mr Praxton, you must do whatever you deem necessary to resolve this matter satisfactorily. You have my full support.’ One fleshy hand thrust forward and clasped Mr Praxton’s in a firm shake. ‘I wish you Godspeed, Walter, and may you save the situation for us all.’

Mr Praxton glanced back only once at Tythecock Crescent, and as he did anyone close by would have heard him utter softly, ‘I will have you, Georgiana Raithwaite. One way or another, you are mine.’

Chapter Five

Captain Hawke was taking the noon sight with Lieutenants Anderson and Pensenby, and the young midshipmen. The murmuring hush of their voices lapped against his ears as, armed with their sextants, they compared measurements and subsequent calculations of the ship’s latitude. Across the breadth of the forecastle he could see Jenkins, the quartermaster, at the great steering wheel, hands firm upon the burnished wood. Canvas flapped and ropes creaked as the wind moved to catch the sails. He stifled a yawn and, turning to look out across the great expanse of the cold grey water, thought of the previous night spent sitting upright in his captain’s chair. Little wonder that he’d only managed to catnap through the long dark hours, and had been up on deck before the bosun had piped the hands just before dawn. In truth, he had pondered long and hard over the matter of Miss Georgiana Raithwaite.

It was unfortunate that for this trip none of the officers had brought their wives along for company. Indeed, there were no women aboard, only one hundred and eighty-five men. Nathaniel grimaced and corrected himself. One hundred and eighty-five men and one lady. A lady whose ability to place herself in quite the worst situations possible was equalled by none. To have almost drowned in the River Borne was one thing. To have run away from home, been taken by the Press Gang and worked, disguised as a boy, undetected upon his ship for two weeks was quite another. That the captain of that ship could have failed to notice such an absurd thing was preposterous.

He glanced once more at the group of young men behind him. Such enthusiasm, such commitment. If any one of them learned of Miss Raithwaite’s secret, she would be well and truly ruined—if she wasn’t already. And despite what his father thought, that was something Nathaniel could not let happen. The girl affected him far more than he was willing to own—her courage in the face of what for her was most definitely a disastrous situation, the transparency of emotion upon her face, those eyes that mirrored the colour of the sea before him. That he was attracted to her was obvious. He’d felt it since the moment she opened her eyes and looked up at him on the riverbank, her long hair dripping river water, her body relaxed and trusting in his arms. It had obviously been too long since he’d had a woman. A physical need, nothing more. But even as the thought formed, he knew it wasn’t true. What he felt for her was much more than that, more than he was ready to admit.

Quite how Miss Raithwaite had escaped detection was nothing short of a miracle. He gripped the smooth wood of the quarterdeck rail with tense hands. It was imperative that no one should discover the true identity of Lord George Hawke or, indeed, Master George Robertson. He walked back to the small group of would-be officers without a hint of the worry that plagued his mind or the fatigue that pulled at his body.

Georgiana was helping Mr Fraser, the captain’s valet, in cleansing the great man’s clothes. She struggled to hold back her laughter at the reverential voice that Gordon Fraser constantly adopted when speaking of Captain Hawke.

‘Now, Master Robertson,’ Mr Fraser said in his lilting Scottish tones, ‘it is vital that Captain Hawke’s shirts—’ he lowered his voice as he uttered his master’s name ‘—are treated exactly to his liking. Gather up the washing tub and follow me.’ He marched off across the deck with the manner of a schoolmaster who would brook no nonsense.

Georgiana did as she was bid, scooping the wooden basin under one arm and holding three of Nathaniel’s shirts in the other hand.

They stopped before a large wooden cask. ‘Off with the lid and fill your basin.’ Mr Fraser stood well back.

‘Yes, sir.’ Georgiana prised the lid off and promptly dropped both the basin and the shirts in her hurry to scramble away. ‘Dear Lord!’ she mumbled beneath her breath and retched.

Mr Fraser pursed his lips. The boy had to learn, even if he was the captain’s nephew, perhaps even more so. ‘We haven’t got all day, laddie. Now, retrieve your basin and Captain Hawke’s shirts, and do as you’re bid.’

The hard biscuit and apple eaten for luncheon were threatening to make a reappearance upon the deck. Georgiana’s stomach heaved. ‘What on earth…?’

‘That’s quite enough, Master Robertson. Stop behaving like a namby-pamby and get back over there.’ He twirled at his grey moustache.

Georgiana held her nose, approached the cask, and fulfilled Mr Fraser’s requirements as quickly as she could. The liquid slopping within the basin was dark brown in colour and stank to high heaven.

‘Submerge the shirts and scrub around the cuffs and collar to remove any marks.’ He handed her a small brush.

The thought of plunging her hands into the vile liquid brought Georgiana’s stomach back up into her throat. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser,’ she managed to croak.

‘When you’re sure there are no stains left, you can start using the soap. Then give them a good rinse in sea water from the cask over there. Ring them out and then peg them on to the line fixed at the far corner. After that I’ll instruct you in the care of the captain’s boots.’ Mr Fraser was clearly used to giving orders.

The stench was unbearable and her hands were soon red raw with the scrubbing. It occurred to Georgiana that perhaps a gunroom servant hadn’t been such a bad job after all. Finally the chore was done and she was just pegging the shirts on the line when Captain Hawke and the boatswain wandered by, deep in conversation. Nathaniel’s eyes held hers for a moment, although he gave no other outward sign of having seen her, and in the next instant he had passed by. Irrational as it was, Georgiana felt a pang of annoyance. What did she expect him to do? Execute a tidy bow at his ship’s boy? Enquire as to her health this fine afternoon? Georgiana grumped back down to Mr Fraser.

‘You managed then, boy?’ Mr Fraser’s single jaundiced eye was trained upon her.

She stifled the words that so longed to jump off the tip of her tongue. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser, sir.’ The old man was kind enough for all his stern ways.

‘You’ll soon get used to the washing stench. Stale piss is never fragrant. And it’ll have grown a mite more pungent by the time we reach our destination.’

The blood drained from Georgiana’s face, leaving her powder white. ‘Stale piss?’ she uttered faintly.

‘What else did you think it was?’ retorted Mr Fraser with a snort. ‘There’s nothing better for shifting dirt.’ He noticed his assistant’s pallor. ‘You’ve a lot yet to learn, laddie, a lot to learn.’ Shaking his head, he went to fetch the revered Captain Hawke’s boots and shoes.

The pillow was plump and soft and smelled of Nathaniel Hawke. Sandalwood and soap and a distinctly masculine aroma. Georgiana snuggled beneath the covers and marvelled at the luxury. No choir of snores, wheezes and coughs, no foul odours from a multitude of youthful male bodies, no scuttle of rodents. Bliss! During her two weeks in the midshipmen’s berth she had failed miserably in her attempt to grow used to the narrow hammock strung so closely between those of Mr Hartley and Mr Burrows. Each night had seen her lying rigid and afraid to move, lest she fell out, until she found sleep by virtue of sheer exhaustion. The alternative of sleeping on the dampness of the deck below, amidst the spiders and the rats, was too awful to contemplate. She stretched out her spine, unmindful of her bindings, and pulled the sheet up to meet her nose. A contented sigh escaped. Such warmth, such comfort. She sighed and wriggled her legs around.

It was wonderful to be able to relax, to drop her vigilance of trying to disguise her voice, her manners and all feminine tendencies, which, she had come to realise, were too numerous to count. A space of her own. Privacy. Safety from discovery. Heaven only knew what Mama would do if she knew her situation. Swoon, no doubt. It was the first time that she’d allowed herself to think of Mama, of little Prudence and Theo. Even her stepbrother Francis with all his teasing and impudence did not seem so bad. Please God, keep them safe. She felt her eyes begin to well and took a deep breath to allay the tears that threatened to fall. Mama would be worried sick, not knowing where she was, and Papa. Papa would be livid. In her rush to escape marriage to Mr Praxton, she’d only succeeded in making things difficult for her family. There would be gossip, and worse. Denigration, castigation, direct snubs. Poor Mama. She wept silently, stifling her sobs in Nathaniel Hawke’s pillow. Sleep finally found her with swollen eyelids and the taste of saline upon her lips.

It was still dark. Georgiana’s eyes strained against the gloom. It seemed barely five minutes since she had laid her head on the pillow. Nathaniel’s soft tread sounded from the adjoining cabin. A dull pain thrummed around her head. She groaned, dragged her fatigued body from the bed and started to dress herself. Late, she was late. What would Mr Fraser say? No time for boots.

Nathaniel sipped at the brandy and stared at the charts laid on the desk before him. It was a little after two o’clock and he still could not find sleep. The lantern light flickered as he moved to peer blindly from the windows. He had stood there some time when he heard the noise, and turned with confusion to look at the connecting door. Therein lay the reason for his insomnia. The indomitable Miss Raithwaite, who had not the slightest notion of the precarious position into which she had thrust herself. He smiled at the memory of her determined face—she certainly did not enter into anything faintheartedly. Even as he thought it the door creaked open and Miss Raithwaite—or should he say Master Robertson?—stumbled out fully dressed. ‘George?’ he quizzed lightly.

‘On my way to my station, Captain, sir,’ she pronounced through tired lips and dragged herself towards the door. She had reverted to her ‘boy’s’ voice even though they were alone.

Nathaniel’s eyes opened wide, suddenly alert. ‘George,’ he said again and moved to grab at her shoulders.

Georgiana’s sleep-fuddled mind could not comprehend what had happened, only that she now found herself staring up into Nathaniel Hawke’s handsome face. ‘Late, I’m late,’ she mumbled, and tried to disengage herself.

He gathered her slender body into his arms and held her against him. She did not protest further, just laid her head against his shoulder. Nathaniel swallowed hard. She was warm and soft. The effects of the brandy swam through his brain. His hand swept across her back, moving up to touch the delicate nape of her neck. No woman had ever felt this right. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, revelling in the sweetness of her smell and with great reluctance held her away. ‘You’re sleep-addled, George. It’s the dead of night, and you should still be asleep.’ His winged eyebrow twitched as he smiled down at her.

‘But I heard the hands piped.’ Her voice was sleepy and low.

Nathaniel drew his thumb gently against her cheek. The skin was still soft and white. ‘Perhaps in your dream.’

Georgiana could not move. Still heavy with sleep, she felt mesmerised by the man in whose arms she stood. His voice was gentle, and there was such kindness in his eyes that it gladdened her heart. Couldn’t her stepfather have desired to marry her to a man such as this? A man who was just and fair, a man who had risked his life and now jeopardised his career to save her. She sighed, as his warm hands held her from him. He would never be interested in the likes of her, even if she hadn’t made such a mess of things. Not when his father was the Earl of Porchester. For all his standing, Nathaniel Hawke would always do what was right.

‘Let me help you back next door.’ His voice was soft in her ear as he lifted her up fully into his arms, her bare feet brushing against his breeches.

Georgiana was surely dreaming, and it was the same stuff that had filled all her nocturnal thoughts of late. His arms were strong and he carried her as if she were the merest featherweight. She laid her head against the hard muscle of his chest and felt the rhythmic beat of his heart. A lady would not have done such a thing, Georgiana knew that implicitly, but still she did nothing but revel in the warm languor that was spreading throughout her body.

Nathaniel pushed open the connecting door, pulled back the covers and carefully laid Miss Raithwaite upon the bed. The strength of the feeling she invoked shocked him. She should not have to suffer the rigors of ship life in the guise of a fourteen-year-old boy. The sight of her washing his shirts had worried him and he had resolved to speak to Mr Fraser to go easy with the lad. Her head sank into the pillow and he made to release her. It certainly would not do to linger in such a situation.

Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, even to herself, Georgiana succumbed to the mad impulse to wrap her hands around Nathaniel Hawke’s neck.

Nathaniel froze, the breath caught in his throat.

She thrust her fingers through his auburn locks as she had so longed to do, trailing them down to feel the taut muscles in his neck. ‘Closer, come closer.’ The words escaped as a whisper. The dream felt very real.

Nathaniel stared down at where he knew her face to be. He knew without seeing that her eyelids would have swept shut. Through the darkness he felt her rise beneath him, touching her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss.

‘Oh, God!’ The blasphemy tore in a gritty hush from his throat. Never had a man been so tempted. Her soft cheek pressed to his and his body responded instinctively. His lips turned to seek hers and, upon finding them, possessed them with a gentle insistence. Their lips writhed in a torment of ecstasy until his tongue could no longer resist the sweet allure of her mouth and raided within, seeking its hidden intimacy with an increasing fervour.

Georgiana floated in a blissful haze of delight. Her hands slid of their own accord across the broad muscle of his back, basking in the heat of his skin through the fine lawn of his shirt. More, she wanted more of this strange enchanting feeling.

The cot swayed as he clambered upon it and lay his length against her. The wool of his breeches could not disguise the feel of her legs beneath him. He fumbled with her shirt and soon felt the satin skin beneath his hand. She made an inarticulate little noise, but did not draw back. His fingers wove their sensual magic across her stomach, swirling up towards her breast, only to meet with the coarse linen wrap of her bindings. It was enough to bring Nathaniel crashing to his senses. In that single instant he realised their predicament, and stopped.

‘Nathaniel?’ Miss Raithwaite’s sleepy whisper sounded through the darkness.

Hell’s teeth, it was enough to tempt a saint! Slowly, gently, he disengaged himself from the slender soft arms surrounding him. ‘You’re sleep-addled. Miss Raithwaite. I must not take advantage of a lady in my care.’ His teeth gritted in determination. ‘Please forgive me.’ And, so saying, he turned and strode briskly from the cabin, closing the door firmly behind him.

In the weeks that passed Captain Hawke took considerable care that just such a situation did not arise again. He threw himself into his work upon the Pallas and struggled to think of his ship’s boy as George Robertson rather than Miss Raithwaite. The task proved difficult, but not impossible. His illicit actions of that night had shaken him more than he cared to admit. For in acknowledging the young woman’s allure and his own inappropriate response, he felt that he had behaved as the singular debauchee his father thought him. He had embraced the role willingly for those tender few minutes, had revelled in Georgiana Raithwaite’s warm caress, until he’d realised the shamefulness of what he was doing. And the thought repulsed him. He thrust it away, determined to think no more of that night. Mercifully Miss Raithwaite had made no mention of the incident, and continued to adopt her guise of the ship’s boy, revealing nothing more by her outward demeanour. Perhaps the fates had been kind to him, and robbed her of the sleep-laden memory. It was a prayer uttered most fervently by Nathaniel, although he was not naïve enough to believe that it would be answered.

Georgiana had woken to a heaving frenzy of conflicting emotions. Not only did she have a very clear and precise memory of her actions of the previous night but she also had to admit to having experienced a distinct pang of disappointment when Nathaniel Hawke had behaved like the gentleman he was and refused to continue his interest. She, on the other hand, to her extreme chagrin, had behaved like a wanton and was subsequently reaping a much-deserved vengeance of guilt. It was her first kiss, the first tentative touch of a man’s body. How could Miss Georgiana Raithwaite have behaved like a veritable slattern? With her fancy schooling, formidable parenting and proper Christian upbringing, she was nothing but a drab. She cringed when she thought what she had tried to do, the blatant seduction of a man who had done nothing but sought to help her. What must he have thought of her? Utter abhorrence, nothing less. Especially in view of what he thought she had been about with Mr Praxton in Hurstborne Park. Oh, Lord! She still had to face him. Confusion, fear and guilt vied in her breast.

With frank determination Georgiana pulled her fragmented emotions together, squared her shoulders and decided that she would pretend that the incident had never happened. It seemed the only way to survive the months that lay ahead. In all the days and weeks that rushed past with gathering momentum she threw herself body and soul into the role of the captain’s boy. Georgiana Raithwaite no longer existed, only the juvenile George Robertson. And through the boy she learned to quell the attraction she felt for Captain Nathaniel Hawke.

‘Take in all the canvas until she’s bare. We’ll have to try-a-hull. Have the galley fire extinguished and check that the magazines are secured.’ Captain Hawke lowered the small brass spyglass from his eye and turned to face Mr Anderson. ‘There’s a storm brewing, and from the cloud formation I’d say it’ll have its way with us if we’re not careful.’

‘Aye, Captain. It doesn’t look good.’

‘With the wind the way it is we can’t tack safely into it and any other move would have us well off course, or worse. Our best option is to weather the storm until it passes.’

John Anderson nodded his head. He’d trust Nathaniel Hawke above all others. The man had an uncanny ability for choosing wisely, even if it did appear sometimes slightly questionable to those who had neither his knowledge nor his experience.

The deck heaved beneath their feet as the white-crested waves buffeted the bow of the Pallas. The wind howled above the roar of the waves. All around them timber groaned and creaked as the sails were retracted. Men climbed fast, loosing the ropes, securing them again when the canvases had been taken in. Spray stung at their faces, dripped from their hair, soaking their clothes and drenching the decks.

‘All men to stay below other than are absolutely necessary up here. I’d say we have twenty minutes at the most before it reaches us.’ Nathaniel’s face was grim.

‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson watched his captain’s determined stance, a shiver of apprehension snaking down his spine. ‘What’s so bad, sir? We’ve suffered storms before and faired well enough.’

He did not want to frighten the young man, but forewarned was forearmed. ‘Never a storm like the one that’s coming for us now. Pray to God, Mr Anderson, that it passes quickly.’

‘Promise me, George, that you’ll stay in my day cabin until the storm has passed.’

She could see the anxiety in that determined glare. For a moment she thought that it was true what they said—the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Nathaniel Hawke’s soul was concerned by whatever he had seen sweeping down towards them across the ocean. He cared no more or no less about any man aboard the Pallas. Each was a member of his crew; he saw every one of them as his responsibility. ‘Yes, sir. There’s darning to be done and I’ll keep myself busy with the linen repairs.’

Still he seemed restless and uneasy. ‘Promise me,’ he said, his voice quiet and insistent. Seawater dripped from dark, sodden hair to run down his cheeks.

‘I’ll give you no cause to worry more over me than any other man or boy aboard this ship. I promise I’ll do as you command.’

Lines of tension were deeply etched into the flesh around his mouth, his coiled energy palpable within the confines of the small cabin. She longed to give him some measure of comfort, some little encouragement in the task that lay ahead. Wanted to touch her lips to his and tell him that all would be well. But George Robertson could not. She forced a smile to her mouth.

He stood still, silent, and regarded her for a minute, a single long minute, with an unreadable expression upon his face. Then turned and walked towards the door, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Fraser and the others will keep you company. It’s going to be a very long day and an even longer night.’

The waves grew larger as the wind set up a banshee howl. Through the windows in Nathaniel’s cabin, ship’s boy George Robertson watched the cold grey sea whip into a fury of froth and lashing fingers. It attacked the ship with violence as the sky darkened to a deep lifeless hue, chasing the light away. Only three bells had sounded, but already they could scarcely see within the captain’s cabin. The Pallas pitched and rolled at the mercy of the roaring ocean, her pine structure creaking and groaning under the strain. The holed bed linen slithered to the floor undarned as Georgiana clung to the unlit candle sconce. Waves battered at the feeble glass of the windows until she thought they surely must shatter beneath the hostile assault. A single lantern swung from the ceiling, lurching and swaying with the convulsions of the ship, illuminating the captain’s servants as monstrous distortions.

‘How’re you doin', laddie?’ Mr Fraser’s lilting voice enquired. He raised his head from the game of cards that he was enjoying with Bottomley, the captain’s cook, and Spence, the captain’s steward.

‘Survivin', thank you, sir. Will the storm last long?’

The grizzled grey head concentrated upon his hand of cards. ‘As long as it has a mind to last, no’ a moment less.’

A wave battered the stern, sending Georgiana hurtling across the room.

‘Steady, lad!’ the valet exclaimed, reaching out a gnarled old hand and hoisting the boy back by the scruff of the neck.

Three books fell off Nathaniel’s desk and a silver wine goblet rolled across the floor. Bottomley stopped it dead with his toe. Just when Georgiana thought that things could not possibly get any worse, a torrent of rain was released from the heavens to beat the Pallas into submission. A sheet of driving shards lashed the frigate without mercy and a rumble of thunder cracked loud. Somewhere across the deep darkness a tiny flicker lit up the sky, then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Dear Lord, nothing could hope to survive against such ferocity.

Fear twisted at Georgiana’s gut. ‘Where’s the captain?’

‘Up on deck.’ Mr Fraser’s single eye focused upon the boy and softened a little. ‘No need to worry, laddie. The captain knows what he’s doin'. Been through a hundred storms, he has, and never got caught yet.’

‘But shouldn’t we be helpin', sir?’ The thought of any man, let alone Nathaniel Hawke, out facing the wrath of the heavens was worrying in the extreme.

Mr Fraser shook his head. ‘We’d only create more hindrance than help. The captain’ll send for us if he needs us. Best to just stay out the way and look after his cabin.’ The boy’s eyes looked huge in the whitened pallor of his face. Poor lad. ‘It’ll pass soon enough, laddie. Best turn your mind to other things.’

A pile of papers slid off the desk and landed with a thud by her leg. She grabbed them and crawled along the floor to stuff them inside a drawer. Mr Fraser was right. There was nothing any of them could do about it, other than wait for the storm to pass, and pray that the Pallas’ crew remained safe.

The thunder rolled across the sky, masking the muffled knock at the door. A drenched seaman staggered in, dripping water across the polished wooden floor. ‘Man overboard,’ he said through gasping breath.

‘Who?’ Mr Fraser’s single eye widened at the news.

‘Midshipmen Hartley.’

‘Are we needed?’ His ancient tone was clipped, determined.

‘Not yet.’

And the sailor was gone.

Time dragged by. And still the storm showed no sign of abating. Georgiana hoped that Mr Hartley had been saved, but even as she turned her gaze once more to the large sea-battered windows she knew it was unlikely that anyone plunged into such a furore of indomitable wave power could survive. Drowned beneath the towering waves, or smashed like a weightless puppet against the hull. Dear God protect them all, she prayed like she never had done before, protect them all, but especially Nathaniel Hawke. Fear that he might be injured or, God forbid, die, pierced a pain through her heart. Never that, please Lord, never that. Why should she care so much for him? Was it his kindness or his strength, or the way he was just and fair? Maybe it was because he made her laugh, made her want to be with him? She laid her head against the edge of Nathaniel’s desk, clinging tightly to the wooden leg with one hand, worrying at her ear lobe with the other. Whatever the answer, ship’s boy George Robertson had no right to such feelings. Whether Georgiana Raithwaite did was another matter altogether.

Georgiana awoke to the stern tones of Mr Fraser and a vigorous shaking of her shoulder. ‘Robertson, waken yourself now, laddie. There’s plenty work to be done. It’s no time to be nappin'.’

The violent heave of the frigate was no more. No batter of rain, no riot of waves, no screaming darkness. She crawled out from beneath the captain’s desk and made for the windows. A calm leaden sea and colourless sky stretched endlessly ahead.

She turned to the elderly valet. ‘Mr Hartley, sir?’ The question had to be asked.

‘They fished him out alive, if not well.’

‘Thank God!’

Mr Fraser’s eye narrowed. ‘There’ll be no takin’ the Lord’s name in vain on this ship.’

‘And the captain?’

Fraser mellowed slightly at the anxiety-edged voice. ‘In fine mettle as ever. Come on, laddie, you’re gabbin’ like a fishwife. You youngsters would do anythin’ to avoid work. Got to keep my eye on you!’ His single eye stared large and codlike at Georgiana.

‘Yes, Mr Fraser, sir.’ She breathed her relief and watched while the cod eye delivered her a hearty wink.

Nathaniel was exhausted, but he knew that there was still much to be done before he could rest. Jeremiah Hutton and his assistants were already sawing up wooden spars to repair the damage done to the mizzen topgallant mast. Debris strewn across the decks was in the process of being cleared. And midshipman Hartley had apparently survived his ordeal with little more than a scratch to his arm.

Georgiana clambered upon the forecastle and surveyed the damage. ‘Set to it, lad.’ A basin was pressed into her hands. ‘Gather up seaweed and all else, exceptin’ fish, heave it over t’side. Look smart, now.’ She felt a thrust in her back and the voice was gone.

Pieces of wood, shells, dead and dying fish and stinking seaweed covered the floor before her. She scanned up towards the quarterdeck for any sign of Nathaniel. The seaweed squelched cold and slimy beneath her fingers. Sam Wilson’s thin body emerged ahead, gathering up the fish in his basin.

‘Sammy!’ she hailed.

The little lad looked round. ‘George! Place ain’t been the same without you.’

‘It’s good to see you too.’ She embraced the skinny body, glad that the orphaned youngster had survived the storm unscathed. Sam Wilson worried her more than she let anyone know. ‘Have you been helpin’ Jack like I told you to?’

‘Yeah, I’m Jack’s mate. He’s learning me knots for the riggin', and he don’t let no one cuff me, or take me grog.’ Sam gave her a gap-toothed grin.

‘What happened to your teeth?’ Georgiana held the lad at arm’s length and inspected his small grubby face.

He trailed a dirty hand across his runny nose. ‘Fell out when I was eatin’ me biscuit. Jack says more’ll grow.’

Georgiana smiled at the small ragamuffin before her and ruffled his matted hair. Poor little mite, thank goodness Burly Jack was looking out for him.

‘Master Robertson,’ a curt voice sounded. ‘Much as I hate to interrupt your little reunion, there’s work to be done aboard this frigate. And that means for all of us, no matter who we might happen to be.’ The veiled snub hit home, causing Georgiana to blush and resume her debris collection with renewed vigour. Lieutenant Pensenby leaned back against the railing and watched the boy’s progression with shrewd eyes. There was something strange about George Robertson, something very strange indeed. The way that he’d hugged ship’s boy Wilson, the clear, fine-boned face. It smacked of something unnatural, even if he was the captain’s nephew, or at least purported to be. Perhaps Captain Hawke was not quite the hero everyone thought. All was not as it presented itself, of that Cyril Pensenby was sure, and, one way or another, he meant to get to the bottom of the puzzle.

Captain Hawke worked solidly for the next two days, ensuring that every last speck of storm damage on the Pallas was repaired. He had already left the day cabin when Georgiana awoke and slipped through to pass to the station call for drill each morning, not returning until long after she had fallen asleep within the comfort of his cot. On the third day she had entered the captain’s cabin with a pile of freshly pressed neckcloths to find him poring over charts with both his lieutenants. The great stern windows striped pale winter daylight across the three men. Crossing quietly to his great sea chest, that he had had moved from the night cabin, she made to stow the linen safely and retreat without notice. Their voices mumbled in conversation, but she kept her head down and her eyes averted. She had almost reached the door when Nathaniel spoke out.

‘Wait behind, Robertson. I want to speak with you before you continue with your duties.’

She had no choice but to do as she was bid, hovering awkwardly near the exit while the captain finished his business with the lieutenants. Both men’s gazes washed over her, but the weight of Pensenby’s stare drew her attention. She glanced up to catch his regard, and the look within those small overly-curious eyes made her wary. Captain Hawke had not been wrong in his estimation of Second Lieutenant Pensenby. And the knowledge released in her a small spasm of worry.

The door closed.

‘Sit down, George.’

She glanced once more at the cabin door as if to make sure Pensenby was gone, and moved to one of the chairs positioned beside the captain’s desk.

‘Captain Hawke,’ she said quietly, inclining her head like some great lady, and composedly sat herself down.

Nathaniel watched the graceful figure before him. He cleared his throat and adjusted his neckcloth. ‘I just wanted to be sure that you took no hurts from the storm.’

Georgiana bowed her head to hide the smile that leapt to her lips. Nathaniel Hawke had been worried about her after all, and the thought, inappropriate as it was, brought a gladness to her heart. ‘None at all, thank you for your concern, sir. Mr Fraser looked after me most admirably.’

‘It must have been a frightening experience for you, all the same.’ There was a concern in his eyes that he could not entirely mask.

Georgiana shrugged her shoulders slightly in a dismissive gesture. ‘Yes, but not as fearful as the thought of those of you facing the storm up on the deck. When I heard that Mr Hartley had been washed overboard…’

‘His rope snapped, carrying him over. Fortunately we were able to retrieve him.’

She smiled at him. ‘It seems that on this occasion luck was on your side.’

‘Luck plays her part, but experience, skill, a decent ship and a good crew of men are the foremost defences against a stormy sea.’ He raised his brow, and the corners of his mouth tugged up in a crooked smile. ‘I sound to be singing my own praises, but that isn’t my intention. Your acclaim should be for the men who did their jobs so well in the face of the storm.’

Laughter played on her lips. ‘Captain Hawke, an arrogant man? Who would have thought it?’

His eyes creased with the boyish grin, but beneath it she could see the toll fatigue was taking upon him.

‘There’s a tiredness in your face. You’re bone weary and should rest.’ The thought was spoken aloud. She glanced down in embarrassment, unwilling that he should guess the truth of her feelings for him. ‘Forgive me, Captain, I shouldn’t have spoken.’

One long tanned finger gently tipped her chin up. He was still smiling. ‘Could it be that my nephew has a thought for my welfare?’

Georgiana could not prevent the colour that flooded her cheeks. ‘Yes…no…I …’ then exclaimed, ‘You’re teasing me again, sir. I should be about my duties.’ She made to pull back, but he stopped her.

‘Maybe so, but not before you’ve answered your captain’s question, ship’s boy Robertson.’ Nathaniel’s eyes shone wickedly.

He had not removed his hand from her chin, and in truth had no compulsion to do so. What was it about the dark-haired girl before him that attracted him so? Even during the long hours of work he had found himself desiring her company, to hear her clear voice, watch the rose blush grow in her cheeks when he teased her, witness her enthusiasm for learning anything and everything she could about the ship. She had a good mind, that much was evident. A mind wasted as a third-class ship’s boy. And the marriage mart of today would view it as a mind wasted on a woman. But Nathaniel did not think so.

When she looked at him her eyes were a cool, calm grey blue. ‘I’m concerned for every man upon the Pallas, including her captain.’

‘Even Mr Pensenby?’ It seemed he was willing to say anything to prolong the conversation, anything to prevent her leaving. He had missed her these past days. The realisation hit him with the force of a mid-Atlantic gale.

The light in her face dimmed and a frown crept between her eyes. ‘My concern is about Lieutenant Pensenby rather than for him.’ Her fingers stole to worry at the lobe of her ear. ‘It would seem that the second lieutenant does not quite believe our story. There’s something in the way he looks at me, as if to say he knows something is amiss. Perhaps I’m just being fanciful, but it leaves me uneasy.’

‘Yes.’ Nathaniel looked pensive. ‘My thoughts flow in a similar direction. We had best have a care where Pensenby is concerned. He has a scholar’s mind for analysis and a passion for a puzzle. The sooner that his focus is trained on Bonaparte’s forces, the better.’

They looked at each other, without further speech. And within each breast stirred disquiet and beneath it something else warm and joyous.

He touched his thumb to her cheek with gentle reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let him discover our secret, whatever it takes.’

A sense of unity blossomed between them, as if it were just the two of them together, against the world.

The severity of his gaze softened.

A knock at the door revealed Mr Fraser.

‘There you are, laddie. If you’re finished with the boy, I’ll be off with him, Captain.’

Captain Hawke nodded his compliance. ‘Go ahead, Mr Fraser.’ But the dark eyes did not leave Georgiana’s slender frame until she had departed his cabin.

‘Mr Fraser,’ he called as the grizzled head disappeared around the door.

‘Aye, Captain?’

He looked at his valet meaningfully. ‘Keep the boy within your sight at all times.’

Fraser’s lone eye glared unblinkingly back. An unspoken understanding passed between them and he nodded. ‘That I certainly will, sir.’

And he was gone, leaving Nathaniel to contemplate how best to deal with Lieutenant Pensenby.

Chapter Six

It was not long before they arrived in the warmer waters of their destination. Despite it being so late in the year the seas surrounding the Azores were clear and calm and of such a bright coloration that Georgiana never ceased to marvel at their beauty. The cold dark skies of England had been left far behind, replaced instead with a cloudless expanse of blue. Even more incredible was the temperature, for, as those novice members of the Pallas’ crew discovered, it was pleasantly warm. Indeed, such was the sun that an awning was positioned over the quarterdeck each morning to protect the officers about their work. The men did not take such precautions from the heat, preferring instead to divest themselves of their shirts at any excuse. On first sight the exposure of masculine flesh rather shocked Georgiana, who tried to avert her eyes from such indecency. She was thus engaged one morning when she tripped over a large coil of rope, landing face down on the swabbed and holystoned deck. Mr Fraser had hauled her up, dusted her down and given her a good tongue lashing for not watching where she was going. Thereafter, Georgiana had learned to take the seminaked sights in her stride, much to Captain Hawke’s disapproval.

As they travelled further south past Madeira, the sun grew stronger and the smothering heat sapped the strength of them all. Even Nathaniel wilted a little beneath the dark blue wool of his dress coat, perspiration soaking through from his shirt to his waistcoat. And as Mr Fraser put it, with the captain having such a peculiar compulsion for clean clothes and bathing, Georgiana was kept busy with the laundering. Not her most favourite of duties. Indeed, she could steadfastly avow to the truth of Mr Fraser’s earlier prediction concerning the pungency of the stale urine. It was while filling her basin with the well-matured fluid that Georgiana heard the captain’s voice suddenly close behind her.

‘Just what do you think you’re doing, Master Robertson?’ he demanded in a whisper. His annoyance was plain.

Georgiana, who had been daydreaming sweet and pleasant thoughts as a diversion from the rather distasteful task at which she was employed, jumped as if she’d been scalded. This had the unfortunate effect of spilling the aromatic contents of her basin down the length of her, soaking her jacket, waistcoat, shirt and culottes. Even her feet did not escape the frothy brown deluge.

A yell wrought forth. She spun round to see Nathaniel looking at her, an expression of undisguised horror set clearly on his face. ‘Captain,’ she ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I didn’t hear your approach, sir.’

‘Evidently not,’ uttered the captain.

If looks could kill, Nathaniel knew without a doubt that he would have lain mortally wounded upon the deck. For Georgiana was eyeing him with an accusing look of ‘it’s all your fault'.

The urine dribbled down the bare flesh of her stomach and was soaking its way through her bindings. She grimaced at Nathaniel. ‘You wanted to know about my actions, sir?’

‘This is not your duty,’ he hissed.

Georgiana opened her eyes wide and stared at him incredulously before muttering drolly, ‘I beg to differ, sir, but it surely is.’

By this stage Mr Fraser was travelling towards them at a fair rate of knots for an elderly retainer, and several of the crew had noticed the boy’s state.

‘I’ll speak to you later,’ was all he managed before the valet was within earshot.

‘Laddie!’ Fraser bellowed. ‘I turn my back for two minutes and you’ve landed yourself in mischief!’ As he stepped closer the stench assailed his nostrils. ‘In the name of …’ He retreated rather quickly, his eyes watering. ‘You’d best stand down wind of us, laddie, the captain’ll not be wanting to smell that.’

Georgiana pressed her lips firmly together and moved to where Mr Fraser was pointing. ‘I wouldn’t want to inflict anythin’ so horrible on the captain, sir.’

Nathaniel did not miss the murderous glint in her eye, even if Mr Fraser remained oblivious.

‘Quite so, laddie, quite so.’

The baking heat of the sun caused steam to rise from Georgiana’s sodden clothes, magnifying the smell acutely.

Nathaniel coughed once and Mr Fraser set about a loud and raucous choking sound.

‘Have someone else finish this job, Mr Fraser, I rather think that Master Robertson is in need of a change of clothes.’ A smile twitched at his face. ‘Either that or we’ve found the perfect weapon to inflict upon our enemies.’

Guffaws sounded all around.

Georgiana’s eyes darted daggers. ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir,’ she muttered, and made her way below, leaving behind a trail of smelly wet footprints.

‘Beast!’ the word escaped Georgiana as she huddled within the hip bath, washing her limbs with cold seawater. Anger had given her the strength to fetch and fill the bath herself. With the chair wedged firmly beneath the handle of the interconnecting door of her cabin—or should she say the captain’s cabin?—she stripped naked and balled the stinking wet clothes in the corner, ready to be rinsed once she had removed every last trace of the offensive odour from her own person. If he thought he could just come upon her and cause such a mishap … How she fumed. He was rude and uncaring, the antithesis of a gentleman, and … And he was none of these things. Georgiana plummeted off her high horse and acknowledged the truth. Nathaniel Hawke was everything to be respected in a good man. It was only her pride that was smarting, as well it might, having been soaked in the stale urine of one hundred and eighty-five burly members of the King’s Navy. Ugh! She shivered at the very thought. And no matter how hard she scrubbed, it seemed that she could detect the faint whiff of that unsavoury excretion. By the time she had completed her ablutions, the tablet of soap was very small and she was once more fragrant and cleansed. Her clothes lay clean and ready to be hung out on deck. At least they would dry quickly in the warm breeze. All except her bindings, which she could not risk revealing to any other eyes. They dripped alone, a saddened state in the corner.

Georgiana looked down at her newly donned shirt and took a sharp intake of air. It would not do, it just would not do at all. Pulling on the waistcoat and jacket she inspected herself further. The problem still manifested itself in a rather obvious way. She would have to wait some time before facing the crew of the Pallas once more.

There was a tap at the door.

‘George.’ Nathaniel’s voice sounded through the wooden panels.

She did not answer.

The handle shifted beneath Nathaniel’s hand, but the door stuck fast. ‘George,’ he persevered. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed at you. It was an unfortunate accident. You’re not hurt, are you?’

‘No. I’m quite recovered from the incident, sir.’

‘Open the door, I wish to speak with you.’ His voice sounded a little impatient.

Georgiana’s gaze scanned the empty cabin. ‘I cannot.’

‘Why not?’ She could hear his perplexity.

She paused, thinking quickly. ‘I…I’m not suitably dressed.’

‘Well, put some clothes on and be quick about it.’ Nathaniel Hawke could be a persistent man when it suited him.

A pool of water was collecting on the floor beneath the bindings. It would be some hours before they would be dry enough to wear again. Neither Captain Hawke, nor any other member of the crew, would believe that it took that length of time to bathe and dress. ‘It will take some considerable time, sir.’

‘I’ve letters to write. Come out when you’re ready.’ He listened for her reply, as his boots echoed across the wooden floor to his desk.

There was nothing else for it. She would have to tell him the truth. ‘Captain Hawke, are you still there?’

‘Yes.’

She pictured him sitting serenely at his desk, quill in hand, a sheet of paper in readiness before him. ‘Are you quite alone, sir?’

She felt his gaze shift from the paper to the door. ‘Yes. Is something the matter, George?’

A small silence.

‘Yes, sir.’

The boots had risen and were making their way back over to the other side of the doorway. ‘George?’

More silence.

Then, ‘I cannot leave the cabin until tomorrow, sir.’

‘Why ever not?’

She chewed on her lip. ‘It’s rather difficult to explain, sir.’

Nathaniel’s apprehension was mounting by the minute. The girl must have hurt more than her pride. Worry pulled at his brow. ‘Open this door at once, George.’

‘I cannot.’

‘If you don’t, I’ll take the whole damn wall down.’ What the hell had happened to make her afraid to open the door? Had Pensenby accosted her? Nathaniel felt suddenly apprehensive at the thought. ‘George!’ The door handle rattled uselessly in his fingers. He contemplated dismantling the flimsy structure—it was, after all, designed to be removed into storage during battle situations.

Georgiana leapt up off the bed and placed her hands against the door. ‘Please do not, sir. I beg of you.’

The girl was clearly distraught. He forced his voice to sound calm, reassuring. ‘I cannot help you if you won’t speak to me. Just open the door.’ And all the while the knot of worry within his stomach expanded.

Silence.

She sighed. It was no use, her rebuttals and half-explanations were just making things worse. For all his efforts, she could hear the unease in his voice. Slowly she removed the chair and opened the door.

‘Georgiana,’ Nathaniel uttered with relief and stepped through the portal. Nothing seemed to be amiss. She appeared fully dressed and uninjured. He grasped her shoulders and scanned her face. ‘What’s wrong? Why wouldn’t you open the door?’

He watched the rosy hue rise in her cheeks as she would not meet his gaze. It was quite unlike her normal behaviour. ‘Georgiana,’ he whispered again and pulled her into an embrace. He touched a kiss to the top of her head and soap and seawater tickled his nose. His hand slowed its caress across her back as he looked down into her eyes. ‘Is it Pensenby? Has he questioned you?’

The blush deepened. ‘Oh, no, nothing of that nature.’ She tried to pull away, but his arms only tightened around her. She swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps, it’s not so much of a problem as I’d imagined if it’s not apparent to you.’ Easing herself away from him, she stood back and, despite the mortification she was suffering, held herself open to his perusal. ‘Do you notice no change in my appearance, sir? Please be truthful.’

His brow wrinkled in puzzlement as he scrutinised her hair and face, his gaze dropping to examine her newly donned clothes. Was it his imagination, or had she, was she…? Brown eyes met blue and a dark winged eyebrow raised its enquiry. ‘Take off your jacket.’

‘No, indeed I will not!’ Two pink spots burned brighter upon her cheeks.

At last Nathaniel experienced a glimmer of understanding of his ship’s boy’s strange behaviour. ‘Come now, George, it’s better if I see the full extent of the problem.’

Embarrassing though it was, she supposed him to be right. The jacket was quickly thrown upon the bed. ‘Perhaps it’s not as obvious as I’d thought. If I were to keep my jacket on—’

‘It would not hide the fact that you have a most admirable figure, nephew George, a fact that would not go unnoticed by the entirety of the company.’ He raised appreciative eyes to hers. ‘Yes, I believe I understand your dilemma.’

She snatched the jacket back against her breast. For, once freed of its restraining bindings, Georgiana’s bosom was clearly apparent and in complete defiance of her ship’s boy status. The reappearance of the hitherto forgotten attribute rendered Miss Raithwaite uncomfortably self-conscious. ‘Captain Hawke, if you would kindly refrain from staring,’ she said.

‘I do beg your pardon, nephew George,’ replied Nathaniel, executing a small bow in her direction. ‘But the view is uncommonly good.’

‘Nathaniel Hawke!’

A broad smile spread across Nathaniel’s face. ‘Forgive me, George. It’s quite clear you must remain cabin bound until your, um, bindings are wearable once more.’

‘That,’ said Georgiana with some exasperation, ‘is what I’ve being trying to tell you.’

‘I’ll inform Mr Fraser that you’re assisting me with my letter writing and we’re not to be disturbed.’

A shiver tickled at the nape of Georgiana’s neck. The prospect of remaining undisturbed in the company of Captain Hawke seemed remote indeed.

The white of the marine sentry’s crossbelts and facings stood out starkly against the scarlet of his coat. He gripped his musket and looked at the second lieutenant indifferently. ‘Orders is orders, Lieutenant Pensenby. If the captain says no disturbances, that’s what he means.’

‘I beg your pardon!’ Cyril Pensenby was annoyed to find the captain could not be interrupted. ‘I’m quite sure that the order did not include Lieutenant Anderson or myself, and—’ he puffed his chest out in self-importance ‘—given the importance of my news, he will want to know.’

The sentry looked unimpressed.

‘Has he someone in there with him?’ Pensenby snapped.

The marine’s shoulders shrugged, and he scratched at his head beneath the brim of his tall black hat. ‘Only the servant boy Robertson. But it makes no difference to my orders, sir.’

Cyril Pensenby’s face took on a sharpened expression. ‘Indeed. Well, I’m afraid I must override your orders and insist upon seeing the captain. There’s no time to waste, man.’ Without further ado, Lieutenant Pensenby rushed past the marine and straight into Captain Hawke’s cabin.

Everything around the cabin seemed perfectly in order. In the middle of the room the polished mahogany of the cleared dining table glinted in the sunlight. Six ornate chairs were tucked beneath it, awaiting the time it would be set for dinner. The desk was positioned closer to the windows lining the back wall of the cabin, its surface littered with papers and charts. Three pens lay beside the inkwell, a small sharpening knife in front of them. The red leather captain’s chair behind the desk was empty. Nathaniel was standing, arms behind his back, peering out of the stern windows while he dictated a letter. Ship’s boy Robertson was seated at the near side of the desk, neatly transcribing the captain’s words on to paper. Both faces shot round to stare at him.

The marine stumbled in at Pensenby’s back, musket raised towards the lieutenant. ‘I told him you wasn’t to be disturbed, Captain, but he wouldn’t listen.’

‘Mr Pensenby?’ Captain Hawke turned a glacial eye upon his subordinate and moved swiftly to shield Georgiana from the men’s view.

Georgiana’s hand surreptitiously stole to cover the front of her neatly buttoned jacket as she shifted in her seat to present both the second lieutenant and marine with a fine view of her back.

‘Forgive me, Captain Hawke,’ Pensenby looked over the captain’s shoulder at the rear of the boy’s head. ‘I thought you would wish to know that the look-out has sighted two French frigates heading in our direction.’

‘Very well, Lieutenant.’ Nathaniel hid the shock well. ‘I’ll join both Lieutenant Anderson and yourself on the quarterdeck shortly. That will be all.’

He waited until both men had left the room before turning to Georgiana. She looked so young, so vulnerable. He ignored the urge to take her in his arms, protect her for ever. ‘Lock yourself in the night cabin—’ a key passed between them ‘—and open the door for no one except myself. I’ll instruct that it should be left intact when we ready the guns. Do you understand?’ He wondered at the degree of concern he felt for her. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

A brief nod before she touched her hand to his arm. ‘Be careful.’

They looked into each other’s eyes before Nathaniel swept a feather kiss to her lips and was gone.

Through the magnification of the spyglass he could see that they were both large frigates, loading forty guns apiece, with the French tricolour fluttering boldly at the stern and a pennant at the topmast. He glanced at Pensenby, saw the shadow of fear in his small shrewd eyes. The stiff northwesterly wind would lead them directly to the Pallas, of that there could be no mistake.

‘They’ll be within range in approximately one hour, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson was pale, but his blue eyes glittered with excitement.

Nathaniel knew what he must do. ‘Let out each canvas in full, we move with top speed in a southeasterly direction.’

‘But that would take us towards Santa Cruz and the Canary Islands, both of which are held by Spain.’ Lieutenant Pensenby frowned his disapproval.

‘Indeed, it will, Mr Pensenby. It’s what they’ll least expect. Before reaching Santa Cruz, we’ll turn and head out towards the mid-Atlantic, before sailing back up to the Azores.’

John Anderson was looking somewhat crestfallen. ‘We are to run?’ In his mind’s eye he was already valiantly engaged in the dramatic glory of battle, annihilating the French ships, and all for the sake of King and country.

Nathaniel saw the slumped shoulders and read the reason correctly. ‘In a straight confrontation we don’t stand a chance against them. They each carry forty guns to our thirty-two, both are made of oak to our pine. The Pallas simply cannot withstand the pounding she would receive. Hit for hit we would suffer vastly more damage than they, not to mention the injury to the men from the splinters. They would have us down in a matter of minutes.’

‘Then all is lost and we should strike our flag,’ said Lieutenant Anderson miserably.

‘Quite the contrary, Mr Anderson. We must look to our advantages and make the best use of them.’

Pensenby piped up, ‘But you said that the Pallas is no match for them in battle.’

Nathaniel closed the spyglass with a snap. ‘No, Mr Pensenby, that is only the case in direct confrontation. There are many other types of battle.’

‘But we’re to run.’ John Anderson looked puzzled.

‘For now, until the conditions favour us rather than our enemy.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘The Pallas is smaller, and at only 667 tonnes, significantly faster. She should easily outrun them. Then it’s simply a matter of waiting until the timing is right.’

Lieutenant Pensenby seemed reassured by this. He was not a man suited to the bloody physicality of war, and the prospect of escaping what would undoubtedly prove to be a crashing defeat beckoned appealingly.

Captain Hawke strode across the quarterdeck to shout orders to the ship’s master. He paused momentarily, looked back over his shoulder, and said, ‘Rest assured that I’m not Byng, Mr Anderson.’

John Anderson thought of Admiral Byng who had been executed for failing to engage the Spanish Fleet with sufficient vigour. No, he did not doubt Captain Hawke’s courage. He would do better to watch and learn.

With the sails set fully to capture the wind the Pallas skimmed across the surface of the water with a deftness of speed that could not hope to be matched by her bigger, bulkier opponents. Heading further south into Spanish waters, they had lost sight of the two large French frigates before Nathaniel gave the order to change direction.

Georgiana could feel from the rolling motion that the ship was fairly flying across the waves, and concluded with relief that they were fleeing from the French. Although she did not know the size or manner of the enemy, common sense warned her that two against one did not offer good odds of a favourable result. This, coupled with what she had learned: the Pallas was experimental in design, being unusually small for a frigate and built entirely of lightweight pine rather than sturdy English oak. It did not take a genius to surmise that any big gun fire would tear the ship apart.

Although Georgiana had no direct knowledge of exactly what naval battle involved, she had spent many an evening listening to Burly Jack’s reminiscences, tales of glory and honour, descriptions of blood and gore, death and decay. She shivered and drew her jacket closer around her. Nathaniel Hawke could be the best damn naval captain in the world, but, outnumbered and disadvantaged by his ship, there was little doubt as to the outcome of any encounter. And the thought of it brought a shiver to her soul. If she were to lose him now…She bit at her lip and wrung her hands together. She knew what would happen if the French were to catch up with them. For the second time in Georgiana’s life she was sailing dangerously close to a watery grave, poised to topple. She dropped to her knees and prayed for a gale that would spirit the Pallas with wings, far, far away from the long guns of the French.

A dense sea fog shrouded the Pallas, as she swept slowly, steadily on, cutting a path through the vast Atlantic Ocean, blind but for her trust in her captain’s charts and compass. Silently stalking her prey through the muffled cloud that enveloped her. All calls had been stifled, all pipes quelled. She floated as a ghost ship ever closer to her quarry, ears straining, guns readied. Then they heard it, an eerie shout through the gloomy miasma. Fingers moved to cock their muskets, hands to quietly draw their swords. Captain Hawke whispered his orders and the Pallas responded mutely, slipping into position. A bell sounded close by, its clang deadened by the blanket of fog. Nathaniel waited. Waited. Biding his time. Breath by breath. Second by second. He only hoped his calculations were correct, there would be no room for error. One chance, and one chance alone, to take the prize or be damned in the process.

Even as his hand clenched, poised to give the final command, his mind flitted to the girl locked below in his cabin. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Could no longer deny his compulsion. Was glad even that she was here on his ship, in his care, for all the danger that it brought. He knew he was a scoundrel to think such a thing. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Kitty Wakefield? He had no right to gamble with Georgiana’s life, none but the knowledge of her likely fate at the hands of a French captain, or, even worse, a French crew. That was if she survived the wrecking of the Pallas. They were all supposedly governed by the gentlemanly rules of warfare. But Nathaniel knew that these were employed as and when it suited. Georgiana would stand little chance against either the Atlantic Ocean or their French opponents, and the thought lent strength to his resolve. There could be no failure. Not for her. Not for any of them. He could only hope that the Pallas would live up to her name—the Greek goddess of victory. With a steady hand and a courageous heart, Captain Hawke gave the order.

The full force of four carronades on the Pallas’ forecastle blasted at close range upon the hapless and unsuspecting French frigate Ville-de-Milan, inflicting substantial damage to the hull. In the lull that followed Captain Hawke personally led the small boarding party to secure the ship. In a matter of minutes the task had been completed. Nathaniel returned to the Pallas, ready to engage the second frigate positioned close by. The yells of her crew alerted him as to her precise position and he swung the Pallas round to hide her bow. The French guns fired before the manoeuvre was complete, shattering the foremast and splintering the bow. The Pallas’ carronades roared again, delivering their massive twenty-four-pound round shot with a snarling ferocity. The Coruna slipped behind the Ville-de-Milan, but Nathaniel had anticipated the move and was already leading his men across the barren boards of the first frigate to reach the second. Nothing could stop him, Georgiana would be safe and the prize his.

Georgiana shivered at the unnatural hush that surrounded her. No voices, no banging, no footsteps, no pipes, no bells. Only the gentle lap of water and the weary creaking of timber. Foreboding prickled at the nape of her neck and she was aware of a tight smothering tension. She sat rigidly in the small chair within the night cabin and waited. Sweat trickled in slow rivulets down her back. Fingers grew cold and numb. Silence. Suddenly an enormous explosion ricocheted around her, the blast echoing in her ears. Even locked below within the tiny cabin, the unmistakable odour of gunpowder pervaded. She leapt up from her seat. The Pallas’ guns were firing. Nathaniel must be cornered, under attack. Dear Lord! The ship shuddered violently, landing her forcefully to the floor. Men’s screams, voices shouting. Georgiana struggled to her feet. Fear rippled through her, but it would not stop her. She could no longer stay hidden and safe while the rest of the crew faced death and capture. Ship’s boy Sam Wilson needed her, able seaman Jack Grimly needed her, and then there were the others. And the most important name of all held close to her heart—Nathaniel Hawke. She would do what she must to help those that she had come to think upon as friends. For Nathaniel she would lay down her life. Without further ado she slid the key into the lock and turned the handle.

Scenes of mayhem greeted Georgiana as she ran along the gun deck. Surprisingly the long guns were run in and silent, gun teams at the ready. Neither was the usual screen of pungent blue smoke hanging in the air, but she scarcely had time to ponder upon it. Two massive holes gaped on both the starboard and larboard sides where a round shot had ripped its way through and fortunately departed again. Not so fortunate was the devastation it had reaped on its route. Part of the capstan had been destroyed and enormous splinters of wood lay all around. Worst still, Georgiana could see the surgeon tending a blood-soaked figure on the floor. Several other men slumped nearby, their faces ashen, their clothing ripped and red-stained. Blood pooled invisibly upon decks painted red for just such a purpose. She ran to the surgeon’s mate kneeling over a prone body.

‘Mr Murthly, can I assist you, sir?’

Robert Murthly, a sturdy young man with untidy red hair, looked up at the boy. ‘Captain wouldn’t be best pleased to find you here, Robertson—or should I say Lord George? Shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to dirty those fine letter-writing hands of yours.’

The gossipmongers had been busy. She looked beneath the sneer on the surgeon’s mate’s face and saw fear and fatigue. Little wonder he despised her, thinking her a pampered brat to be coddled in the captain’s cabin while the rest of the ship risked their lives. Surreptitiously she fastened her jacket, and hoped that the surrounding chaos would draw Murthly’s full attention. With so much blood and carnage she doubted that any man would have the time to notice the subtle change in Lord George Hawke’s appearance. Besides, the crew were about to learn there was a whole lot more to the captain’s nephew than they supposed. ‘I’m here to help, sir, just tell me what to do.’ Her voice was harsh and gritty, its tone as low as she could manage.

The surgeon’s mate wiped the sweat from his brow with bloodied fingers and regarded her with deliberate consideration. Most of the men were busy securing the French frigates, and the gun crews were not permitted to leave their stations. An extra pair of hands, even aristocratic ones, would come in useful.

‘Murthly!’ bellowed the surgeon. ‘Have a table shifted over here and quickly.’ He gestured to the mess tables that interspersed the long line of guns. ‘This man won’t make it below, losing too much blood. We’ll have to operate here. Run and fetch my instruments.’

Murthly looked at Georgiana. ‘Move the table like he says.’ Then the squat figure was off and running.

Georgiana, helped by one of the nearby powder boys, dragged the rough wooden structure that passed for a table across to the surgeon.

The surgeon scarcely looked at her, just dumped the haemorrhaging body down on to the surface that had so recently served up a dinner of salted meat and biscuit.

The seaman’s face was chalk-white and smeared with sweat, his lips trembling as he tried to suppress the moans of pain. She skimmed down and saw the ragged stump where what had been his hand hung. His breathing came fast and shallow and his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. No time for rum, nor for the opiates which would have deadened his agony.

Nimble fingers loosed the belt from her waist and looped it around just below the sailor’s slack elbow. She tightened the tourniquet and held the injured arm aloft. Her other hand touched to the man’s brow, its cool fingers wiping the sweat from his eyes.

The surgeon looked at her then, a suspicious expression of enquiry on his face.

She said nothing, just focused on the injured man lying so helplessly before her.

Murthly’s feet clattered back along the gun deck. He threw open the wooden box that he carried and handed the surgeon a large and wicked-looking knife. ‘Tourniquet already in place,’ he observed, and saw the surgeon’s eyes flit to the captain’s nephew.

‘Yes,’ he said drily. ‘Speed is our saviour,’ he proclaimed, ‘let’s not waste any more time.’ He paused before the blade contacted the bloodied pulp of reddened tissue and addressed Georgiana. ‘See what you can do for the others. There are clean linen strips within the box.’

She did as she was bid, using the knowledge she had gleaned from her furtive reading of Mr Hunter’s A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, and Gunshot Wounds. A fascinating book, if not one of which her stepfather would have approved for either her or Francis. Thankfully her stepbrother’s secret medical ambition had led him to lodge the book safely beneath his bed. When the last of the men had been transferred to the sick berth down on the lower deck, Georgiana slipped away to discover what had become of Nathaniel. She had just made her way up the companion ladder when the answer to her question appeared most suddenly, for, as she stepped from the last rung up on to the uppermost deck, she practically collided with Captain Hawke.

‘George!’ The word escaped unbidden, as his hands closed around her upper arms. His gaze swept over her, taking in the dried blood streaking her face, the pale fragility of the skin beneath and the dark stained clothing, and a pulse of horror beat in his breast. Behind him Lieutenant Anderson cleared his throat, and with a start he came crashing back down to the reality of the situation. Not only had Georgiana blatantly disobeyed his order, but she was now risking her secret in an awkward situation. Perdition, but the girl seemed utterly determined to destroy her own reputation despite all his efforts. His eyes darkened. ‘Get back down below, Robertson,’ he barked.

Georgiana blinked, the breath caught in her throat. He was safe, unhurt. Her heart leapt at the sight of him. Thank God. But even as she relaxed with relief she saw the change wash over his face. And the tide that it brought with it was not one of love or even affection, but one of blazing fury. ‘Nathan …’ She remembered herself in time. ‘Captain Hawke,’ she amended, deepening her voice.

‘That is an order.’ His words were hard and angry, a stranger to her ear. Just as she turned to retreat she caught sight of the two smartly dressed French captains standing proudly behind him, their intense, dark eyes trained on Nathaniel. For one awful minute she froze, suddenly aware of how close she’d come to betraying herself. Wandering about the ship without the protection of her bindings, almost calling the captain by his given name, and all in full view of not only their own men, but also the French!

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.

Chapter Seven

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?’

‘Why, yes. Robertson was a marvel. Young Richardson would have bled to death without his quick thinking. Foot completely severed, you know. The boy’s got a feel for surgery, Captain, and it would be a shame to see it wasted. I’d be happy to have him help down here.’

Georgiana Raithwaite had quit the security of his cabin amidst the pounding fury of battle to help tend the wounded! Nathaniel reeled. The girl was incredible, infuriatingly disobedient, without a thought for her own safety, or indeed the discovery of her secret, but incredible all the same. He knew that he would have defied the First Lord of the Admiralty himself had he been ordered to lie useless within a cabin when all around a battle was sounding. A sigh escaped his lips. They were not so very dissimilar after all, the captain and his ship’s boy. Even if that slim dark-haired waif was hellbent on ruining her reputation. With a heavy heart he made his way steadily towards the cabin that housed the woman in question.

Georgiana was sitting in the wooden chair, reading by the light of the flickering lantern. Or that at least looked to be what she was doing, by virtue of the book balanced carefully before her. She did not move upon Nathaniel’s entry to the cabin, only glanced up at him with questioning eyes.

Somehow she had managed to cleanse the blood from her hands that were folded neatly before her. The same could not be said for the rest of her uniform. The darkened jacket had been hung over the back of the chair, leaving him a clear view of a blood-splattered shirt and the shapely figure it failed to conceal.

Two voices spoke at once. One mellow and deeply masculine, the other clear and soft. ‘I’m sorry.’

They stared at each other in surprise.

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