Regency Debutantes (17 page)

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.

I
t 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.

‘I should not have treated you so, Georgiana.’ His lips shaped a wry smile, finding the motion unexpectedly easy despite all that had happened, in view of what he knew he must do.

The angular line of his jaw, those firm full lips, and black winged brows all held an indefinable tension, and in his eyes lurked fatigue tumbled with relief. Such responsibility of command demanded a high price. That he paid it in full was clear to see. She had not anticipated his apology. Indeed, from the carefully controlled, impassive countenance he had last presented she could have sworn he would give her a thorough verbal lashing. ‘Perhaps, sir, your anger was understandable given that I appeared before you at the most inopportune of moments, and in complete defiance of your orders. My only defence is that I was concerned for your welfare, if you’d taken an injury in the attack. I’m afraid that I acted without proper thought or consideration.’ Her nose wrinkled up and her eyes squeezed shut at the memory conjured by the confession. ‘Indeed, I almost called you by your given name. Most unseemly for a ship’s boy to his captain.’

‘A floggable offence,’ Nathaniel assured her with mock severity.

When she opened her eyes it was to see a bemused expression.

The thought of Georgiana Raithwaite being concerned for his safety was really a rather pleasant one. ‘I’m touched by your concern, Miss Raithwaite, and can assure you that I’m quite unhurt.’ He made as if to reach his hand to her face, but checked the motion just as it began. Best wait to discover her response first.

A rosy glow spread over her cheeks. ‘Yes. For that at least we must be thankful.’

‘And what of you? The shock of seeing you appear
drenched in blood did me more damage than the
Coruna’s
guns!’ More damage than he was willing to admit even to himself. ‘I thought for one horrible moment that you’d been injured.’ A little line of worry creased between his eyes.

It was really rather endearing, or so Georgiana thought. ‘Not me, sir,’ she said.

‘What were you up to, to become so blood-soaked?’ The dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Mr Belmont has some strange notion that you’re accustomed to assisting in surgical procedures. He requested your transference to the sick berth!’

Miss Raithwaite looked suddenly a picture of pious innocence. ‘I cannot think why.’

‘And the blood?’ He indicated her attire.

She sighed. ‘I couldn’t just sit here and listen to their screams, Captain Hawke. I heard the guns and didn’t know what was happening. At first I thought that we were under attack. Those men…Such hurts as I’ve never seen the like of. Oh, Nathaniel …’ She closed her eyes as if to block the memory. ‘There was so little I could do for them.’

His fingers touched lightly to her shoulder, unable to bear her distress, wanting to pull her into his arms and protect her from the world. ‘Mr Belmont tells quite a different story, and so, I gather, would the men that you helped. We’ve lost none. All survived.’ Gently he pulled her upright, looking down into her face. ‘There’s another matter that we must discuss, Georgiana.’ A matter of honour, a matter of doing what was right even when his father thought that he was all wrong.

The deliberate use of her given name sent a delicious little shiver through her body, but something in his tone forewarned her of the gravity of his intent.

‘Truly I didn’t know that the Frenchmen were aboard,’ she explained. ‘Moreover, the blame for my foolish actions rests
entirely with me, for it was I who directly disobeyed your command and I who presented myself in full view of your captives. Now I fear that I may have jeopardised my position.’

The girl had unwittingly stumbled directly upon the heart of the problem. A rumble of apprehension rattled through him. Somehow he doubted that his forthcoming proposal would meet with such sweet compliance. It was, after all, Walter Praxton that she loved, not himself.

‘Georgiana, the presence of the French captains has served to highlight the risk we’re running. It will only take one man to see through your disguise and we’re done for.’ He could be nothing other than frank in his explanation. Miss Raithwaite needed to face the truth.

Georgiana’s fingers found her ear lobe and started to fidget. ‘But we’ve been safe until now.’

‘Yes. Lady Luck’s been on our side, but she won’t be for ever.’ Nathaniel’s voice was grim. He saw the anxiety in her eyes and misinterpreted its cause. ‘Don’t be distressed, Miss Raithwaite, for I swear that no harm will come to you. You’re an innocent in all of this…debacle, and…’

The smooth brow crinkled in bafflement.
Innocent?
What was the man talking about? She was the singular cause of all that had happened.

‘Through no fault of your own, you’ve been placed in a compromising—no, ruinous situation.’