Читать книгу Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 8

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.