Page 53 of Once a Gentleman
“No apology required, sir. The fact is, well. We cannot openly pursue our affair, under the circumstances. And given that everything is not entirely above board, I am rather sensitive to the possibility of slurs against my dear one’s character.”
O’Neill narrowed his eyes. “Turner, messing about with married women—”
“It’s not that simple, sir.”
“It never is.” O’Neill shook his head and took up his coffee, signaling that he would drop the subject, and allowing Andrew to take a bracing sip of his own, though he wished it were brandy. The captain wouldn’t approve of it being offered this early in the day, though, and so he must make do.
At least O’Neill had drawn all the right, albeit totally incorrect, conclusions. For now, at least, Andrew could openly request such allowances as O’Neill might be able to offer, giving him some little time to spend with Kit before they sailed. And when they sailed…but that could only be dealt with later, and for now, he had more pressing concerns.
“Why have they chosen to refit us so quickly, sir? Where are we going?”
“Ah, now he asks.” O’Neill drained his cup and set it back in the saucer with a clink. “Well, I wish it were a more interesting tale I have to tell you, something with intrigue and adventure to get your blood racing. But it’s politics. Bloody politics, and nothing more. There’s a French officer in possession of intelligence that Whitehall wants. He’s willing to defect, some personal grudge against Boney. But he also has a personal grudge against half the brass, seems he lost a son at Trafalgar. He’s a skittish bastard, and he hates us almost as much as Boney. We weren’t there, as you recall. And since I speak French like a Frog, they think that’ll win him over, too.”
Andrew nodded, mulling it over. O’Neill’s French wife was another mark against him where many of the Admiralty were concerned. But he did indeed speak French nearly like a native, having learned it to woo and win her some odd number of decades ago, and having lived with her, and with her mother to boot, ever since.
And theHoratio, with both O’Neill and Andrew himself aboard it, had been in the West Indies when the Battle of Trafalgar was fought, fending off privateers harrying British merchants.
“And there are no other captains, no other ships, that fit these requirements and are not in for refit, I presume, sir? In any case, one would think a fishing boat or some other small craft would more than suffice. They hardly need to send a sixth-rate for courier duty.”
O’Neill shook his head. “As for the fishing boat, of course that would be perfectly rational, but no one ever accused bloody aristocratic French officers of being rational. Not good enough for the blighter. And as for other ships…no one they want to send, anyway. The fact that I’m not in the best odor makes us more appealing for this particular duty. If it goes poorly, and our Frenchie gives us the slip at the last moment, gets cold feet—well, no one cares if I take the blame. Andrew, lad, I mean it—if you want to transfer, you can with my blessing. Admiral Blaine may not be so very fond of you, but Yorke ain’t so very fond of Blaine. His influence isn’t as great as all that.” Mr. Yorke, the First Lord of the Admiralty, didn’t seem terribly fond of anyone, and the feeling was often mutual. Andrew grimaced in reply. “Anyway, you’re a fine officer. I know a dozen captains who’d take you on as first lieutenant in a heartbeat.”
Andrew knew it too, despite his jesting—and he also knew he’d chafe under their strictures and wish them at the very devil. “I’ll be damned if I turn my back on you when you need me, sir. I’ve missed the coast of France. Damned bloody nuisance of a place.”
O’Neill chuckled. “That year on blockade duty certainly gave us enough of it, didn’t it? Well, all right then. As you wish, let your career sink with mine, then, and be damned to you.” He attempted to grumble it, but Andrew could see his pleasure and relief in the set of his shoulders and the faint smile playing around his mouth. “I’ll expect you at the dock at six bells tomorrow morning and not a moment later. We’ll need to supply fairly thoroughly. This fellow hasn’t given a precise date for the rendezvous, and I’m not sure how long we’ll be cooling our heels.”
Despite the underlying pang of disappointment at the thought of abandoning Kit in bed at dawn to go and freeze his arse off at the dock, Andrew felt something of his usual excitement when a period of inactivity came to an end at last. He wasn’t naturally idle, and the stifling confines of a city left him irritable and unhappy.
But as he showed Captain O’Neill out, he couldn’t help slumping a little under the weight of knowing he would have to find some way to explain this to Kit.
And pray that Kit didn’t take it as a sign to depart even sooner than he had intended.
Kit spent the morning looking up at every sound from the hall, heart pounding, certain that Andrew would disobey Kit’s strictures and step into the study at any moment, lock the door behind him, advance on Kit with that intent expression on his face, and…
He looked back down at the ledger before him with his cheeks burning.
No, he certainly hadnotbeen squirming in his chair, still feeling the way Andrew’s fingers had worked him open early that morning, and impatiently awaiting being bent over the desk and fucked face-down in the records of the household expenses.
Of all the times for Andrew to actually listen to what Kit told him to do.
Particularly when Kit had gone so far as to bring one of the many little stoppered jars of herbal salve the house seemed to be mysteriously equipped with, tucking it away in his coat pocket surreptitiously and then hiding it in an easily-reached drawer of the desk.
And then midway through the morning, someone knocked on the door. Kit cocked his head and listened; a male visitor, someone Peter showed directly into the breakfast parlor where Andrew presumably still lingered over his coffee and newspaper.
Kit frowned down at the ledger. A visitor. At this hour? Almost certainly not one of Andrew’s many lovers, but one of his disreputable friends?
At last curiosity got the better of him. He went to the study door, cracking it open and peeking out into the hall.
Peter jumped up from where he’d been perched on a stool by the stairs, a little hastily, as if he thought Kit would reprimand him for sitting at his ease when he ought to have been standing ready.
“Was that a messenger at the door?” he asked, hoping Peter wouldn’t know he’d been listening already, or that he was lying through his teeth. “I’m expecting something from Mr. Robinson today.”
“No, sir,” Peter replied, relaxing a trifle when the expected criticism didn’t come. “Captain O’Neill to see Mr. Turner.”
Kit withdrew into the study again with a nod, his mind whirling.
TheHoratiowouldn’t sail again until late January, he had understood from the quite thorough canvassing the subject had received at the dinner Andrew had given for his fellow officers.
But it was only the sixth of December, and Kit very much doubted Andrew’s commanding officer would drop in unannounced simply to chat, particularly so early in the day. He would summon Andrew with a note, more like, or meet him at the dock.
