Page 1 of Unforeseen Affairs
Chapter One
London, March 1878
Itwashisbirthday,though a bittersweet one.
It had been just over a year now, Sir Colin Gearing realized. A year during which he’d remained on dry land, with no command to his name, whiling away his days on half-pay and playing cards week after week like some hateful waster.
The thought hit him square in the gut, catching him completely unaware, like the fist of a burly boatswain checking a drunk and disorderly deck crew member. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten it to be his birthday; after all, just last evening he’d noted that the following day would be the twenty-third of March, and would therefore bring the usual good wishes: a gruff nod from his father over breakfast—which was more than he’d expect on a typical day—to go along with several birthday letters from cousins and friends. Then this morning, Mama had ambushed him on his way out the door for luncheon at the Army and Navy Club, clutching at his sleeve as she tearfully recounted the circumstances of his birth. Colin knew the story perhaps better than a young man ought to, but he’d smiled all the same, and dutifully received her kiss upon his cheek.
Yet it wasn’t until this moment, as he raised a glass along with his two closest friends in his family’s small and tidy snug of a library, that Colin recalled the same day one year ago.
A day he had spent alone in this very room, panicked and fearful, having only just refused his next posting. The bookshelves had spun cruelly about him then, in a grotesque mockery of the rolling and swaying one became accustomed to while living at sea. He had shut his eyes and lain back on the couch, trying with all the force of his will to rid himself of the sensation.
It hadn’t worked. Indeed, it was nearly a full month before he’d felt sure enough of his state to venture beyond his doorstep.
“Speech! Words of wisdom, please,” Kettlewell called out, hoisting his glass higher.
Colin felt the telltale tightening at the top of his skull. He looked down at the untouched wine in his glass.Not now,he silently prayed.Dear God, not now.
It had been such a lovely day so far.
He glanced across the room at the handsome floor globe sitting in its lacquered wooden frame.
“Hang that!” cried Beaky, already sloshed from luncheon. “Something good-humored—to raise our spirits, if you will!”
Colin managed to smile weakly at his friends. They’d been midshipmen together, the three of them, and were now all officers in the Royal Navy, experienced and respected. So rarely were they all three together anymore; in fact, Kettlewell would be put to sea in only a handful of days, first lieutenant aboard a frigate bound for Constantinople.
Colin would give his eyeteeth to be in Kettlewell’s boots. He looked back to the globe. So many countries, so much ocean.
“How about a toast, then?” Kettlewell suggested merrily.
“Yes,” Colin agreed, wanting to push forward, past his maudlin, envious thoughts. “Raise your glasses.” He lifted hisuntouched madeira and spoke in a clear, commanding voice. “Our ships at sea.”
“What?” Beaky exclaimed with a derisive snort. “You’re a man grown, twenty-five years of age! I think we can do better than that!”
Colin took a deep breath. So far he felt sturdy, his head clear. He pressed on.
“Alright then.”
He crossed to the center of the library, so as to put the globe out of his vision. He instead looked out beyond the flung-open library doors to the wide, empty hallway, at the end of which hung a tall portrait of Admiral Alexander Gearing in full uniform.
Colin knew that his own visage, ginger-pated and decorated, would one day grace these halls, staring sternly out at future generations of naval men.
At least, such a thing had once seemed inevitable. Now, though, he wondered if he’d ever even pass lieutenant. He cleared his throat and steeled himself.
“Gentlemen, a toast,” Colin said, gesturing with his glass in the direction of his ancestor. “To cunt and gunpowder. A sailor’s two best friends.”
Beaky and Kettlewell both cheered.
There. He’d done it. Perhaps now he’d be able to join his friends in their revelry without worry. Already a small smile had found its way to his lips, an earnest one this time, and Colin finally took a sip.
And nearly spat it out.
Out in the hall, between the open doorway and the portrait of his most storied forebear, stood a young lady.
One whom he’d just toasted, in a roundabout way, in the most obscene manner imaginable.
She was handsome, with tidy black hair, garbed in a blouse with a black bow at the collar and a plain gray skirt. She stood still, her arms crossed with an aloof air about her, seemingly unaffected by the vulgarity of his words.
