Elizabeth Powell (25 page)

Once inside, Everly realized that the front steps were only the beginning. He handed his heavy cloak to a footman, removed his braided bicorne, and tried to ignore the graceful sweep of mahogany stairs that arched above him to the first floor. More bloody stairs. He grimaced, but erased the gesture when the admiral’s butler appeared.

Parkin greeted him with a stiff bow. “Good morning, Captain Everly. A pleasure to see you again, sir, if I may say so.”

“Thank you, Parkin. I believe the admiral is expecting me.” Everly resisted the sudden urge to smile. In all his many visits to this house, he had never seen the butler’s expression deviate from wooden correctness. The admiral ran a tight ship, and expected the utmost discipline from his subordinates. Everly wondered if poor Parkin’s face had frozen in place over the course of the years.

“Indeed, sir. If you will follow me.” Parkin headed for the staircase. Everly gritted his teeth and followed.

By the time they reached the admiral’s study, Everly was cursing himself for leaving his cane behind. His leg ached with merciless intent; he could feel the skin around
his eyes and mouth draw tighter the more he tried to suppress the pain. He hoped his face was not as white as his waistcoat. Admiral Lord St. Vincent was no fool.

Parkin opened the paneled oak door and stepped aside. “Captain Sir Jonathan Everly,” he announced in stentorian tones.

Hearing his name pronounced so formally made Everly hesitate on the threshold. He wasn’t used to the title, even after six months. Every time he heard it, he wanted to look over his shoulder to see who “Sir Jonathan Everly” was, as if the name belonged to a complete stranger.

“Confound it, Parkin, stop shouting. I’m not half as deaf as you’d like to think me,” came the irascible reply from the depths of the room. “Well, boy, don’t stand there gawking like a green midshipman. Come in.”

Despite his discomfort, Everly’s mouth twitched into a half smile as he stepped into the admiral’s study. His patron was the only man who could get away with calling him “boy.” Everly’s good humor, however, faded as he surveyed the room.

Admiral Lord St. Vincent, once known as Sir John Jervis, was an exacting man whom many credited with whipping His Majesty’s Navy into fighting trim. At the age of seventy-six, “Old Jervie” still retained the fierce intelligence and acerbic wit that made him a legend in the British Navy. Although no longer in command of a ship, he maintained an orderly, regimented life, and his house reflected this sense of discipline. Today, though, Everly was astonished to see charts and papers strewn about the admiral’s desk, weighted down by several books and a half-empty decanter of brandy. Despite the advanced hour of the morning, the heavy curtains remained closed. A low fire smoked in the hearth and did little to relieve the pervading gloom. The heavy, musty smells of old leather, books, and ashes formed an incipient sneeze at the back of Everly’s throat.

The admiral himself, his gold-braided uniform jacket creased and rumpled, stood behind his desk and scowled at the documents in his hand. Weariness lined the elderly
man’s face and hunched his shoulders; veiled rage burned in his eyes.

Everly assumed a carefully neutral expression as he came to stand before the admiral’s desk. He drew himself to attention. “Good morning, my lord,” he ventured.

The older man harrumphed and tossed the stack of papers onto his desk. He clasped his hands behind his back and fixed Everly with a penetrating gaze. “I understand you’ve been to see the First Lord.”

News traveled quickly. The captain started in spite of himself. “Yes, sir.”

“Well?”

“The Earl of Hardwicke retains the opinion that I am not yet well enough for command.” Everly’s jaw flexed at the memory of that dismissive meeting.

“And I’ll wager you would like me to convince him otherwise.” St. Vincent paced to the window and peered out through the gap between the fringed velvet panels.

“I would, sir. I am recovered, and wish to reassume command of the
Hyperion
, or any other available ship, as soon as possible. I am anxious to be back at sea.”

The admiral’s narrowed eyes scanned the younger man up and down. “Out of the question,” he pronounced.

A hot stab of anger lanced through Everly. He felt the tips of his ears begin to glow. “Might I inquire as to why not, sir?” Speaking became more difficult when he had to force his words through his teeth.

“Because any man with eyes in his head can see you’re still in pain from that leg wound. You’re pale as a ghost.” St. Vincent seemed to relax; his expression eased. He sank into his cracked leather desk chair and waved a hand in his protégé’s direction. “Sit down, Everly, sit down.”

The captain lowered himself into an overstuffed wing chair, grateful to be off his feet but stung that the admiral had read him so easily. Neither the First Lord nor his own commanding officer believed him ready, and now his patron had added his voice to theirs. Admiral Lord St. Vincent was one of the most influential men in the Royal Navy; Everly
had
to convince his patron that he
was fit for duty. Time to try another tack. “Sir, I ask you to reconsider. Other captains have sustained similar wounds or worse, and been returned to their ships.”

“I know you feel out of place on land, Everly,” St. Vincent replied with a slight, tired smile, “but the navy needs its captains—especially promising men like yourself—in one piece. You were damn fortunate, boy, that you did not die at Lissa.”

Everly nodded once, loath to open that Pandora’s box of remembrance. The battle of Lissa seemed so long ago, yet only six months had passed since he led a small squadron of frigates to fend off Commodore Dubordieu’s superior forces. The battle had been a crucial victory for the Royal Navy; the French attempt to use Nelson’s own tactics against the British resulted in the death or capture of over one thousand French sailors, and the ultimate loss of French naval power in the Adriatic Sea.

But that was not the first thing that came to Everly’s mind. What he remembered most was chaos and agony and blazing heat and the screams of his men when the shell from a French 18-pounder plowed into the quarterdeck of the
Hyperion
. The explosion had sent him careening down to the deck below in a hail of shattered wood, breaking his right leg near the hip. A stray splinter had sliced his left cheek down to the bone. Given the horrific conditions at the hospital in Malta, Everly knew he had been fortunate to avoid gangrene, blood poisoning, and other potentially fatal complications. He had survived, but his senior lieutenant, one of his young midshipmen, and the ship’s master had not. He would bear the mental and physical scars of that battle for the rest of his life.

“I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, lad,” Admiral St. Vincent said gruffly. “You know as well as I the bitter brew that is a captain’s life.”

Everly clenched his teeth, disturbed that these powerful emotions still held such sway over him, even after all these months, and even more disturbed that his face displayed them so openly. But he wasn’t ready to strike his colors yet.

“I belong at sea, my lord, with my men,” he insisted. “My duty lies with them.”

The admiral’s eyes glowed with renewed fury. He pounded the desktop with his fist and sent papers scattering. “Your duty is to England, sir, and the Admiralty decides how you will serve it best!”

Everly started to apologize, but St. Vincent waved him to silence.

“Never mind, boy, never mind,” the earl muttered. “Damn dirty business has me out of temper.” He rose from his seat and resumed his restless pacing. “You’ll be returned to command soon enough, but there is something you must do first.”

“My lord?” Perplexed by his patron’s words, as well as by his uncharacteristic moodiness, Everly leaned forward in his seat. “Would this have anything to do with why you asked me to your house rather than your office at the Admiralty, and why you keep looking out the window as if expecting someone else to arrive?”

“Clever man.” St. Vincent smiled and passed a weary hand over his brow. “Awake on all suits. That’s just what we need.”

The mantel clock had just wheezed the three-quarter hour when the door to the study creaked open on its massive hinges. Parkin reappeared and stood just over the threshold. “The Earl of Carlisle and the Honorable Grayson MacAllister,” he announced.

Everly mused that Parkin would have made an excellent ship’s master; his voice could be heard from the farthest reaches of the quarterdeck even in the worst gale. He pushed himself to his feet as the new arrivals entered the room. Parkin secured the door behind them.

“About bloody time, man,” the admiral blustered. “You’re late. Dawdling over your sherry, were you?”

The taller of the two gentlemen smiled slightly and inclined his head in greeting. “I thought it better if my driver took a more circuitous route and brought us in by your stables, out of sight. I apologize if my sense of discretion inconvenienced you, Admiral.”

St. Vincent harrumphed, his pale cheeks tinged with
red. “Dirty business,” he muttered again. “Well, let’s get on with this. Carlisle, may I present Captain Sir Jonathan Everly, late of the frigate
Hyperion
. Everly, this is the Earl of Carlisle, one of Castlereagh’s spymasters.”

Lord Carlisle quirked an eyebrow. “You flatter me, Admiral,” he drawled. He turned and extended a hand to Everly. “Captain. I’ve heard a great deal about you. You’re quite a hero. London was all abuzz after your exploits in the Adriatic.”

Everly shook the proffered hand and was surprised by the firm, calloused grip. He returned the earl’s polite nod. “Not a hero, my lord. We all must do our duty in time of war.”

Everly guessed the Earl of Carlisle’s age to be within two or three years on either side of his own thirty. To the casual eye, Carlisle appeared every inch the Corinthian: tall and handsome in a rugged way, his sable hair cropped in the fashionable “Brutus” style, his clothes of such precise cut that Weston had to be responsible for their make, his well-made top boots with nary a scuff or scratch on their glossy surface. He gave every impression of being nothing more than a bored society blade. Everly wasn’t fooled.

Much of Carlisle’s demeanor reminded the captain of a hunting cat. He had walked into the room with the stealthy grace of a leopard—indolent, yet prepared to spring at a moment’s notice. His body was that of an athlete, his slate gray eyes those of a predator—watchful, calculating, evaluating eyes that stripped Everly of all pretense and assessed his worth in the span of several heartbeats. Hairs rose on the back of Everly’s neck, and he matched Carlisle’s gaze with his best disciplinary stare.

“Do I meet your expectations, my lord?” he asked softly, in a tone that bordered on belligerent.

Some of the intensity left Carlisle’s face, and he smiled. “You exceed them, Captain. May I introduce my associated, the Honorable Grayson MacAllister. He will be working with you on this assignment.”

“Scotchmen,” St. Vincent growled. “You would have to bring one of
them
into my home, Carlisle.”

Everly ignored his patron’s prejudice and shook the younger man’s hand. Unlike his superior, MacAllister was slightly built, with a shock of pale blond hair. He regarded the captain with serious sea green eyes.

“This is an honor, sir.” He spoke without a trace of an accent, and smiled enigmatically at Everly’s surprise.

“Mr. MacAllister has worked for me for a number of years,” Carlisle explained. “For all his apparent youth he is an experienced agent, and adept at assuming any role required of him.”

“A Scotchman is a Scotchman,” the admiral stated, scowling. “I don’t approve, Carlisle.”

Carlisle shot the older man a warning look. “I’m not interested in your approval, St. Vincent. We have a job to do, one which requires my most talented men. If you wish to challenge my authority, I suggest you take it up with Lord Castlereagh.”

St. Vincent glared back. “No time for that. Sit down, all of you, and let us get on to business.” He lowered himself into his seat.

Everly did the same. Carlisle and MacAllister pulled lyre-backed chairs close to the admiral’s desk.

“I assume one of you will explain what all this is about,” Everly said. The tension in the room almost made him forget the pain in his leg. He regarded each man in turn, his patron last of all. “To what ‘assignment’ do you refer, my lord?”

St. Vincent frowned and grumbled something unintelligible. He waved a hand in Carlisle’s direction. “Tell him.”

The earl nodded. “There is no delicate way to explain, Captain, so I will be blunt.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “There is a traitor in the Admiralty.”

Everly’s eyes went wide and he stared at Carlisle as if the man had suddenly produced a French flag and started singing “La Marseillaise.”

“A traitor,” he repeated. The very concept was unthinkable. Unconscionable.

“Important orders have gone astray or vanished. Supply ships have been ambushed and their cargos taken. Our fleet movements in the Mediterranean are anticipated with frightening accuracy. The clues point to the same source.”

A red haze misted Everly’s vision. “Who would dare—” he choked.

“We don’t know, but whoever it is must be well-placed.” St. Vincent’s face was haggard. “Damned blackguard.”

“Ordinarily this would be a matter for my agents,” Carlisle continued. “But the navy is uncommonly close-knit; a stranger introduced into the Admiralty would be suspect. We cannot conduct an effective investigation. That is why we come to you, Captain.”

St. Vincent shifted in his chair. “We want this traitor flushed out as quickly as possible, Everly.”

“With all due respect, my lord, why did you select me for this mission? I am no spy.” Everly’s leg began to throb anew.

“True,” Carlisle interjected, “but you are uncommonly resourceful. You are a decorated officer, well known to the Admiralty staff. I am certain the traitor would not suspect you.”

A spy? Everly blinked. The word conjured up images of cloaked figures skulking in alleyways, exchanging illicit information. The very concept was foreign to him. He was a naval officer—what did he know of intelligence work?