She offered her hand.
"I do know what you are thinking. I try to accept it, but I shall never do so without pain." She glanced around the room, seeing the quick glances, the knowing smiles, recognising them. Sir Wilfred Lafargue, one of London 's leading lawyers and a friend of Sillitoe's, who had helped with her unexpected inheritance from her dead husband. And a red-faced city merchant to whom she had been introduced, probably at some similar reception. Men of influence, and authority. Not the kind who fought and died in battle, at sea with Richard's ships, or those who stood shoulder to shoulder in the line. And those like Lord Rhodes, solid, reliable and unimaginative, who planned their battles behind the desks of Admiralty.
She said, "You must ask yourself, my dear, do I love this man enough? Enough to wait?"
A man she knew to be Sillitoe's uncomplaining secretary peered up at her. "My lady, I am asked to escort you to the terrace." He blinked rapidly as a clock began to chime. The music had stopped, she noticed.
Bolitho said, "I shall find your shawl. It will be cool outside."
She smiled and touched his face. "No matter. I want people to see us like this, as we are."
There were lights on the terrace, but the river beyond the wall was in darkness, like black glass.
Bolitho looked over the water, his ear picking up the heavy stroke of oars. A barge of some kind, moving steadily against the current with little regard for the oarsmen.
Sillitoe turned to greet them. "Now you will understand why I did not invite the prime minister. The Prince Regent cannot abide the fellow!" It seemed to amuse him.
Sillitoe glanced up at a cluster of lanterns, and took Catherine's arm.
"Here, if you please. Trust me." She could feel the intensity, the tenacity which he did not try to conceal.
She stood quite still in the light, oblivious to the others chosen by Sillitoe to be present at this moment, feeling the cool breeze playing over her bare shoulders. She knew Richard was close by, but for just these fleeting moments, she was alone.
The oars were tossed and the barge came alongside the jetty, men leaping out to make fast the mooring lines, others to lay a scarlet carpet on the pale stones.
The Prince would pass her without a glance; he would not even remember her. He knew many women, and had an appetite to match.
She almost held her breath, and thought suddenly of Sillitoe's enigmatic words. Trust me. When she looked again, she saw the Prince striding towards her. exactly as she remembered him from the evening at Carlton House.
He was elegantly dressed in the very latest fashion, but even in the flickering lights it could not disguise completely the physical price he was paying for his excesses. His hair was swept forward in a style followed by many of the younger bloods, and no one could doubt his energy or the quickness of his mind.
She realised that no one was speaking, that the Prince had stopped, facing her, his eyes moving over her face and throat, and to the glittering diamond pendant shaped like an open fan. It was like being stripped naked, like an insistent caress.
He said, "Lady Somervell! Had I known you were to be here, I would have ridden with all haste on the finest charger in the Royal Mews!" He took her hand and held it. "Indeed, I have thought of you often. The lady who is always too busy to become bored, I think you said when last we met?" He kissed her hand, taking his time. "You are very beautiful." He released her hand and looked at the others. "Ah, Lord Rhodes. I trust you have affairs in order for me?" He did not wait for or expect an answer. "There you are, Sillitoe, you rascal." They shook hands. More like conspirators than friends, thought Catherine. '
The Prince saw Bolitho and greeted him warmly. "My admiral of England." Catherine knew that was for her. What she had said on that same occasion at Carlton House. So long ago. Before Indomitable; before she had forced herself to write and tell Richard of Zenoria's terrible death. Tell Adam…… Like yesterday.
He continued, "I have studied all your reports on the; American war. I agree that the sooner it is settled the better for all concerned." He turned and looked at Catherine. "And what of Malta. Sir Richard? It is important for our security. And it is important to me. I must know, so what say you?" He reached out and took Catherine's arm. "Shall you do it?" '
Catherine could sense Richard's anguish, something like physical pain, just as she was very aware of the others standing nearby. How would they see it, even if they understood? Arrogance, or a display of temperament, when it was neither.
Sillitoe stepped into the circle of light. "A moment, I pray; you, sir." He held out a piece of paper. "This was just delivered to me by Admiralty messenger."
Rhodes muttered angrily, "First I knew of it!"
Sillitoe ignored him. "May I, sir?"
The Prince smiled, when seconds earlier he had been angered by the interruption. "This is your house, damn you."
Sillitoe looked at Catherine but spoke to Bolitho. "A despatch from the port admiral at Plymouth, Sir Richard. Captain James Tyacke has withdrawn his request for transfer to the West African squadron and has placed himself at your disposal for his duties as flag captain."
Catherine slipped away from the Prince's grasp, and went to him.
"They have spoken for you, Richard. The need is theirs, too."
The Prince Regent pursed his lips in a little smile. Thank you, Lady Catherine. Thank you. I know I have been a witness to something, although I know not what. I am not ungrateful.
Something might be arranged to enable you to visit Malta." He nodded to himself, as she had seen him do before. "Yes, it shall be done." He seemed to relax. "Now, there was talk of a special claret, Sillitoe. Lead on!" But his eyes lingered on Catherine, and her hand on Bolitho's arm. Desire certainly, but there was also envy.
Later, much later, when they were leaving Sillitoe's house, there were still several carriages waiting in the drive. The Prince Regent had disappeared in his barge as quietly as he had arrived.
Bolitho looked up at the stars, and thought, again with disquiet, of Catherine and the Prince.
She said, "I left my shawl behind!"
"I shall fetch it."
He was surprised at the strength of her grip. Wo. Let us go to Chelsea. Be together. Lie together. It is all I want."
Bolitho turned quickly. "Who is that?"
It was A very.
"Still here, George? What is it?" Although he thought he knew. Like Tyacke. The Happy Few.
"I wondered if I could ride with you to Chelsea, Sir Richard."
Catherine stepped between them, her shoulders pale in the reflected lights.
"Did she leave without you, George?" She saw him nod. She slipped her arms through theirs, linking them; she was almost as tall as they.
"Then ride with us. And tomorrow, you will come to Falmouth with us."
He smiled, the sadness held at bay. "Willingly, my lady."
From his study window Sillitoe watched the carriage move out on to the road. He frowned. There were still too many overstaying their welcome.
He would do something about that.
He picked up the thin silk shawl, which she had left in the ante-room by the library. He could smell her. Like jasmine.
Then he kissed it and folded it inside his coat and strode out to do what he must.
3. Adam
Captain Adam Bolitho flattened the chart across his cabin table and glanced at the final calculations of the passage, although he knew them by heart. Around and above him the frigate, His Britannic Majesty's Ship Valkyrie of forty-two guns, held steadily on course, her reduced sails barely filling. It was early May but there was still an edge to the wind, as he had discovered during his customary morning walk on deck.
It was a time he usually liked. A ship coming to life, with the first glimpse of a horizon. Decks swabbed and holy stoned the boatswain and the carpenter comparing their lists of work for the new day. Sails to be brought down and repaired, rigging inspected and spliced wherever necessary. Water casks scoured out and prepared for refilling, and the end of stale, monotonous food, for the moment. Valkyrie was returning to harbour, to the main naval base at Halifax, Nova Scotia, the last real British foothold on the North American coast.