him.
Sebastian said, “Mr. Franklin tells me you’re attempting to secure the release of your son, Nathan.”
“That’s right.” The old man rubbed one hand over his swollen right knee. “Been in London near two months now, for all the good it’s done us. Seems to me we spend most of our time at this spa, drinking these nasty-tasting waters. My Elizabeth insists on it—says it’s good for my rheumatism.” He nodded over Sebastian’s shoulder. “There she comes now.”
Pushing to his feet again, Sebastian turned to see a tall, dark-haired young woman walking toward them, a glass of the spa’s famous curative waters in her hands. She wore a simple cambric gown made high at the neck. It was neither stylish nor new, but she wore it with an unconscious grace. Unlike her father, she scrutinized Sebastian’s card with care, then looked at him speculatively.
“Mr. Franklin tells us you may be able to speak to the Admiralty about Nathan.”
“I trust he didn’t raise your hopes too high. But I’ll do what I can, yes.”
She was attractive if not exactly beautiful, with a long nose and widely set brown eyes and a generous mouth. She was not the woman whose silhouette Alexander Ross had framed and hung above his bed. But she might well be the mysterious woman who had visited his rooms the night of his death.
Sebastian watched her settle on the bench beside her father. “Tell me about your brother.”
“He was originally taken by the HMS
“And where is the
“With the British fleet, off Toulon. At first we tried sending his documents to Sir Edmond Pellew, the Commander in Chief of the squadron. They were hand delivered to Pellew, in person. We expected the Navy to release Nathan within days, but nothing happened. Nothing! They know he’s an American. They knew that when they kidnapped him! But it doesn’t matter. Nathan says there’s Swedes and Portuguese on board with him, all impressed, just like him.”
“You’ve heard from your brother?”
She nodded. “He’s managed to get several letters through to us.”
“Who have you spoken to here in London?”
It was her father who answered. “We’ve been to the Admiralty on any number of occasions. But we’ve only been allowed to speak to low-level functionaries. Our efforts to meet with Viscount Melville have been repeatedly rebuffed.”
“So what did you do then?”
“The American Charge d’Affaires—Mr. Jonathan Russell— got us a meeting with the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs. A Sir Hyde Foley.”
Something of Sebastian’s reaction must have shown on his face, because Miss Bateman said, “You know Sir Hyde?”
“I do. And I suspect my opinion of the gentleman matches your own. What happened?”
“Condescending twit,” muttered Bateman. He took a sip of his waters and shuddered. “Prattled on and on about how as ‘provincials’ we obviously didn’t understand the workings of the British government, since the Foreign Office had nothing to do with the Admiralty. I said, ‘Well, I may not know anything about that, but I do know something about war, and that’s what you lot are going to have on your hands if you keep kidnapping honest American men.”
Sebastian hid a smile. “So what did Sir Hyde do then?”
Bateman’s brows lowered. “Kicked us out, he did.”
“Is that when you met Mr. Alexander Ross?”
The old man nodded. “We were coming out of the Foreign Office just as he was going in. Elizabeth here was somewhat distressed by the encounter—”
“I was in a towering rage,” she added darkly.
“And Mr. Ross kindly paused to see if he could offer any assistance.”
“So you told him about Nathan?”
“Yes. And he said he knew this bigwig at the Admiralty and offered to write him on our behalf.”
“When was this?” Sebastian asked. “That you encountered him, I mean.”
“A couple of weeks ago, I suppose. I can’t say for certain.”
“Did you ever meet with him again?”
Miss Bateman nodded. “Yes. He came to see us here—or rather, at the Ship and Pilot—several days later. In order to look at our supporting documents and confirm his understanding of the events before he actually wrote the letter. Unfortunately, I suspect he died before he was able to finish the letter, for he was to send it with our documents, and he never did.”
“So you never saw him again after that?”
Father and daughter exchanged guarded glances.
“Well, did you?” prompted Sebastian.
“Not exactly.”
Sebastian shook his head. “What does that mean?”
She said, “We
Sebastian studied her pale, strained face. “Where was this?”
“Not far from here. Papa had been drinking a glass of the waters, and we were walking back toward the Ship and Pilot. Mr. Ross came out of one of the houses on Market Street, but he turned and walked away very quickly. As I said, I don’t think he saw us.”
“You’re certain it was him?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bateman. “It stays light quite late these days. I may be old, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”
“Do you remember the house? Would you be able to show it to me?”
“Gladly,” said Bateman, setting aside his glass and making a move to get up.
His daughter put out her hand, stopping him. “Not until you’ve finished your waters, Papa.”
He made a face but dutifully drank it all down.
They walked together across the field, past a vast rope walk where sweating men were turning cables nearly a foot in girth. The air was thick with the scent of sun-warmed grass and tar and the smells of the river. Just beyond the field they came to a lane bounded on one side by modest but well-kept houses, and Miss Bateman drew up.
“This one,” she said, nodding to the small, tidy house with whitewashed bricks and yellow trim and shutters that stood near the corner. She turned to look at Sebastian, her brows drawing together with thought. “It’s Ross you’re really interested in, isn’t it? This all has something to do with his death.”
Sebastian saw no reason to deny it. “Yes. But if there is any way I can help your brother, I will.”
Her nostrils flared. “You English. You like to talk about justice and personal freedom. But the truth is, they’re just meaningless, hollow phrases that only serve to make you feel good about yourselves. The only thing that matters to you is maintaining the maritime supremacy you’ve enjoyed since Trafalgar.”
There was something about this woman—her obvious intelligence, or perhaps it was simply her passion—that reminded Sebastian of Hero Jarvis. She might lack Miss Jarvis’s polish and inbred acumen, but the two women shared a similar inner strength and determination and calm resourcefulness.
“That may well be,” he said. “But somehow I doubt that expressing those sentiments to the Admiralty will do much to advance your brother’s cause.”
She colored. “No; you’re right, of course. I do beg your pardon. It’s just ...”
“I understand your frustration. I promise, I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you,” she said.
He stood for a moment, watching her support her father down the flagway, toward the Ship and Pilot. Then he turned to walk up the short path to the front door.
He was just reaching the front step when the door opened. Mr. Carl Lindquist came bustling out onto the front stoop, then drew up sharply, his eyes widening at the sight of Sebastian.
