dealt with the Algerines. And with a certain Spanish connection.” He smiled slightly. “I see that interests you?” He turned as muffled thuds came from the direction of the wardroom. Adam knew of the invitation, and that Montrose’s captain would be there also. As a guest, as was the custom, although Adam had never known any captain refused entry to a wardroom in his own ship.
Bethune said, “In any case, I did not have to press Lieutenant Avery. It seems he has nothing for which to return.”
I have a ship. George Avery has nothing.
“I look forward to meeting him again. My uncle,” he hesitated, “and Lady Somervell spoke highly of him. As a friend.”
Bethune picked up his untouched glass of wine.
“I give you a sentiment, Adam: ‘To absent friends.’” He drank deeply and grimaced. “God, what foul stuff!”
They both knew it was to hold at bay something far deeper, but when Captain Forbes and his first lieutenant arrived to escort them to the wardroom, they sensed nothing unusual.
Adam saw Forbes’ eyes rest briefly on the old Bolitho sword, which lay beside Bethune’s.
Why had he not seen it for himself? How could he have doubted it? It was still there, like a hand reaching out.
The lifeline.
3. A Matter of Pride
SIR WILFRED LAFARGUE waited while Spicer, his clerk, gathered up a bulky file of documents, and then folded his hands on the empty desk.
“I foresee several problems, perhaps serious ones, arising in the near future. But insurmountable? I think not.”
Normally, such a comment would leave a client hopeful, if not entirely satisfied. But Lafargue, as a lawyer and the senior partner of this prestigious firm which bore his name, was conscious only of its lack of substance.
He knew it was because of his visitor, standing now by the far window in this vast office. It was Lafargue’s favourite view of the City of London, and the dome of St Paul ’s, a constant reminder of its power and influence.
Lafargue was always in command; from the moment the tall doors were opened to admit a client, potential or familiar, his routine never varied. There was a chair directly opposite this imposing desk, forcing the client to face the full light of the windows, more like a victim than one who would eventually be charged a fee which might make him blanch and reconsider before returning. Except that they always did return.
But this one was different. He had known Sillitoe for a good many years; Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick, as he now was. The Prince Regent’s Inspector-General, and a man of formidable connections long before that. Feared, hated, but never ignored. Those who did regretted it dearly.
Sillitoe was a man of moods, and this again unsettled Lafargue; it broke the pattern of things and was disconcerting. Restless, unable to remain still for more than a few minutes, he seemed disturbed by something which had not yet been revealed.
Lafargue, as usual, was expensively dressed, his coat and breeches cut by one of London ’s leading tailors, but the clothing could not completely disguise the signs of good living which made him appear older than his fifty-eight years. Sillitoe on the other hand had never changed; he was lean, hard, as if anything superfluous or wasteful had long since been honed away. A good horseman, he was said to exercise regularly, his secretary panting beside him while he outlined one or another of his schemes. He was also a swordsman of repute. For Lafargue it made the comparison even more difficult to accept. Sillitoe was the same age as himself.
Sillitoe was motionless, watching something below, perhaps the carriages wending their way towards Fleet Street, perhaps merely waiting for something. Lafargue saw that the doors were once more closed; Spicer had departed. As senior clerk he was invaluable, and although he appeared to be very dull he never missed the slightest nuance or inflection. Even here, at Lincoln ’s Inn, which Lafargue considered the very centre of English law, there were some things which should and must remain private. This conversation was one of them.
He said, “I have studied all the deeds available. Sir Richard’s nephew Adam Bolitho, once known as Pascoe, is deemed the legal heir to the Bolitho estate and adjoining properties as listed…” He stopped, frowning, as Sillitoe said, “Get on with it, man.” He had not raised his voice.
Lafargue swallowed hard. “However, Sir Richard’s widow and dependant, the daughter, will have some rights in the matter. They are supported by the trust instituted by Sir Richard. It may well be that Lady Bolitho will want to install herself at Falmouth where she did, in fact, enjoy a conjugal residency at one time.”
Sillitoe rubbed his forehead. What was the point? Why had he come? Lafargue was a celebrated lawyer. Otherwise neither of us would be here. He controlled his impatience. Lafargue would act when the time came. If it did…
He looked across at the other buildings, the small green expanses of parks and quiet squares, and saw St Paul ’s. Where the nation, or a select few, would gather to pay homage to a hero. Some with genuine grief, others there only to be seen and admired. Sillitoe had never understood why any sane man would volunteer to spend his life at sea. To him, a ship was only a necessary form of transport. Like being caged, unable to move or act for himself. But he had accepted that others had different views, his nephew George Avery among them.
When they had last met he had offered him a position, one both important and, in time, lucrative. Sillitoe never threw money to the winds without proof of ability, and his nephew was a mere lieutenant, who had been passed over for promotion after being taken prisoner by the French; he had been freed only to face a court martial for losing his ship.
Any other man would have jumped at the opportunity, or at least shown some gratitude. Instead, Avery had returned to his appointment as Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag lieutenant, and must have been with him when he had been killed.
He said flatly, “And what of Viscountess Somervell?” He did not turn from the window, although he heard the intake of breath. Another lawyer’s ploy.
“In the eyes of the law, she has no rights. Had they been at liberty to marry…”
“And the people? What will they say? The woman who inspired their hero, who displayed courage when most would fall back in despair? What of her part?”
He knew Lafargue would think he was referring to Catherine’s bravery and strength in the open boat after the shipwreck; he was intended to. But Sillitoe was seeing something very different, something which had preyed on his mind and had never released him since he and his men had burst into the house by the river. Bruised and bleeding, stripped naked and with her wrists tied cruelly behind her back, she had fought her attacker. Sillitoe had held her against his body and covered her with a sheet or curtain, he could not remember what it had been or the exact order of things. His men beating her attacker, dragging him down the stairs, and then those moments alone with her, her head against his shoulder, her hair beautiful in disarray.
A nightmare. And he had wanted her. Then and there.
“The people? Who listens to the people?” Lafargue was regaining his self-control. His old arrogance.
Sillitoe turned his back on the city, his face in shadow.
“In France they listened. Eventually!”
Lafargue watched him, sensing the bitterness, the anger. And something else. He recalled Catherine Somervell coming here to consult him, at Sillitoe’s suggestion, on a matter of purchasing the lease of a building where Bolitho’s estranged wife lived, at her husband’s expense. Belinda Bolitho had been horrified to discover that her home was owned by the woman she most hated. A woman scorned.
Lafargue’s eyes sharpened professionally. No, there was far more to it than that. He watched Sillitoe, dressed all in grey as was his habit, move swiftly to the opposite side of the room. He had the ear of the Prince Regent, and when the King, drifting in madness, eventually died, who could say to what heights he might not rise?
Lady Somervell… he had thought of her as Catherine just now, which showed that he was unusually overwrought… was the key. Lafargue remembered her entering this room. She had walked straight towards him,
