Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

Although Georgiana had no direct knowledge of exactly what naval battle involved, she had spent many an evening listening to Burly Jack’s reminiscences, tales of glory and honour, descriptions of blood and gore, death and decay. She shivered and drew her jacket closer around her. Nathaniel Hawke could be the best damn naval captain in the world, but, outnumbered and disadvantaged by his ship, there was little doubt as to the outcome of any encounter. And the thought of it brought a shiver to her soul. If she were to lose him now…She bit at her lip and wrung her hands together. She knew what would happen if the French were to catch up with them. For the second time in Georgiana’s life she was sailing dangerously close to a watery grave, poised to topple. She dropped to her knees and prayed for a gale that would spirit the Pallas with wings, far, far away from the long guns of the French.

A dense sea fog shrouded the Pallas, as she swept slowly, steadily on, cutting a path through the vast Atlantic Ocean, blind but for her trust in her captain’s charts and compass. Silently stalking her prey through the muffled cloud that enveloped her. All calls had been stifled, all pipes quelled. She floated as a ghost ship ever closer to her quarry, ears straining, guns readied. Then they heard it, an eerie shout through the gloomy miasma. Fingers moved to cock their muskets, hands to quietly draw their swords. Captain Hawke whispered his orders and the Pallas responded mutely, slipping into position. A bell sounded close by, its clang deadened by the blanket of fog. Nathaniel waited. Waited. Biding his time. Breath by breath. Second by second. He only hoped his calculations were correct, there would be no room for error. One chance, and one chance alone, to take the prize or be damned in the process.

Even as his hand clenched, poised to give the final command, his mind flitted to the girl locked below in his cabin. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Could no longer deny his compulsion. Was glad even that she was here on his ship, in his care, for all the danger that it brought. He knew he was a scoundrel to think such a thing. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Kitty Wakefield? He had no right to gamble with Georgiana’s life, none but the knowledge of her likely fate at the hands of a French captain, or, even worse, a French crew. That was if she survived the wrecking of the Pallas. They were all supposedly governed by the gentlemanly rules of warfare. But Nathaniel knew that these were employed as and when it suited. Georgiana would stand little chance against either the Atlantic Ocean or their French opponents, and the thought lent strength to his resolve. There could be no failure. Not for her. Not for any of them. He could only hope that the Pallas would live up to her name—the Greek goddess of victory. With a steady hand and a courageous heart, Captain Hawke gave the order.

The full force of four carronades on the Pallas’ forecastle blasted at close range upon the hapless and unsuspecting French frigate Ville-de-Milan, inflicting substantial damage to the hull. In the lull that followed Captain Hawke personally led the small boarding party to secure the ship. In a matter of minutes the task had been completed. Nathaniel returned to the Pallas, ready to engage the second frigate positioned close by. The yells of her crew alerted him as to her precise position and he swung the Pallas round to hide her bow. The French guns fired before the manoeuvre was complete, shattering the foremast and splintering the bow. The Pallas’ carronades roared again, delivering their massive twenty-four-pound round shot with a snarling ferocity. The Coruna slipped behind the Ville-de-Milan, but Nathaniel had anticipated the move and was already leading his men across the barren boards of the first frigate to reach the second. Nothing could stop him, Georgiana would be safe and the prize his.

Georgiana shivered at the unnatural hush that surrounded her. No voices, no banging, no footsteps, no pipes, no bells. Only the gentle lap of water and the weary creaking of timber. Foreboding prickled at the nape of her neck and she was aware of a tight smothering tension. She sat rigidly in the small chair within the night cabin and waited. Sweat trickled in slow rivulets down her back. Fingers grew cold and numb. Silence. Suddenly an enormous explosion ricocheted around her, the blast echoing in her ears. Even locked below within the tiny cabin, the unmistakable odour of gunpowder pervaded. She leapt up from her seat. The Pallas’ guns were firing. Nathaniel must be cornered, under attack. Dear Lord! The ship shuddered violently, landing her forcefully to the floor. Men’s screams, voices shouting. Georgiana struggled to her feet. Fear rippled through her, but it would not stop her. She could no longer stay hidden and safe while the rest of the crew faced death and capture. Ship’s boy Sam Wilson needed her, able seaman Jack Grimly needed her, and then there were the others. And the most important name of all held close to her heart—Nathaniel Hawke. She would do what she must to help those that she had come to think upon as friends. For Nathaniel she would lay down her life. Without further ado she slid the key into the lock and turned the handle.

Scenes of mayhem greeted Georgiana as she ran along the gun deck. Surprisingly the long guns were run in and silent, gun teams at the ready. Neither was the usual screen of pungent blue smoke hanging in the air, but she scarcely had time to ponder upon it. Two massive holes gaped on both the starboard and larboard sides where a round shot had ripped its way through and fortunately departed again. Not so fortunate was the devastation it had reaped on its route. Part of the capstan had been destroyed and enormous splinters of wood lay all around. Worst still, Georgiana could see the surgeon tending a blood-soaked figure on the floor. Several other men slumped nearby, their faces ashen, their clothing ripped and red-stained. Blood pooled invisibly upon decks painted red for just such a purpose. She ran to the surgeon’s mate kneeling over a prone body.

‘Mr Murthly, can I assist you, sir?’

Robert Murthly, a sturdy young man with untidy red hair, looked up at the boy. ‘Captain wouldn’t be best pleased to find you here, Robertson—or should I say Lord George? Shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to dirty those fine letter-writing hands of yours.’

The gossipmongers had been busy. She looked beneath the sneer on the surgeon’s mate’s face and saw fear and fatigue. Little wonder he despised her, thinking her a pampered brat to be coddled in the captain’s cabin while the rest of the ship risked their lives. Surreptitiously she fastened her jacket, and hoped that the surrounding chaos would draw Murthly’s full attention. With so much blood and carnage she doubted that any man would have the time to notice the subtle change in Lord George Hawke’s appearance. Besides, the crew were about to learn there was a whole lot more to the captain’s nephew than they supposed. ‘I’m here to help, sir, just tell me what to do.’ Her voice was harsh and gritty, its tone as low as she could manage.

The surgeon’s mate wiped the sweat from his brow with bloodied fingers and regarded her with deliberate consideration. Most of the men were busy securing the French frigates, and the gun crews were not permitted to leave their stations. An extra pair of hands, even aristocratic ones, would come in useful.

‘Murthly!’ bellowed the surgeon. ‘Have a table shifted over here and quickly.’ He gestured to the mess tables that interspersed the long line of guns. ‘This man won’t make it below, losing too much blood. We’ll have to operate here. Run and fetch my instruments.’

Murthly looked at Georgiana. ‘Move the table like he says.’ Then the squat figure was off and running.

Georgiana, helped by one of the nearby powder boys, dragged the rough wooden structure that passed for a table across to the surgeon.

The surgeon scarcely looked at her, just dumped the haemorrhaging body down on to the surface that had so recently served up a dinner of salted meat and biscuit.

The seaman’s face was chalk-white and smeared with sweat, his lips trembling as he tried to suppress the moans of pain. She skimmed down and saw the ragged stump where what had been his hand hung. His breathing came fast and shallow and his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. No time for rum, nor for the opiates which would have deadened his agony.

Nimble fingers loosed the belt from her waist and looped it around just below the sailor’s slack elbow. She tightened the tourniquet and held the injured arm aloft. Her other hand touched to the man’s brow, its cool fingers wiping the sweat from his eyes.

The surgeon looked at her then, a suspicious expression of enquiry on his face.

She said nothing, just focused on the injured man lying so helplessly before her.

Murthly’s feet clattered back along the gun deck. He threw open the wooden box that he carried and handed the surgeon a large and wicked-looking knife. ‘Tourniquet already in place,’ he observed, and saw the surgeon’s eyes flit to the captain’s nephew.

‘Yes,’ he said drily. ‘Speed is our saviour,’ he proclaimed, ‘let’s not waste any more time.’ He paused before the blade contacted the bloodied pulp of reddened tissue and addressed Georgiana. ‘See what you can do for the others. There are clean linen strips within the box.’

She did as she was bid, using the knowledge she had gleaned from her furtive reading of Mr Hunter’s A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, and Gunshot Wounds. A fascinating book, if not one of which her stepfather would have approved for either her or Francis. Thankfully her stepbrother’s secret medical ambition had led him to lodge the book safely beneath his bed. When the last of the men had been transferred to the sick berth down on the lower deck, Georgiana slipped away to discover what had become of Nathaniel. She had just made her way up the companion ladder when the answer to her question appeared most suddenly, for, as she stepped from the last rung up on to the uppermost deck, she practically collided with Captain Hawke.

‘George!’ The word escaped unbidden, as his hands closed around her upper arms. His gaze swept over her, taking in the dried blood streaking her face, the pale fragility of the skin beneath and the dark stained clothing, and a pulse of horror beat in his breast. Behind him Lieutenant Anderson cleared his throat, and with a start he came crashing back down to the reality of the situation. Not only had Georgiana blatantly disobeyed his order, but she was now risking her secret in an awkward situation. Perdition, but the girl seemed utterly determined to destroy her own reputation despite all his efforts. His eyes darkened. ‘Get back down below, Robertson,’ he barked.

Georgiana blinked, the breath caught in her throat. He was safe, unhurt. Her heart leapt at the sight of him. Thank God. But even as she relaxed with relief she saw the change wash over his face. And the tide that it brought with it was not one of love or even affection, but one of blazing fury. ‘Nathan …’ She remembered herself in time. ‘Captain Hawke,’ she amended, deepening her voice.

‘That is an order.’ His words were hard and angry, a stranger to her ear. Just as she turned to retreat she caught sight of the two smartly dressed French captains standing proudly behind him, their intense, dark eyes trained on Nathaniel. For one awful minute she froze, suddenly aware of how close she’d come to betraying herself. Wandering about the ship without the protection of her bindings, almost calling the captain by his given name, and all in full view of not only their own men, but also the French!

It was Nathaniel who recovered first, releasing his rather overtly intimate grasp on his ship’s boy’s shoulder. The breath had stilled in his throat, alarm bells ringing in his head. But the face he presented to the captives was calm and self-assured. ‘Lieutenant Pensenby will escort you both to your quarters. Those of your men taken aboard will be held below, the remainder will be well treated upon your own ships. Please make your needs known to Mr Pensenby. I shall endeavour to call upon you in a short while.’

Only when his prisoners had been removed from earshot did Captain Hawke turn to his ship’s boy. ‘I’ll have the key, if you please.’ The handsome features appeared completely devoid of emotion. He did not trust himself to reveal a hint of the torrent that raged within him.

‘Yes, sir.’ From within her pocket she produced the cabin door key and held it to him.

He grasped it, taking care great care not to brush against her still bloodstained fingers. The dark eyes remained carefully shuttered as he turned away. A muscle twitched in the firm line of his jaw. ‘Lieutenant Anderson, escort my nephew to my night cabin. See to it that the door is locked, from the outside, and return the key to me.’

Georgiana’s turbulent blue eyes swung to meet his, but his gaze remained fixed hard and uncompromisingly ahead.

‘I’ll be in the sick berth with the surgeon, Mr Anderson.’ With that the tall figure climbed down the companion ladder and strode off to check upon the injuries his men had sustained.

A cold breeze raked across the deck, rippling the British flag above. And below John Anderson moved quietly to take hold of the boy’s arm.

Walter Praxton lifted the tankard before him and sipped at the ale. The Crown was quiet on account of the Impress Service’s activity in the area. Only once the Leander had sailed would the men return from the surrounding villages. A warm fire blazed in the hearth, lightening the grey misery of the cold December day. He barely noticed the slant of winter rain that pattered against the mullioned glass windows, so intent was he on the small weasely man seated opposite.

Bob Blakely was five foot in height, of skinny build with hair the colour of the rats that meandered leisurely through the streets of Portsmouth. A short ragged moustache perched upon his upper lip, and a peppering of stubble added to the impression that washing did not constitute one of Mr Blakely’s favourite pastimes. He sucked on a long pipe and regarded the rich gent with small glassy eyes.

‘Like I said, Mr Praxton, sir, me contact saw the boy you’re after pressed aboard a frigate that was then in dock. They don’t normally take boys, but he wasn’t alone, was he?’

Walter Praxton raised an enquiring brow that did not so much as crease the perfection of his handsome face.

‘Was with them three seamen from on the mail. It was them that the Press Gang was after. Expect they took the lad ‘cos he was there in the wrong place at the wrong time, so to speak.’

‘Which frigate?’ The ale tasted smooth and mellow to Mr Praxton’s jaded pallet.

A grubby hand displaced the runny discharge seeping from his nose before Bob Blakely saw fit to continue. He swigged at the ale, smacking his thin chapped lips as the last of it slid like nectar down his throat. ‘Could do with another of those.’ He eyed Mr Praxton hopefully.

As the ever-parched Bob had proved himself efficient in obtaining the information that he was so eager to learn, Walter averted his eyes from the black grimy fingernails cradling the empty tankard and gestured for the serving woman to fetch another jug of ale. ‘We wouldn’t want you going thirsty. Drink up, my good man. Remember the payment we’ve arranged.’

Bob Blakely tapped his nose and gave the rich man a sly wink. ‘You’re a gentleman, Mr Praxton, and if I don’t have the info that you’re after, me name’s not Bob Blakely.’

Walter stifled a retort and forced a smile to his face.

‘Was the Pallas, as sailin’ under Captain Hawke, sir. Left here start of last month, but under sealed orders. No one knows her destination, but me friend—’ he stressed the word most forcibly ‘—in a certain place, heard tell that she’s due back before Christmas. Ain’t that ‘andy. Not long to wait for that boy of yours, if he’s still alive, that is.’

In a furtive gesture Praxton slid three guinea pieces to the man and bid him good day. Pulling his hat low and turning up the collar of his great brown coat, he braced himself to face the onslaught of the hostile English weather.

‘Nice doin’ business with you, gov,’ came the contented reply, and Bob Blakely settled down to the comfort of another night within the snug warmth of the tavern.

Chapter Seven

It was the aspect of war that Nathaniel hated. The price to be paid for victory and defeat alike. Admiralty might issue the orders, but it was not the old men in their elaborate uniforms that met the round shot, or took the splinters. They did not shield the ship with their bodies, or run with valour into a fracas of whirling cutlass and musket. Men that had been pressed to the service against their will, men who risked all in the hope of sharing in the prize, a financial salve to the poverty that afflicted their lives—it was a tragic necessity of war, and it never failed to cut Nathaniel to the quick. His ship, his men, his responsibility. And just as he rejoiced in their victory, so he suffered with their loss. Each death remained scored within his mind, each fallen seaman rendered immortal by Captain Hawke. Compassion. It was his biggest strength, winning the men to his cause, buying their loyalty for a lifetime…and also his gaping weakness, to feel for ever their torment.

He touched the sailor’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. Bravely fought. How fares your leg?’

‘It’ll mend, Captain. Now that t’surgeon’s had his way, splinter’s out. Says I should keep t’leg, and gain a limp.’

‘No shame in that, Brown. There’s always a place aboard my ship for a willing seaman, limping or not.’ The captain moved on to the midshipman whose face had been sliced open by a flying splinter. ‘Mr Hartley.’

The young gentleman nodded his head, the jagged stitching on his cheek already turning a purple coloration.

‘You did a good job, Hartley. We’ve taken the day and the prize is rich indeed. A small scar won’t do your future within His Majesty’s Navy any harm. Your courage has been noted.’

Mr Hartley’s smile pulled at the weeping wound. ‘Thank you, Captain, but I fancy my young lady won’t see it that way.’

‘I have it on the best authority,’ retaliated Nathaniel, his dark eyes lightening, ‘that ladies see such marks as a badge of bravery. I’m sure it will do your reputation no harm at all.’

Captain and midshipman laughed together before Nathaniel moved on to visit the rest of his men.

‘Captain Hawke.’ The surgeon hurried over to him and walked some way along the deck beside him before raising the subject foremost in his mind. ‘Ship’s boy Robertson, sir, seems to have a wealth of medical knowledge. With whom did he study?’

Nathaniel looked at the surgeon in surprise. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Mr Belmont.’

The surgeon blinked back at him. ‘Your neph—I mean, the boy, clearly has treated wounds before. Such knowledge is not come by easily. He must have experience of working in the surgical field. I wondered whom it was he assisted? Some of the techniques he employed were specialised to say the least. Almost as if they came straight from the pages of one of John Hunter’s medical texts.’

A vision of a blood-soaked Georgiana drifted into Nathaniel’s mind. So that was where the blood had come from. ‘Am I to understand that the boy helped in the treatment of the wounded?’

‘Why, yes. Robertson was a marvel. Young Richardson would have bled to death without his quick thinking. Foot completely severed, you know. The boy’s got a feel for surgery, Captain, and it would be a shame to see it wasted. I’d be happy to have him help down here.’

Georgiana Raithwaite had quit the security of his cabin amidst the pounding fury of battle to help tend the wounded! Nathaniel reeled. The girl was incredible, infuriatingly disobedient, without a thought for her own safety, or indeed the discovery of her secret, but incredible all the same. He knew that he would have defied the First Lord of the Admiralty himself had he been ordered to lie useless within a cabin when all around a battle was sounding. A sigh escaped his lips. They were not so very dissimilar after all, the captain and his ship’s boy. Even if that slim dark-haired waif was hellbent on ruining her reputation. With a heavy heart he made his way steadily towards the cabin that housed the woman in question.

Georgiana was sitting in the wooden chair, reading by the light of the flickering lantern. Or that at least looked to be what she was doing, by virtue of the book balanced carefully before her. She did not move upon Nathaniel’s entry to the cabin, only glanced up at him with questioning eyes.

Somehow she had managed to cleanse the blood from her hands that were folded neatly before her. The same could not be said for the rest of her uniform. The darkened jacket had been hung over the back of the chair, leaving him a clear view of a blood-splattered shirt and the shapely figure it failed to conceal.

Two voices spoke at once. One mellow and deeply masculine, the other clear and soft. ‘I’m sorry.’

They stared at each other in surprise.

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