‘Done, sorted, all agreed.’ He waved a hand towards the secretary. ‘Tompion’s coming, too, with his cipher books and the charts and so forth. Can you be ready by Tuesday?’
Two days? ‘Yes, my lord.’
His brother Daniel’s valet could drag his stuff out of storage and beat the moths out of it, he supposed. It wouldn’t take more than a day to replenish his stocks of linen and call on his bootmaker. His brother was still at the town house, pleased to see him and confiding wearily that staying put throughout the summer was the cheapest option. ‘Priscilla’s gone off with the children to stay with her mother at Worthing,’ Lord Howarth had said with the air of a man off the leash. ‘Too unfashionable to stay in town at this time of year. Don’t like to argue with her, not now. She’s increasing. Again.’
The downing of a number of bumpers of strong drink to celebrate the forthcoming arrival of another little Stanier would doubtless help him pass this evening, at least. Nathan pulled his attention back to the charts spread out on the wide map table and joined with Melville in deciding exactly what they needed to take with them. His mood had changed. If he really had got that coveted promotion, a challenging mission, then soon, surely, that dull internal ache would disappear and he would find his old self-sufficiency again?
‘Will you tell me more about the pirates, Cousin Clemence? Please?’ The eleven-year-old Grand Duke of Maubourg presented himself in front of Clemence’s wicker chair, hair in his eyes, a scrape on his cheek and mud all round the bottoms of his trousers. He seemed to be enjoying his English summer holiday as much as his parents must savour their regular escapes from court life at Maubourg.
His stepfather, her cousin Lord Sebastian Ravenhurst, sprawled on a rug at the duchess’s feet, having informed his mother that Freddie had exhausted him. His unsympathetic parent merely dumped his baby daughter on his admirably flat stomach and laughed.
‘Don’t plague Cousin Clemence,’ he said now. ‘She wants a rest, too.’
That was true. A morning of exploring the gardens with Lady Standon—Cousin Jessica—who was interested in which exotic species she might import for her glass houses, a close interrogation from Mr Ravenhurst—antiquarian and collector, Cousin Theo—on the use of mahogany in furniture in the West Indies, and a spirited game of bat and ball with Freddie, his stepfather and Lord Dereham—Cousin Ashe—had left her glad to sit down and finally warm enough to shed one of the cashmere shawls she was wrapped in.
Clemence thought she was getting a grip on who was who, who was married to which cousin and what had been happening in their lives lately, but it was making her head spin.
Freddie was still looking hopeful. He had the great brown eyes of his mother, Eva, and, like the grand duchess, was skilled at looking innocent and appealing when it suited him.
‘Go and talk to Street,’ she suggested with a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘He used to be a pirate.’
‘No!’ The brown eyes grew huge and Freddie turned to gaze in awe at Street, who stood on the edge of the lawn, arms folded, One-Eye sitting at his feet. Clemence was not certain what he thought he was guarding her against, but she found his stolid bulk curiously comforting and Jessica was deeply impressed with the Creole recipes he had introduced to the cook.
‘But yes. Although you had better ask your mama first.’ Eva might take a poor view of her only son being sent to play with a pirate.
‘You could take the boat out on the lake,’ Eva said serenely, fanning herself against the heat of what everyone assured Clemence was a hot September day.
‘But—’
‘Freddie swims very well,’ his doting mama assured her. ‘But no cutlasses!’ she called after her son as Freddie took to his heels.
It occurred to Clemence that she should have asked her hostess first before introducing a pirate into the household. ‘I should have told you all about Street sooner,’ she confessed. ‘I hope no one minds? Only he saved my life, and he is quite reformed.’ She crossed her fingers.
‘I thought Captain Stanier had done that.’ Jessica sat up, pushing her wide-brimmed hat back from her face.
‘He did, several times. But Street saved me from being shot in the galley when there was the battle with the navy.’ She woke up every night, shuddering with terror at the memory of those moments when she had been convinced she was going to die, hearing the explosion of the shot, seeing the eyes of the man and his extended arm as he took aim.
Oddly the nightmares had only begun since Nathan had left, almost as though the knowledge of his nearness had kept them at bay. She wondered, when she braced herself to think about it, whether it was the fact that Nathan had not been there when it happened that made it so frightening in retrospect. Last night had been the worst yet. She had woken to find herself drenched with sweat, Eliza’s arms around her, trying to shake her out of the nightmare.
‘We have some naval guests arriving soon,’ Jessica continued as they all watched Street settling to the oars with Freddie in the bows, his arms clasped round One-Eye’s neck. ‘Perhaps we had better forget Street’s former employment while they are here.’
‘Navy in the plural, my dear?’ Gareth, Lord Standon, passed her a glass of lemonade. ‘I thought it was just George Hoste we were expecting today. Oh, and that idiot Polkington and his sisters.’
‘He might be an idiot—he is certainly the world’s worst gossip—but I feel sorry for the girls.’
‘You should have invited some more bachelors, in that case.’ Gareth lay back in his chair. ‘There is Harris coming this afternoon and the curate will be at dinner, but we’ve three young ladies to be entertained.’
‘I certainly don’t need any bachelors,’ Clemence said hastily.
‘Nonsense, all unmarried girls need bachelors to practise on. That was what was missing from my life and look what happened to me as a result,’ Jessica observed, exchanging a smile with her husband that curled Clemence’s toes in her slippers. ‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘Hoste is unwed, although he is a lost cause—far too indolent for marriage—but the other two may be single for all I know.’
‘Surely you know who you invited, dear,’ the duchess observed.
‘Hoste is in the middle of some urgent navy business and asked if he could bring them,’ Jessica said vaguely. ‘Oh, look! The hound has jumped in after the ducks. And Freddie has fallen overboard. And there goes Street.’
Quite who was rescuing who, it was difficult to tell. The lake was not deep, but it was muddy and full of weed and the boy and the man were laughing too hard to swim properly and One-Eye was enjoying himself trying to catch ducks, and the rowing boat had overturned and by the time an elegant carriage with a crest on the door drew up the butler was forced to escort the occupants to the lakeside and a scene of chaos.
The entire house party was gathered by the water, shouting encouragement as Street waded to the bank, Freddie over one shoulder and pond weed draped like a collapsing wig about his ears. One-Eye heaved himself out, his jaws full of a struggling duck, and shook himself violently all over the onlookers.