There was a faint smell of oil, turpentine and beeswax in the shop, and while an assistant scurried off to fetch the owner Ramage glanced first at the sporting guns in the racks round the walls and then at the pairs of pistols nestling in their mahogany cases which almost covered one end of the counter.

The guns accounted for the smell of oil. Then he noticed the polished floor of narrow wooden tiles, laid in a herringbone design to take advantage of the grain pattern. Turpentine and beeswax - the gun-maker used the same polish on his floor as he did on the stocks of his guns.

His father gestured round the shop with his cane. 'My first pistol came from here nearly fifty years ago. This fellow's father owned it then, and my father was one of his early customers.'

Ramage looked at the tall figure of the Admiral. His face was lined now and his hair was grey, yet he was erect, his brown eyes alert and Iooking out on the world with amused tolerance from under bushy eyebrows. He pictured his father as a shy young midshipman - a 'younker' nervously choosing a pistol, and no doubt anxious to be off to the sword cutler's to complete his martial purchases before joining his first ship.

The Admiral nodded at Ramage's right shoulder. 'Your epaulet is crooked. I know it's the first time you've worn it, but...’

Ramage tried to straighten it but the padding of the strap was new and stiff, unwilling to sit squarely on the shoulder bone, and he was unused to the tight spirals of bullion hanging down in a thick fringe round the edges. The light reflecting on them caught the corner of his right eye and made him feel lopsided. He would get used to it, he thought wryly, but probably not before he had three years' seniority and was entitled to wear an epaulet on the left shoulder as well.

Don't grumble, he told himself as he tugged at the strap; it's taken long enough to be made post and get this single epaulet. He was so used to being addressed as 'Lieutenant Ramage' that it was going to take a while to become accustomed to 'Captain Ramage'. Admittedly his name was right at the bottom of the list of 'The Captains of His Majesty's Fleet', but by next year many more lieutenants would have been 'made post', their names coming lower on the list, thus increasing his seniority and pushing him up the ladder of promotion.

Progress up the list of lieutenants had been slow: he had been less than a third of the way to the top when he had been unexpectedly made post three days ago. The jump from lieutenant to post captain was reckoned to be the hardest to make because in time of war it did not depend on seniority so much as on doing something that caught the Admiralty's eye - or having enough 'interest' in high places. There was a lot of satisfaction in having been promoted as a reward for things done: he had begun to think he was remaining a lieutenant because his father was still out of favour, still regarded as a scapegoat for the stupidity of politicians some twenty years ago.

Cross-eyed, he tried to jerk the epaulet but was interrupted as the plump gun-maker came through the door at the back of the shop, a delighted smile spreading across his face as he hurriedly removed his leather apron.

‘My Lords!' the man exclaimed with a quick bow and, noticing Ramage's single epaulet, said with obvious pleasure: 'Congratulations, Captain the Lord Ramage. Well-deserved, if I might say so, judging by the Gazettes for the past few years! It seems only a few months ago that the Earl brought you here as a young midshipman just off to join your first ship.' He turned to the Admiral, his brow wrinkling in concentration. "It must have been a dozen years ago . . . yes, going off to join the Benbow.'

The Admiral nodded. 'You have a good memory, Mansfield. He was made post last Friday.'

The gun-maker's eyes twinkled as he put his oil-stained apron behind the counter. 'The bullion of the epaulet. . .'

'It'll soon lose the new look,' Ramage said. 'It hasn't had a breath of sea air yet'

The Admiral sniffed. 'The smoke and fog in this damnable city are enough to turn it green, even if it is gold.'

He pointed his cane at the sporting guns. 'Well, Mansfield, mustn't take up all your morning. I want a lighter gun for snipe - I'm getting a bit stiff in the joints and those blessed birds seem to jink more today than when I was younger. The Captain wants a pair of pistols. He lost that pair you made, and he's been making do with those confounded Sea Service models.'

As Mansfield moved towards the cases of pistols the Admiral said: 'You'd better attend to me first; the Marchesa is buying the pistols as a present, and she's raiding the shop next door. She'll join us in a few minutes, after she's bought a few cables of lace and ribbon.'

For the next twenty minutes, as carriages clattered along Bond Street and hucksters shouted the merits of their wares, the Admiral and the gun-maker discussed sporting guns. Once they had selected a suitable design, Mansfield insisted on checking the measurement for the length of the stock, and when the Admiral protested that he had had those measurements for years the gun-maker said respectfully, 'You keep a youthful figure, my Lord, but -' he tapped the right shoulder, 'you have put on a little flesh here, just where it makes a difference.' He went behind the counter and consulted a heavy ledger, then came back again with a rule. 'If you'll just lean forward slightly - ah, yes, a difference of nearly an inch...'

The Admiral sighed. 'So that's it! I haven't been happy with any of my guns lately; they just don’t sit right. I thought my muscles were getting stiff.'

The gun-maker nodded knowingly: 'It's not unusual, my Lord. Try the new gun when I've finished it, and if you find it comfortable I suggest you return your other guns and I'll shorten and reshape the stocks accordingly. It won't affect the balance - but I can guarantee it will affect your game bag. And -'

He broke off with an apology and hurried to the door as a small but strikingly beautiful woman in a pale blue cape swept into the shop. Over her shoulder Ramage saw Hanson walking away to their carriage with a large packet holding her latest purchases. The old man was always delighted to leave his domestic duties and go off on shopping expeditions with the Marchesa: her Italian accent and bizarre and impish sense of humour reduced any shop to an excited uproar in a matter of minutes. Ramage wondered idly whether the usually staid establishment they had visited in Albemarle Street an hour earlier had managed to get all the rolls of dress material back on the shelves. The Marchesa would still be there, asking to be shown yet more cloth, if the Admiral had not called a halt by protesting that they had seen enough material to make a suit of sails for a ship of the line, and declaring that her first three choices were by far the best, even though she had changed her mind a score of times since then.

The owner of the shop, surprised to find that Admiral the Earl of Blazey could not only stop the Marchesa but do it in a way that left her laughing and agreeing with him, hurriedly scribbled down the lengths she wanted and looked still more surprised when she nodded good-bye, turned to Ramage and said: 'Now let us go to Bond Street for the pistols.'