Well, he had to take his mother's word for that. Certainly Gianna's tiny figure no longer shook with hatred and anger when anyone mentioned the name Bonaparte, and she no longer wept at the thought of her little kingdom of Volterra and its cheerful people, which she had ruled until Bonaparte's approaching Army of Italy forced her to flee rather than collaborate with the French like her neighbour, the despicable and weak-willed Grand Duke of Tuscany.

His mother's verdict had been especially welcome because he had been doubtful whether Gianna would like staying at St Kew. The rambling old house was big enough by English standards, but the rulers of Volterra had lived for centuries in a palace of which the Medicis might have been proud.

Gianna had left behind in Italy more personal maids than the entire indoor and outdoor staff at St Kew. Perhaps part of the 'settling down' process was that the single maid she now had was a stolid local girl, and likely to say, 'Oooh, ma'am, you'll go into a decline if you carry on like that,' when Gianna threw a tantrum which would have left her Italian maids white-faced and trembling.

The fact was he had fallen in love with a girl who was as wilful and unpredictable as a puppy in a flower garden. Any man who provoked her anger might as well spend a quiet Sunday afternoon making sparks in a powder magazine. He should know, he admitted wryly. Hot tempered, yet generous; occasionally imperious but always (eventually) understanding; impatient yet - the list was long: any description of Gianna tended to be a list of synonyms and antonyms.

She certainly did not include punctuality amongst her virtues, he thought crossly, pulling out his watch, and then picking up The Times which also reported Lord Nelson's ‘secret mission' with much the same wording. This almost certainly meant that it was true and not a wild or hopeful report by one of the Morning Post's journalists.

At that moment the door was flung open and Gianna came into the room, offering her cheek to be kissed as Ramage stood up. She smiled mischievously, gesturing at the empty place at the table where Ramage had sat and at the newspapers he was holding.

'What a wonderful way to start the day! The man of the house has eaten his breakfast in peace and quiet and read enough newspapers to be fully informed about what is going on in the world. Don't go back to sea, caro mio!'

'Someone has to defeat Bonaparte,' he said lightly, knowing he was joking about a dangerous subject.

'Leave it to the others,' she said airily. 'You've done enough already -' She broke off as Hanson came in with the large tray, and after one look she said firmly: 'No oysters, Hanson! Take them away and keep them for the Admiral.' The butler's face fell as he walked to the table, carrying the tray with the forlornness of a man trying to sell bruised apples in Covent Garden market.

'Do you like oysters, Hanson?' Ramage asked innocently. The butler glanced nervously at the door, as if fearful his wife was waiting outside to pounce on him, and then shook his head expressively.

Gianna sat at the table and motioned Ramage to a chair opposite her. 'What have the newspapers to say today?'

'It seems My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty have given Lord Nelson a new job.'

'As long as Their Lordships don't find one for you,' she said sharply. "The Admiralty must let you have a holiday,'

'I have a month's leave,' he reminded her.

'But only eleven days are left.'

Ramage's eyebrows lifted. 'You keep a tally?'

'Yes,' she said quietly, 'though I don't know why: you can't wait to get to sea again and leave me all alone, and-'

'If there's no ship for me, I'll be able -'

There'll be a ship,' she interrupted angrily. 'You are famous now! Why, even your father says you should be made post very soon. "Captain Ramage" - how does that sound? And you'll wear an epaulet on your right shoulder, and after three years you can put one on your left shoulder as well. You see,' she said, her eyes sparkling, 'I'm learning about naval etiquette. I've read the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions, and the Articles of War, too. Soon I-'

'The change of Government,' he said soothingly, alarmed at the way her voice was rising and startled at what she had been reading. 'Lord Spencer is no longer First Lord of the Admiralty ...'

'But the new First Lord knows you well - why, Lord St Vincent was your Commander-in-Chief in the Mediterranean when Lord Nelson was still only a commodore.'

'He'll have forgotten me - there are hundreds of lieutenants in the Navy!'

‘Thousands!' a voice boomed from the doorway. 'All of them scoundrels, with a girl in every port!'

The Admiral strode into the room, a tall man with aquiline features and silver-grey hair. He had the same deep-set and penetrating brown eyes as his son and the stance and walk of a man used to exercising authority; the lines on his face showed that he laughed readily and frequently. 'Good morning to the pair of you,' he said, noting Gianna's tight lips and wondering what they had been quarrelling about. 'You've already eaten, Nicholas?'

'Hours ago, sir,' Ramage said lightly.

'Left some oysters for me, I hope.' He saw Ramage's expression. 'I forgot you don't like 'em. Pity - oysters and cold tongue; the finest breakfast there is. Don't you agree, m'dear?'

'No,' Gianna said flatly, 'oysters sono horribile.'

The Earl grinned cheerfully as he sat down and rang the bell. 'You know, Nicholas, I've noticed that Gianna always lapses into Italian when she's on the verge of mutiny. Ever have the same trouble with Italian seamen?'

'Only that fellow Rossi - I was telling you about him.'

'But he's a Genovese!' Gianna exclaimed.

'Good seamen come from Genoa. Anyway, he helped save your life,' Ramage pointed out,

'And yours, too!'

The Admiral rang the bell again. 'Children, stop bickering.'

'I'm not bick -'

'You are out of fashion, though,' Ramage interrupted, raising the newspapers. 'At least, according to the Morning Post.'

Gianna glared at him, knowing he was trying to keep her off the subject of him getting a new ship. 'Let me see.'

He passed over the newspaper. 'Yellow muslin trimmed with black lace, scarlet spencers, and little round hat with deep veils .. ,'

She read for a few moments and then sniffed. 'Rubbish - that's for innkeepers' wives. Anyway,' she added less emphatically, 'it's for walking-dress.'

'The feminine fashion is to copy the military,' Ramage murmured to his father.

'Ha!' the Admiral snorted, 'I can just see the ladies stamping along in heavy boots, leather crossbelts, and battered shakoes. Most becoming!'

'Tea, my Lord?' Gianna asked sweetly. 'You notice,' she added when he nodded, 'that the ladies are copying the Army, not the Navy.'

'Should think so, too,' the Admiral retorted. 'You'd look dam' funny in white knee breeches, frock coat and a cocked hat. You ought to borrow one of Nicholas's uniforms and wear it to the Duchess of Manston's tonight. New fashion - why, you'd set London by its ear!'

'Board 'em in the smoke,' Ramage said. 'Father will lend you his best dress sword.'

'What are you going to wear?' she asked icily. 'You haven't seen your tailor for years, so it'll be something old-fashioned and dowdy. Russet and green, no doubt, and everyone will take you for a gamekeeper.'

Ramage said: "The newspapers say the King will not be there: the Queen is ill, and he's staying at Windsor. Anyway, I'll be wearing uniform.'

Gianna looked disappointed at the news of the King's absence and then exclaimed: 'Uniform? Oh, Nicholas! Please wear something more elegante.'

'He has no choice, my dear,' the Earl said. 'Lord St Vincent will be there, and he's very fussy about that sort of thing.'

‘This Manston,' she said with the disdain of the head of one of the oldest families in Italy, 'who is he?'