He still made his weekly visits to Admiralty, and ran into Lt. Geoffrey Westcott a time or two, who had decided that a once-a-week call was to his advantage, too, which allowed them to have a decent dinner together before going their separate ways for another week.

*   *   *

“Off to Admiralty this morning, are you, sir?” Hoyle, the club manager, cheerfully asked as Lewrie got himself fitted out with his hat and boat cloak in the ante-room.

“If it’s Wednesday I must be, Mister Hoyle,” Lewrie japed back.

“All success to you, sir,” Hoyle rejoined. “Now, don’t forget that Mister Ludlow will be hosting card night this evening, with hot punch and sing-alongs.”

“Hmm, rather racy for the Madeira Club, ain’t it?” Lewrie asked with a brow up.

“To end at eleven, sir,” Hoyle said, “sharp, for the benefit of the older members, of course. It improves the attendance at the supper, and the sale of spirits,” he added with a sly look.

“Next ye know, we’ll be gamblin’ and lettin’ ladies in,” Lewrie speculated. “The new Cocoa-Tree, perhaps?”

“This club, sir?” Hoyle scoffed. “We’ll never be that woolly. Lewis, summon transport for Captain Lewrie, would you?”

*   *   *

Might be a nice way t’end the day, Lewrie thought as he alit from a hired one-horse coach and paid the driver; Pity I don’t have my penny-whistle with me. A few shillings fluttered on cards, take on some hot punch, and sleep in late, tomorrow. God knows, I’ve nothing better to do!

He suffered the cheery abuse from the tiler, chequed his hat and cloak, and looked up one of Secretary Marsden’s clerk to make his presence known, then searched the Waiting Room for Westcott.

“Here, sir,” Westcott said, waving him over. “I’ve managed to save you a seat, and today’s Gazette.”

“Mornin’, Geoffrey,” Lewrie said, sitting down. “And how are you, today?”

“Main-well, all considered, sir,” Westcott said with a pleased look and a brief flash of a toothy grin. “Topping, in point of fact.”

“One of our members, Ludlow … recall meeting him?” Lewrie said. “Doesn’t make things, but he’s big on the ’Change in the trade of leather goods, is hosting a card and punch party at my club this evening, and the supper will feature several game pies and a saddle of venison. Interested?”

“Oh, that sounds tempting, sir, but I fear I must beg off. I have other plans,” Westcott said with a grimace of disappointment to miss such a feast.

“Your landlady?” Lewrie teased.

“Ehm, no sir, not tonight,” Westcott cautiously admitted with a sly grin. “There’s a very fetching young seamstress I met when having some new shirts run up. Most … promising.”

“Just remember the Saturday mess toast, Geoffrey,” Lewrie cautioned. “Sweethearts and … landladies … may they never meet.”

“One in Southwark, t’other in the Borough,” Westcott quipped with a wink. “I’ve already read this half of the paper. Want it?”

They passed the next two hours comparing news stories and palavering their opinions, good or bad, on what they’d read. They went out for tea and some fresh air in the courtyard, then returned.

“Captain Sir Alan Lewrie?” one of Marsden’s clerks called out. “Is Captain Lewrie present?”

“I’m here!” Lewrie cried back, chiding himself for sounding too eager, and shooting to his feet as if stung.

“The First Secretary wishes to see you now, sir,” the clerk said.

“Wish me luck, Mister Westcott. We may be onto something good,” Lewrie muttered, then went to the bottom of the stairs to follow the clerk. The clerk opened the door to Marsden’s office and ushered him in.

“Good morning, sir,” Lewrie said to the First Secretary.

“Ah, good morning to you, Sir Alan,” Marsden said back, looking haggard and worn. He had been in the job seemingly forever, and the years had taken a toll. “Do sit, sir.”

“Thankee, sir,” Lewrie replied, plopping himself down.

“Ahh, hmm,” Marsden said with a long sigh. “I note that you are no longer employing a walking stick, Sir Alan?”

“Over the winter, sir, I’ve worked my way to complete health,” Lewrie told him. “I could dance a jig if you need proof of it.”

“No, no, that will not be necessary,” Mr. Marsden said with a brief chuckle. “I will take your word for it. It is well that you are fit and ready to return to service.”

“Avid t’do so, sir!” Lewrie assured him.

Marsden leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his chest in thought.

“Gad, what a disreputable business,” Marsden began. “Might you have read anything anent HMS Sapphire, Sir Alan?”

“No, sir,” Lewrie had to tell him, trying to recall the ship’s name, and what sort she might be. Must be a new frigate, he thought.

“She had just come out of the Chatham dockyards and a complete re-fit, and has only been back in commission for a little over seven months,” the Admiralty’s First Secretary began to explain, “and is at present anchored in the Great Nore to re-victual. Unfortunately…”

Mr. Marsden sat back forward to slump over his desk and worked his mouth as if he had just bit into something vile.

“In retrospect, her Captain, and her First Officer, turned out to be exceedingly poor choices,” he went on after a long sigh. “Both men are well qualified and highly experienced, but … they just would not, or could not, rub together. Perhaps it was some contretemps from their pasts, something personal, perhaps their families were at loggerheads, there’s no knowing, but … they have gone and shot one another in a duel!”

“Shot?” Lewrie exclaimed. He’d served under several superior officers whom he would have gladly shot or strangled, but only in his fantasies. “Her First Lieutenant challenged his own Captain to a duel? That’s a court-martial offence … like the leader of the Nore Mutiny, Parker, once challenged Captain Riou. A hangin’ offence if his Captain died.”

“No, ’twas the other way round,” Mr. Marsden sadly imparted. “Sapphire’s Captain was so wroth with her First Officer that he issued the challenge. He could have preferred charges for gross insubordination, or let the fellow ask for a transfer, but no. I name no names, but both gentlemen are known for being rash, intemperate men, of the strictest discipline and the touchiest senses of honour.”

“So, who swings for murder, then, sir?” Lewrie asked. “Duels ain’t kindly looked upon, any longer.”

It used to be that just any old place would do, a barn, an open field, or glade in a grove of trees, even the public gardens in London. Nowadays, though, gentlemen with especially hot grievances would have to coach to Scotland or Wales, sail to Ireland or someplace on the Continent so they could cross swords or blaze at each other, and avoid a criminal charge. “Respectability” had reared its ugly head, again!

“Neither!” Marsden scoffed. “The bloody damned fools only managed to wound each other, sufficient to put them flat on their backs for several weeks … depending upon whether sepsis sets in, and once on their feet, both shall face courts-martial, and the ends of their respective careers, do I have anything to say about it. And I do, so long as I hold this office.

“So, Captain Lewrie,” Marsden said, peering closely at him. “I have a ship in need of a Captain, and you are in need of a ship and an active commission. Will you take her on?”

“Aye, I will, sir,” Lewrie quickly assured him.

“Her Second Lieutenant is more than capable and could be advanced, and you may find that one of Sapphire’s Midshipmen could be made an Acting-Lieutenant for the nonce,” Mr. Marsden said, more jovially and making notes on a scrap of paper.

“Might I ask the date of her Second Officer’s commission, sir?” Lewrie enquired.

“Ehm … Lieutenant Harcourt is, ah … why?” Marsden paused in his search for that information.