The Prize

Devlin smiled as the land heaved under them as high and hard as any storm swell. He clapped his shoulder. “Give it a day.”

“That I shall, a day and seven, if you don’t mind.” Mac grinned. He had all his teeth and only one was rotten. “Got plans, Cap? I’m achin’ meself for a lusty whore. Me first stop, I tell you that.” His laughter was bawdy.

Devlin was lenient with the men—like most ships’ commanders, he allowed them their whores in port, but he preferred them to bring the women aboard, so the ship’s surgeon could take a good look at them. He wanted his crew pox-free. “We were in Lisbon a week ago,” he said mildly.

“Feels like a year,” Mac grunted.

Devlin saw the post chaise waiting for him—he’d sent word to Sean by mail packet that he was on his way back. “Can I offer you a ride, Mac?”

Mac flushed. “Not goin’ to town,” he said, referring to the West End.

Devlin nodded, reminding him that he was expected back aboard the Defiance in a week’s time to set sail at noon, with all three hundred of his men. His rate of desertion was almost zero, an astonishing fact that no one in the British navy could understand. But then, with so many spoils taken and shared, his crew were all well off.

Thirty minutes later the chaise was clipping smartly over London Bridge. Devlin stared at the familiar sights. After days spent in the wind and on the sea, or at exotic, sultry ports in the Mediterranean, North Africa and Portugal, the city looked dark and dirty, unclean. Still, he was a man who liked a beautiful woman and refused a common whore, and his wandering eye took in more than his fair share of elegant ladies in chaises, carriages and on foot, shopping in the specialty stores. His loins stirred. He had sent several letters ahead and one was to his English mistress. He fully expected to be entertained that night and all the week long.

The London offices of the Admiralty were on Brook Street in an imposing limestone building built half a century before. Officers, aides and adjutants were coming and going. Here and there, groups of officers paused in conversation. As Devlin pushed open the heavy wood doors and entered a vast circular lobby with a high-domed ceiling, heads began to turn his way. Portraits of the greatest admirals in British history adorned the walls, as did paintings of the greatest ships and battles. His mistress had once said his portrait would soon hang there, too. The conversation began to diminish. An eerie quiet settled over the lobby; Devlin was amused. He heard his name being whispered about.

“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant with crimson cheeks saluted him smartly from the bottom of the marble staircase.

Devlin saluted him rather casually back.

“I am to escort you to Admiral St. John, sir,” the freckle-faced youth said. His flush had somehow deepened.

“Please do,” Devlin remarked, unable to restrain a sigh. St. John was not quite the enemy—he disliked insubordination, but he knew the value of his best fighting captain. It was Admiral Farnham who wanted nothing more than to court-martial him and publicly disgrace him, and these days, he was egged on by Captain Thomas Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh’s son.

Admiral St. John was waiting for him. He was a slender man with a shock of white hair, and he was not alone. Farnham was with him—at once bulkier and taller, with far less hair—and so was the Earl of Liverpool, the minister of war.

Devlin entered the office, saluting. He was intrigued, as he could not recall ever seeing Liverpool at West Square.

The door was solidly shut behind him. Liverpool, slim, short and dark-haired, smiled at him. “It’s been some time, Devlin. Do sit. Would you like a Scotch whiskey or a brandy?”

Devlin sat in a plush chair, removing his felt. “Is the brandy French?”

The earl was amused. “I’m afraid so.”

“The brandy,” Devlin said, stretching out his long legs in front of him.

Farnham appeared annoyed. St. John sat down behind his desk. “It has been some time since we have had the privilege of your appearance here.”

Devlin shrugged dismissively. “The Straits are a busy place, my lord.”

Liverpool poured the brandies from a crystal decanter, handing one over to Devlin and passing the others around.

“Yes, very busy,” Farnham said. “Which is why deserting the Lady Anne is an exceedingly serious offense.”

Devlin took a long sip, tasting the brandy carefully, and decided his own stock was far superior, both on his ship and at home.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” St. John asked.

“Not really,” Devlin said, then added, “she was in no danger.”

“No danger?” Farnham choked on his brandy.

Liverpool shook his head. “Admiral Farnham is asking for your head, my boy. Was it really necessary to leave the Lady Anne in order to chase that American merchantman?”

Devlin smiled slightly. “The Independence was loaded with gold, my lord.”

“And you knew that when you spotted her off the coast of Tripoli?” St. John asked.

Devlin murmured, “Money, my lord, buys anything.”

“I know of no other commander as audacious as you. Who is your spy and where is he?” St. John demanded.

“Perhaps it’s a she,” he murmured. And in fact, the wench in Malta who ran an inn often used by the Americans was just that. “And if I do employ spies, I am afraid that is my affair entirely—and as it does aid me in the execution of my orders, we should lay the question to rest.”

“You do not follow orders!” Farnham said. “Your orders were to convey the Lady Anne to Lisbon. You are lucky she was not seized by enemy ships—”

He was finally annoyed, but he remained slouched. “Luck has naught to do with anything. I control the Straits. And that means I control the Mediterranean—as no one can enter her without getting past me. There was no danger to the Lady Anne and her safe conveyance to Lisbon has proved it.”

“And now you are rather rich,” Liverpool murmured.

“The prize is with our agent at the Rock,” he said, referring to Gibraltar. He’d towed the Independence to the British prize agent there. His share of the plunder was three-eighths of the total sum, and a quick estimation of that figure came to one hundred thousand pounds. He was wealthier than anyone would ever guess, and he had far exceeded his own expectations some time ago.

“But I do not care about the fate of the Lady Anne, a single ship,” Liverpool said. “And while you directly disobeyed your orders, we are all prepared to ignore the matter. Is that not right, gentlemen?”

St. John’s nod was firm, but Devlin knew it killed Henry Farnham to agree, and he was amused.

“I care about finishing this bloody war, and finishing it soon.” Liverpool was standing and orating as if before the House. “There is another war on the horizon, one that must be avoided at all costs.”

“Which is why you are here,” St. John added.

Devlin straightened in his chair. “War with the Americans is a mistake,” he said.

Farnham made a sound. “You are Irish, your sympathies remain Jacobin.”

Devlin itched to strangle him. He did not move or speak until the desire had passed. “Indeed they are. America is a sister nation, just as Ireland is. It would be shameful to war with her over any issue.”

Liverpool said bluntly, “We must retain absolute control of the seas, Devlin, surely you know that.”

“His loyalties remain selfish ones. He cares not a whit for England—he cares only about the wealth his naval career has afforded him,” Farnham said with heat.

“We are not here to question Devlin’s loyalties,” Liverpool said sharply. “No one in our navy has served His Majesty with more loyalty and more perseverance and more effect.”

“Thank you,” Devlin murmured wryly. But it was true. His battle record was unrivaled at sea.

“The war is not over yet, and you know it, Devlin, as you have spent more time than anyone patrolling the Straits of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, as well. Still, our control there is without dispute. You will leave this room with your new orders, if I can be assured that you will effect them appropriately.”

His brows lifted with real interest. Where was Liverpool leading? “Do continue,” he said.