Rules of an Engagement Page 2

  Sommerset smiled. “If I wished to go somewhere, I would hire my own ship. I find most naval accommodations rather . . . cramped.” He gestured at the carvings and pottery on the shelves beside him. “And there aren’t many places I haven’t been.”

  “If it’s not transportation you want then, Your Grace, what is it?” If Sommerset wanted to reminisce over his travels, the duke might at least offer him a drink. Or a damned chair. “I do have some duties on my ship before we depart,” he said aloud, providing himself an excuse if he wanted to leave.

  “I have two things to discuss with you, Captain.” The duke straightened. “First, you must promise me your discretion.”

  This was getting odder by the minute. Still, Sommerset, while he’d been a bit wild growing up, had an impeccable reputation. Better than his own, Shaw reflected. “You have my word.”

  “I am a member of both the Africa Association and the Royal Society. I assume I keep getting asked to chair committees concerning world exploration because of the breadth of my travels—though that doesn’t explain why I keep agreeing to serve.”

  This all seemed rather rhetorical, so Shaw kept his mouth closed and waited. Sommerset wasn’t known to prattle on, so hopefully the duke would reach his point soon—or at least offer a tour of his more exotic weaponry. As he’d told Tristan, he did enjoy shooting at things.

  “Anyway,” the duke continued, “I understand that you’re going to the Pacific. That makes sense from the Admiralty’s point of view; the Spanish think they own the entire expanse, which is both annoying and troublesome. They would block the rest of the world from exploration and knowledge if they could. And then there’s France, which is rumored to be constructing strategic fortifications at the fringes of Spanish occupation.”

  Or perhaps Sommerset wouldn’t reach his point, after all. “If I’m not mistaken, the Royal Society is a bastion of science and learning. What—”

  “Yes, I know. I leave the politics for the House of Lords and the battle strategies to the Admiralty. You’re here at this moment because I have a debt to settle, and a favor to ask.”

  Shaw lifted an eyebrow. “What sort of debt and favor?”

  “On the main island of Tahiti, a mile or so inland of Matavai Bay, there is a small cluster of huts beside a waterfall. Or at least there was, at one time. If it still exists, and if you find a fellow there with one eye, I’m asking you to give him this.” Sommerset dug a hand into one pocket and produced a small mirror, the frame edged with gold filigree and studded with gemstones.

  “Does this one-eyed man have a name?”

  “The sailors in my party called him King George, because of his resemblance to our monarch. The fellow liked the moniker so much that he adopted it.”

  “I’ll be journeying to Tahiti then, I presume? You seem to know more about my orders than I do.”

  “I don’t know the details. But make your way to Tahiti. King George gave up his most prized possession for my benefit. I promised him that I would replace it. I was also foolish, and said I would do so within ten years.” He scowled briefly. “It’s been nearly nine. I can’t go myself; not now. It seems . . . dishonorable to eschew one duty in order to fulfill another. But I’m not willing to risk being cursed by a man who once saved my life. Not when I can fulfill my oath through you. You have until August twenty-eighth of next year, or we both will have failed.”

  If there was one thing Bradshaw understood, it was honor and the sacredness of giving one’s word. But it stirred him in a different way, as well. Sommerset’s little favor gave him a reason to sail one last time. An honorable reason, and one that didn’t involve placing men for whom he was responsible in danger for no good reason. The hard, black knot growing inside his chest loosened a little.

  “You make a persuasive argument. I think.” Shaw took the mirror and examined it. “What sort of curse was that, anyway?”

  “He didn’t go into specifics, though in my life I’ve seen some fairly odd things. I’m more concerned about the worth of my word. So don’t take this on unless you mean to either see it delivered or die in the attempt. Because I am counting on the worth of your word.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Shaw pocketed the bauble. “Though I’m at a loss as to why you’re trusting me. We aren’t precisely friends.”

  “That leads me to the second discussion. Just under a year ago, I finished renovations to the west wing of Ainsley House here. In the course of my previous travels, I have found that the most difficult part of the journey was returning again to London.” He tilted his head. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” Bradshaw took a breath. This was what he’d never been able to explain to Tristan. Their middle brother, Robert, understood, but he’d returned from the Continent so damaged by the war with Bonaparte that communicating with him at all had been nearly impossible until just the last few months when he’d found Lucinda. “London is very . . . small.” Especially now, when the most difficult thing to escape from was turning out to be his own thoughts.

  “Precisely. And with that in mind, I created a gentlemen’s club. I call it the Adventurers’ Club, and I decide the membership. At the moment we are fourteen. All men who for one reason or another have found themselves at the ends of the earth and have returned to see London and Society with perhaps a clearer view than most. Would you like to see it?”

  “You’ve built a club here? At your home?”

  “Yes. And while you’re a bit more . . . civilized than the majority of our members, your career and character and past actions more than qualify you to be here.” He hesitated as though he was considering whether to say something more, then pulled back and instead made a sweeping gesture. “I am therefore inviting you to join us.”

  “I don’t quite know what to say.”

  “Come and see.” The duke opened the door again, and led the way back through the foyer and along a hallway running the front of the house. He stopped at a plain, latched door. “This is my entrance. If you wish to join, you will be provided with a key that opens a door directly into the club from outside. The only rules here are firstly, no guests of either sex are allowed and, secondly, no one else is to be told about this place. We are a refuge, and I don’t want the general peerage clamoring for entry.” He opened the door and stood aside.

  That made sense. As Bradshaw stepped through the door, though, he set his contemplation of the rules aside. The room was large and open, the walls paneled with dark wood and liberally decorated with items likely from Sommerset’s travels. A trio of tall windows at the far end overlooked a garden, while a pianoforte and a billiards table rested in an open space. Tables and chairs lay grouped across the floor, with a comfortable sofa and pair of chairs clustered in front of a roaring fire and the back wall lined with shelves and shelves of books. “This is very nice.”

  “There are spare rooms through there,” the duke said, gesturing at a door in the back corner, “in case anyone should require a place to sleep. Still interested?”

  “Still interested.”

  “Good.” Sommerset glanced across the room, presently occupied by three men plus a fellow dressed like a footman who perched on a stool by a door at the front of the room. “Let me introduce you around.”

  Two of the four men present were already looking at him curiously. He recognized one of them, but kept pace beside the duke. “Within a month I’ll be leaving for three or so years. You might have waited to invite me until after I delivered your . . . gift and kept both our words.”

  “I’m asking a large favor of you. In return, I wanted to be certain you knew you could have a drink and a chair or a bed here when you return.” Sommerset looked at him for a moment. “Simon Griffeth was my second cousin.”

  Shaw flinched before he could arrest the motion. He and Simon had chatted about overbearing and aristocratic relations, but— hell, he should have remembered. “My condolences.”

  “His father showed me the letter you wrote after he was killed. They
framed it, as a matter of fact. It was a very . . . exceptional letter.”

  “Simon was a very good friend.”

  “He was my good friend, as well. And that is why you’re here, and why I’m handing you both a burden and a reward. Simon trusted you. Therefore, so do I.”

  For once not quite certain what to say, Bradshaw inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  The duke nodded. Taking a breath, he gestured at the closer of the two men seated in front of the hearth. “This is Mr. Thomas Easton,” Sommerset drawled, his voice cool and detached once more. “He spent a year in Persia to encourage the expansion of the silk trade to Britain. Easton, Captain Bradshaw Carroway.”

  Easton squinted one eye at him. “Carroway. So now the only qualification to join the Adventurers’ Club is, what, to survive a rough sea?”

  “The only qualification,” the duke returned easily, “is my say-so. I see you’re awake, Colonel.”

  The second man sent an annoyed glance at Easton. “Under the circumstances, there’s little else I could be.”

  Sommerset gave a brief grin. “Captain Carroway, this is Colonel Bartholomew James. Tolly served for a time in India.”

  “Captain.”

  Bradshaw nodded, straightening. His brother Robert had shown him the article in the London Times upon Colonel James’s return a few weeks ago. If for no other reason than Bit’s reaction, he knew that something horrific had happened to the colonel. “I read about your ordeal. My condolences.”

  Colonel James gazed at him levelly for a moment, odd amber-brown eyes distant. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Come, Sommerset,” Mr. Easton broke in, “you always have a reason for admitting another uncivilized beast into your club. What’s our dear Captain Carroway here for?”

  “That’s for him to tell, if he wishes to do so—just as I only mention the parts of your tale that you’ve made public knowledge.”

  The duke motioned Bradshaw to follow him. “I’m the only navy man here, I presume?” Shaw asked in a low voice.

  “Yes. And though you may not be as . . . damaged as some of the other members, I do recognize a fellow outcast—and a man of character—when I see one.” He gestured. This is Lord Hennessy.”

  Smiling, Bradshaw offered his hand. “Malcolm and I attended Oxford together.”

  The earl shook hands with him. “Not shipwrecked yet, Shaw?”

  “Not yet. Last I heard, Malcolm, you were on your way to South America.”

  Hennessy’s expression tightened a little. “One day I’ll tell you about that. Good to see you here. We could use someone who still has a sense of humor.”

  After that, Sommerset introduced him to the footman, Gibbs, who explained that the Adventurers’ Club never closed its doors and that any and all of them came and went as they pleased. Then Sommerset held out a key to him.

  “Do you wish to join us?”

  Given the growing list of things he couldn’t discuss with his family members and the fact that he was about to add another three or four years of absence from London to his list of sins and that he didn’t even have his own lodgings in Town, a refuge within London seemed a damned fine idea. Especially now when he was occupied with the unfamiliar act of contemplation. “Yes. I believe I would.”

  With a brief smile, the duke handed him the key. “Join us whenever you like. As I said, however, no one else is to know.”

  “I understand.” Bradshaw dropped the key into his pocket as the duke showed him through the outside door, hidden just off the drive by an archway of vines. “Thank you.” He offered his hand. “And I suppose I’ll see you in three years or so.”

  Sommerset shook hands with him. “See that you do. And do as I asked, or I’ll be taking that key back.” He lowered his voice. “You can keep the curse.”

  “Yes. Thanks for that.”

  Chapter 1

  Then why should we quarrel for riches

  Or any such glittering toys?

  A light heart, and a thin pair of breeches

  Will go through the world, my brave boys.

  “WHY SHOULD WE QUARREL FOR RICHES” TRADITIONAL SEA SHANTY

  Eleven months later

  A knock came at Shaw’s cabin door. “It’s Potter, sir.”

  “Enter,” Shaw called, pulling off his worn shirt. According to the calendar it was May, autumn where the Nemesis lay in the Southern Hemisphere. By God, it didn’t feel like any autumn he’d experienced before. And as someone who didn’t particularly like huddling around a spitting hearth while snow blew outside, it was damned pleasant, if on occasion overly warm.

  He glanced at the box on his shelf where he’d placed Sommerset’s mirror. Taking a possibly cursed item on board a ship was mad, but at the same time he’d felt . . . rudderless since Simon’s death. The task the duke had given him at least provided him a sense of purpose, something he could keep in mind when he couldn’t stand considering his murky future for another damned minute. A debt of honor—it might be that for Sommerset, but for him it was very nearly the last piece of floating timber on the sea.

  “Captain. Shoes so polished I could shave in ’em.” The midshipman set the dress shoes on a chair.

  “My thanks. Help me with this, will you?” Indicating his formal dress coat, Bradshaw pulled on a clean, freshly pressed shirt.

  “Aye. So where d’you think Admiral Dolenz will be sending us?” Potter asked, holding up the dark blue coat with its gold epaulets and white edging.

  “From the supplies I would imagine Tahiti, or perhaps Manila.”

  “No chance he’ll send us on to the East Indies?”

  “A very slight chance. The Dutch do seem to be misbehaving. From what I’ve read, however, the ladies in Tahiti wear fewer clothes than the ones in India.” His orders hadn’t spoken of anything specific other than Australia, so whatever Sommerset had seemed to know was only an assumption. A good one, or he would have detoured to put in at Tahiti during the voyage west. But something was afoot, and he still had enough time to be willing to let it play out. Shaking himself, he grinned. “If they wear anything at all.”

  “By God, I hope we’re off to Tahiti, then.”

  “I’ll mention your preference to the admiral.”

  The midshipman chuckled. “By the way, Dr. Howard inquired whether he was to join you for dinner this evening.”

  Bradshaw hid his frown. Of the one hundred eighty-three men presently assigned to his ship, the one he would have preferred to do without was Dr. Christopher Howard. Considering that Howard’s older brother was the Earl of Hemswich, however, leaving him behind at Southampton had been out of the question. And since technically Howard ranked higher in Society than he did, leaving him out of any social function was equally difficult. If nothing else, it made the absence of Simon Griffeth even more painful than it already was. “Yes, he’s to join me,” he said after a moment.

  “I believe he’s dressing already, actually.”

  “Not a bit surprised.” He finished buttoning his waistcoat, and buckled on his ceremonial sword as Potter brushed any wrinkles from the back of his coat. “Until Gerard returns from his . . . tailor’s appointment in town, Newsome has the command. And tell Everett he’d best get that woman out of the bosun’s storeroom before Dobbs discovers them and has him strung up from the yardarm by his balls.”

  Potter cleared his throat. “I’ll see to it, Captain. Tailor’s appointment. I had one o’ those day before yesterday. Cost me three shillings, that bunter did.”

  Retrieving his hat and the carefully wrapped set of books he’d brought along just for this evening, Bradshaw left his cabin. Giving the brass plaque of Poseidon nailed to the wall a knock with his knuckles, he emerged into the late afternoon sunlight to find Dr. Howard already waiting for him.

  As a civilian Christopher could dress as he pleased, and at the moment he wouldn’t have looked out of place in London’s finest ballroom. Of course Bradshaw, in his dress blues with the fancy braiding on the sleeves and his peake
d captain’s hat, also looked rather splendid, if he said so himself. He settled the hat on his head.

  “Shall we?”

  “Are we hiring a hack?”

  Bradshaw shook his head. “The admiral’s sending a coach.”

  “Thank God. From the look of things, I thought it might be a hay wagon.”

  “Mm hm.”

  He himself rather liked the primitive feel of these new settlements on the very edges of civilization. His first voyage to Barbados in the West Indies, he’d ridden a donkey to accompany his captain to greet the local chieftain. With a grin and a salute to Newsome he descended the steep gangplank and made for the waiting coach.

  After a fortnight in port he’d regained his land legs, and mostly he was anxious to discover what the Admiralty meant for him to do. As Howard took the opposite seat and they rolled down the dirt road heading for the hillside on which Admiral Dolenz’s home perched, he allowed himself the luxury of speculation.

  Under a succession of captains on a succession of ships, he’d fought Bonaparte, skirmished with the Spanish, sunk a pirate or two, and survived rounding the Cape of Good Hope on three different occasions. As captain himself, he’d escorted a trio of supply ships to Belize and back again, and he’d patrolled the Mediterranean against renegade French forces attempting to fund a second escape for their Emperor. He’d written the final chapter of that duty with the interception of the infamous Revanche.

  That should have set him up nicely for more killing—Dutch or Spanish pirates roaming through the maze of the East Indies, most likely. He was therefore rather surprised to be out in the middle of the wilderness. And thankful for it. At the worst he would be escorting supply ships from Port Jackson to Tahiti and back, which at the moment he preferred—though he could never admit to that aloud.

  “How many of these people are convicts?” Dr. Howard asked, glancing through the coach window at the crowded streets outside, a handkerchief over his nose and mouth.