The Prize. Brenda Joyce
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with the Earl of Adare’s permission and patronage. Adare had married his mother within the year, although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found. The earl had fabricated a naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and not as the lowliest sailor far below decks. Devlin had quickly risen to the rank of lieutenant. Briefly he’d served on Nelson’s flagship. At the Battle of Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command. The small vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck the Gazelle in under the leeward hull of a French frigate. With the French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right over the Gazelle. His own guns, at point-blank range, had torn apart the decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately. He’d towed his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the Loretta.
He had only been eighteen.
There had been so many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.
The heat of highly controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more. Devlin ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the Defiance eased into its berth between a schooner and a gunship. Devlin nodded at his second in command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell. Mac used the horn to announce a week’s liberty. Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been given. He didn’t mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been with him since he’d been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit. They were good men, brave and daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands seemed suicidal. The Defiance had become the scourge of the seas because of their loyalty, faith and discipline.
He was proud of his crew.
Mac fell into step with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have outgrown. Mac was Devlin’s own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had bulked out. Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad Scot with the flaming hair, the tall, blond Irishman with the cold silver eyes.
“Ach, got to find me land legs,” Mac growled.
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