The Prize. Brenda Joyce
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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.
“Your reputation precedes you,” St. John pointed out. “In the Mediterranean and off these shores, every enemy and privateer knows your naval tactics are superior, if unorthodox, and that if you think to board, you carry fighting men, men who think nothing of carrying a second cutlass in their teeth. They fear you—that is why no one battles you anymore.”
It was true more often than not. Devlin usually fired a single warning shot before boarding with his marines. There was rarely resistance—and he had become bored with it all.
“I believe your reputation is so great that even near American shores, the enemy will flee upon the sight of your ship.”
“I am truly flattered,” he murmured.
Liverpool spoke. “We are trying to avoid war with the Americans.” He gave Devlin a look. “Sending you there could be like releasing a wolf in a henhouse and then expecting healthy, happy hens and chicks. If you are sent westward, my boy, I want your word that you will follow your orders—that you will scare the bloody hell out of the enemy but that you will not engage her ships. Your country needs you, Devlin, but there is no room for pirate antics.”
Did they truly expect him to sail west and play nanny of sorts to the American merchants and navy? “I am to chase them about, threaten them, turn them back—and retreat?” He could scarcely believe it.
“Yes, that is basically what we wish for you to do. No American goods can be allowed to enter Europe, that has not changed. What has changed are the rules of engagement. We do not want another ship seized or destroyed, another American life accountable to our hands.”
Devlin stood. “Find someone else,” he said. “I am not the man for this tour.”
Farnham snorted, at once satisfied and disbelieving. “He refuses direct orders! And when do we decide to hang him for his insubordination?”
Devlin felt like telling the old fool to shut up. “It is a mistake, my lord,” he said softly to Liverpool, “to send a rogue like myself to such a duty.”
Liverpool studied him. And then he smiled, rather coldly. “I do not believe that, actually. Because I know you far better than you think I do.” He turned to the two admirals present. “Would you excuse us, gentlemen?”
Both men were surprised, but they both nodded and slipped from the room.
Liverpool smiled. “Now we can get down to business, eh, Devlin?”
Devlin turned the corners of his mouth up in response, but he waited, unsure of whether he was to receive a blow or a gift.
“I have understood your game for some time now, Devlin.” He paused to pour them both fresh drinks. “The blood of Irish kings runs in your veins, and when you joined the navy you were as poor as any Irish pauper. Now you have a mansion on the Thames, you have bought your ancestral home from Adare, and I could only estimate the amount of gold you keep in the banks—and in your own private vaults. You are so rich now that you have no more use for us.” His brows lifted.
“You make me seem so very unpatriotic,” Devlin murmured. Liverpool was right—almost.
“Still, a fine man like yourself, from a fine family, always at sea, always seizing a prize, always at battle—never on land, never at home before a warm hearth.” He stared.
Devlin became uneasy. He sipped his brandy to disguise this.
“I wonder what it is that motivates you to sail so fast, so far, so often?” His dark brows lifted.
“I fear you romanticize me. I am merely a seaman, my lord.”
“I think not. I think there are deep, grave, complex reasons for your actions—but then, I suppose I will never know what those reasons are?” He smiled and sipped his own brandy now.
The boy trembled with real fear. How could this stranger know so much?
“You have fanciful imaginings, my lord.” Devlin smiled coolly.
“You have yet to win a knighthood, Captain O’Neill,” Liverpool said.
Devlin stiffened in surprise. So it was to be a gift—after a blow, he thought.
Once, his ancestors had been kings, but a century of theft had reduced them to a life of tenant-farmers. He had changed that. His stepfather had happily sold him Askeaton when he had come forward with the bullion to pay for it. His grand home on the River Thames had been purchased two years ago when the Earl of Eastleigh had been forced by financial circumstances to put it up for sale. Liverpool knew Devlin had used the navy to attain the security that comes with wealth. What he did not know—could not know—was the reason why.
“Do continue,” he said softly, but he had begun to sweat.
“You know that a knighthood is a distinct possibility—you need only follow your orders.”
The ten-year-old boy wanted the title. The boy who had watched his father fall in an act of cold-blooded murder wanted the title as much as he wanted