The Portrait

Prologue

Prologue

Gibraltar, November 1799

“There are those who feel that your neck isn’t worth saving.”

“Yes, sir.”

The admiral waited politely, but no explanations or excuses followed the terse reply. He nodded approvingly. Hated excuses. It wasn’t gentleman-like, as it were. “But I have taken responsibility. And I want you to go home.”

He squinted as the dark shadow in front of him raised its head. The light reflected from the turquoise Mediterranean beyond was so powerful that the admiral could not make out the expression on the shadow’s face.

“Home, sir?”

The admiral paused. An odd response, he thought. “Home, young man, home. Back to your people. Take some time. Do some shooting, break in a new horse – whatever it is that you do. In any case, the whole mess will blow over if you are not around to remind everyone of what happened. Perhaps a year, or a little longer.”

There was a silence. Somewhat nettled, the admiral said, “Given the circumstances, it could have been a great deal worse.”

He toyed with the miniature ship on his desk – carved out of wood, it was a replica of his own first command, the HMS Worthy. God love her, she was still afloat, somewhere in the West Indies.

He jerked his mind out of its wandering reverie to deal with the subject at hand. Avebury. Damn it all, he’d stuck his neck out for the man. But he liked him. He had that certain something: a grittiness that bespoke a man who had risen through the ranks with an edge of gentlemanly refinement. He didn’t know too much about the lad’s people, save that his entry into the navy had been helped along by a well-placed distant cousin. But he was an impressive commander, well-liked, and ran a ruthlessly ordered fighting ship. Not to mention all that prize money—

He cleared his throat to try again. “Avebury, you’re a fantastic sailor. A real leader of men. One of my best. I wouldn’t go this far for just anyone, you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t want to lose you. But my influence will only go so far. Go home. You’re a rich man. Enjoy the society. Take a bride. Do the things that normal men do.”

“Normal men, sir?” He said it in such a quiet voice that the admiral had to lean forward to hear him.

“I say! It’s not meant as an insult, boy,” the admiral said impatiently. “Merely a figure of speech.” He leant back in his chair and nodded dismissal.

For a moment, Avebury didn’t move. But then he slowly backed away from the huge desk and took his leave.

The admiral sighed deeply and shook his head. The sooner Avebury was out of the Mediterranean and out of active duty, the better. Bright lad, a born sailor, but this latest fracas had almost been too much – and it still might return to haunt him. Better he went back to England, where his standing would surely protect him from … well, from whatever might happen.