Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress. Margaret McPhee

windows lining the back wall of the cabin, its surface littered with papers and charts. Three pens lay beside the inkwell, a small sharpening knife in front of them. The red leather captain’s chair behind the desk was empty. Nathaniel was standing, arms behind his back, peering out of the stern windows while he dictated a letter. Ship’s boy Robertson was seated at the near side of the desk, neatly transcribing the captain’s words on to paper. Both faces shot round to stare at him.

      The marine stumbled in at Pensenby’s back, musket raised towards the lieutenant. ‘I told him you wasn’t to be disturbed, Captain, but he wouldn’t listen.’

      ‘Mr Pensenby?’ Captain Hawke turned a glacial eye upon his subordinate and moved swiftly to shield Georgiana from the men’s view.

      Georgiana’s hand surreptitiously stole to cover the front of her neatly buttoned jacket as she shifted in her seat to present both the second lieutenant and marine with a fine view of her back.

      ‘Forgive me, Captain Hawke,’ Pensenby looked over the captain’s shoulder at the rear of the boy’s head. ‘I thought you would wish to know that the look-out has sighted two French frigates heading in our direction.’

      ‘Very well, Lieutenant.’ Nathaniel hid the shock well. ‘I’ll join both Lieutenant Anderson and yourself on the quarterdeck shortly. That will be all.’

      He waited until both men had left the room before turning to Georgiana. She looked so young, so vulnerable. He ignored the urge to take her in his arms, protect her for ever. ‘Lock yourself in the night cabin—’ a key passed between them ‘—and open the door for no one except myself. I’ll instruct that it should be left intact when we ready the guns. Do you understand?’ He wondered at the degree of concern he felt for her. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

      A brief nod before she touched her hand to his arm. ‘Be careful.’

      They looked into each other’s eyes before Nathaniel swept a feather kiss to her lips and was gone.

      Through the magnification of the spyglass he could see that they were both large frigates, loading forty guns apiece, with the French tricolour fluttering boldly at the stern and a pennant at the topmast. He glanced at Pensenby, saw the shadow of fear in his small shrewd eyes. The stiff northwesterly wind would lead them directly to the Pallas, of that there could be no mistake.

      ‘They’ll be within range in approximately one hour, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson was pale, but his blue eyes glittered with excitement.

      Nathaniel knew what he must do. ‘Let out each canvas in full, we move with top speed in a southeasterly direction.’

      ‘But that would take us towards Santa Cruz and the Canary Islands, both of which are held by Spain.’ Lieutenant Pensenby frowned his disapproval.

      ‘Indeed, it will, Mr Pensenby. It’s what they’ll least expect. Before reaching Santa Cruz, we’ll turn and head out towards the mid-Atlantic, before sailing back up to the Azores.’

      John Anderson was looking somewhat crestfallen. ‘We are to run?’ In his mind’s eye he was already valiantly engaged in the dramatic glory of battle, annihilating the French ships, and all for the sake of King and country.

      Nathaniel saw the slumped shoulders and read the reason correctly. ‘In a straight confrontation we don’t stand a chance against them. They each carry forty guns to our thirty-two, both are made of oak to our pine. The Pallas simply cannot withstand the pounding she would receive. Hit for hit we would suffer vastly more damage than they, not to mention the injury to the men from the splinters. They would have us down in a matter of minutes.’

      ‘Then all is lost and we should strike our flag,’ said Lieutenant Anderson miserably.

      ‘Quite the contrary, Mr Anderson. We must look to our advantages and make the best use of them.’

      Pensenby piped up, ‘But you said that the Pallas is no match for them in battle.’

      Nathaniel closed the spyglass with a snap. ‘No, Mr Pensenby, that is only the case in direct confrontation. There are many other types of battle.’

      ‘But we’re to run.’ John Anderson looked puzzled.

      ‘For now, until the conditions favour us rather than our enemy.’ Both men regarded him in silence. ‘The Pallas is smaller, and at only 667 tonnes, significantly faster. She should easily outrun them. Then it’s simply a matter of waiting until the timing is right.’

      Lieutenant Pensenby seemed reassured by this. He was not a man suited to the bloody physicality of war, and the prospect of escaping what would undoubtedly prove to be a crashing defeat beckoned appealingly.

      Captain Hawke strode across the quarterdeck to shout orders to the ship’s master. He paused momentarily, looked back over his shoulder, and said, ‘Rest assured that I’m not Byng, Mr Anderson.’

      John Anderson thought of Admiral Byng who had been executed for failing to engage the Spanish Fleet with sufficient vigour. No, he did not doubt Captain Hawke’s courage. He would do better to watch and learn.

      With the sails set fully to capture the wind the Pallas skimmed across the surface of the water with a deftness of speed that could not hope to be matched by her bigger, bulkier opponents. Heading further south into Spanish waters, they had lost sight of the two large French frigates before Nathaniel gave the order to change direction.

      Georgiana could feel from the rolling motion that the ship was fairly flying across the waves, and concluded with relief that they were fleeing from the French. Although she did not know the size or manner of the enemy, common sense warned her that two against one did not offer good odds of a favourable result. This, coupled with what she had learned: the Pallas was experimental in design, being unusually small for a frigate and built entirely of lightweight pine rather than sturdy English oak. It did not take a genius to surmise that any big gun fire would tear the ship apart.

      Although Georgiana had no direct knowledge of exactly what naval battle involved, she had spent many an evening listening to Burly Jack’s reminiscences, tales of glory and honour, descriptions of blood and gore, death and decay. She shivered and drew her jacket closer around her. Nathaniel Hawke could be the best damn naval captain in the world, but, outnumbered and disadvantaged by his ship, there was little doubt as to the outcome of any encounter. And the thought of it brought a shiver to her soul. If she were to lose him now…She bit at her lip and wrung her hands together. She knew what would happen if the French were to catch up with them. For the second time in Georgiana’s life she was sailing dangerously close to a watery grave, poised to topple. She dropped to her knees and prayed for a gale that would spirit the Pallas with wings, far, far away from the long guns of the French.

      A dense sea fog shrouded the Pallas, as she swept slowly, steadily on, cutting a path through the vast Atlantic Ocean, blind but for her trust in her captain’s charts and compass. Silently stalking her prey through the muffled cloud that enveloped her. All calls had been stifled, all pipes quelled. She floated as a ghost ship ever closer to her quarry, ears straining, guns readied. Then they heard it, an eerie shout through the gloomy miasma. Fingers moved to cock their muskets, hands to quietly draw their swords. Captain Hawke whispered his orders and the Pallas responded mutely, slipping into position. A bell sounded close by, its clang deadened by the blanket of fog. Nathaniel waited. Waited. Biding his time. Breath by breath. Second by second. He only hoped his calculations were correct, there would be no room for error. One chance, and one chance alone, to take the prize or be damned in the process.

      Even as his hand clenched, poised to give the final command, his mind flitted to the girl locked below in his cabin. Like a moth to a flame he was drawn to her. Could no longer deny his compulsion. Was glad even that she was here on his ship, in his care, for all the danger that it brought. He knew he was a scoundrel to think such a thing. Hadn’t he learned his lesson with Kitty Wakefield? He had no right to gamble with Georgiana’s life, none but the knowledge of her likely fate at the hands of a French captain, or, even worse, a French crew. That was if she survived the