Napier was gazing back at her, his eyes filling his face.

"Im I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it to be…" But Francis had edged past her and was easing the boy into a seat.

"He'll be all right now, m'lady."

She nodded. "Thank you, Francis. You may take us home."

Home.

Luke Jago, Captain Adam Bolitho's coxswain, stood beside one of the tall windows and stared down into the street. The carriage, and a carrier's cart which had brought him and some personal belongings here had already departed, and after the endless journey from Plymouth it was like being abandoned, cut off from everything he knew or could recognize.

The street was deserted and, like this house, too quiet to be alive. The buildings directly opposite were faceless and imposing. He took his hand from the curtain and heard it swish back into position. Like the room itself: everything in its place.

Overpowering. The ceiling seemed too high, out of reach. He thought of the flagship, Athena; even in the great cabin aft, you had to duck your head beneath the deckhead beams. Below on the gun decks it was even more cramped. How could these people ever understand what it was like to serve, to fight?

He relaxed very slowly, caught unaware by his own resentment.

The house felt empty, probably had been for most of the time. Everything in its place. The fine chairs, glossy and uncreased, a vast marble fireplace, laid with logs but unlit.

There were some flowers in a vase by another window. But this was February, and they were made of coloured silk.

Above a small inlaid desk there was a painting; he was surprised it had escaped his notice as he had entered the room.