"Mr Kydd—your health, sir!" The captain's voice carried down the table.

Kydd lifted his glass with a civil inclination of the head. "Votter santay," he responded gravely.

Houghton had risen above his objections to his fifth lieutenant's humble origins after a social coup had established Kydd's connections with the highest in the land. Unaware of her identity, Kydd had invited Prince Edward's mistress to an official banquet—to the great pleasure of the prince.

"I c'n well recommend th' ruffed grouse, sir," Kydd said. A seaman picked up the dish and carried it to the captain, who acknowledged it graciously.

Tall glasses appeared before each officer, filled with what appeared to be a fine amber fluid. The captain was the first to try.

"By George, it's calf's foot jelly!" he said. "Lemon—who's responsible for this perfection?" he demanded of his steward.

"Lady Wentworth's own recipe, sir. She desires to indicate in some measure to His Majesty's Ship Tenacious her sensibility of the honour Lieutenant Kydd bestowed on her by accepting her invitation to the levee."

"I see," said the captain, and flashed a glance at Kydd.

The third lieutenant, Gervase Adams, shifted in his chair. "No disrespect intended, sir, but it gripes me that we wax fat and indolent while our country lies under such grave peril."

Houghton frowned. "Any officer of honour would feel so, Mr Adams, but the safeguarding of trade and securing of naval supplies is of as much consequence to your country as the winning of battles. Pray bear your lot with patience. There may yet be a testing time ahead for us all."

Houghton motioned to his steward and the last dishes were removed, the cloth drawn. Decanters of Marsala and port were placed at the head and foot of the table and passed along, always to the left, as custom dictated. When all glasses had been filled, Houghton nodded almost imperceptibly to Bryant, first lieutenant and president of the mess, who turned to Kydd as the most junior lieutenant present. "Mr Vice—the King."