He picked up a small brass bell and shook it impatiently. Get it over with. In the event of another war against France, without the standards of monarchy to guide the old enemy, there might be no room for yesterday's heroes. Admiralty agents in Paris had reported seeing whole families of alleged gentlefolk being dragged through the streets to lie beneath the blade of Madame Guillotine: even the children were not spared.

Drew thought of his serene estate in Hampshire and suppressed a shudder. It could not, must not happen here.

The clerk opened the door, his eyes downcast like a well-rehearsed player.

"Captain Richard Bolitho, Sir Marcus!"

Drew gestured expressionlessly to a chair which faced the table. As a captain he had taught himself the art of inscrutability, just as he had learned the skill of missing nothing.

Richard Bolitho was thirty-five but looked younger. He was tall and of slim build, and Drew observed that his white-lapelled coat with the buttons and gold lace of a post-captain hung just a bit too loosely on his frame. As he sat in the chair, Drew could sense his tension in spite of his efforts to conceal it. A shaft of sunlight played across his face and hair, a loose lock above the right eye barely hiding the great scar received when he had been hacked down as a youthful lieutenant in charge of a watering party on some island or other. The hair was black, like a raven's wing, and the eyes which watched him steadily were grey, and reminded Drew of the Western Ocean.

Drew came straight to the point. "I am pleased to see you, Bolitho. You are something of an enigma, as well as one of England 's heroes." The grey eyes did not blink and Drew felt off-balance. Irritated, too, that he and not Bolitho had been suddenly put on the defensive. After all, Bolitho was the one who had been begging for a ship-any ship.