"Now were you with the Army, or with the Navy, Lieutenant Lewrie?" Sir Romney inquired as Alan dipped his phiz into his ale.

"Navy, milord," Alan answered, wondering if he was teasing.

"Lock up the maids and yer daughters!" Harry Embleton guffawed. "Or yer footmen! The Navy's here!"

Damn the bastard, Alan winced as several of the rowdies had a laugh at his expense! I think I could dislike this piss-proud young fool. Alan stiffened and cut his eyes to Governour, who had winced a little himself.

"I can assure you, Mister Embleton, your virginity is safe with me," Alan stated calmly as the laughter died away. "Damme, but this is a good ale! Haven't tasted its like in weeks."

"Just ashore, are you, Mister Lewrie?" Sir Romney asked quick as a wink to cover the nervous laughter that reerupted, this time at his son's expense. Out of the corner of his eye, Alan could see that Governour had gotten a glum expression, and that Harry Embleton was glaring daggers at him, his face gone paler.

"Since February, milord, but I was visiting in the west country with my grandmother. I don't believe Devon has the soil for grains and hops that Surrey has. Certainly not to make such a splendid ale as this," Alan stated. "Now the Chinese have good ale, surprisingly."

"You were with Burgess Chiswick in the Far East," Sir Romney nodded, dominating the conversation. "A trading expedition?"

"An attempt to increase British trade, milord," Alan said in reply. He could never discuss what occurred in the past two years until England was once more at war with France. The activities of English warships disguised as merchantmen, had they been known, would be a violation of the treaty terms ending the recent war. "To… uhm… open new markets and trading stations, in cooperation with the East India Company."

Trade was not a gentlemanly calling, though profit from an investment in trade was quite acceptable, as long as a proper gentleman did not soil his hands with the sordid details of buying and selling.