Admiral the Lord Godschale poured two goblets of brandy and watched Bolitho, who was standing by one of the windows staring down at the street. It irritated the admiral increasingly that he should always feel envy for this man who never seemed to grow any older. Apart from the loose lock over the deep scar on his forehead which had become suddenly almost white, Bolitho's hair was as dark as ever, his body straight and lean, unlike Godschale's own. It was strange, for they had served as young frigate captains together in the American war: they had even been posted on the same date. Now Godschale's once-handsome features had grown heavy like his body, his cheeks florid with the tell-tale patterns of good living. Here at the Admiralty, in his spacious suite of offices, his power reached out to every ship great and small, on every station in His Britannic Majesty's navy. He gave a wry smile. It was doubtful if the King knew the names of any of them, although Godschale himself would be the very last to say so.

"You look tired, Sir Richard." He saw Bolitho dragging his mind back into the room.

"A little." He took the proffered glass after the admiral had warmed it over the crackling fire. It was well before noon, but he felt he needed it.

"I heard you were out late last night. I had hoped…"

Bolitho's grey eyes flashed. "May I ask who told you I was at my wife's house?"

Godschale frowned. "When I heard of it I cherished the thought that you might be returning to her." He felt his confidence ebbing under Bolitho's angry stare. "But no matter. It was your sister, Mrs Vincent. She wrote to me recently about her son Miles. You dismissed him from your patronage, I believe, while he was a midshipman in Black Prince… a bit hard on the lad, surely? Especially as he had just lost his father."