Chapter One

London, June 1808

The dandy in yellow balanced a silver evening pump on the couch and leaned over to adjust its bow. “Just another smidge,” counseled his friend draped along the mantel. “No, to the right.”

At the sound of the opening door, the dandy straightened and raised his quizzing glass, ready to slash the intruder with his razor wit. Then the glass clattered to the floor. “Tressilian! I mean, my lord!”

The lean young man standing in the doorway wore the blue and gold uniform of a Royal Navy captain. His expression was patient but somehow threatening. Behind him was a phalanx of four comrades, two cousins and two friends, all of them the trim and muscular Corinthian sort. The cousin in the elaborate cavalry uniform balanced his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword.

As the Earl of Tressilian sauntered into the private parlor, the others fanned out behind him like a well-trained invasion force. Lieutenant Destain vaulted over the back of the couch and stretched his long legs out, dislodging the dandy’s foot and nearly toppling him. The other cousin, Jeremy Trevarrick, edged himself onto the windowsill and tried to look fierce. Barnabas Abernethy spared an envious glance at the dandy’s yellow satin breeches— Barnabas would be a tulip himself, would his friends allow it— then stationed himself with a foot poised belligerently on the stone hearth. And the eldest of the group, Lord Lytten held the door open and smiled ferociously.

Tressilian stopped his pacing directly under the chandelier, its light gilding his black hair. His dark gaze held the dandy fast and then just as coolly dismissed him with a glance at the open door.

“My lord. Lieutenant Destain.” The dandy’s voice rose to a squeak, and he could manage only a nod to the others. “Didn’t know you was in town. We were just leaving.”

The dispossessed dandies retreated in some disarray, the friend breaking his silence only as they crossed the threshold. “We’re members of the Bracken too. And we was here first.”

“Shut up.” The dandy in yellow turned back to bow to the earl. “Don’t you know that Tressilian has killed men for less than this?”

Brendan Trevarrick had not, in fact, ever killed a man for usurping this room, but then, no man ever stayed around long enough to fight for it. Once again denied a battle, he bent to pluck a scrap of lace from the faded oriental carpet and flung the little handkerchief into the cold hearth. “Tommy, our parlor smells of scent.”

Lieutenant Thomas Destain, a slim fair man of indolent attitude, agreed this could not be borne. From his command post on the couch, he directed entrenchment operations. “Jeremy,” he ordered the youngest, “open that window. Barnabas, light up a cigar. Larry, find the key to the cabinet— it’s there, above the doorframe, and open the cabinet, there’s a good lad, and get out the decanter. Bren, do you think it’s at the same level as last we were here? Let’s remember to mark it this time to make sure no one’s stealing our brandy. No, Larry, don’t drink it. Just sprinkle a bit on the hearth and leave it open.”

Soon the parlor smelled as a gentleman’s club should, of fresh air and tobacco and cognac. Mission accomplished, Destain laid his head back against the leather arm of the couch and closed his eyes. “Now, Bren, is that more to your liking? If I loved you better, I’d import some sea air, but I fear the London fog is all you’re worth to me.”

“If you loved me better,” Tressilian replied, taking decanter from Lytten and splashing brandy into glasses, “you’d see about that brass plaque to establish our ownership of this room. We’ve only been gone eight months, and see who’s been abusing it in our absence— Tulip Tillson and Pomade Pettrick.”

Destain reached out a lazy hand for his glass. “I was set to order a plaque made, to present to you at Christmas. But I thought to check the wording with you first. Do you prefer The Destain-Tressilian Proprietary Parlor, or the Destain-Tressilian Proprietary Salon?”

“I prefer the Tressilian-Destain Anything at All.” Ordinarily, Tressilian wasn’t one to pull rank, but he wasn’t about to let Tommy get away with this. “Precedence, you know.”

“What precedence? My name comes first alphabetically.”

“But I am a peer.”

Murmurs of “Got you there” rose from Lytten and Abernethy. Jeremy kept to his perch and did not venture an opinion. Destain only smiled. “What’s a peer, compared to a noted wit?”

“Half of one, anyway,” Lytten put in, but Tressilian silenced him with a glare. Only he was allowed to insult his cousin.

“I needn’t mention that the navy far outranks the cavalry in significance.” He paused to let that sink in, but Destain kept smiling. Goaded, Tressilian added, “Especially since Trafalgar, when we established our superiority over that other service. Barnabas, what is the name of that other service? I forget. Ah, yes, the army.”

Barnabas frowned in bewilderment. “I thought it was the French you beat at Trafalgar. Not the thing to fight your own army, is it?”

“And,” Tressilian went on, dropping into a chair and propping his feet on the hearth, “I am the elder. By two months. Tressilian-Destain, you must agree, is preferred.”

“If I am to pay for the blasted thing, it’s Destain-Tressilian.”

This was an unanswerable shot, and Tressilian surrendered as gracefully as he could. “It’s enough to be back home, both at the same time,” he said, reaching across and clapping his cousin on the shoulder. “Both safe from the wars.”

“You decorated, and I promoted! What great fortune.”

“What a surprise,” Lytten added. “You must have been the oldest cornet in the army. How long have you served, Destain? Three years? And even now only a lieutenant. Keep up the pace, sluggard, and you might make captain before century’s end.”

Tom sighed. “That rank’s too dear for my pocket. And you know the admiral’d never spring for it.”

The admiral was Tom’s father, and Tressilian’s superior, and, after Napoleon, the army’s greatest enemy. He’d never forgiven his son for breaking four generations’ worth of naval tradition, so buying a promotion was the last thing he’d consider. Sympathetically Tressilian said, “I’ll buy you a captaincy, Tommy.”

“Don’t bother. Don’t want it. Captains work too hard.”

“Work too hard? In the Army?” Tressilian scoffed. “As far as I can see, all your captains do is play cards and lose duels. If any of them have led troops into battle in the last few years, I’ve yet to hear of it.”

This at least wiped the smile off Tom’s face, though he still didn’t open his eyes. “And you sea captains are next to galley slaves, I suppose? I supposed you drove yourself to exhaustion on that cruise to Brazil?”

“Well,” Tressilian had to admit, “we never quite got there. Ran into a spot of trouble near Madeira.”

“I might have known,” Tom said. They’d been raised almost as brothers, and had no secrets to speak of. “Who was she?”

“She?”

“The woman involved. There had to be a woman.”

“Yes, Bren, tell us,” Lytten chimed in. “Who was this spot of trouble?”

“The sultan’s wife. She wasn’t my trouble, you understand,” Tressilian hastened to add. “But the sultan’s.”

“They have sultans in Madeira?” Jeremy asked, frowning a little in concentration. “I thought we had a military governor ruling it these days.”

“The sultan was just visiting. Came for the wine, don’t you know. Traveling light, brought only four wives. This one was number three. I was at the government building, negotiating the release of my second lieutenant from the dungeon. No,” Tressilian said, putting up his hand, “don’t ask me why he was in the dungeon. It does no credit to our occupying force. I expect quite a negative report in my file at the Admiralty.” A scowl fleeted across his face and was gone. “And the sultan’s eunuch rushed in and cried— Have you ever seen a eunuch?”

“Only Pomade Pettrick and Tulip Tillson,” Tom muttered. “Go on, go on. What did the eunuch say?”

Tressilian responded with an incomprehensible burst of speech, then added, “That means ‘Princess Fatma has been kidnapped!’”

“Did you do it?” Barnabas’s spasmodic gesture connected with his tankard on the mantle and sent it crashing to the floor.

“Kidnap her?” Lytten watched with disgust as Barnabas grabbed the hearthcloth and began mopping up his mess. “Since when has Tressilian had to kidnap a woman? They’ve kidnapped him, on occasion, no doubt.”

“I didn’t kidnap her. We rescued her, though. Some bandits had slipped into the palace through an underground tunnel and plucked her right out of the bath. Took her up into the highlands, held her for ransom. I got my marines off the Defiant, and we chased them back to their hideout.”

“So why did you have to turn back from your voyage, if you rescued the princess?” Jeremy prompted. “Didn’t the sultan express his gratitude?’

“Certainly did. Gave me a casket of jewels for King George, and a dagger for myself. Even got my lieutenant set free. The admiral thought I’d best get the jewels delivered to the king before I lost them in a card game, so here I am.” His modest shrug caused the epaulettes to ripple over his shoulders.