The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (best new books to read .TXT) 📗

I speak with him, perhaps you can do something useful and organize some benches or chairs for the men who’ve come calling today?”

He stepped back and invited Charles into his sanctum, closing the door and shutting them in. Papers, books, charts, and maps littered the desk and meeting table, and more crammed the shelves.

“Have a seat, if you can find one. Someday the broadsheets will announce I have been killed in an avalanche of paperwork. If it isn’t the Chancellor of the Exchequer wanting reports down to the last grain of gunpowder, it’s Customs and Excise wanting to know what the Royal Navy is going to do about the rampant smuggling along every coastline in Britain. As if this was a navy problem. We’ve just finished fighting the most glorious naval war in our nation’s history, and the Revenue wants to turn us into constables on the coast. They should sort out their own problems.” The admiral rounded his desk and dropped into his seat while Charles moved a stack of logbooks from a Windsor chair. “And before you ask, no, I don’t have a command for you. Not for you nor for the scores of other officers who darken my door each day.”

“What about the Dogged? Return me to my ship and I’ll be a happy man.”

“The Dogged is docked in Portsmouth with most of the fleet, and that’s where she’ll stay. There are no orders for her and no need of a captain, though if there was such a need, there are others in line ahead of you. Officers of higher rank and lengthier service will receive commands first.”

“Surely there must be something? It doesn’t have to be a frigate. I’d take a sloop. At the moment, I’d take a leaky row boat.” Desperation tinged his voice, and he sought to quell his feelings. “Just give me anything afloat.”

“I know.” Barrington planted his elbows on his desk, denting the papers as he rested his chin on his clasped hands. “But there are decorated men with more experience and better connections at the front of the line. Men who are not coming off months in hospital, recovering from nasty cutlass wounds. How are you feeling, by the by?”

“Never better. A paltry cut that is fully healed.” This wasn’t strictly true, but near enough. The wound had healed, though he suspected he would always have some stiffness and restriction of movement.

Barrington, who had captained the first ship Charles had been assigned to as a boy of twelve, nodded, his eyes sharp as sail needles. “Glad to hear it. Have you any idea the complications of drawing down our navy now that we’ve won the war? Not even the Admiralty can agree on what size our fighting force should be, and there are so many backroom deals being done for who gets to command the remaining ships, it resembles a cross between the London Stock Exchange and a boxing bout.”

“Then how can I get one of those deals made for me?” Charles hated the politics involved in the navy, especially when it came to handing out positions to people who were unqualified but had the right connections. In his case, he was both the nephew of an earl and an experienced commander. He wouldn’t be shorting the navy if they gave him another ship. He had earned his way up the ranks and had experience and intelligence. Though he hated trading on the family name, especially since his uncle wanted nothing to do with him, he would at least explore that option before he submitted meekly to being put on indefinite shore leave. “Do I need to rely on my pedigree to get a command? To whom should I speak to see it done?”

Barrington slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s a bit of a complication with that, I’m afraid.”

Charles straightened. “What complication?”

“It seems your family is persona non grata at Whitehall these days. Having a cousin who tried to assassinate the Prince Regent is a bit of a blight on the family tree. Only your exemplary service record and the need for experienced ship captains kept you in command this long.”

Arthur Bracken, the black sheep of the family. The man who had attempted to assassinate the Prince Regent, failed spectacularly, and been shot trying to escape. Charles’s relationship with the former Viscount Fitzroy wasn’t common knowledge amongst his navy peers, but those in power in the Admiralty knew.

“I had nothing to do with that. I hadn’t seen Arthur in ten years at least. He was a child the last time we were face-to-face.” Charles crushed his bicorn on his lap, then tried to relax his hands. When word had spread that Viscount Fitzroy, heir to the Earl of Rothwell, had tried to stab the Prince Regent, Charles had been ashamed and appalled. He hadn’t mentioned the familial tie to his crew lest he be tarred with the same brush.

“I’m afraid you’re guilty by association.” Barrington frowned. “Not guilty as such, but having that swirling about you when the discussion of who gets a command and who doesn’t means you’re always going to be moved to the back of the queue. Especially as you are now Viscount Fitzroy yourself.”

Charles wanted to snap that it wasn’t fair, but he knew how childish that would sound. “Very well.” He rose. “I hope you will keep me in mind should something arise.”

“Now, Charles, don’t be like that. I’m doing my best for you. You’ve had a long time in service. Maybe it’s time for you to retire. You’ve certainly got the means, what with all the prize money you must have amassed since taking command of your own vessel. Will you go to the family estate? I’m sure the earl would be glad to see you. You are his heir now, after all.”

I am equally sure he would not be glad to see me. He would have to renege on many a tirade in order to welcome the “spawn