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There was a time when things were different, when nothing but the sea could fill that restless void inside him. How he'd reveled in the danger of guiding England's incomparable fleet into the dangers of war, armed with skill, cunning . . . and youth's foolish conviction that mortality was an impalpable entity that need not be faced.
How drastically all that had changed. The zealous dedication of his youth had eroded into bewilderment, then outrage, as he'd quickly learned that war's price was death—a price paid not only by evil men, but by decent ones as well. His idealism had disintegrated further with each battle; first Copenhagen, then the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, and culminating with the most heinous injustice of all. Trafalgar.
With an anguished shudder, Rem fought the hated ghosts, wondering if he would ever be able to erase the image of his revered friend and mentor, the unrivaled Admiral Lord Nelson, lying amid a pool of his own blood on the deck of the Victory. Rem could still picture the admiral struggling for breath, being carried below to the surgeon's cockpit before the horrified gazes of his crew. Nelson died during what should have been his most triumphant victory—the utter annihilation of Napoleon's naval fleet. Never had Rem felt so powerless, so hollow. So unpatriotically bitter.
He had planned to resign from the Royal Navy. His resignation was never submitted. Instead, fate chose that moment to intercede in the form of the First Lord of the Admiralty himself. Based on the meticulous notes of Lord Nelson, which exuded praise for his young captain's keen instincts and intricate mind, and the glowing recommendations not only of Admiral Nelson, but of three rear admirals and two commodores and commanders-in-chief, the First Lord respectfully requested that Rem consider working for the Admiralty—as a covert agent of the British Crown. Rem had accepted, recognizing it as his opportunity to ensure that life's equity would be in his hands, rather than in fate's. He had been undeterred by the escalated dangers his forthcoming missions would pose, for after years of naval service amid death's hovering presence, the thought of dying did not frighten him.
What had truly frightened him was the void in his soul, the loss of purpose he'd needed to regain. Tossing off his drink, Rem rolled the empty glass between palms as he contemplated the outcome of his unconventional career. He'd successfully ferreted out countless French and American spies, eliminated an equal number of English-born traitors to the Crown, apprehended elusive, highly effective privateers, undermined American naval strategy during the War of 1812, and, most recently, transmitted urgent, confidential missives to the Duke of Wellington—missives that would soon result in Napoleon's downfall.
Rem's methods were not always orthodox, but his results were infinitely satisfactory. His identity had never been discovered, and he and his men could triumphantly boast not merely success, but success employing Rem's cardinal rule: to expose and punish the guilty while sparing the innocent. About this Rem was adamant, determined to ensure that while warfare was undiscriminating about the lives it claimed, his men would not be. And they had yet to disappoint him.
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Yes, he'd achieved all he'd sought a decade ago.
The clock in the hallway struck two, interrupting Rem's musings, reminding him of the lateness of the hour and the multitude of tasks that lay ahead.
He deposited his glass on the side table and rested his chin on his chest. Slowly, he inhaled, then exhaled, beginning a practiced breathing method he knew would swiftly relax his body and free his mind for all it needed to plan during the remaining hours of night.
He would depart for the docks at daybreak.
"Samantha, my little lamb! You're drenched!"
"We were caught in that dreadful storm, Aunt Gertie," Samantha replied, stifling a smile. If anyone resembled a lamb, she thought, hugging her elderly aunt, it was Gertrude, with her spindly legs, imploring brown eyes, and wiry white hair. Why, she could almost hear her aunt bleat.
"You brought... what?" Gertie cocked her head to one side in an attempt to make out Sammy's words.
"Not brought, Aunt," Sammy replied patiently, and loudly. "Caught. We were caught in the storm."
Gertrude gave a grand shrug. "Fine, dear. I'll have the servants fetch it." She glanced expectantly around the quiet hallway, then jabbed a wrinkled finger in Smitty's direction.
"You, young man, kindly put down that mangy rat and bring in my great-niece's belongings."
"Aunt Gertie, that's Smithers." Were it not for the terribly offended look on Smitty's face, Samantha would have exploded into laughter. Instead she hastily transferred her wriggling pup from Smitty's arms to her own. "And this is my dog—Rascal. I assure you, he is very friendly and bears absolutely no resemblance to a rat when he is dry."
"Rascal?" Gertrude scowled. "A rather odd name for a footman."
"No, Aunt." Sammy was practically bellowing. "Rascal is my dog. Although your error is understandable. You're the second person tonight to mistake Rascal for a rodent."
"Your dog? Then who is this man? I'm sure he wasn't here before you arrived, so if he isn't one of Allonshire's footmen, what on earth is he doing here?"
Sammy leaned forward and seized her aunt's hands. "Smithers is Drake's valet; you've met him. And remember? Drake wrote and told you that Smithers would be accompanying me to London because—"
"Oh yes, yes, yes," the old woman interrupted with an apologetic shake of her head. "The birth of my next great-great-nephew or niece is impending. I apologize, Smithers ... I don't know how I could have forgotten."
"That's quite all right, my lady."
"Although why Drake would send his valet along as Samantha's chaperon is beyond my comprehension. No offense intended, Smithers."
"None taken, madame."
"But after all, a valet for a young woman's—"
"Smitty is much more than Drake's valet, Aunt Gertie," Samantha interceded at a shout. "He's been with our family for years and years, and I regard him as an uncle, not a servant. Drake has the utmost trust in him, as do I."
"Oh ... I see. My apologies once again, Smithers. I do recall now that Drake wrote something of the kind in his letter."
"I understand, my lady," Smitty managed in clipped tones.
