Free The King's Marauder by Dewey Lambdin

and a saddle of venison. Interested?”
    “Oh, that sounds tempting, sir, but I fear I must beg off. I have other plans,” Westcott said with a grimace of disappointment to miss such a feast.
    “Your landlady?” Lewrie teased.
    “Ehm, no sir, not tonight,” Westcott cautiously admitted with a sly grin. “There’s a very fetching young seamstress I met when having some new shirts run up. Most  … promising.”
    “Just remember the Saturday mess toast, Geoffrey,” Lewrie cautioned. “Sweethearts and … landladies … may they never meet.”
    “One in Southwark, t’other in the Borough,” Westcott quipped with a wink. “I’ve already read this half of the paper. Want it?”
    They passed the next two hours comparing news stories and palavering their opinions, good or bad, on what they’d read. They went out for tea and some fresh air in the courtyard, then returned.
    “Captain Sir Alan Lewrie?” one of Marsden’s clerks called out. “Is Captain Lewrie present?”
    “I’m here!” Lewrie cried back, chiding himself for sounding too eager, and shooting to his feet as if stung.
    “The First Secretary wishes to see you now, sir,” the clerk said.
    “Wish me luck, Mister Westcott. We may be onto something good,” Lewrie muttered, then went to the bottom of the stairs to follow the clerk. The clerk opened the door to Marsden’s office and ushered him in.
    “Good morning, sir,” Lewrie said to the First Secretary.
    “Ah, good morning to you, Sir Alan,” Marsden said back, looking haggard and worn. He had been in the job seemingly forever, and the years had taken a toll. “Do sit, sir.”
    “Thankee, sir,” Lewrie replied, plopping himself down.
    “Ahh, hmm,” Marsden said with a long sigh. “I note that you are no longer employing a walking stick, Sir Alan?”
    “Over the winter, sir, I’ve worked my way to complete health,” Lewrie told him. “I could dance a jig if you need proof of it.”
    “No, no, that will not be necessary,” Mr. Marsden said with a brief chuckle. “I will take your word for it. It is well that you are fit and ready to return to service.”
    “Avid t’do so, sir!” Lewrie assured him.
    Marsden leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his chest in thought.
    “Gad, what a disreputable business,” Marsden began. “Might you have read anything anent HMS Sapphire, Sir Alan?”
    “No, sir,” Lewrie had to tell him, trying to recall the ship’s name, and what sort she might be. Must be a new frigate, he thought.
    “She had just come out of the Chatham dockyards and a complete re-fit, and has only been back in commission for a little over seven months,” the Admiralty’s First Secretary began to explain, “and is at present anchored in the Great Nore to re-victual. Unfortunately…”
    Mr. Marsden sat back forward to slump over his desk and worked his mouth as if he had just bit into something vile.
    “In retrospect, her Captain, and her First Officer, turned out to be exceedingly poor choices,” he went on after a long sigh. “Both men are well qualified and highly experienced, but … they just would not, or could not, rub together. Perhaps it was some contretemps from their pasts, something personal, perhaps their families were at loggerheads, there’s no knowing, but … they have gone and shot one another in a duel!”
    “Shot?” Lewrie exclaimed. He’d served under several superior officers whom he would have gladly shot or strangled, but only in his fantasies. “Her First Lieutenant challenged his own Captain to a duel? That’s a court-martial offence … like the leader of the Nore Mutiny, Parker, once challenged Captain Riou. A hangin’ offence if his Captain died.”
    “No, ’twas the other way round,” Mr. Marsden sadly imparted. “ Sapphire ’s Captain was so wroth with her First Officer that he issued the challenge. He could have preferred charges for gross insubordination, or let the fellow ask for a transfer, but no.