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It was unfortunate that for this trip none of the officers had brought their wives along for company. Indeed, there were no women aboard, only one hundred and eighty-five men. Nathaniel grimaced and corrected himself. One hundred and eighty-five men and one lady. A lady whose ability to place herself in quite the worst situations possible was equalled by none. To have almost drowned in the River Borne was one thing. To have run away from home, been taken by the Press Gang and worked, disguised as a boy, undetected upon his ship for two weeks was quite another. That the captain of that ship could have failed to notice such an absurd thing was preposterous.
He glanced once more at the group of young men behind him. Such enthusiasm, such commitment. If any one of them learned of Miss Raithwaite’s secret, she would be well and truly ruined—if she wasn’t already. And despite what his father thought, that was something Nathaniel could not let happen. The girl affected him far more than he was willing to own—her courage in the face of what for her was most definitely a disastrous situation, the transparency of emotion upon her face, those eyes that mirrored the colour of the sea before him. That he was attracted to her was obvious. He’d felt it since the moment she opened her eyes and looked up at him on the riverbank, her long hair dripping river water, her body relaxed and trusting in his arms. It had obviously been too long since he’d had a woman. A physical need, nothing more. But even as the thought formed, he knew it wasn’t true. What he felt for her was much more than that, more than he was ready to admit.
Quite how Miss Raithwaite had escaped detection was nothing short of a miracle. He gripped the smooth wood of the quarterdeck rail with tense hands. It was imperative that no one should discover the true identity of Lord George Hawke or, indeed, Master George Robertson. He walked back to the small group of would-be officers without a hint of the worry that plagued his mind or the fatigue that pulled at his body.
Georgiana was helping Mr Fraser, the captain’s valet, in cleansing the great man’s clothes. She struggled to hold back her laughter at the reverential voice that Gordon Fraser constantly adopted when speaking of Captain Hawke.
‘Now, Master Robertson,’ Mr Fraser said in his lilting Scottish tones, ‘it is vital that Captain Hawke’s shirts—’ he lowered his voice as he uttered his master’s name ‘—are treated exactly to his liking. Gather up the washing tub and follow me.’ He marched off across the deck with the manner of a schoolmaster who would brook no nonsense.
Georgiana did as she was bid, scooping the wooden basin under one arm and holding three of Nathaniel’s shirts in the other hand.
They stopped before a large wooden cask. ‘Off with the lid and fill your basin.’ Mr Fraser stood well back.
‘Yes, sir.’ Georgiana prised the lid off and promptly dropped both the basin and the shirts in her hurry to scramble away. ‘Dear Lord!’ she mumbled beneath her breath and retched.
Mr Fraser pursed his lips. The boy had to learn, even if he was the captain’s nephew, perhaps even more so. ‘We haven’t got all day, laddie. Now, retrieve your basin and Captain Hawke’s shirts, and do as you’re bid.’
The hard biscuit and apple eaten for luncheon were threatening to make a reappearance upon the deck. Georgiana’s stomach heaved. ‘What on earth…?’
‘That’s quite enough, Master Robertson. Stop behaving like a namby-pamby and get back over there.’ He twirled at his grey moustache.
Georgiana held her nose, approached the cask, and fulfilled Mr Fraser’s requirements as quickly as she could. The liquid slopping within the basin was dark brown in colour and stank to high heaven.
‘Submerge the shirts and scrub around the cuffs and collar to remove any marks.’ He handed her a small brush.
The thought of plunging her hands into the vile liquid brought Georgiana’s stomach back up into her throat. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser,’ she managed to croak.
‘When you’re sure there are no stains left, you can start using the soap. Then give them a good rinse in sea water from the cask over there. Ring them out and then peg them on to the line fixed at the far corner. After that I’ll instruct you in the care of the captain’s boots.’ Mr Fraser was clearly used to giving orders.
The stench was unbearable and her hands were soon red raw with the scrubbing. It occurred to Georgiana that perhaps a gunroom servant hadn’t been such a bad job after all. Finally the chore was done and she was just pegging the shirts on the line when Captain Hawke and the boatswain wandered by, deep in conversation. Nathaniel’s eyes held hers for a moment, although he gave no other outward sign of having seen her, and in the next instant he had passed by. Irrational as it was, Georgiana felt a pang of annoyance. What did she expect him to do? Execute a tidy bow at his ship’s boy? Enquire as to her health this fine afternoon? Georgiana grumped back down to Mr Fraser.
‘You managed then, boy?’ Mr Fraser’s single jaundiced eye was trained upon her.
She stifled the words that so longed to jump off the tip of her tongue. ‘Yes, Mr Fraser, sir.’ The old man was kind enough for all his stern ways.
‘You’ll soon get used to the washing stench. Stale piss is never fragrant. And it’ll have grown a mite more pungent by the time we reach our destination.’
The blood drained from Georgiana’s face, leaving her powder white. ‘Stale piss?’ she uttered faintly.
‘What else did you think it was?’ retorted Mr Fraser with a snort. ‘There’s nothing better for shifting dirt.’ He noticed his assistant’s pallor. ‘You’ve a lot yet to learn, laddie, a lot to learn.’ Shaking his head, he went to fetch the revered Captain Hawke’s boots and shoes.
The pillow was plump and soft and smelled of Nathaniel Hawke. Sandalwood and soap and a distinctly masculine aroma. Georgiana snuggled beneath the covers and marvelled at the luxury. No choir of snores, wheezes and coughs, no foul odours from a multitude of youthful male bodies, no scuttle of rodents. Bliss! During her two weeks in the midshipmen’s berth she had failed miserably in her attempt to grow used to the narrow hammock strung so closely between those of Mr Hartley and Mr Burrows. Each night had seen her lying rigid and afraid to move, lest she fell out, until she found sleep by virtue of sheer exhaustion. The alternative of sleeping on the dampness of the deck below, amidst the spiders and the rats, was too awful to contemplate. She stretched out her spine, unmindful of her bindings, and pulled the sheet up to meet her nose. A contented sigh escaped. Such warmth, such comfort. She sighed and wriggled her legs around.
It was wonderful to be able to relax, to drop her vigilance of trying to disguise her voice, her manners and all feminine tendencies, which, she had come to realise, were too numerous to count. A space of her own. Privacy. Safety from discovery. Heaven only knew what Mama would do if she knew her situation. Swoon, no doubt. It was the first time that she’d allowed herself to think of Mama, of little Prudence and Theo. Even her stepbrother Francis with all his teasing and impudence did not seem so bad. Please God, keep them safe. She felt her eyes begin to well and took a deep breath to allay the tears that threatened to fall. Mama would be worried sick, not knowing where she was, and Papa. Papa would be livid. In her rush to escape marriage to Mr Praxton, she’d only succeeded in making things difficult for her family. There would be gossip, and worse. Denigration, castigation, direct snubs. Poor Mama. She wept silently, stifling her sobs in Nathaniel Hawke’s pillow. Sleep finally found her with swollen eyelids and the taste of saline upon her lips.
It was still dark. Georgiana’s eyes strained against the gloom. It seemed barely five minutes since she had laid her head on the pillow. Nathaniel’s soft tread sounded from the adjoining cabin. A dull pain thrummed around her head. She groaned, dragged her fatigued body from the bed and started to dress herself. Late, she was late. What would Mr Fraser say? No time for boots.
Nathaniel sipped at the brandy and stared at the charts laid on the desk before him. It was a little after two o’clock and he still could not find sleep. The lantern light flickered as he moved to peer blindly from the windows. He had stood there some time when he heard the noise, and turned with confusion to look at the connecting door. Therein lay the reason for his insomnia. The indomitable Miss Raithwaite, who had not the slightest notion of the precarious position into which she had thrust herself. He smiled at the memory of her determined face—she certainly did not enter into anything faintheartedly. Even as he thought it the door creaked open and Miss Raithwaite—or should he say Master Robertson?—stumbled out fully dressed. ‘George?’ he quizzed lightly.
‘On my way to my station, Captain, sir,’ she pronounced through tired lips and dragged herself towards the door. She had reverted to her ‘boy’s’ voice even though they were alone.
Nathaniel’s eyes opened wide, suddenly alert. ‘George,’ he said again and moved to grab at her shoulders.
Georgiana’s sleep-fuddled mind could not comprehend what had happened, only that she now found herself staring up into Nathaniel Hawke’s handsome face. ‘Late, I’m late,’ she mumbled, and tried to disengage herself.
He gathered her slender body into his arms and held her against him. She did not protest further, just laid her head against his shoulder. Nathaniel swallowed hard. She was warm and soft. The effects of the brandy swam through his brain. His hand swept across her back, moving up to touch the delicate nape of her neck. No woman had ever felt this right. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, revelling in the sweetness of her smell and with great reluctance held her away. ‘You’re sleep-addled, George. It’s the dead of night, and you should still be asleep.’ His winged eyebrow twitched as he smiled down at her.
‘But I heard the hands piped.’ Her voice was sleepy and low.
Nathaniel drew his thumb gently against her cheek. The skin was still soft and white. ‘Perhaps in your dream.’
Georgiana could not move. Still heavy with sleep, she felt mesmerised by the man in whose arms she stood. His voice was gentle, and there was such kindness in his eyes that it gladdened her heart. Couldn’t her stepfather have desired to marry her to a man such as this? A man who was just and fair, a man who had risked his life and now jeopardised his career to save her. She sighed, as his warm hands held her from him. He would never be interested in the likes of her, even if she hadn’t made such a mess of things. Not when his father was the Earl of Porchester. For all his standing, Nathaniel Hawke would always do what was right.
‘Let me help you back next door.’ His voice was soft in her ear as he lifted her up fully into his arms, her bare feet brushing against his breeches.
Georgiana was surely dreaming, and it was the same stuff that had filled all her nocturnal thoughts of late. His arms were strong and he carried her as if she were the merest featherweight. She laid her head against the hard muscle of his chest and felt the rhythmic beat of his heart. A lady would not have done such a thing, Georgiana knew that implicitly, but still she did nothing but revel in the warm languor that was spreading throughout her body.
Nathaniel pushed open the connecting door, pulled back the covers and carefully laid Miss Raithwaite upon the bed. The strength of the feeling she invoked shocked him. She should not have to suffer the rigors of ship life in the guise of a fourteen-year-old boy. The sight of her washing his shirts had worried him and he had resolved to speak to Mr Fraser to go easy with the lad. Her head sank into the pillow and he made to release her. It certainly would not do to linger in such a situation.
Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, even to herself, Georgiana succumbed to the mad impulse to wrap her hands around Nathaniel Hawke’s neck.
Nathaniel froze, the breath caught in his throat.
She thrust her fingers through his auburn locks as she had so longed to do, trailing them down to feel the taut muscles in his neck. ‘Closer, come closer.’ The words escaped as a whisper. The dream felt very real.
Nathaniel stared down at where he knew her face to be. He knew without seeing that her eyelids would have swept shut. Through the darkness he felt her rise beneath him, touching her lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss.
‘Oh, God!’ The blasphemy tore in a gritty hush from his throat. Never had a man been so tempted. Her soft cheek pressed to his and his body responded instinctively. His lips turned to seek hers and, upon finding them, possessed them with a gentle insistence. Their lips writhed in a torment of ecstasy until his tongue could no longer resist the sweet allure of her mouth and raided within, seeking its hidden intimacy with an increasing fervour.
Georgiana floated in a blissful haze of delight. Her hands slid of their own accord across the broad muscle of his back, basking in the heat of his skin through the fine lawn of his shirt. More, she wanted more of this strange enchanting feeling.
The cot swayed as he clambered upon it and lay his length against her. The wool of his breeches could not disguise the feel of her legs beneath him. He fumbled with her shirt and soon felt the satin skin beneath his hand. She made an inarticulate little noise, but did not draw back. His fingers wove their sensual magic across her stomach, swirling up towards her breast, only to meet with the coarse linen wrap of her bindings. It was enough to bring Nathaniel crashing to his senses. In that single instant he realised their predicament, and stopped.
‘Nathaniel?’ Miss Raithwaite’s sleepy whisper sounded through the darkness.
Hell’s teeth, it was enough to tempt a saint! Slowly, gently, he disengaged himself from the slender soft arms surrounding him. ‘You’re sleep-addled. Miss Raithwaite. I must not take advantage of a lady in my care.’ His teeth gritted in determination. ‘Please forgive me.’ And, so saying, he turned and strode briskly from the cabin, closing the door firmly behind him.
In the weeks that passed Captain Hawke took considerable care that just such a situation did not arise again. He threw himself into his work upon the Pallas and struggled to think of his ship’s boy as George Robertson rather than Miss Raithwaite. The task proved difficult, but not impossible. His illicit actions of that night had shaken him more than he cared to admit. For in acknowledging the young woman’s allure and his own inappropriate response, he felt that he had behaved as the singular debauchee his father thought him. He had embraced the role willingly for those tender few minutes, had revelled in Georgiana Raithwaite’s warm caress, until he’d realised the shamefulness of what he was doing. And the thought repulsed him. He thrust it away, determined to think no more of that night. Mercifully Miss Raithwaite had made no mention of the incident, and continued to adopt her guise of the ship’s boy, revealing nothing more by her outward demeanour. Perhaps the fates had been kind to him, and robbed her of the sleep-laden memory. It was a prayer uttered most fervently by Nathaniel, although he was not naïve enough to believe that it would be answered.
Georgiana had woken to a heaving frenzy of conflicting emotions. Not only did she have a very clear and precise memory of her actions of the previous night but she also had to admit to having experienced a distinct pang of disappointment when Nathaniel Hawke had behaved like the gentleman he was and refused to continue his interest. She, on the other hand, to her extreme chagrin, had behaved like a wanton and was subsequently reaping a much-deserved vengeance of guilt. It was her first kiss, the first tentative touch of a man’s body. How could Miss Georgiana Raithwaite have behaved like a veritable slattern? With her fancy schooling, formidable parenting and proper Christian upbringing, she was nothing but a drab. She cringed when she thought what she had tried to do, the blatant seduction of a man who had done nothing but sought to help her. What must he have thought of her? Utter abhorrence, nothing less. Especially in view of what he thought she had been about with Mr Praxton in Hurstborne Park. Oh, Lord! She still had to face him. Confusion, fear and guilt vied in her breast.
With frank determination Georgiana pulled her fragmented emotions together, squared her shoulders and decided that she would pretend that the incident had never happened. It seemed the only way to survive the months that lay ahead. In all the days and weeks that rushed past with gathering momentum she threw herself body and soul into the role of the captain’s boy. Georgiana Raithwaite no longer existed, only the juvenile George Robertson. And through the boy she learned to quell the attraction she felt for Captain Nathaniel Hawke.
‘Take in all the canvas until she’s bare. We’ll have to try-a-hull. Have the galley fire extinguished and check that the magazines are secured.’ Captain Hawke lowered the small brass spyglass from his eye and turned to face Mr Anderson. ‘There’s a storm brewing, and from the cloud formation I’d say it’ll have its way with us if we’re not careful.’
‘Aye, Captain. It doesn’t look good.’
‘With the wind the way it is we can’t tack safely into it and any other move would have us well off course, or worse. Our best option is to weather the storm until it passes.’
John Anderson nodded his head. He’d trust Nathaniel Hawke above all others. The man had an uncanny ability for choosing wisely, even if it did appear sometimes slightly questionable to those who had neither his knowledge nor his experience.
The deck heaved beneath their feet as the white-crested waves buffeted the bow of the Pallas. The wind howled above the roar of the waves. All around them timber groaned and creaked as the sails were retracted. Men climbed fast, loosing the ropes, securing them again when the canvases had been taken in. Spray stung at their faces, dripped from their hair, soaking their clothes and drenching the decks.
‘All men to stay below other than are absolutely necessary up here. I’d say we have twenty minutes at the most before it reaches us.’ Nathaniel’s face was grim.
‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson watched his captain’s determined stance, a shiver of apprehension snaking down his spine. ‘What’s so bad, sir? We’ve suffered storms before and faired well enough.’
He did not want to frighten the young man, but forewarned was forearmed. ‘Never a storm like the one that’s coming for us now. Pray to God, Mr Anderson, that it passes quickly.’
‘Promise me, George, that you’ll stay in my day cabin until the storm has passed.’
She could see the anxiety in that determined glare. For a moment she thought that it was true what they said—the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Nathaniel Hawke’s soul was concerned by whatever he had seen sweeping down towards them across the ocean. He cared no more or no less about any man aboard the Pallas. Each was a member of his crew; he saw every one of them as his responsibility. ‘Yes, sir. There’s darning to be done and I’ll keep myself busy with the linen repairs.’
Still he seemed restless and uneasy. ‘Promise me,’ he said, his voice quiet and insistent. Seawater dripped from dark, sodden hair to run down his cheeks.
‘I’ll give you no cause to worry more over me than any other man or boy aboard this ship. I promise I’ll do as you command.’
Lines of tension were deeply etched into the flesh around his mouth, his coiled energy palpable within the confines of the small cabin. She longed to give him some measure of comfort, some little encouragement in the task that lay ahead. Wanted to touch her lips to his and tell him that all would be well. But George Robertson could not. She forced a smile to her mouth.
He stood still, silent, and regarded her for a minute, a single long minute, with an unreadable expression upon his face. Then turned and walked towards the door, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Fraser and the others will keep you company. It’s going to be a very long day and an even longer night.’
The waves grew larger as the wind set up a banshee howl. Through the windows in Nathaniel’s cabin, ship’s boy George Robertson watched the cold grey sea whip into a fury of froth and lashing fingers. It attacked the ship with violence as the sky darkened to a deep lifeless hue, chasing the light away. Only three bells had sounded, but already they could scarcely see within the captain’s cabin. The Pallas pitched and rolled at the mercy of the roaring ocean, her pine structure creaking and groaning under the strain. The holed bed linen slithered to the floor undarned as Georgiana clung to the unlit candle sconce. Waves battered at the feeble glass of the windows until she thought they surely must shatter beneath the hostile assault. A single lantern swung from the ceiling, lurching and swaying with the convulsions of the ship, illuminating the captain’s servants as monstrous distortions.
‘How’re you doin', laddie?’ Mr Fraser’s lilting voice enquired. He raised his head from the game of cards that he was enjoying with Bottomley, the captain’s cook, and Spence, the captain’s steward.
‘Survivin', thank you, sir. Will the storm last long?’
The grizzled grey head concentrated upon his hand of cards. ‘As long as it has a mind to last, no’ a moment less.’
A wave battered the stern, sending Georgiana hurtling across the room.
‘Steady, lad!’ the valet exclaimed, reaching out a gnarled old hand and hoisting the boy back by the scruff of the neck.
Three books fell off Nathaniel’s desk and a silver wine goblet rolled across the floor. Bottomley stopped it dead with his toe. Just when Georgiana thought that things could not possibly get any worse, a torrent of rain was released from the heavens to beat the Pallas into submission. A sheet of driving shards lashed the frigate without mercy and a rumble of thunder cracked loud. Somewhere across the deep darkness a tiny flicker lit up the sky, then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Dear Lord, nothing could hope to survive against such ferocity.
Fear twisted at Georgiana’s gut. ‘Where’s the captain?’
‘Up on deck.’ Mr Fraser’s single eye focused upon the boy and softened a little. ‘No need to worry, laddie. The captain knows what he’s doin'. Been through a hundred storms, he has, and never got caught yet.’
‘But shouldn’t we be helpin', sir?’ The thought of any man, let alone Nathaniel Hawke, out facing the wrath of the heavens was worrying in the extreme.
Mr Fraser shook his head. ‘We’d only create more hindrance than help. The captain’ll send for us if he needs us. Best to just stay out the way and look after his cabin.’ The boy’s eyes looked huge in the whitened pallor of his face. Poor lad. ‘It’ll pass soon enough, laddie. Best turn your mind to other things.’
A pile of papers slid off the desk and landed with a thud by her leg. She grabbed them and crawled along the floor to stuff them inside a drawer. Mr Fraser was right. There was nothing any of them could do about it, other than wait for the storm to pass, and pray that the Pallas’ crew remained safe.
The thunder rolled across the sky, masking the muffled knock at the door. A drenched seaman staggered in, dripping water across the polished wooden floor. ‘Man overboard,’ he said through gasping breath.
‘Who?’ Mr Fraser’s single eye widened at the news.
‘Midshipmen Hartley.’
‘Are we needed?’ His ancient tone was clipped, determined.
‘Not yet.’
And the sailor was gone.
Time dragged by. And still the storm showed no sign of abating. Georgiana hoped that Mr Hartley had been saved, but even as she turned her gaze once more to the large sea-battered windows she knew it was unlikely that anyone plunged into such a furore of indomitable wave power could survive. Drowned beneath the towering waves, or smashed like a weightless puppet against the hull. Dear God protect them all, she prayed like she never had done before, protect them all, but especially Nathaniel Hawke. Fear that he might be injured or, God forbid, die, pierced a pain through her heart. Never that, please Lord, never that. Why should she care so much for him? Was it his kindness or his strength, or the way he was just and fair? Maybe it was because he made her laugh, made her want to be with him? She laid her head against the edge of Nathaniel’s desk, clinging tightly to the wooden leg with one hand, worrying at her ear lobe with the other. Whatever the answer, ship’s boy George Robertson had no right to such feelings. Whether Georgiana Raithwaite did was another matter altogether.
Georgiana awoke to the stern tones of Mr Fraser and a vigorous shaking of her shoulder. ‘Robertson, waken yourself now, laddie. There’s plenty work to be done. It’s no time to be nappin'.’
The violent heave of the frigate was no more. No batter of rain, no riot of waves, no screaming darkness. She crawled out from beneath the captain’s desk and made for the windows. A calm leaden sea and colourless sky stretched endlessly ahead.
She turned to the elderly valet. ‘Mr Hartley, sir?’ The question had to be asked.
‘They fished him out alive, if not well.’
‘Thank God!’
Mr Fraser’s eye narrowed. ‘There’ll be no takin’ the Lord’s name in vain on this ship.’
‘And the captain?’
Fraser mellowed slightly at the anxiety-edged voice. ‘In fine mettle as ever. Come on, laddie, you’re gabbin’ like a fishwife. You youngsters would do anythin’ to avoid work. Got to keep my eye on you!’ His single eye stared large and codlike at Georgiana.
‘Yes, Mr Fraser, sir.’ She breathed her relief and watched while the cod eye delivered her a hearty wink.
Nathaniel was exhausted, but he knew that there was still much to be done before he could rest. Jeremiah Hutton and his assistants were already sawing up wooden spars to repair the damage done to the mizzen topgallant mast. Debris strewn across the decks was in the process of being cleared. And midshipman Hartley had apparently survived his ordeal with little more than a scratch to his arm.
Georgiana clambered upon the forecastle and surveyed the damage. ‘Set to it, lad.’ A basin was pressed into her hands. ‘Gather up seaweed and all else, exceptin’ fish, heave it over t’side. Look smart, now.’ She felt a thrust in her back and the voice was gone.
Pieces of wood, shells, dead and dying fish and stinking seaweed covered the floor before her. She scanned up towards the quarterdeck for any sign of Nathaniel. The seaweed squelched cold and slimy beneath her fingers. Sam Wilson’s thin body emerged ahead, gathering up the fish in his basin.
‘Sammy!’ she hailed.
The little lad looked round. ‘George! Place ain’t been the same without you.’
‘It’s good to see you too.’ She embraced the skinny body, glad that the orphaned youngster had survived the storm unscathed. Sam Wilson worried her more than she let anyone know. ‘Have you been helpin’ Jack like I told you to?’
‘Yeah, I’m Jack’s mate. He’s learning me knots for the riggin', and he don’t let no one cuff me, or take me grog.’ Sam gave her a gap-toothed grin.
‘What happened to your teeth?’ Georgiana held the lad at arm’s length and inspected his small grubby face.
He trailed a dirty hand across his runny nose. ‘Fell out when I was eatin’ me biscuit. Jack says more’ll grow.’
Georgiana smiled at the small ragamuffin before her and ruffled his matted hair. Poor little mite, thank goodness Burly Jack was looking out for him.
‘Master Robertson,’ a curt voice sounded. ‘Much as I hate to interrupt your little reunion, there’s work to be done aboard this frigate. And that means for all of us, no matter who we might happen to be.’ The veiled snub hit home, causing Georgiana to blush and resume her debris collection with renewed vigour. Lieutenant Pensenby leaned back against the railing and watched the boy’s progression with shrewd eyes. There was something strange about George Robertson, something very strange indeed. The way that he’d hugged ship’s boy Wilson, the clear, fine-boned face. It smacked of something unnatural, even if he was the captain’s nephew, or at least purported to be. Perhaps Captain Hawke was not quite the hero everyone thought. All was not as it presented itself, of that Cyril Pensenby was sure, and, one way or another, he meant to get to the bottom of the puzzle.
