Kydd had indulged Tysoe’s fuss and worry: full-dress uniform was not to be hurried and he wanted to cut a figure before the daughter of the chairman of the Association of Planters. For one of Captain Kydd’s eminence, a carriage was made available and he sat in solitary splendour as it moved off in a jingle of leather and expensive harness. At the door of the Great House, under the torch-flames, those come to welcome the heroes of the hour had assembled, among them Chairman Wrexham and his daughter.
Kydd allowed himself to be handed down from the carriage and returned Wrexham’s courtly bow with an elegant leg, conscious of Amelia’s barely concealed delight.
Pleasantries were exchanged, then the chairman murmured politely, ‘Sir, my daughter being in want of a gentleman escort, it would oblige me if you …’
They entered the brightly lit reception room together, Kydd aware of the light pressure of her gloved hand on his arm. Shyly she introduced the notables of Antigua, this planter, that commissioner, and unaccountably her aunt Jane, a knowing woman, who sized him up rapidly.
He caught the envy in a group of naval officers nearby and swelled with pride.
‘You’re finding your way in our little society then, Mr Kydd,’ Wrexham said, with a smile.
Kydd responded with a wordless bow while Amelia bobbed, her grip on his arm tightening.
The dinner was a splendid affair. The chairman, his wife, Kydd and Amelia sat at one end while at the other the commander-in-chief held court with the senior captains. Even the presence of a stiff-faced Tyrell several places down could not dampen Kydd’s happiness.
The wine was French and of high quality. The chairman eased into a smile at Kydd’s knowledgeable appreciation, a result of Renzi’s patient tutelage. He felt a twinge of guilt. How Renzi would have enjoyed this evening – perhaps he should have pressed him further.
He was about to suggest a toast to absent friends when he happened to notice a flicked glance and slight frown on Wrexham’s face. He looked down the table and saw Tyrell’s glass empty yet again, and he was glaring about for a servant to refill it.
‘Oh, Captain Tyrell. He’s a Tartar right enough, but just the man to set before the Frenchies I’m persuaded,’ Kydd said firmly.
‘I’m sure of it,’ Wrexham responded drily.
The evening proceeded in a delightful haze, thoughts of the morrow set aside in the warmth of the occasion.
‘A capital night, sir!’ Kydd beamed at a hard-faced planter a place or two down, lifting his glass in salute.
The man started, then came back warmly, ‘As it is our duty in these times to honour the warriors that defend us!’
He raised his glass and—
There was a sudden crash down the table.
Heads turned in alarm. It was Tyrell, who had slammed his glass down so hard it had shattered.
‘I’ve got it! Be damned, I have it!’ he bellowed into the silence.
All the guests gazed at him in astonishment. He continued, in fuddled triumph, ‘I never forget a face, an’ there’s many a rogue swung at the yardarm t’ prove it!’ His words were thick with drink but there was no denying their hypnotic power.
He turned slowly and pointed directly at Kydd, his red-rimmed stare ferocious and exulting. ‘You, sir! I know where I saw you before, damme!’
Kydd went cold.
‘Hah! It was the old Duke William around the year ’ninety-four – or was it -three? No matter! How do I know? Because as a pawky Jack Tar I had you stripped and flogged! Twelve lashes – contempt and mutinous behaviour, it was.’
He sat back in satisfaction. ‘Told you I’d get it, hey!’ He chortled, seeming not to notice the shock and consternation about him.
A wash of outrage flooded Kydd. He saw Amelia’s face pale as she clutched at her father, while further down a naval wife turned to stare at him, twitching at her husband’s sleeve and whispering. Other captains swivelled to look at him in horrified fascination, their wives agog with the knowledge that they had been present at a scene they would talk about for a long time to come. Cochrane looked down the table at him, with an appalled expression, and from outside the room he heard the excited titter of servants.
Humiliation tore at Kydd. He shot to his feet and faced Tyrell, fists clenched, his chair crashing down behind him as he fought to keep control.
‘Well? It’s true, ain’t it?’ Tyrell grunted.
Kydd’s mind scrabbled to hold on to reason. The captain of the ship had ordered the lashes, Tyrell only the first lieutenant, but in its essence it was quite correct. He had been found out – he had been a former common sailor and, not only that, evidently a bad one who had been convicted of criminal conduct and punished.