February 1830
Brand strode into The Silver Tankard that evening garbed as he would any other day–a proper jacket and shirt deserving of his station, reserving the pirate outfit only to rile Alexander. At the door, he was greeted by the maître d' whose smile was overly radiant and false, and whose bodice had long since yielded to the press of her heavy breasts.
"My Lord," she said with a curtsy and gestured towards the in-house. "Mr. O'Neill is seated in one of the private rooms."
Brand nodded and allowed her to lead the way.
The sun had only gone down hours ago and the first-floor salon was now filled with patrons. Gentlemen reclined with glasses of port and their fine cigars, a few ladies laughing softly over cards and wine, their rippling conversation buried beneath tobacco and expensive perfumes. As he crossed the room, he felt heads turn, and in recognition, they bowed to him, murmuring "Sir" and "Your Highness." He acknowledged them with a solemn inclination of his head.
The murmurs did not cease with the salutations, nor did the glances subside. He caught a grey-haired man staring, who, as his eyebrows rose, hastily turned away. They sat in the very same establishment, enjoying the same indulgences, yet would move to pass judgment on him with their stares? How hypocritical.
The Silver Tankard was a house of leisure and, as the law allowed, a private establishment. It sat a short distance away from the docks and had at one time provided a welcoming and farewell for sailors with wine, cards and entertainment. Of late, however, it had moved on to accord the same to lords and ladies seeking respite from their privileged and boring lives. Brand did not frequent the place by habit, but there were occasions when the private rooms offered solitude and the wines he found necessary.
When they reached the private room, the maître d' pushed the door and he entered.
His friend and occasional business partner, Ramsay O'Neill, who was slouched in one of the plush seats at the room's end, sat up as soon as he saw him. He had already seen fit to summon a bottle of fine cognac. Good.
"Brand," he greeted, setting himself to his feet. He offered a light bow and brought an outstretched hand forward.
"Ramsay," Brand returned, with a nod. The maître d' bowed and quietly left. He circled the table, accepted Ramsay's offered hand in greeting and sat himself by the small window overlooking the vast ocean. Ramsay waited until he was properly seated before he resumed his former seat. "When you sent word requesting a meeting, I imagined it would be at your estate, one of your vessels, or some other club more suited to your tastes," he remarked.
"This club is as good and provides as much joy as any, my friend," Ramsay replied lightly.
Brand nodded, though not in agreement. He allowed his gaze to wander across the room as Ramsay poured out the cognac and slid the glass toward him. "Why not sit then in the midst of the many? Why seek a private corner?" he asked, taking the snifter but not yet drinking.
"We discuss a matter of private nature."
"Hmm." Bringing the glass to his lips, he drank deeply, far more than etiquette might advise. With the glass almost drained, he set it down and sat back. "You mentioned trouble with your ship."
"You do not waste time with pleasantries. Always on with your business." Ramsay said dryly, reaching for a cigar and crossing one leg over the other.
Brand very nearly smiled. "You ought to attempt it sometimes. It saves time, and words." He admonished, taking another great gulp of his cognac. The reddish-brown liquid travelled down his throat and settled with a pleasant heat in his stomach. He sighed, relishing the feeling. Against the cold sea breeze, it was a welcome change. Alexander would both be proud and terrified of his recent fondness and overindulgence for fine wine, not that he cared for his brother's approbation.
Ramsay laughed, shaking his head. "I am quite content with my present manner of living." He took a light drag of his cigar, then sobered immediately. "Though, to speak truthfully, that manner of living has caused trouble out on the open waters."
Brand lowered his glass slightly. "Speak plainly, Ramsay, you know I have no patience for riddles."
Ramsay exhaled deeply. Setting his snifter on the table, he sat out. "A letter arrived two evenings ago. One of my ships has gone down to the bottom of the sea."
Brand stilled. "Ramsay—"
"It was a fault of my own making," the man interrupted with a raised hand, his voice low. He expelled a heavy breath. "The quartermaster had warned of the ship's declining condition, but I overruled him and ordered that the voyage be made regardless." He scoffed under his breath, knocked the table twice, and added, almost in a whisper, "The consequences of my chosen way of life, do you see?"
Brand set his snifter down, too. "You could not have foreseen the worst. The seas have claimed many a ship, even those well-fitted and well-manned." Great fortune, mighty ships and good lives lay underneath the dark waters.
"And it has claimed another. One belonging to a headstrong captain."
He blinked purposively. "Were lives lost?"
"Nearly. The letter told that Lewis had been trapped in the lower storeroom and almost went down with the ship." He paused. "And Mr. Bolton had been injured whilst attempting to escape. His left foot is lost."
There was a moment of silence.
"How had they been rescued?"
"Another ship was making its way through that part. Thankfully."
On the table, Brand flexed his fingers slightly against the curve of his glass. He knew he ought to offer some word of comfort, but he could not be discomposed. They had been ship-owners and seafarers even before the years of their friendship, and had both suffered losses, of varying kinds over the course of their lives at sea. But nothing, thus far, to rival this. It was disheartening.
He stayed his single gaze upon the devastated man who sat across from him, absentmindedly turning the half-filled snifter between his fingers, its contents forgotten. The life of a privateer was, by its very nature, fraught with danger as much as with profits. It provided the freedom to live by the will of the winds, to set foot on foreign shores and see the world as one pleased. But it likewise bore the gravest disappointments and provided the meanest dangers.
A knock sounded against the door, and it opened carefully. "Sir…"
It was a young girl. Without sparing the intruder any courtesy glance, Brand waved and sent her out. The door closed firmly.
"Who brought the message?" he asked.
Ramsay inhaled and exhaled as deeply. "Andrew Lamton. It was his merchant ship that came upon them and took them aboard."
"Where are they stationed?"
"In Ireland—for the present, at least. I travel down to them." He wearily rubbed at his temple. "I had intended to leave word with your butler, but when I saw Lawrence in town, I reckoned The Rescuer had returned."
Brand felt his right eye blink. Quickly, he blinked both. "I am docked for three days only." He informed. Then, "Do you wish my accompanying?"
Against his remorse, Ramsay gave a short laugh. "I daresay I can manage the journey to Ireland without causing another great trouble."
Brand allowed himself a small smile. Ramsay was no weakling, nor was he a man given to cowardice. He was proud enough to acknowledge his wrongdoing and, likewise, see it repaired. Perhaps, more than men of the sea, this quality was what kept them friends. "See your men returned to their families then, and have compensation sent along with them."
"Certainly." The man agreed, dragging mightily from his cigar. Then, "I do pray for your assistance, though." When he lifted his eyes squarely, a quiet nod urged him on. "They were bound for America to secure a purchase. I ask now your help in the matter."
"To collect?"
"To make the payment before. You are aware I do not conduct my business in the manner that you do yours."
"Perhaps," Brand said with a snigger, "which is why you have missed all the merriment and seen fewer shores than I have." He took a smaller sip of his cognac and allowed himself to sink more comfortably into the chair, his eyes moving from his friend to the window.
"Alas now, I must conduct it now like you do." he murmured, suddenly appearing rather gaunt.
The letter had arrived only two days before, yet Ramsay already bore the shadows of its contents in his countenance. He saw it. The man's words lacked the proper arrogance they usually held, his cigar burned too long before each drag, and the alcohol bottle had lost its greater content to the wells of his stomach. His friend, who had never been a man of few words, stared now at the fading wall, his eyes hollow with wakeful vigilance.