The Scent of Corruption (The Fighting Sail Series Book 7) Read Free

than he did the hand that created them, Fraiser had lost a leg in action, and opted to retire to St Helena during their last commission. King's eyes ran over the neat, clear writing while he reached for the pewter teapot, filling his cup, then sweetening with sugar almost unconsciously. There had been a time when the old man had been closer to him than his father, yet as King read the crisp and detailed descriptions of life on the remote outpost it was with scant consideration. Fraiser had been left in the care of Julia Booker, a girl King had known during their stay, though not quite as well as he would have liked. But there was no message from her, or even a specific mention and, as the three letters King had himself sent remained unanswered, he was forced to concede that his hopes for a future together should really be forgotten.
    The eggs arrived. King switched his attention from Fraiser's note to tackle one with a spoon and, if he tapped the shell more firmly than the task warranted, it had nothing to do with his thoughts. Julia was a wonderful woman, and he had honestly believed they could have been happy together: it was surely a pity she did not agree. But the cure for regret was readily available, and, despite the hour and his unusually clear head, King had the sudden urge to forgo his tea and call for something stronger.
    Several of the officers present were new arrivals and would hardly turn a hair were King to call for a rummer of gin. He looked about for a steward then noticed Donaldson, the bloated and ruddy captain of marines who was already halfway through a bottle of hock, his usual accompaniment to a bloody breakfast pork chop. In a hard drinking age, the wine was by no means extraordinary: Donaldson would finish that bottle as well as another of claret and be tapping the brandy long before supper. But one look at the marine's heavy, reddened jowls as they slurped at the smudged glass was enough to quell all desire, and King reached for his cup of sweetened, milk-less tea instead.
    “Fraiser seems to have settled well enough,” Caulfield boomed from the end of the table. King forced himself to concentrate on his words before more thoughts of Julia could lead him further astray.
    “Indeed,” he agreed, then, struggling for something to say, added: “Though it is to be expected; the island is a beautiful place, and he is in good care.”
    “Care that is every bit as beautiful as good,” Caulfield agreed, catching King's train of thought in a manner the younger man had not intended. “I fancy there are worse ways and poorer company in which to see out a life than in the charge of the enchanting Miss Booker.”
    King glanced sidelong at the first lieutenant who, despite their difference in status, was also a friend. At the time he had harboured suspicions that Caulfield was equally struck by Julia, yet now the man could speak easily and without a hint of regret. He turned his attention back to the eggs. It was strange how easily other people survived deep emotion, while he took even the most trivial of matters to heart, dwelling on them until they became totally out of proportion. Strange and more than a little annoying: he was quite certain such a defect in character, and he could view it in no other way, made life that much harder to live.
    King finished the first of the eggs, which had been hard boiled, and found the second, a brown, to be hardly cooked and barely edible. He wondered for a moment how whoever was in charge of cooking the things could be so inept in their duties and almost made to complain, when the memory of those stains came back to haunt him. King was well aware that he was hardly the epitome of efficiency at that moment, and with Prometheus still in the early days of her commission, there was much slightly amiss. Perhaps the correct boiling of eggs might not be so very important.
    Movement ahead caught his attention and he looked up to see Davison, the second lieutenant, seat himself