hear the lady's concerns. It is because of the French I am come to Southampton, after all.”
David Lance looked from Sir Francis's set face to my own, which I imagine must have been flushed with the ardour of my thoughts. He took a step backwards. “Very well. I should never come between opponents on the battlefield. Tilt away, Miss Austen!”
I lifted my chin, and with it, my feathered turban. Martha drew a sharp breath at my side, as though she intended to dissuade me; she had not bargained for dispute when she agreed to meet the Lances. I squeezed her gloved hand in a gesture that has always commanded silence.
“Am I right in believing I have the honour of addressing some relation of Captain Austen?” Sir Francis enquired, with ponderously calculated formality.
“There are two captains of that name—my brothers Frank and Charles.”
“I am acquainted with the former. He commanded the Sea Fencibles, I believe, some years ago—and was stationed in Ramsgate. But presently he undertakes a very different duty, I understand. The defence of rogues and murderers.”
“My brother is a steadfast friend, sir,” I returned tardy.
“It has often been observed that one may know a man by the company he keeps.”
I gestured around the Footes' close drawing-room. “Then you may learn in a single evening at Highfield House all you wish to know. My brother is perfectly acquainted with three-quarters of the party.”
“His great friend Tom Seagrave, however, is not present. I understand the Captain was thrown into gaol this morning. It is a wonder he did not land there years since. Has your brother visited Gaoler's Alley?”
“He has. The support of a friend is no less a duty when it is afforded litde respect, Sir Francis.”
“It must call into question Captain Austen's judgement, however,” Sir Francis observed. He had a broad smile on his supple mouth; he bent his broad shoulders attentively my way. Anyone in observing us would consider Sir Francis the most delightful of men, a true paragon of the Fashionable Set—and so attentive to the poor spinster with the ill-judged plumes. “I imagine the Admiralty will be forced to review their opinion of Captain Austen. They will wish to revise their estimate of his probity.”
“I have every confidence in my brother, sir—as I have in Captain Seagrave's innocence.”
“I shall take that as the most ardent recommendation of each man's worth, ma'am.” He bowed, and made as if to turn away—but that I reached without hesitation for his sleeve.
“Pray enlighten me, Sir Francis, regarding an Admiralty matter that does happen to fall within your purview. Why are French prisoners, though no less men than ourselves, housed in such miserable conditions that they die of want and disease?”
My voice had risen with my passion for the subject; conversations all around me fell away and ceased. Sir Francis regarded me with one eyebrow quizzically raised. I drew breath, and blundered on.
“Surely we would not wish for British soldiers and seamen to be treated so abominably! If we cannot secure expeditious exchanges in the dead of the winter months, then we must ensure that the sick and wounded are placed in the naval hospitals at Greenwich or Portsmouth.”
“Are you fond of causes, Miss Austen?” he enquired with a curl of his lip.
“Only when I discern injustice, Sir Francis.”
He set down his wineglass with a care that suggested his temper was under tight rein. “I wonder that you dare to broach such a subject in the home of a naval officer. Those men you speak of so tenderly would as soon kill Captain Foote, and every other man in this house, as kiss your pretty hand.”
Most of the naval set was utterly engrossed, now, by our spirited scene. I felt my cheeks grow warmer.
“The men I have seen are in no condition to stand,” I replied evenly. “Indeed, there is one man at least who may not survive the night, he is in so wretched a condition; and he is a gentleman of some learning, too—a naval physician.”
“Ah.” Sir Francis risked a sneer. “There is a gentleman in the case. I should have suspected as much.”
I flushed hotly. “You are impertinent, sir! Were my brother—a post captain in the Royal Navy—to end a prisoner in France, I should devoutly hope that he might receive better care than a Frenchman on these shores. Our care for the Enemy must stand as a testament of our government's humanity, despite the brutality of war. It ought, it must, to serve as example to the