The Indebted Earl

had gone, Sophie poured a cup of tea, inhaling the fragrance and dropping in two spoonfuls of sugar before handing it to the captain. His brows arched as he took the cup.
A smile, the first she’d felt like issuing in a long time, tugged at Sophie’s lips. “I must have remembered from one of Rich’s letters how you take your tea. He remarked often how supplies would run short and you would bemoan the lack of sugar for your tea.” Rich had portrayed the expression on his captain’s face in quite a humorous manner, and now that Sophie had met him in person, she could see it clearly.
He nodded, shifting his shoulders and wincing, though he tried to hide it.
Was it good manners to ask after a man’s war injuries? Was it bad manners not to? “I hope you are recovering from your wounds?”
“I am managing well, thank you.” He took a sip from his cup, rested it on his knee, and looked at the floor. Then he raised his chin. “It’s because of my injury that I am here.”
Sophie set the teapot down. His injury? Was he seeing a specialist in the area?
“I first must make my confession to you.” His expression became bleak, his eyes far away, as if remembering something painful. He sat at attention even though he remained in his chair. She imagined he would look much the same if facing a firing squad. What had he to confess?
He took a fortifying breath and set the teacup back on the tray. “I must apologize, because I bear responsibility for your loss. If it weren’t for me, Rich would still be alive and would be home with you now.” He gripped his knees, the skin taut over his knuckles.
Stunned at this admission, Sophie shook her head. This man was Rich’s friend. He couldn’t possibly have caused Rich’s death.
“Sir, I am sure you are mistaken. We understood that Rich had been shot. Are you saying you are the one who shot him?” Was that it? And if so, how was she going to bear it? It must have been an accident. But … surely God wouldn’t take Rich from her by accident? If You are sovereign, nothing happens by accident, right? Sophie dreaded what the captain would say, yet she longed to know.
Captain Wyvern shook his head. “I’ll start at the beginning. Our ship, the Dogged, was stationed off the coast of France. On April twelve, the same day Wellington was capturing Toulouse, we spotted a sail on the horizon. A Téméraire class, the Bravoure.”
As if he could no longer sit still, he rose and went to the window, legs braced apart, hands clasped behind him. She could envision him aboard a ship, commanding, issuing orders, watching the horizon.
“The Dogged is a swift vessel, and it was natural we should give chase. It is a tactic of French ships to show themselves and then race for the coast and the protection of the batteries there. However, with favorable winds and a well-trained crew, we were able to reel in the Bravoure well before we would be in any danger from the coastal guns. A brisk battle ensued, and though we had taken some damage, we were able to draw alongside and batten the Bravoure to the Dogged.”
Sophie listened intently, but it was as if he wasn’t really speaking to her. In some ways it was like listening to Mamie spin yarns about her childhood. Far away and vague on some points, piercingly accurate on others.
“When the grappling hooks were shot across, that was the signal for the marines to board the Bravoure. Major Richardson … Rich … was always the first to advance in those situations, and his men followed. I remained in command aboard the Dogged. Though the fighting was fierce, Rich soon had the French crew disarmed and assembled on the deck. The French colors were struck, and the enemy ship was ours. The men cheered. It was our third such battle in as many weeks, and each time we had been victorious. I suppose it was our run of wins that caused our … my … complacency. After assessing the damage to the Dogged and issuing orders to begin repairs, I boarded the captured vessel. I should have checked that a thorough search of the ship had been done, that all the prisoners had been accounted for, but I did not.”
For long moments, the only sound in the room was the rain washing down the window glass and the ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantel. A chill, slithery feeling invaded Sophie’s insides.
At last the captain stirred, rousing himself to finish the tale. He turned and faced her, not flinching, though the task clearly pained him.
“I was lax in my duty, and two French sailors burst from their hiding places on the foredeck. One had a cutlass and one a pistol. The one with the saber swung with the intent to take off my head, and if it wasn’t for the quick actions of Rich, I would be dead now. Rich launched himself toward me while firing his pistol at the swordsman, causing my assailant’s arm to drop at the last instant, and I suffered a slice across my back.”
Again he twitched his shoulders and grimaced. “Because Rich was intent upon saving me, he neglected to save himself. The Frenchman with the pistol fired and caught Rich in the side. By the time the rest of my crew understood what was happening and apprehended the enemy, Rich and I both lay on the deck with severe wounds.”
Sophie’s fingers came up to cover her lips. Rich had been wounded saving his friend’s life. And the captain admitted that it was his fault. He should have made sure the captured ship was secure before relaxing his guard. His admission floated in her head, shock making it difficult to attend to the accompanying emotions.
Deep creases etched into his cheeks, his mouth a grim line. “We were taken