Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
London, England
“So the boy lied, James,” Uncle William said to Julian’s father. “You cannot fault him for his resourcefulness.”
The two brothers stared at each other across the desk, the furnishing having taken a beating for the past forty-three minutes while Julian’s father ranted and Uncle William, much to Julian’s shock, defended Julian’s lies just recently come to light.
His father’s voice lowered to a growl. “He lied, for years. There was no Eton, no Oxford. He has been building ships.”
Uncle William clasped his hands across his lean middle in an impressive show of dispassion, especially since Julian had lied to him too. “He has used his ingenuity to make a way for himself. He could be a wastrel or dead on a battlefield. Instead, he gained skills. He has learned a trade.”
The earl’s jaw dropped at the word trade.
Regardless, Julian’s skills were sunk. If he hadn’t broken his leg while running up the enemy privateer, Roy Gaspard, off the southern coast of France, he would be in Mersey, waiting to set sail in the hunt for more prizes.
If Kit Greville hadn’t been a bloody traitor and dashed a letter to Uncle William the second they had reached port, Julian might be recuperating with a bottle of whisky and a buxom nurse.
“You must own he has been most ambitious,” Uncle William replied.
“My son is a damn pirate.”
“Privateer,” Julian corrected.
“You!” His father stabbed a finger across the desk. “Not another word.”
Here he was, a man of eighteen, in Berkeley Square, his father threatening to make him a parson.
Or whatever they were called. His father didn’t know, either.
But the earl promised to call in a favor from the archbishop.
The sole reason Julian said nothing was locked in a small chest at the corner of his father’s desk.
Gambling winnings and the portion Julian had gained from the Liverpool taking eight ships in sixteen months.
Eight hundred and thirty-seven pounds in gold ducats.
If his leg hadn’t snapped in two atop the upper main yard, he would plant a facer at his father’s chin, grab the chest, and quit the war that had raged between them since Julian was five and refused to write with his right hand.
He had spent his life wondering why his father refused his dreams at every turn and then, the answer had finally come, while visiting home to see his mother before he had left for sea.
His father had beamed over Julian’s forged school marks and said, “You see, boy, I was right. You are a scholar.”
The earl didn’t give a damn if Julian sailed, engaged in trade, or picked rags. His dreams had simply not been his father’s idea.
Glaring at the willow-board splint on his right leg, from the top of his thigh to his ankle, Julian refused to give quarter to the useless limb. Moving it might alleviate the pain but he had become used to the unabated throbbing, and with nothing better to do, he fought it.
Julian wiped the sweat from the back of his neck.
“As a second son myself, I commend his abilities,” his uncle said.
“Pirating abilities,” the earl retorted.
“Abilities that will serve him well, in light of his position, without a title like you and Oliver.” So Uncle William held a grudge, did he? “Moreover, along with insecurity, freedom is generally bestowed upon the son not afforded the luxuries of birth.”
“So I should be happy to have my son live in the gutter, if he so chooses, without any consideration to the duties which might fall to him.”
“What duties?” his uncle asked, pressing the earl to a corner where he’d be forced to admit his eldest son’s health was tenuous. That Oliver’s marriage had begotten four daughters and no sons.
Oliver was going to live forever, and if he didn’t, Julian would never step in as the heir. As if by stage direction, Oliver called from the study door, treading to Julian and dropping his hands where they hooked at his unfussy, grey coat. “Good God! What the hell happened?”
“Your brother is a pirate.”
Julian extended his hand. “Good to see you, Ollie.”
Oliver shook his hand, gawking at Julian’s leg brace and the leather ligatures and toggles holding his femur together.
“Your profligate brother did not attend Eton nor Oxford,” his father added. “Instead, he has been hammering nails in ships and stealing booty with a Captain Hutchinson.”
A gleam shone in Oliver’s eye. “William Hutchinson? The privateer?”
“Pirate,” the earl barked.
Oliver frowned in light of his father’s displeasure like a good son, but a grin threatened his mouth. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself, profligate brother?”
Julian nodded to the chest. “That.”
The earl smacked a hand to the top of the chest. “It is mine now, in repayment of the tuition I forfeited for the education you never had. And where is my money? Hmmm? Wasted it all on drink, didn’t you?”
Safe with Kitty at Mr. Cox’s. “You forgot trollops.”
“You’ve the French pox, no doubt.”
“Actually, there are these useful devices, English riding coats, for when a man craves a lusty gallop.”
Uncle William chuckled and Oliver blushed.
“Good to know you safeguard your appendage while ignoring your duty,” his father said.
“It is, by far, my favorite appendage. And the trollops’ too. Are we done here?”
His father purpled. “No, we are not.”
If Julian ever saw Greville’s pretty mug again, he’d unpretty it.
Once he could walk again. Surrendering to the pain screaming at his hip, Julian adjusted his leg where it propped on a chair.
He’d had to fight for his leg when the ship’s surgeon—a bosun good with a saw—had recommended preventative amputation.
Julian had gritted between his teeth, his leg cocked at an ungodly, excruciating angle and said, “How about I prevent you from talking again, and amputate your bloody tongue?”
Julian had slept with a pistol the entire way to Mersey.
Greville had found him a real surgeon, who had broken the bone again with a mallet and vice, set it, and braced it. Just thinking on the memory gave him the shakes.
“Ollie, will you please fetch me a drink?” Julian asked.
Over their father’s protest, Oliver poured a bumper of Scotch whisky.
His father sneered.
Oliver squinted in disbelief. “My brother has broken his leg. Surely, this allows for a measure of relief.”
“If the boy had been at Oxford, he would not require relief.”
“What is so important about Eton and Oxford?” Julian asked. “Those boys cared more for frigging themselves than learning”—he nodded to Oliver frozen in insult over the liquor tray—“except Ollie, of course. I could have learned the rot in a year.”
His father’s voice pitched as high as a maiden’s. “Oh, a year?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re so naturally brilliant, is it?”
“No, it’s just that easy if one applies themselves.”
The earl gripped the edge of the desk. “Who is Beowulf?”
The word sounded familiar and by the who, it was a person not a place. Julian was sure this Beowulf had no bearing on his future success. “A mythological hero.”
“And?”
Julian took a guess. “A dragon slayer.” Because heroes’ fates were all the same… “And he died.”
“The Magna Carta?”
Oliver had waxed upon it like the Holy Grail. “Signed by King John in 1215. A royal charter which protects against the tyranny of kings.”
“The Socratic method?”
Julian looked at his uncle who lofted his brows in encouragement. “A method employed by Socrates.”
“You do not know!” his father railed.
“I don’t know.”
“Explain the Stoic philosophy.”
“Explain to me why I should know.”
“‘Virtue consists in a will that is in agreement with nature,’” his father quoted fiercely. “These philosophies, which you besmirch, are how we great men are guided in our choices, and those ignorant remain weak, half-formed creatures subject to the whim of others. As low as a female.”
Julian grinned. “Now that you mention it, where is that weak, half-formed creature I call Mother?”
Oliver toasted his own glass of whisky at Julian from the window while the earl stewed.
Uncle William pressed from his seat. “I propose you allow the boy to make amends, James. And once you are satisfied, you return his prize money.”
“The only amends I would accept are out of his reach. No university will have him. He is lucky he is not sued for fraud and criminally charged with corruption.”
Latching his hands at his back, his uncle considered a portrait of Julian’s grandfather above the mantel. “Give me a year. I will ensure his education complete.”
Jesus Christ, Mary, and Joseph, no. A year without a ship? With Uncle William, learning philosophy, Greek, Latin, and whatever the hell they wished to torture him with? Kill him now.