Page 1 of Pride of Honor
Prologue
4°22’59.99”N, 7°05’60”E
HMS Cormorant, West African Squadron
Mouth of Bonny River, Bight of Biafra
December 1819
Commander Arnaud Bellinghamstood on the deck of his ship in the darkness of the mouth of the Bonny River estuary. He waited in agony while the sounds of gunfire drifted back from several miles up the river’s mouth. A series of bursts of light meant his men were engaged in combat with the slavers.
They’d heard reports from spies along the coast that captives were being loaded onto an open boat that night. Before morning, the natives would be rowed out to the heavy Portuguese slaver with a deep draft. That ship was anchored as close to shore as the captain dared.
Arnaud could not take the smaller Cormorant any closer. As it was, he’d already taken a hundred risks by edging his ship over the sand bar at the entrance to the river. His men had rowed a shore boat and towed their twenty-eight-gun frigate through the shallow waters.
They were now anchored near the sandy beach at the side of the river. That maneuver before darkness had fallen had made it easier for his Royal Marines to load their weapons and attach a light carronade onto the bow of the shore boat. They’d slipped off into the black curtain of the jungle river just before sunset. Getting back out would be another matter for the main ship and would require high tide the next morning.
He prayed for good news soon from his distant fighting crew led by Marine Captain George Neville. If Arnaud and his remaining men were attacked by a large contingent from the Portuguese slave ship anchored several miles out from the shore before the marines returned, they would fight for their lives, but it wouldn’t be easy. And there would be no one to come to their aid.
Chapter One
51º30'35.5140"N, 0º7'5.1312"W
London, England
April 1820
Miss Sophia Brancellifidgeted and shifted from one foot to the other. She was as fond of ribbons as the next young woman, but her friend, Lydia, was a slave to the silken trim.
Other shoppers crowded around them in the tiny milliner’s shop on old Bond Street. “Why can your friend not choose?” one woman demanded with an angry hiss into her ear. Sophie ignored the complaint.
This was their third trip to the milliner, and Lydia seemed no closer to a decision than on their first visit. A pale rainbow of rolls lined the wooden counter, their curled tails cascading over the edge.
After sneaking a stealthy look at her friend, Sophie slipped a much-folded piece of foolscap from her reticule. She worried her bottom lip and wondered whether she should changecloudytostormy.
Just as Sophie pulled out a worn pencil stub, Lydia finally sighed and chose another shade of green. A green so similar to the one she'd chosen the day before, Sophie would be hard put to tell the difference unless both lengths were side by side. The cost of Lydia's ribbons would pay the butcher for a month of the cheap cuts Sophie had made do with in her father’s topsy-turvy household.
As soon as Lydia paid the shopkeeper, Sophie strode toward the doorway and sunlight outside. The minute her boots touched the pavement, she was lifted from her feet. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had inexplicably shifted on its axis.
Time slowed, and she viewed what was happening as if through a fog. A strange man grasped her arm in a grip so tight, she could almost feel the fatal squeeze of the coil of one of the jungle snakes in her grandmother's novels. The smudged slip of paper and pencil slipped from her hands to the pavement.
Abruptly, Sophie remembered the parasol Lydia's grandmother had insisted she carry to shield her from the sun. She’d looped the handle’s ribbon onto her wrist while reworking her lines. She grabbed the parasol with her free arm and swung hard. A satisfying thump and scream sounded as the weapon connected with her attacker's lower limbs.
As quick as he loosened his grip, she pulled a hatpin from her bonnet and jabbed in the vicinity of his eyes. Another scream, but this time her aim landed far off the mark and only slashed his chin.
With a bellow of pain, he pulled back a fist, rage darkening his face. In spite of the threat, Sophie refused to back down. Lydia’s screams echoed down the quiet street. Just as the stranger’s knuckles neared her face, he and his accomplice dropped from her line of view.
For one addled moment, she wondered if the ghost of her dead grandmother had risen to her defense. She thrust again hard with her hatpin toward where the attack had begun.
Sophie lost her balance and sat down with a thump at the edge of the street. Shaking, she sank her elbows to her knees and rested her head in her hands. Her parasol had rolled to the edge of the walkway. At a sharp cramp in her hand, she realized she still clutched her trusty hatpin. After a restorative breath, she looked up into the deeply tanned face of a Royal Navy officer in full uniform.
He knelt in front of her, asking question after question. “Are you hurt? Who did this to you? Are you with a chaperone?”
Blood dribbled from his wrist, staining his white glove. Zeus! The hatpin. She knew she should provide him with some answers, but couldn't. She could barely breathe properly, so shaken was she by the encounter with the unknown men who’d tried to drag her toward a waiting hack carriage.
He grasped her by the shoulders. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin muslin of her dress, and his solid competence fortified her courage. The runaway terrors slowed, allowing her to breathe normally again.
The first thought to pop into her head once she’d settled a bit was: Respectable women of thetondid not find themselves in situations like this. This was the sort of turmoil that might befall the actresses who had kept company with her late father.