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    Beau Crusoe
    Beau Crusoe
    Beau Crusoe
    Ebook362 pages6 hours

    Beau Crusoe

    By Carla Kelly

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    From a RITA Award–winning author, a naval officer finds love and healing with a widowed noblewoman and her unusual family.

    Shipwrecked and stranded alone on a desert island, he had lived to tell the tale. A triumphant return to the ton saw James Trevenen hailed as Beau Crusoe—a gentleman of spirit, verve and action. But only he knew the true cost of his survival!

    Susannah Park had been shunned by Society. She lived content with her calm existence—until Beau Crusoe determinedly ruined her peace! The beautiful widow wanted to help him heal the wounds of the past—but what secrets was this glorious man hiding?

    “A powerful and wonderfully perceptive author.” —Mary Jo Putney, New York Times–bestselling author of Lady of Fortune
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateDec 27, 2010
    ISBN9781426887437
    Beau Crusoe
    Author

    Carla Kelly

    I started writing Regencies because of interest in the Napoleonic Wars. I like writing about warfare at sea and ordinary people of the British Isles, rather than lords and ladies. In my spare time I like to read British crime fiction and history, particularly the U.S. Indian Wars. I currently live in Utah. I'm a former park ranger, and double Rita Award and Spur Award winner. I have five interesting children and four grands. Favorite authors include Robert Crais and Richard Woodman.

    Read more from Carla Kelly

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    Reviews for Beau Crusoe

    4/5

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    • 4/5
      She smiled, and James felt his heart turn.

      Lt. James Trevenen spent 5yrs marooned on an island.
      Susannah Park married below her station, had her husband die before she even gave birth, and has been ostracized ever since.

      Maybe because I recently read one of her books, this felt like a Balogh with some Milan. Y'all, the tongue-in-cheek humor and wit is top notch here. This is also told mostly from the hero's pov, which helped to give it a fresh spin.

      "Maybe it's this way, son---when we have no choice, we may as well be brave."

      James has PTSD from what he had to do to survive and thinks he is haunted by another survivor of the original shipwreck. James' story of survival is spread out throughout the story until we get the ultimate grizzly details of how he became the lone survivor. It's rough, disturbing, and courageous stuff to read and I enjoyed how the author didn't shy away from James' emotions. He was a hero who was witty, courageous, strong, utterly capable, and kind; he's a sexy one.

      Susannah plays a little bit of second fiddle to James but her calm, vulnerable, and solid demeanor made her a perfect complement to him. Her family dynamics were a secondary character that wonderfully filled this story with even more emotions and relationship nuances. I'm also not the biggest fan of children in stories but Susannah's son Noah was a fun character and their relationship and the one that develops between Noah and James was delightful.

      The romance between James and Susannah started off as smoke that slowly but surely was tended into a sparking burning pleasing fire. They were such a lovely engaging couple to follow along with. The wit provides a lighter tone while James feeling haunted and Susannah coming back from scandal with society and her family (Susannah and her sister's relationship brought a tear to my eye at the end) provide the heavier emotional load. The secondary characters here add a lot and show how much a story can be enhanced when giving attention to the details. This was a refreshing, engaging, and just plain lovely story.

      As she stood watching, he turned and blew her a kiss. You're a rascal, she thought.
    • 2/5
      Beau was stranded on a desert island, and finally rescued by missionaries & brought back the England. Now he's to receive a medal for his story about hermit crabs, and a local family pawns him off on another family with an eligible daughter. Neither has an intention of marrying, but are thrown together by circumstances
    • 5/5
      Another great Carla Kelly love story! And unlike many romances, the story is told primarily from the hero's point of view. James is haunted by his experiences after being shipwrecked and stranded five years on a deserted island. He studied the native crabs on the island, wrote a treatise, and now has returned to London to be awarded a medal by the royal society.

      Through a series of humorous adventures, he becomes known in society as Beau Crusoe, and all of London wants his company. He, however, would rather spend time with Susannah Park, his London host's goddaughter. That host is in ill health and has fobbed off James on Susannah's family. (And here the real-life renowned botanist Sir Joseph Banks plays a major role.)

      Both James and Susannah are damaged, yet both are brave, resilient, and full of good humor. The secondary characters are deftly drawn, and each one serves a definite purpose in the overall plot.

      This is a beautiful love story between two very real people. Highly recommended.
    • 1/5
      I adore Carla Kelly's books, in general ... but WHAT THE HELL WAS SHE THINKING???All I can assume is that she had a drunken bet with someone, that she could sell the most tasteless book imaginable and STILL find a publisher. And if that really happened, then more power to her.
    • 5/5
      One of the most beautiful romances I've ever read. I've never come across a book quite like it - so full of humor and life, but understated, subtle, and sympathetic in its wit, its full, wonderfully layered character development, and its treatment of the darker horrors of the hero's past. It tells of ordinary people capable of the extraordinary, bound together in a compelling, moving love story. Don't pass this one up.
    • 4/5
      One thing I always like about Carla Kelly is that she writes about the other 99% of the population--nary a duke or prince or marquis to be found. And she doesn't flinch from writing some of the harsher realities of life. In this case, James has pretty much been through a "worst case scenario" in the all-too-common occurrence of a shipwreck. And "Beau Crusoe" is mostly his story, to be sure, although Susannah is a lovely heroine, with her own broken pieces as well that make her well suited to him. The softer moments blend well with the grittier bits. Although the love story itself is gentle and low-key, this is definitely a darker story than your usual Regency "shunned by the ton" faux-angst. It's a romance, and--gasp! a Harlequin--but it's lovely, well-written stuff.
    • 5/5
      Excellent read. Enjoyed it just as much the second time through. I love her unconventional characters -- formerly shipwrecked naval officer. PTSD is like a theme running through some of her books, in this case not for a military veteran but for another kind of deeply disturbing experience. Twenty heads above most romance writers.
    • 4/5
      I have mixed feelings about this book. Firstly, I think it was published in the wrong genre. I would classify it as historical fiction. It is very dark and there is a lot of sex in it that is not very romantic (although it is necessary to the character and plot development). There is some violence and discussion of a taboo subject that is quite disturbing. On the other hand, it's a wonderful story of a wounded man that must overcome a traumatic experience. I would have given this five stars if the graphic descriptions of the sex and taboo subject were toned down a bit. In the end, it was just a little too uncomfortable to be a satisfying romance novel. I would compare it to Kelly's first work, Daughter of Fortune.

    Book preview

    Beau Crusoe - Carla Kelly

    Prologue

    "I declare my blood flows in chunks when I get a letter like this from Sir Joseph," Lord Watchmere pronounced over breakfast.

    He peered at his wife, two daughters and grandson, then glared at the note. There is always trouble when Sir Joseph begins, ‘My dear Watchmere, I forgot to tell you.’

    He must know how busy we are, Lady Watchmere said.

    Busy with what? Susannah Park wondered. We are more idle than most of the population. She glanced at her small son, who seemed unconcerned about the conversation. He needed a haircut but she always waited, because his curls reminded her of David, late a clerk of the East India Company and now only a two-by-three-inch miniature beside her bed.

    Mama weighed into the conversation. Husband, I do not care that Sir Joseph is your relative and Susannah’s godfather. He is a trial.

    Heaven knows we have enough of those in this family, Loisa commented.

    Noah looked at Susannah then, and edged himself closer. She touched his head, well aware that Loisa watched every movement. How long do you mean to punish me, Loie? Susannah asked herself. Did I really ruin all your chances by eloping with David? Really?

    Papa shared the rest of the letter. The winner of this year’s Copley medal was due in London this week and Sir Joseph Banks, head of the Royal Society, needed a favor. It says here, Agatha, ‘He is a navy man shipwrecked and five years cast upon a deserted island’—Hmm, careless to be so long stranded—‘Rescued by missionaries’—Lord, what penance for carelessness—‘and eight months in returning.’

    Watchmere stabbed the letter with his fork. Here it comes, Aggie: ‘I call his survival a triumph and so is his treatise, but my gout is troubling me and I would be a terrible host.’

    He kept reading. We are to harbor this curious man until the Copley is awarded. Then we can put him back on the mail coach to Cornwall. God help us, Cornwall. He contemplated the vast desert of Cornwall for a moment, then looked at Susannah. I will add the post script, my dear. I request that you take charge of him.

    Me?

    Clarence! The propriety! Mama exclaimed. Susannah is…not received. You know that.

    I owe my ruin to Susannah, Loisa snapped. You would have her peacock about town with a bumpkin from Cornwall?

    Noah edged closer to Susannah.

    You do it, then, Loisa, Papa said. He’s probably broken in health after such an ordeal and won’t require much except a sedate drive in Hyde Park and bread and milk before bedtime.

    I will do nothing of the sort! Loisa shouted, then looked around at the footman, who had studiously ignored her outburst, even as he edged away, too.

    Watchmere smiled at Susannah. Then it is your lot, dear. You’ve seldom wanted for sense. He coughed into his napkin. Since your sad lapse, at any rate.

    Clarence, Susannah is but twenty-five, Mama reminded him.

    And has more sense than a roomful of ladies twice her age, Lord Watchmere concluded. You can probably take him walking in the Royal Gardens, if the weather is nice. Besides, you know how I hate to exert myself.

    She did, remembering something David had told her after their elopement when they were sailing to Bombay. Dearest, let us be honest. You don’t really think your father dictated all those letters of business to me, do you? I had to follow him into the bird blind for his signature, so it became easier to do it all myself. I think that was why he paid me so well.

    She tried again. Papa, this Mr.…

    Watchmere looked down again. James Trevenen.

    …Mr. Trevenen is an elderly man?

    He shrugged. First mates of His Poor Majesty’s navy tend toward youth, but who can be sure? Mr. Trevenen’s treatise on crabs speaks of mature years.

    Crabs? Mama asked, investing a treatise of her own in the single word.

    What can I say? Watchmere replied, holding up his hands in self-defense. As a Royal Fellow, I read the whole thing. It is a mature work of great genius.

    Mama and Loisa laughed then, and Susannah and Noah made their escape, pausing for nothing except bonnet, short cape and Noah’s nankeen jacket. As always, they left by a side door, avoiding the main entrance and her father’s toucans, who reigned supreme there. They frightened Noah and disgusted everyone else.

    The day was warm for late September. Noah skipped ahead, pausing for her at the stile that separated the estate of Clarence Alderson, Viscount Watchmere, from the Royal Gardens of Kew—royal land, but largely unoccupied since Poor George’s current descent into madness.

    She went first to the rose glass house, already opened for her by the gardeners. Today she would finish pruning the roses and preparing the beds for winter. As she deadheaded the flowers, Noah gathered the faded blooms into a burlap sack. Eventually, they would end up with the piles of leaves the gardeners were beginning to rake together, preparing to burn them.

    The smell of smoke would be pleasant enough, but even seven years was not enough to drive from her mind and heart the columns of smoke all over Bombay during that season of cholera, when nearly everyone in the East India compound had died.

    David had been an early victim, waking one morning with a slight headache and dead by nightfall. Before the sun had set, his linen-wrapped corpse had joined others on the funeral pyre in the courtyard.

    It was not surprising that she did not care for autumn at Kew Gardens.

    Instead of going to the Botanica Exotica glass house when the roses were done, she pointed Noah toward Spring Grove instead.

    No painting, Mama? he asked.

    Not today. I need a word with Sir Joe. She smiled at him.

    And you’re probably desperate for a macaroon.

    He hurried ahead again and she smiled to watch him. She didn’t like to miss a day of painting, especially since the Royal Society paid her a shilling each for her renderings of the plants and flowers brought back to British shores on research vessels and ordinary ships of His Majesty’s navy. Sir Joseph had easily persuaded his fellows in the Royal Society to let her continue where others had left off, notably Sydney Parkinson, the artist who had accompanied a much younger Sir Joseph on that voyage to the South Pacific with Captain James Cook. After she painted each bloom or shrub, a secretary at Sir Joseph’s residence in Soho would apply a brief description to the back, all in the name of science.

    At Spring Grove, she quickly learned that Sir Joseph had not been fooling. In a whisper, Lady Dorothea diverted Noah to the sitting room for macaroons and sent Susannah down the hall.

    It’s bad? Susannah whispered back.

    Lady Dorothea nodded. So much pain. Her eyes filled with tears. Seeing you will help. You know it will.

    She did. As she followed Barmley, the footman, down the hall, she contemplated again the injustice in an unjust world, where kind men and women sometimes are not blessed with progeny of their own. So it was with Sir Joseph and Lady Dorothea.

    In the library, Sir Joseph could barely turn his head to acknowledge her. Barmley quickly went to his wheeled chair and turned it just enough so his master could see her.

    She smiled at the footman, grateful he seemed to love his employer as much as she did, to think of such a little kindness.

    He blushed and fled the room, murmuring something about tea.

    You’ll have to cease charming my help so blatantly, Sir Joseph said, resting his hands in his lap. I think you should turn your attentions to one more eligible.

    I barely glanced at Barmley! she protested, then blushed to see his smile.

    Just quizzing you, he said and shook his head, careful to make no sudden movement. I suppose Clarence never thinks to tote home any young gentlemen.

    He would if one of them came with a…a…cloth-brained towhee perched on his shoulder.

    Sir Joseph laughed, a gentle hiss that caused no movement to his body. Life with a birdwatcher must be a trial.

    The footman returned with tea, bowed and left, after a proprietary look at his master. Susannah poured, then held the cup directly to her godfather’s lips. He gave her a look one part gratitude and one part embarrassment, then drank.

    You dear man, she thought, then sipped her own tea. It seems I am to get out more, Sir Joe, she said. Papa has decreed I am to escort old broken-down James Trevenen when he arrives.

    Old? Broken down? her godfather repeated. How did my cousin arrive at that conclusion?

    Papa decided anyone five years alone on an island must have suffered a complete breakdown. He also insists no young pup could have written such a treatise.

    It is a fine paper, Sir Joseph agreed. He looked at her, and she held her breath in hope. Perhaps you would like to read it. Go ahead, dear. It’s on my desk.

    Without a word, she leaped up and found the manuscript. The Gloriosa Jubilate: Creatures at Play in a Tidal Pool on a Deserted Island in the Tuamotu Archipelago, she read. She couldn’t help but smile at the crab on the cover. Obviously Mr. Trevenen’s talents lay with the pen and not the brush.

    The dedication touched her: To my dear mother, who was ever near me, though far away. The opening paragraph took her breath away:

    Owing to the workings of Divine Providence and none of my own exertions, since I was far gone, my small boat found a gap in the coral reef and grounded me on the sandy beach of my exile. I alone survived.

    Sir Joe. She breathed. Do you mind…

    Go ahead. Noah will eat macaroons all afternoon and I will just rest my eyes.

    She took off her shoes, made herself comfortable on the sofa and continued.

    The Tuamotu Archipelago contains uncharted reefs. The Orion, which had survived typhoon and Maoris in New Zealand, found herself split wide-open by a coral reef, and sank in less than ten minutes. Captain Sir Hugo Marsh tossed me the ship’s log as my crew launched the dinghy.

    Susannah took the treatise with her when she and Noah left Spring Grove in late afternoon. After dinner and an impatient time in the sitting room listening to Mama and Loisa argue about next spring’s Season, she hurried Noah to bed.

    She took a moment to observe the day’s work of the servants, who had taken the Holland covers off the furniture in the chamber across from her own. The bed was made, but the curtains around it not rehung yet. Soon, all would be ready for Mr. Trevenen.

    She got in her own bed then and continued reading.

    I discovered that the Gloriosa Jubilate is a gregarious creature, relishing the society of other kindred crabs. Who knew how long I might live in this place? I had no companions. I resolved to become more closely acquainted with these small companions of my exile.

    Susannah rested the manuscript on her stomach, thinking of her own circumscribed life at Alderson House. Exile, indeed! I could dream of a tropical island, she murmured out loud. Warm Pacific waters, fruit for the plucking, fish in the lagoon.

    She pinched out the candle, careful to keep hold of the treatise as she arranged her pillow. Be you young or old, you simply must tell me of your life in paradise.

    The Gloriosa Jubilate seemed to glow at her, courtesy of the full moon outside her window.

    Chapter One

    The Orion might have sunk six years ago, but James Trevenen felt the hairs rise on his neck when the innkeep’s wife snapped open a tablecloth on the table in a private parlor by the public room, the sound remarkably similar to the ripping hiss of coral on a ship’s underbelly.

    He looked around, hoping no one had noticed his sudden intake of breath. He wondered how long the ordinary noises of life in England would startle him. The inn was crowded, and everyone was too busy to bother with one average-looking fellow.

    He had no problem waiting; Lord knows, he was patient. According to the coachman, the district had suffered from heavy rains recently, which had loosened the bridge footings between Lovell and the next village. The result was an unexpected stop at an inn not used to such heavy trade.

    No matter. He had listened to the complaints of others ahead of him in line, demanding this room or that convenience, serene in the knowledge that no matter how uncomfortable he was likely to be for the night, it would never be as bad as five years marooned, alone and hungry on a tropical island.

    He had felt some pity for the governess with the two children who had sat across from him for hours on the mail coach. Her dickering with the innkeep sounded particularly desperate. She kept peering into her reticule, as though hoping the few coins might have reproduced since her last inspection. He suspected this sudden stop had forced the governess to rely on her own means, which were shabby, indeed, if her threadbare cloak was any indication. Her employer must be a stingy bastard, James decided. He wanted to pull out his own stuffed wallet and help, but he knew better.

    He had signed for his own room—after arguing the keep out of a private parlor for dinner because, of all things, he hated to be alone—when a fop strolled into the inn and demanded lodging.

    The much-tried keep had assured the man there was nothing left, that Mr. Trevenen had the last room.

    The fop turned to James. I will relieve you of it.

    You’re a cheeky fellow, James thought, amused. He didn’t care one way or the other but, for argument’s sake, had to ask. Suppose I say no?

    The fop had buggy eyes, which popped out even more at his quiet response. Unruffled, James watched his complexion turn an unhealthy mottled hue. Not used to an argument, eh? he thought.

    When the skinny fellow attempted to draw himself up, it occurred to James that this was probably the worst setback he had ever encountered. Will he try to bully me, or play the sympathy card? James asked himself.

    It was the sympathy card. Maybe something firm in James’s expression had sparked a change in tactics.

    The fop whisked out a scented handkerchief and delicately touched his eyes. You cannot imagine what this day was like, he said.

    I’m sure I cannot, James agreed, trying not to smile when an Englishman smelling of lavender chronicled his misery. You can’t imagine misery, James thought.

    Still, the man looked put-upon, with drooping collar points and limp lace awash over wrists as delicate as a female’s. James tried not to stare at the odd lumps in the fop’s pantaloons. Whatever padding he had applied to his calves to make them shapely must have broken loose from their moorings and drifted.

    This is not a man who travels well, James decided, as he turned to the innkeeper.

    I have no problem relinquishing my room, he said.

    It’s the last room, the keep reminded him. I have nothing else for you, sir.

    James shrugged and glanced into the public room. I can sleep on that settle, if you can spare a blanket and pillow.

    Sir, it’s…

    Done then! exclaimed the fop. His pleasure vanished when the keep described the room’s location. It overlooks the cattle yard and the necessary?

    Aye.

    The fop put his handkerchief to his nose, as though he already smelled the horses in their stalls. I suppose nothing can be done about the view.

    Not unless we turn the building around, James said. He winked at the innkeep, who could do no more than shrug. I can leave my luggage behind that counter.

    Certainly, sir, the keep replied, relieved and embarrassed at the same time. He would have said more, but the fop, who announced himself as Sir Percival Pettibone, demanded his attention with another wave of his handkerchief.

    Better you than I, James thought as he put his luggage behind the counter. He took out the leather satchel containing his treatise and walked into the inn yard. I hope I was never like that. His family had land and money enough but no titles, and his mother had sent him to sea well-mannered. Since his return, James had observed many of his countrymen who would have profited from a few years’ solitary confinement on his island. It had the wondrous effect of teaching survival and humility.

    He sat in the inn yard until the sun started to set, doing nothing more than ruffling through the pages of his treatise, even though he knew it by heart. Indeed, after he ran out of ink on his island, and before he figured out how to make ink from an octopus, he had memorized blocks of it.

    There was the Gloriosa itself on the title page. Before he had left London last year, he had asked an apothecary to blend the colors he remembered. He was no artist, but that night as he shivered in the cold English summer, he painted Gloriosa to the best of his memory.

    He turned several pages, relishing the story of his daily observations. He had even named the crabs he came to recognize: Boney, who was a little smaller than the others but aggressive; Lord Nelson, missing one eyestalk; Marie Antoinette, whose colors, while in the mating act, glowed even brighter. They were his companions even now.

    He looked up quickly, thinking of his other companion. All right, Tim, where are you? he asked softly. He held his breath, but he saw no familiar faces in the inn yard. It was too much to hope that Tim had finally decided to leave. Perhaps he had decided, in that perverse way of ghosts, to bother Sir Percival Pettibone for an evening’s entertainment. Specters were hard to reason with, James had discovered.

    Before he went inside, he stared at the night sky, out of habit expecting to see the Southern Cross. I really need to quit looking for it, he told himself.

    The public room was already deserted. The innkeep had put a blanket and pillow on the settle and what looked like a bottle of beer close by on the floor.

    And there was the keep, polishing the last of the glassware. He glanced overhead, and James could tell his embarrassment had not abated.

    Don’t worry about Sir Percival, James said. I really don’t mind.

    You should, the man said, casting a dark glance toward the stairs this time. I think Robespierre was right. He made a chopping motion. Zip!

    James winced. The innkeep smiled and turned back to his work. James placed the Gloriosa on the settle, then walked through to the cattle yard behind, where he had noticed the necessary.

    He had buttoned up and left the privy when he smelled smoke. Alert, he glanced along the upper row of windows. Smoke billowed out of the room he thought had been appropriated by Sir Percival Pettibone. He hurried toward the building as the fop, clad in a nightshirt, darted from one open window to the next, back and forth, indecisive.

    James might have resigned his commission, but nothing could ever sever him from a lifetime of training. In his best quarterdeck voice, he roared for the innkeep.

    Sir Percival stuck one skinny leg out of the window.

    No! Don’t! James ordered.

    Save me!

    The innkeeper ran into the yard. He took one look and turned in the doorway, calling for his wife to get the guests out. Sir Percival continued to teeter on the window ledge.

    James gave the drainpipe a shake, pleased it was anchored firmly to the building. Pretend it’s a palm tree, he told himself. He pulled off his boots and stockings, shinnying quickly up the pipe as the yard filled with people in nightclothes.

    Pull your leg in, James demanded. Do it now.

    Despite his terror, Sir Percival made his mouth small in the expression James already knew too well.

    I don’t care who you are! James roared. Do as I say!

    The leg vanished to the sound of a high-pitched shriek. James pulled himself into the room, turning his face away from the smoke. His audience in the yard cheered.

    He stayed on his hands and knees with his head low to the floor, even as Sir Percival clutched him. For the Lord’s sake, buck up a little, James muttered. I don’t even see any flames.

    There weren’t any; the smoke began to lift. His eyes watering, James looked around and spotted smoke coming in smaller puffs from the end of the bed. He looked closer. Someone—probably the pitiful specimen huddled on the floor, weeping into a handkerchief now—had flung a robe over the warming pan, which must have been filled with too many coals. As the smoke began to dissipate, James saw the long handle. Gingerly he picked up the smoldering robe, and tossed it out the window, following it with the smoking blanket underneath.

    He leaned out of the window. It’s over. We’ll just have to air out this room.

    He laughed at the applause from the little group below. Clasping his hands over his head, he bowed, amused at what passed for entertainment among the inn’s guests. He knew he should say something to Sir Percival, who was alternately sniffing and blowing his nose, but the door opened and the innkeeper came in.

    The sight of him seemed to revitalize Sir Percival, who pointed a bony finger at the keep. You have dangerous warming pans! he declared. I will have this…this infamous heap you call an inn pulled down and…and plowed under…and sown with salt!

    James grinned. Man milliner though he was, Sir Percival seemed to have read his Roman philosophers.

    The innkeeper stared at Sir Percival. "You started the fire! He pointed to James. Thanks to Mr. Trevenen here, nobody died, and you will live to irritate other innkeepers!"

    I hardly think the fire was that serious. James stopped. Neither man was listening to him.

    Sir Percival blinked and his lower lip quivered. The innkeeper sighed. James tried not to smile. I will get some more bedding, the keep said at last. He pointed at Sir Percival. "But I’m not bringing up another warming pan!"

    Heartless brute! Sir Percival blew his nose, and then shrieked to see so much sooty residue on his handkerchief. He pointed to it. I am dying, and all he can think about is his precious warming pan!

    I am in the land of the barely coherent, James thought. I was safer from freaks on my South Sea island. I believe you will live, he said, proud of the control in his voice when he wanted to laugh until he ached.

    Sir Percival’s eyes were still on his handkerchief. He looked up and asked what was certainly his first non-self-absorbed question of the day, possibly the year. What is your name?

    James Trevenen, he said. I’m from near St. Ives, and I am…

    ‘Kits, cats, sacks, wives?’ Sir Percival said.

    I was asked that a lot when I was in the Navy, he said. Silly man, he thought, but there was something endearing about a fellow who could sit collapsed in the corner of a room and still maintain some sort of presence. Let me call your valet, sir. He looked around. Do you have one?

    Sir Percival waved his hand. I believe he is dead drunk in the adjoining parlor.

    James blinked, but Sir Percival offered no explanation. In fact, the magnitude of what had just happened seemed to penetrate his mind. I owe you my life, the fop declared.

    James stifled a groan. For the Lord’s sake, it was only a warming pan and a smoldering robe! Any reasonably bright seven-year-old would have known what to do. He almost said as much, then stopped. Years ago, his fellow midshipmen had agreed he had a wicked sense of humor. He made an elaborate bow and placed his hand over his heart. I am only too glad to have saved you from a fiery death, Sir Percival.

    Such simplicity was too graphic for Sir Percival, who shuddered and drew his legs up close to his body. Gradually, the romantic appeal of the whole adventure took over his mind. He shook his head. My loss would have been catastrophic to the world of style and good manners, he said, as James looked away to control himself.

    Sir Percival was recovering rapidly. He held up his arm to James, who understood the implied command and helped him to his feet. That is a regrettable waistcoat you are wearing. Is there no fashion in Cornwall?

    Precious little, I fear, James told him. I’m only just back from five years on a deserted island in the South Pacific, so it seems unfair to cast the whole blame upon Cornwall.

    He doubted a more inane sentence had ever come out of his mouth, but he couldn’t resist. Besides, his casual reference to the South Pacific had the desired effect. Sir Percival’s eyes—already somewhat prominent—seemed to bulge from his face. Marooned! Cast away! And what do you do but come to England to save my life!

    That wasn’t the total sequence, James thought with amusement. Having spent his life in the company of men with little time to think of themselves, he found this monument to preening esteem before him hilarious. I am happy to have been of service, he replied. And then he couldn’t help himself. Death by fire would have been excruciating.

    Sir Percival shuddered again, but, surprise of surprises, he had another thought for someone beside himself. Let us not discuss the matter anymore! Are you bound for London to seek your fortune?

    I don’t need a fortune, James thought. Not precisely. While on my deserted island, I wrote a treatise on crabs. He sighed inwardly at Sir Percival’s uncomprehending stare. There wasn’t much to do.

    To his further amazement, Sir Percival nodded, his expression serious. I know what it is like to spend a desolate weekend at a country estate when it is raining. Go on. I am intrigued.

    James tried not to stare. I suppose that is one way to look at it. At any rate, when I was rescued by missionaries…

    Good Lord, that sounds even worse than a country weekend, Sir Percival murmured.

    Well, yes…I…I suppose. How can I tell you of 1,825 days of solitude, each one spent wondering how I would die the next day, or in a week, or in fifty years without seeing another face? James asked himself. Even missionaries had looked good, but someone like Sir Percival would never understand. We eventually returned to England, and I submitted my paper to the Royal Society for the annual Copley medal. What do you know, it won, he concluded.

    The Royal Society. Sir Percival leaned closer and patted his arm. They aren’t so totally bent upon style, either, so your waistcoat probably will not offend.

    He is making this difficult, James thought, amused again. I am relieved to hear it, he managed.

    Think nothing of it. Sir Percival blew his nose again and shuddered. Where are you staying in town? Can you afford lodgings?

    "I have been invited

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