Sail Away by Lee Rowan

broken bottles, even theft—"
    "It's those horrible revolutionaries. They're interfering with everything, and when they ‘inspect’ a cargo I believe they just help themselves and say it's been confiscated. Now, I have spoken with your uncle, and he has a ship sailing to France in ten days. You can travel aboard the Susanna. What could be more convenient?"
    "Mama—” Kit hated politics, British equally with French. For an upstanding member of the Church of England, his distaste was remarkably catholic. But at least the conflicts in Parliament did not usually involve swords and pistols; what was going on in France was quite another matter. He was no coward, but neither was he an idiot, and from what the papers said, Paris was a particularly fine place to avoid. “Mama, France is in a state of anarchy—armed anarchy. If they would seize goods on false pretences, don't you imagine they would do exactly the same under the snooty nose of an English aristo?"
    "They wouldn't dare.” And that was the end of that discussion, as far as Her Ladyship was concerned.
    They wouldn't dare try any flummery if his mother were giving them that fisheye, Kit was certain. He sighed. What Mama lacked in political acumen, she made up for in persistence. When I look at France, I see fools chasing a lost dream. When my mother looks, she sees the loss of her favorite brandy.
    Kit would not have argued with the revolutionary charge that Louis had been a wastrel of a king—His Royal Highness was a complete ass. But the revolutionaries had gone overboard by putting their own King under arrest. Better to have let him escape to England, though there were those who uncharitably said it was better for England's coffers not to have to support the profligate monarch as a guest.
    Now they had their King in prison, though, they couldn't let him out. The Citizens had backed themselves into an awkward corner, and no matter what they did, it would mean trouble for England. War was coming. Everyone knew that.
    And for Kit's mother, war meant embargo, and embargo meant that the finest French wines and brandies would be available only through smugglers. The Dowager would deal with these denizens of the dark if she had to—not personally, of course!—but she considered it more practical and farsighted to stock the wine-cellar to bursting while the trade was still legal than to hint delicately to the butler that it was time to place an order with the Free Trade gentlemen.
    He made one last attempt to wriggle free. “Mama, if I were to undertake this mission, I would be bound to miss Cousin Eugenia's birthday party. I might not even be back in time for the Carstairs’ ball.” Since Kit would not have full control of his estate or his life until the age of twenty-five, he had agreed to giving his mother charge of his social calendar. She'd cast him out in the world like a trout-fisher with a shiny lure, hoping to land a fecund daughter-in-law who would promptly produce grandchildren. Her particular wish was for a male grandchild to secure the succession and insure that Guilford, her home for the past twenty-three years, would not fall into the clutches of Aunt Rose, with whom she had a long-standing feud.
    His mother nodded. “Yes, love, and that is a pity. But you've met all the young ladies who will be in attendance, and I am at wits’ end to find new candidates! Perhaps while you are away I will have more luck."
    "Perhaps you're right, Mama.” Being bride-bait had become wearisome work. Kit suddenly realized that if he played his cards right and dawdled along the way, he would be obliged to miss several social engagements his mother had decreed he must attend.
    He'd known most of the eligible girls since they were all children, of course, and he enjoyed their company well enough. But familiarity had bred indifference: none of the young ladies woke a spark of passion, and he did not intend to marry without it. He knew what a love match could be; his