Tide of War by Seth Hunter

more inclined to sensibility than to sense.
    Unlike his father, as she frequently observed.
    â€œAnd how is he?” she enquired now.
    â€œHe is very well. Indeed, I would say, hearty.”
    â€œHearty. Yes. It must be all that country air, and the company he keeps.”
    Nathan glanced at her sharply. He wondered if she knew anything of his father’s plans regarding Frances Wyndham. It would not havesurprised him. His mother maintained that gossip was merely a means of intelligence gathering and she was as good at it as any spy-master. He felt guilty that he could not share his information with her on this point, or his concerns. But it would only worry her and it would not have been fair to his father. And besides, he still hoped the latter might change his mind or find the unpleasantness involved too difficult to contemplate.
    She reached a hand to his cheek.
    â€œPoor Nat, I do not want you to have to choose between us. Look at you, a post captain at your age. Well, there must be something of your father in you for all that you do not at all resemble him. Do you still paint? I had hoped once that you would be an artist.”
    Nathan rolled his eyes. “I had almost forgot. There is a gentleman waiting to see you. I met him crossing the park. He has some engravings to show you. I left him in the library.”
    â€œOh that will be Mr. Blake.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I told him to come at two. Mr. Flaxman recommended him to me. I will tell Phipps to send him away.”
    â€œNo, you will not,” Nathan instructed her firmly. “Not on my account. Let him show you his work. I will still be here when you get back.”
    â€œAnd for some time after, I hope.” She raised her brow in what was both query and reproof. He did not respond. “Ring the bell and ask Phipps to bring you up some refreshment. You look as if you need it.”
    Nathan did as instructed and was delivered in very little time with the best part of a chicken and a jug of cool ale. He took them over to the window seat where he could dine at ease while gazing out over the park. After a short time he observed his former companion trudging back the way he had come with his bag over his shoulder. Something in his gait advised Nathan that his visit had not been a success. His heart went out to him. And in that moment the man turned and appeared to look straight at him with a severe expression. Nathan raised a hand in greeting—unfortunately with a leg of the fowl still in it, which might be taken amiss. But either the mandid not see him or declined to return the salute. He turned again and continued on his way.
    A moment later Nathan’s mother returned.
    â€œWell that was a waste of time,” she said. “But I knew it would be. I am too easily prevailed upon.”
    â€œNothing to your liking?”
    â€œIt may surprise certain of my acquaintance but I do not care to gaze upon pictures of naked, muscle-bound men. I do not know what John Flaxman can have been thinking of. God knows what people have been saying to him about me.”
    This was not a subject Nathan could comment upon with any degree of complacency. “I should have come down with you,” he said. “I might have been more interested.”
    â€œReally?” His mother arched her slender brows. “I had no idea you were so inclined. Indeed, there were some illustrations of the wanderings of Odysseus which, now I come to think on it, might have been somewhat to your taste, though the private parts were I recall veiled, when they were not being pecked at by harpies. Which reminds me, he begged me to give you a message. I was not sure that I would but as you are clearly taken with the man, he said to tell you that you will find what you have lost—but that you are to beware the Sirens, especially the one that plays the lyre.” Her tone was sardonic but she watched him carefully for a