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And now, where was she? The room was neatly decorated in a modern style, yet functional: bereft of unnecessary decoration. Cicely was alone here, for now. Had been left alone. Her mind turned to reflection as she paced up and down on the fine blue carpet.

In the torture chamber, for that was what it clearly was, Cicely had recognised the look of incomprehension crossed with bewilderment that had latently appeared on the faces of both guards. It had been the same one which Captain Aubrey had worn when he had to finally admit that his lowly mizzen lad was in fact a girl. It meant, "I've never come across this before – what do I do?"

Her clothes, and bindings too, had been torn from her from the soldier who had fetched her from her cell, a bulky, swarthy man, and it was clear from the brand which the second was wielding, that she was being readied to endure the same punishment as Matthew Harris. Cicely had screwed her eyes shut in anticipation of the agony which was to come.

But it didn't and when she turned to look at the soldier who was holding her she watched as his determined expression melted away and he had spoken urgently – unintelligibly – in French to his colleague who, in turn, had garbled something back before striding through the door through which the first soldier had brought her.

The first had backed away, as if she were a temperamental cannon and would explode unexpectedly very soon and it occurred to Cicely that she had on display more than her unbound breasts to her captor: her loose abdomen too was illuminated in the light of the oil lamp, where her child had grown. Their child. Before he had joined her brother Edward.

The soldier had thrown her a dark blue tunic which Cicely had considered rejecting on the grounds of patriotism but there was something in the expression on the man's face which told her that the situation was wildly out of his capacity. Not without pulling at the insignia on the shoulders Cicely drew it over her arms and pushed through the brass buttons into their holes.

Now what? The soldier was eyeing her as she was him. Maybe once they had overcome their surprise the torture would continue as planned? Not for the first time Cicely felt shame pink at her cheeks. Those people she loved…were they to see her now…how she had disgraced her husband, and besmirched the memories of her brother and her son…

It had been such melancholy thoughts which weighted in her consciousness as she had bathed.

Perhaps a copper of hot, clean water was not exactly the place Cicely had imagined herself following her visit to the previous room. The second soldier had returned and, through incoherent discourse with the first before escorting her to a room filled with the aforementioned bath, almost throwing her into the room as if she were aflame then retreating quickly. Before Cicely had time to question the soldier the lock was being twisted into place with a loud clang.

She had bathed and redressed. Clothing had been left for her which consisted of nothing that Robert Young would wear and everything Cicely Maturn would. No, thought Cicely. The clothes were far more elegant than she had chosen to wear herself when she had stood by her husband's side in functional garb. Restrictive, uncomfortable and unnecessarily embellished these clothes were fit for a lady. They were fit for Cicely Hollum –

Her thoughts contracted inside her mind as Cicely's conscious was brought to the present by the sound of the room's door opening. She turned on her heel.

The man was tall, but slight. He had a youthful face, thin, long nose and pointy chin with small, piercing eyes which seemed to take in the whole room, Cicely included, as if quickly analysing, processing, it. He held his body economically, as if to conserve movement and gesture. His age was betrayed in his features, however. Perhaps in his middle age, no matter how well he kept himself. Cicely watched him, waiting for conversation, or at least some sort of body signal, but none came. There was a coldness about him, an aloofness. It was as if this man's own character was irrelevant, so well disguised that it was.

Cicely made to speak, but at that moment the now-closed door re-opened. Behind the man, a soldier appeared, not one she recognised, but in the same uniform. He garbled something in French, to which the tall man nodded whilst resting his gaze on Cicely. Again, the words came fast and almost unintelligible to her, but when the man replied to the soldier, she did hear one word she recognised…

…espion…

…so there were spies around: spies who would want them to participate in their plans, no doubt. Well, she had plans of her own, even if the were even further out of reach than ever before…

…mademoiselle…

…and they knew she was a female too…maybe this would fall in her favour, for once –

"Mademoiselle?"

Cicely looked sharply at the man as she realised he was actually speaking to her. Shunting her thoughts aside, she noticed too that the soldier had gone and she and the first man were standing alone in the room.

"Miss Hollum," the man continued, fixing his eyes on her firmly. "I feel I know you so well, Mademoiselle, and yet here we are, meeting at last." Cicely felt her mouth drop open. Standing before the man in the latest ill-fitting fashion, her gender was now clear, but how – ?

"Miss Hollum," he repeated. "Your clothing is appropriate now, I feel, and very fetching."

Cicely felt a pinking of self-consciousness pink at her cheeks. She considered the dress again which was indeed beautiful, made exquisitely from fine white cotton and lace in the directoire style. The sleeves were delicate lace trimmed with silk brocade, its skirts over bounteous undergarments draped diaphanously. Cicely had been left the option of velvet ribbons and mob cap too, neither of which she had opted.

The outfit would have been costly, she knew and, were her hair styled in the appropriate classical style with ringlets, curls and Psyche knots she may have been the envy of Parisian society ten years before. Not that styling her hair was possible; such frivolous hair arrangement would be impossible with hers, shorn and uneven, practical and un-cumbersome.

Cicely realised the man was waiting, silently and stilly, as if for her own response. Staring back at him she wondered whether, if neither spoke first how long the silence would actually endure. Eventually the man made his way, as if designed, to the chair over which her undesirable attire had been laid, rotating one leg at the hip and resting tall-booted ankle on his other knee.

"I had been beginning to think I would have to search you out in England and yet the fates brought you here, straight to me." Cicely continued to say nothing, wondering how long her strategy would hold as she tried to conceal the growing fire of panic smouldering in her mind.

Why was she here? How did he know about her? Who was he? As if hearing her questions, the man got to her feet.

"I should introduce myself, Mademoiselle Hollum." The man rose gracefully and nodded in her direction and Cicely felt herself growing uneasy. "My name is Joseph Fouche."

"Cicely Maturin," replied Cicely, with sudden emboldenment. The man was a noble, formerly, at least. She was very experienced in conversing with those of status even if his latter sentence revealed his loyalty to the Consulate, Napoleon's government. "But you said you knew that already." But there was something else, something he had just said which had started Cicely's mind to wander. Fouche. Where had she heard that name before?

"Miss Hollum, officially," replied Fouche, his face fixed and expressionless. "You married, as you say, à bord du navire…sous la voile…"

"On a British ship, yes," confirmed Cicely.

"And…hm…such unions are not legal in Great Britain. Not until both yourself and the docteur say your promises before a reverend. But, of course, you knew that." She didn't know that, and affirmation of her ignorance were clear on her face and this time, in response, a flicker of pleasure passed across Fouche's features.

"Your intended hunted you, Miss Hollum. A juge d'instance…Benjamin Wigg?" There was no denying it. Cicely nodded, defeated.

"A match of double reward, for both Sir Hollum and Monsieur Wigg? That your pere would gain from money, no doubt, and your intended from connections at court?" He walked past Cicely, looking at her as he spoke, before turning on his heel and stopping to face her. She nodded. "A perfect arrangement. Except…you are not in England, and have fled your fiancé."

"I do not recognise Benjamin Wigg as such: my husband is Doctor Maturin."

"Indeed, as you said," replied Fouche. "And you would suffer disguise, pain, hardship and toil…many difficulties not to be in that man's company where you would have such comfortable life."

"I would have a prison," corrected Cicely. "I knew that even before I boarded the Surprise in the first place..."

"Ah, your brother," continued Fouche, staring at her in the way that Cicely had seen Stephen stare at birds and insects, with curiosity: as if another minute of observation would bare their inner secrets. "How sad, how sad."

Cicely said nothing, but averted her eyes from the man. Who was he that he knew about her life in such a manner?

"And so the only other person who could have acted on your behalf ended his life before he found out who you were." Fouche shook his head as if in sympathy. "You matter, Mademoiselle Hollum. Both to your father and Monsieur Wigg. It is vital that they get you back – "

" – I won't be going back – " Cicely tried to make her voice sound resolute when inside her courage was slowly ebbing away.

" – you matter," he repeated purposefully. "You set a-fire your father's house. You dared, as a woman, to masquerade as a man and work on a warship!" He took a step suddenly towards her, his hitherto impassive expression changing in seconds to one of detestation as he curled his lip menacingly, which made Cicely start. Almost as quickly as he had turned on her however, he stepped back, and continued to intermittently pace the uneven stone floor.

"You come to my attention when you marry a man of my own stead – "

Cicely said nothing. She had heard the word "espion" spoken as this man Fouche had arrived, of course.

"Though we are men of intrigue, we do not share the same endeavour. It is a pity; Maturin would have been a great asset to France…to the Emperor – "

"Never!" declared Cicely, outraged that this man would attempt to besmirch her husband's reputation. "He is against Bonaparte and all that your Emperor represents!" She felt rare anger rise in her stomach.

"Now, perhaps, yes. But not always." Fouche moved quietly across the room, his voice soft and steady. "He was there on the day the bourgeoisie over-ran the city. When the waged overthrew the tyrannical system of nobility and impressed their will on the guards at the prison Bastille. Your docteur was there those few years later when the King and his Austrian whore were finally executed. He would have made as great a spy for the republic as he does for her enemy.

But Cicely wasn't really listening. It was the fact that this man was a spy that she was focused on. In a chair opposite the one Fouche had first occupied Cicely sank, festooned with erroneous attire. She had come across his name before, along with three others. She had seen it written down…

…in Stephen's notebook! And, though scant, other information too…

She had nothing to lose.

"Why am I here, Monsieur Fouche?" Her question reverberated around the stone lined room as she got to her feet, renewed. "You aren't threatened by me, I: a slip of a girl. Surely I am no more than fodder for a junior under your command, or those soldiers." She felt her defiance radiate from her as she noticed with some satisfaction the polished performance of the high-ranking political spy falter. "I am insignificant…yet you interrogate me. Why?" She stepped towards him boldly. "You are resentful of my having worked on a ship, even if it is one belonging to your enemy. Why?"

This time it was Fouche who held the silence. His look penetrated his impassive stare confirming all to Cicely that she had just said.

"…you are a Jacobin…"

Fouche said nothing straight away. As silence continued to endure Cicely began to think he wouldn't say anything at all but then walked towards her, stopping mere inches from her frame and looked down at her purposely.

"I was a member of that organisation, true," he said finally. "My politics are those of the Republic. Indeed, I was intended to sail, but had to find use for other talents when ill health prevented my vocation. And you are quite wrong…you are very important, and though your disguise on a warship is abhorrent, there is an advantage now to the cause of France."

Stepping past her quickly, Fouche strode towards the opposite wall, to where the Bonaparte's insignia hung, and he looked at it, as if in examination. Cicely waited for him to turn back to her but when he did not, she found herself turning to look at him, intrigued by his direct verification of her accusations.

"I work to crush royalist support wherever I found it, Mademoiselle Hollum, which is how I came on the bungled plot involving the British regiment and a ship of your admiral's fleet. I work with a man named Villiers." Cicely watched as he turned back to face her, his pale eyes fixing hers. "Henri Villiers has a sister. Your unspoken question to me since the moment I arrived is: how is it this man knows so much about me? The details I have astonished you with today have come from a letter written by Dr. Maturin to Mademoiselle Villiers."

Cicely felt her heart pounding in her chest. Stephen chose to reveal details of her life to some woman? How close were they? Her legs felt weak but she willed herself with the strength she had remaining to hold fast.

"Shall we say they were lovers? Indeed, the last time they met, that was their relationship, I understand." Fouche walked back slowly towards Cicely, holding her gaze at every step. "I believe, in his lengthy correspondence – " in his hand the spy held a letter a hand Cicely recognised straight away, " – the doctor was bidding dear Diana adieu," continued Fouche, a smile curling on his lips. "Although I also believe Mademoiselle Villiers had chosen to doubt such a poor end an end to their relationship: Maturin has made to conclude their association before only for the Mademoiselle to find a means to convince him otherwise. Perhaps she knew also that a ship's wedding was only firm when both people are asail together."

He wants me to panic. Cicely heard a small voice, no louder than a whisper, echo at the back of her mind. He wants me to worry about this Diana Villiers, to give myself up to my father or to Wigg, or to be concerned about my immediate future here in this prison. He wants it to be my decision – that by my own hand I am condemned.

Nevertheless, the repercussions of what Fouche had revealed to Cicely were beginning to make her feel sick: her heart was beating loudly in her throat and she felt a tightening feeling in her lower back, as if she wanted to run and keep on running.

Silence held sway again, broken only by the sound of Fouche's boots as he began to walk before her again.

"Has what I have said made a difference, Mademoiselle Hollum?" Cicely ignored his question even though she knew every ounce of her being was radiating an answer in the positive. "You could start your life again," Fouche continued, his tone rich with persuasion. "You could put aside the uncertainties, the difficulties, the Mademoiselle…you could admit to yourself that the union between yourself and Stephen Maturin was an error."

"Never!" exclaimed Cicely, though she knew her tone sounded hollow as she uttered the word to the wall behind Fouche.

"So then, you have a choice." Fouche's voice penetrated her mind, drowning out her soft inner soothings. "To stay as the lady that you are, Mademoiselle Hollum. In France if you choose not to return to your country: there are those in Brittany whose company you may keep should you wish to revel in royalist sympathies. Or as a prisoner here. By choosing either of these options will result in you never seeing your husband." Cicely felt herself look at Fouche and, in doing so, allowing the panic and alarm that she had kept dammed behind her stubborn determination to spill over.

She wanted so much to talk to Stephen, discuss the issues that Fouche had raised. How much was there she didn't know about his life? Was she to believe he had put his past behind him, as he had claimed? Beaten, she sank to her knees as her hopes drained to nothing.

"Then I can see you wish to choose the third option, Mademoiselle, the one where you have a chance of seeing your…husband…again." Cicely looked up from her crumpled position at Fouche's feet. "Dr. Matuirn is currently – elsewhere detained – "

" – can I see him? Please…take me to him…"

To hold him in her arms again – to have him hold her and explain: what wouldn't she do just for a few moments with Stephen now. Fouche shook his head stiffly and walked towards the room's dark wooden door.

"That you are in my control, Mademoiselle Hollum, there is an advantage now to the cause of France. Be in no doubt that should you refuse my proposal however, the man you call your husband will be executed.

He was …somewhere…here perhaps. This spy Fouche had him, and was using that to control her.

"I can see I have no other choice," Cicely said eventually. This was the best choice, the only choice. The one which gave her hope. She looked up to Fouche who astonishingly, held out his arm towards her. Cicely took it and allowed him to help her to her feet.

"What do you require me to do?"

"If you will, Mademoiselle Hollum, sit with me. We are, after all, civilised." Without waiting for her to acquiesce he led her back to the plain wooden chair that she had sat in earlier. Cicely sat down, obediently. Joseph Fouche returned to the door of the room and opened it, talking swiftly to the soldier on the other side of it.

"I would be pleased, Mademoiselle Hollum, if you would share a refreshment." Cicely said nothing. Whatever pleased this man now she would comply with, even if it did delay her finding out her role in his scheme.

Fouche left the room, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, Cicely was on her feet, pacing the stone floor as the events of the last hour. Tired and in need of sustenance, thoughts fought for primacy in her fatigued mind…

…Stephen wasn't on the Surprise…he was being held prisoner by Fouche and being used as a bargaining token…he had undertaken some sort of intrigue and had been captured…he had had (as he had shared with her a long time ago) a relationship with another woman, but had been intimate with her recently…and had given over details of Cicely's life…

Cicely stopped by the stone fireplace which was ash-filled and unlaid, considering the charges Blunt had laid before her. How hollow her words to him sounded now, that she acted through good intentions and hope of their love together. The Major had called her selfish and arrogant and, whether it had been these traits or no, she was here, in this situation, with no other viable choices ahead of her save the one this spy Fouche was to put towards her.

In the mirror above the fireplace Cicely cursed her own reflection as she glimpsed herself in womanly clothing. It did not matter, none of it did – not the words Blunt had spoken, or the course of events beginning with her capture on the Thorn. No matter the past, or even the present, Cicely knew she loved Stephen, true love, the kind which makes your chest heavy with an unshakeable burden.

She knew she would have chosen any means possible that would have led her to him, that her place was beside him whatever the cost –

…Cicely felt the knot in her stomach rise and cried uncontrollable tears…

– and the cost seemed to be trouble and danger and the pain and suffering of others…

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"In a few days' time the flagship of the British Navy will dock in Calais." A good twenty minutes had passed since the spy's return bringing with him what appeared to be coffee and a heavy fruit cake at the door of the room, in both of which Cicely had been more than happy to partake. "Its intention is diplomatic, that is, and French seamen captured since the peace between our two nations will be given to us. In return British captives will be allowed their freedom." Fouche paused, as if waiting for Cicely to reply. When she said nothing, he continued.

"This exchange of prisoners is highly unusual and has been kept secret for several months. Both the Emperor and your King would be hostile if they were to discover the plan, but the simple reality is the French Republic can no longer afford to keep British sailors, so many that we have captured, and we are not so bloodthirsty as to kill lowly men, no matter whose colours under which they have been pressed into sail."

"Then I am to be one of these men," Cicely concluded on behalf of the spy. Over the rim of his cup Fouche raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed. But instead of merely being a recovered seaman Mademoiselle Hollum, you will be charged with a task. As you will be aboard the flagship of the British Navy, and your Lord Admiral will also be aboard. You need to get very close to him." Fouche put down his coffee cup and from the blue and white clay pot poured more of the brown liquid into it.

"You mean…I am to…harm him? Kill him, is that what you propose?" He wanted her to assassinate the First Lord of the Admiralty…?

"On the contrary, Mademoiselle," replied Fouche, refilling her cup with coffee too. "There is one aboard who will kill your Admiral."

The sentence hung between them as Cicely took it in.

"Why?" she asked eventually. "Surely it would help your country better if the assassin succeeded: you are yourself French, after all."

"You would think so, hm-hm, Mademoiselle Hollum," replied Fouche, snorting at her unconcealed observation. "However, to eliminate such a strong leader quietly would mean the French nation would be robbed of her chance of triumph. Your Admiral is successful, no?" Cicely felt herself nodding.

"Indeed, there is nothing to match him, not yet. However, our Emperor, however brilliant a tactician, is something denombrable… unaccountable…blindwhen it comes to our Navy. He wishes our Admiral Villeneuve to remain when it is clear that unless he is replaced, we will never defeat your sea forces. When he is replaced, his successor will defeat your Admiral, and leave the way open for an invasion."

Invasion. It had been suspected for a long time, Cicely knew. Right back to the dinner party that Sophie had thrown for her: common-place talk, rather than a far-fetched conjecture.

Cicely got to her feet, contemplating the proposal Fouche was outlining. She was to be released, but with a cause. She must prevent Admiral Nelson from being assassinated so that the fleet would be intact when they next engaged that of the French.

"The assassin claims to be against the British," continued Fouche after she had said nothing, "and is somewhat…misguided in his beliefs and intentions. Can you think of anyone who has crossed your path who may wish to cause harm to your country?"

Cicely thought about his question. Her mind turned to the men who Harris had described to her, former members of the fated Acheron crew who had survived the wreck and had been Anglicised. She remembered Harris describing how the Acheron's former Captain had masqueraded as its surgeon when the captaincy had been given to Pullings on the capture of the ship.

How the discovery of this had caused several problems and, had the ship not run into difficulty, more besides, possibly even resulting in the retaking of the ship.

Cicely remembered how Harris had noticed that the man had taken British patriation with ill grace and, though he had sworn allegiance to the King rather than endure prison, he seemed to have done so reluctantly. Yes…that made sense…it was he who was going to be the assassin! And, of course, when the Victory acquired ships to fight with her, Cicely would be able to get to the Surprise again, seek help if she needed it too.

"So, you are to be Robert Young again, are you not?" concluded Fouche, as he smiled and raised his eyebrows to Cicely. "I am sure you will find the duties aboard your country's flagship familiar. It is such a great honour to serve your country in this manner."

Yours, thought Cicely as she considered all that lay before her. I am an instrument in your plan now as much as you are in my own. And you are wrong: I will not be Robert Young.

"I will do as you ask," she confirmed with a heavy heart. Something would turn up: she knew it. And if she didn't agree, even if she were never to see him again, she knew she would be condemning Stephen to death. It all seemed very convenient, even if she didn't know whose plans it advanced.

"You will remain in my apartment, under guard, Mademoiselle," Fouche continued, making his way towards the door. It would not be fitting to an ally of the Republic, especially one so charming, to be confined."

"May I ask," began Cicely, looking sharply at the spy. "You said that the British prisoners were to be released to the British fleet." Fouche nodded.

"Indeed."

"Then how will I be certain that I will be assigned to Victory? The navy will select based on the requirements at that moment…"

"You will be. You must. You must do all within your guile and wit to ensure that happens, Mademoiselle Hollum."

"And if I don't…?" The words escaped her lips before she had a chance to stop them.

"Then Docteur Maturin will be put to death and you will be returned to your father."

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Laurent Burgoyne reported to his superior three hours after Fouche had escorted and secured the woman who had disguised herself as a sailor in an apartment on the second floor of the prison building. It was his duty to ensure that she remained there, confined and isolated, until the prisoners were exchanged between France and Britain in two days' time.

Fouche was in a lower room, much less well-equipped for…interrogation…and he – Burgoyne – had come to furnish Joseph Fouche with the evening's duties. As usual, Fouche expected each command to be reiterated once it had been carried out, audited verbally in his renowned controlling style. Nothing went on in the prison without Joseph Fouche knowing about it.

"We have other British prisoners to inform of their impending release," began Fouche once Burgoyne had told him his news. "I will come with you this evening as you carry out the necessary."

The necessary, thought Burgoyne. Torture, followed by some glimmer of salvation where the prisoners, simple men, would of course comply with information – anything they had overheard or had been privy – just to stop the…necessary. Although brutal, Burgoyne had to admit it worked.

As they walked down the dark stone corridor they passed the prisoners who had already been offered a choice.

"What if she doesn't make it onto the Victory?" Burgoyne asked as they approached the cells where the new prisoners were being held.

"She will," replied Fouche confidently, his thin features twisting in the dim oil-light murine-like. "In the end fear is a stronger motivator than honour. She will find a way."

The men passed the cell where, several hours before Cicely Maturin had been removed. Matthew Harris grew aware that they were talking about her and he tried to hold his breath so he could better hear the conversation.

Damn! Of course! He spoke not a word of French and could only discern her name, repeated again…

"…where is it you are holding Stephen Maturin?" Burgoyne tried not to allow his keen-ness to meet this spy show to his superior even though he knew that Fouche would have already discerned his professional admiration for the doctor.

…Stephen Maturin…

Matthew Harris moved painfully nearer to the cell door.

…I have had the meeting with Wickham. I am afraid you will be disappointed. He gave his master no choice, Burgoyne," Fouche continued. "Il est mort."

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A/N: Joseph Fouche was a real person, a spy for Napoleon Bonaparte.