Henry Gordon, private secretary to Lord Nelson, had carried out his usual morning's activities. While his superior was not, at present, at the Admiralty Gordon did not feel that he should deviate from his normal pattern of duties. He felt this set him apart from other men in his position – he did not slack when his boss's back was turned; his work was always carried out to the letter. He was conscientious and thorough, discreet and sensitive to the needs and wishes of the Lord Admiral. Altogether, a most worthy private secretary. Which was why, Gordon supposed, he had not been replaced.

It worried him then when business was discordant to his routine. This time, it was an issue which Gordon had thought had been long since given up. Not so, by the tone of the missive he was now holding. This time however, it would be harder to shake off than an angry emissary from a nob or the calculated Wickham: Toby Hamilton, William Wickham's superior and foreign secretary to Prime Minister Pitt had sent forth venom and brimstone in literary form on a subject which had, in all honesty, given him several sleepless nights.

Due to the indeterminate length of Wickham's absence Hamilton had felt it necessary to contact him, the letter began, as he needed a thorough update on the current situation of the Navy with regard to Miss Cicely Hollum. He had gone on to detail at length the information that Wickham had already divulged to Gordon and concluded by demanding to know what precisely the Admiralty was doing about it.

Nothing, Gordon had thought flippantly. Since the orders had gone to the captains of the fleets and to the secretaries who worked at both Admiralty House and Chatham, there had been no reports of the names Cicely Hollum or Robert Young having been taken on board or found by the ships, or recorded in any completed logs.

It wasn't as if he had just left it to second-hand reporting either – Gordon had gone to the trouble of inspecting their backlog of reports too – everyone currently aboard a British man-o-war had been accounted for up to the last week where it was practicable: captains were required to send details of their logs back to the Admiralty on a regular basis but obviously those whose missions were many thousands of miles away would be delayed somewhat.

There had been a name which had interested him, however. Stephen Maturin. The spy's name had appeared listed on the Victory's crew list as Wickham had said that it would. Surely Hamilton would not expect him to pursue that line of enquiry when he himself had set the spy to his task? Espionage was vital to the war effort even if Maturin was a Catholic Feinian.

Gordon had read the letter, the terse, demanding words five or six times over and had concluded two things: that Hamilton would not be satisfied with the answer and that he – Henry Gordon – with so much else to do at the present time for Lord Nelson, would spend precious time worrying on the matter. What else was he to do? The woman had been in disguise almost two years before and neither her name nor her pseudonym appeared in any naval crew listing now.

Sitting at his desk Henry Gordon rubbed his temples; set aside Hamilton's letter and picked up a crisp, clean sheet of paper. Then, without pausing, he picked up his best pen and began to write. Half a paragraph in Gordon rubbed his temples again, screwed up the paper and grabbed for another. An hour later, and seven more sheets wasted he got to his feet. Perhaps he should go to see Hamilton instead? A face-to-face meeting might be enough to quell the fire of Hamilton's fury.

Mentally, Gordon imagined the scene that may ensue. Even if the wind was in his favour the outcome didn't look good. He looked for another sheet of paper, and dipped his fountain pen into his India ink and quickly drafted down the information, succinct and to the point. It was the only way: Gordon knew his answer would not go down well. He shook his head to himself as signed the reply before folding it into three. Then he took out a short stick of red wax, held it in front of the candle momentarily before allowing its liquidity to cover the edges of the paper, finally sealing it with the Lord Admiral's crest.

Instead of calling for Gibb to take the letter, Gordon stared at it as if it were noxious. What else could be done? It was hardly his – Gordon's – responsibility to locate this Miss Hollum if she was out of the jurisdiction of the Navy. At least Pitt had not sent back Johns to harry him about naval strategy. Perhaps the Prime Minister was finally managing his cabinet effectively – he may yet be as successful as he had been in his previous term and a triumph at sea, which was not only likely, but imminent, would certainly reinforce his position.

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"Hey! Hey!" A half-dozen or so deckhands, mizzenlads and topmen had, in their high-spirited, grog-advanced state charged through from the stores to the lower gun deck chasing the next evening's meal along the boards. Half-concealed smirking, laughing and gaiety arose as the chickens ran quickly in panic towards the waiting crowd of seamen at the end.

"Go on! Go on!" they called, cheering on the baiters as the nucleus of the brood of hens cackled towards them, wings outstretched and squawking wildly.

"It's 'im, it's 'im!" yelled Bill Gibbons as he pointed to the leader of the flock. The men were enjoying another evening of merriment and as such some of the younger ones were fast running out of ideas for entertainment. "'oo's got their money on 'im?"

"I've got tuppence on the fair'un," said Dixon, stepping over the wake of the chicken horde as it reached the masthead end. "Do I get summat for that?" At the far end of the ship the first officer of the watch had sent a middie down to investigate the noise and the unfortunate pursuers of the hens were being castigated for their actions. The salts who had heard that their lark had been rumbled were edging their way back towards the capstan and their usual environs, keen on being immune to retribution.

Cicely followed the rest, listening the squawks and clucks of the hens being recaptured by their hitherto gamely pursuers. Finding a place on the steps near the upper gun deck and the porthole she stared out at the choppy water. Three days had passed since she had identified the two men, both able seamen, who had ascended the quarterdeck steps and speaking momentarily in French. One, she noted, was the carpenter's mate, the other a top-man, responsible for the far-reaching rigging when the ship had the wind full-on behind her.

She had thought of little else as she carried out her duties, as she ate and as she lay in her hammock on the upper gun deck. Who were they? Which was the former captain of the Acheron? How was one of them going to assassinate Lord Nelson? How was she going to destroy him?

"Stephen, you had a penny on the little one." Bill sat next to her, glancing at her uneaten meat pudding. "Shame it got knocked out on a nine-pounder." Cicely smiled in acknowledgement, forcing a weak smile.

"You can have it," she replied as she noticed Bill take in her supper, before looking out to the sea again. Cicely hoped that he would take the hint and leave her alone, but the boy continued sitting next to her, tucking into the dark, bready food.

"Are you sure you don't' want any?" Cicely shook her head. She seemed to have fitted in with the rest of the fighting men. Sleeping amongst the guns and a change in the formation of the pattern were really the only differences between the Surprise and the Victory. The watches; the chain of command; the working men were all the equivalent.

There were other subtle differences though: whether it was because there were more souls aboard or because, perhaps it was the flagship, existed a rigid hierarchy. No talking was permitted above decks between any men distinct in rank above or below decks unless it was a direct order. Jocularity between middies and the working man as happened from time-to-time aboard the Surprise to some extent would never be allowed aboard the Victory.

But another difference was the attitude of the officers towards the lower ranks. On the Surprise it was obvious, even to an outsider that those higher up the chain of command had a sympathy for the jack tars, that Jack Aubrey cared for his men. Not here, openly at least. But that appeared to result in a greater bond between the seamen, a great camaraderie.

"Thanks," replied Bill, nudging her gently. "I need it. The strength of the wind at the top of the mizzen today was – "

And he was off. Bill Gibbons, affable and good at his job, was prone to chattering, viewing any void as being imperfect and remedying the problem by opening his mouth. Most of the time Cicely would happily sit and listen – she liked to listen to anecdotes and stories when others cared to share them. But with a task on her hands and little idea how she would go about carrying it out she was finding it rather irritating. She cast her mind back to the ocean and at the several ships of the line she could see all following in their wake.

There were two men, both similar in stature. Other than their roles and their names she knew very little about them. Both of them, being low in rank, slept among the others and she had watched both when she could in order to glean anything she could, which had been little, and ascertain anything about their motives, which had been nigh-on impossible for the limited time she had. How was she to do what she was set? She had to find a way.

" – three sheets to the wind, if you understand me, Stephen." Cicely looked back and smiled at Bill as she noted a concluding sentence to his monologue. She nodded vaguely.

"Dixon's pleased," Bill carried on, "he's won sixpence on the chickens." Cicely looked past Bill to see Philip approaching, a broad grin across his features. Gibbons turned and grinned too. The clumsy young mizzenlad took a seat cross-legged on the wooden planks.

"Sixpence," he confirmed cheerily. "More than I've ever won in me life. More than I've ever 'ad in me pocket at one time," he added, grinning broader still, if that were possible. "Mebbe me luck's changin'!" Cicely smiled back at the youth, his ruddy, honest features beaming with pleasure. If anyone deserved a cheer-up after his ineptitude that afternoon it was Philip.

"Them that took the hens out've been 'ad though," said Reuben Jelfs, another of their ilk ambling past on his way towards the capstan-end, probably to lose any winnings he had just acquired playing cards. "Whatever will Jellicoe say?" Jellicoe was their midshipman, the tall, hard-faced man who had scolded Cicely when she first boarded. Cruel and an impossible perfectionist, the man was best handled by behaving in a subjugated manner, by taking the stance that you were automatically in the wrong and assuming that even your very presence in his sight constituted clutter.

Both Dixon and Gibbons looked away in mild horror - whatever Midshipman Jellicoe had to say it was best considered in the cold, hard light of day.

"You comin' t' middle, Bill?" continued Reuben, nodding in the direction of the capstan. "I think there'll be a big game tonight. All those pennies that have just changed pockets."

"In a while," replied Gibbons, reaching for the last of Cicely's biscuit. He raised it to his lips but, due to the fact that a fist punched the food out of his hand, it didn't make it. Gibbons turned in shock, half-getting to his feet as another man, someone Cicely had been studying for the last few days glowered back at him.

"Duquesne!" yelled Gibbons indignantly. "I was enjoying that!"

"Enjoying, yes," replied the Frenchman continuing to glower at Bill, "but it was not your food. You should never deprive another man. And you – " he poked an accusing finger in Cicely's direction, " – should have eaten it. Mon dieu! We have been relaxed, up till now, but we will meet action," he continued. "You are thin enough as it is! What happens when you are needed to do your duty?"

A silence lasting about ten seconds reigned before all three of the mizzenlads and Cicely spoke at once.

"Thin, am I?"

"What's it to do with you?"

"Mon dew? What kind of Frog-talk is that?"

"Steady now, Bill!"

The last voice had been that of Jelfs addressing Bill as the lad had grabbed the older, taller man by his clothing, eyeing him up and down as if to judge where the best place to thump him first would be.

"Yes, what business is it of yours?" This time, Cicely got up. The Frenchman, stooping through his height, broad-shouldered and swarthy, narrowed his eyes towards her. She had felt her hackles rise when she had been accused, essentially, of betraying her kin. "What do you know about it? About me? I may be thin, but I could show you a thing or two."

They were not empty words, although they sounded like them. Cicely had heard him talking to another man that evening quite contemptuously about Jellicoe and, though she disliked their middie as much as anyone else, the point was tender. Edward, her brother, had been disliked for his manner aboard the Surprise. Men had refused to be respectful and had undermined him.

The Frenchman snorted and took a step past them. Clearly her threat was like a drop of water in the sea. It was a good thing too, Cicely concluded. She had felt like she wanted to fight Duquesne like she had fought Joseph Nagel. She couldn't risk being found out, like then. Bill had backed down too after glancing uncertainly at Cicely a couple of times.

"You are a Frog, then?" asked Dixon, a monumentally inappropriate inquiry at the best of times, causing Benjamin Duquesne to loom over him and narrow his eyes menacingly. Just when Cicely thought he was going to hit the poor mizzenlad he turned back to Cicely.

"I advise you for your own sake, boy," he said, his tone softer than she expected. "You wish not to be a burden on others, I am sure. Mon dieu, the commander will wonder where the rest of you resides when we are examined tomorrow." And with that he turned and stalked off past Reuben Jelfs in the direction of the hold."

"'e said 'Mon Dew' again," commented Dixon, watching the man's wake. "I hope it isn't a curse word."

"Examination?" echoed Cicely softly, the words filling her head with a growing dread.

"Midshipman Fraser's men were done today," replied Bill evenly. "We're probably close to action. De-lousing, new clothes, a good dressing down…hithers and thithers," he continued. "We need to be fit for whatever we're up for and we have to represent the flagship. It won't do us any good to show up half-dressed – what will the Frenchies think of us? Not to mention the other ships."

"Mon dew," pondered Philip again.

"It means 'My God'. And that's about all the Frog I know," Reuben Jelfs glanced in the direction of Duquesne.

"Does it?"

"You comin', Bill?" Jelfs nodded again towards the capstan as the roar of jocularity, and possibly a large measure of inebriation by the sound of it.

"Me too," interjected Philip eagerly.

"Yep." Bill jumped to his feet, before turning to Cicely. "See you, Stephen."

But Cicely didn't hear him. A good dressing down. She looked back out to the dark sea as the dusklight reflected off its choppy surface. That wasn't just a turn of phrase. It meant a through, intimate inspection.

There was no way out of it. At some indeterminate time the next day she would be found out. If she refused the examination she would be flogged, so either way her gender would be discovered. She could try to fake the pox, or syphilis, ways which she had avoided such examinations in the past, but she had little time to prepare. Even if she did, it was unlikely she would escape further investigation.

Bill was right – the ship was preparing for a significant engagement: the officers would not allow anything to pass, not even a difficult, inconsolable or disease-ridden mizzenlad. There was only one thing for it. She got to her feet and made her way towards the ladder that led to the deck.

She would have to find out whether it was the top-man Benjamin Duquesne or the carpenter's mate Jean-Baptiste Lebec who had been the captain of the Acheron and hence the assassin of Lord Nelson, then she would have to kill. And she would have to do it that night.

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