River Thames, London, June 1817

Captain Bryce Maynard leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the polished English oak of his desk. Through the stern window, the distant shoreline emerged from the morning mist, a familiar silhouette against the horizon. His lips curled into a smile—home was near.

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair before focusing on the parchments spread before him. At a glance, they appeared identical, but a closer inspection revealed the discrepancy—one recorded a sale of seven thousand pounds, the other twenty-seven thousand. A mistake, or something far more deliberate? His eyes fixed on the first document. He read:

The Bank of England has this day received from the Banco di San Giorgio, by the hand of Admiral Reginald Fairfax, on behalf of His Majesty King George III of England, under the authority of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, the sum of seven thousand pounds sterling for four pieces of artwork detailed in the attachment.

Turning to the second parchment, he double-checked the wording:

The Bank of England has this day received from the Banco di San Giorgio, by the hand of Admiral Reginald Fairfax, on behalf of His Majesty King George III of England, under the authority of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent, the sum of twenty-seven thousand pounds sterling for four pieces of artwork detailed in the attachment.

He narrowed his eyes at the larger amount, his fingers pressing against the bridge of his nose as suspicion coiled down his spine. He had been in Genoa when the deal was struck. The second document was a forgery. But the question remained: seven thousand or twenty-seven thousand pounds? Which sum had truly changed hands? Only Admiral Fairfax could give him that answer.

He dimmed the light and stood, papers in hand, just as the door creaked slowly. A sailor’s head appeared in the gap, eyes darting about. The moment he spotted someone inside, he edged it open with a hesitant squeak, and stepped partway into the room.

Bryce raised a curious eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, Captain, we’ll be docking in fifteen minutes." Midshipman Lucian Thornton stood at attention before him, awaiting his orders. 

He nodded with a dismissive wave. "Thank you, sailor. I’ll finish up my paperwork and join you in a moment."

"Aye, aye, Captain." He clicked his heels with a salute, pulling the door quietly shut behind him.

Waiting until the footsteps receded, he strode through the dimly lit passageway, the scent of salt, tar, and wood polish thick in the air. Lanterns swung from overhead beams, their flickering light casting long shadows along the oak-paneled corridor.

Voices drifted from the wardroom as he ascended the companionway—a low hum of officers bent over maps, their conversation punctuated by the occasional clink of glass against wood.

The muffled thud of cannon swabs below deck echoed faintly, but he paid it no mind, his focus fixed ahead. A marine stood rigid outside the Admiral’s cabin, musket resting at his side. At his approach, the sentry gave a curt nod and stepped aside.

Without hesitation, he rapped his knuckles against the polished door, barely waiting for a reply before pushing it open. Sunlight poured through the stern windows, casting a golden glow across the Admiral’s desk. Inside, the man in question was deep in conversation with the same sailor from earlier. Their exchange halted the moment they saw him.

Bryce squared his shoulders, glancing between them. "Admiral, a moment?"

Admiral Reginald Fairfax greeted him with a warm smile. "Of course, Captain Maynard. Thornton was just on his way out."

They both watched as the midshipman clicked his heels and departed, before he continued, "How can I help?"

He shut the door with a controlled click before striding to the nearest table. He laid the parchments flat, the crisp rustle breaking the cabin’s silence. "While reviewing the paperwork for our arrival, I found a falsified receipt for our Italian shipment." He tapped the parchment with his left hand. "This is the agreed amount of seven thousand pounds." His fingers shifted to the second parchment. "Yet this one claims twenty thousand more. I know that to be false. I recall you handing me the first document yourself after finalizing the payment."

His gaze narrowed as he scanned the numbers again. His pulse hammered against his ribs. A simple mistake or something deliberate? He flicked a glance at the Admiral, whose face had gone rigid, the furrow between his brows deepening as he examined the documents. The weight of what this might mean pressed down between them.

"I distinctly remember seven thousand pounds," Bryce said, his voice measured but firm. He tapped the second parchment. "This—whether altered or written in error—tells a different story."

The Admiral clenched his jaw, his gaze darkening as he scrutinized the figures. His fingers tightened around the parchment, the paper crinkling under his grip. "By Jove, you’re right, Captain. Quite the mystery."

Bryce released a slow breath. "I will need to confirm that we received only seven thousand. To suggest England misappropriated twenty thousand pounds is an error I wish to avoid. Let alone one that could start a conflict. I’ll stop by the War Office on my way home."

He exhaled again, unease curling in his gut. The numbers didn’t lie. Someone had altered them.

The Admiral barked a laugh, dismissing the concern with a wave. "Forget it, Captain. The King meant to sell more artwork, hence the discrepancy. This document is worthless. I’m only surprised no one discarded it sooner."

Shaking his head, he exhaled sharply. "I thought the same, but both documents state four pieces." He ran his fingers over the second parchment, as if the touch might coax out its secrets. "There’s no attachment, so I can’t confirm whether they were the same items or something else entirely."

Bryce studied the parchment, eyes narrowing as he traced the numbers again. It had to be intentional—subtle, but deliberate. Almost identical at first glance; a lesser-trained eye would have missed it.

"I’d rather turn this over to the Raven Seal Branch," he muttered, tapping the document with two fingers.

Officially, they were a division of the Home Office, though no one quite knew how deep their reach extended. Unofficially, they dealt with the sort of things most departments preferred not to name—missing gold, forged letters, disappearances that didn’t make the papers. 

"Best to confirm whether it’s a simple error," he added, more to himself than to anyone else, "or something far worse."

Reginald tilted his head, considering. "I understand your concern, Captain, but I assure you there is no evidence of foul play. If it puts your mind at rest, I’ll take it to Whitehall myself. I have to meet with our esteemed leader this afternoon; I can raise the matter then."

Surprise flickered across Bryce’s face. He had only considered handing it off to a junior officer. "The Duke of Wight?"

A nod confirmed it. "I believe he still oversees the Raven Seal Branch—unless the torch was passed while we were away," Reginald said. He rolled up the parchments, set them on a shelf by the door, and together they strode toward the helm. "No need to worry. I’ll handle it personally and update you when you return from leave."

Remaining uneasy, Bryce’s brow furrowed. "Are you certain? It concerns me as much as any man on this ship, and it’s on my way home."

Reginald’s expression hardened, mouth pressing into a firm line. "Maynard, I’ve got it handled. Your furlough starts as soon as you step foot out of the dockyard." His tone brooked no argument. "That’s an order."

They halted their conversation as they entered the final stage of arrival. Bryce stepped onto the quarterdeck, his voice ringing over the ship’s bustling activity. "Prepare to dock!"

His command cut through the din like a clarion call, and the crew snapped to attention.

"Lower the sails! Secure the lines!"

Men clambered up the rigging, ropes hissing as the broad canvas caught the wind one final time before being drawn in.

He kept his gaze sharp as the quayside drew closer. The River Thames was no easy passage, even for the most experienced sailors. Its shifting currents, crowded waters, and unforgiving timing made docking a true test of skill. Bringing the frigate in smoothly required absolute precision.

"Hard to starboard! Steady as she goes!" His voice carried over the deck as he gripped the rail, eyes locked on the river’s winding channels. The helmsman followed his lead, hands calm on the wheel.

The HMS Valiant cut through the tranquil Thames, its sails taut with wind as it neared the bustling Deptford Dockyard. Salt spray caressed Bryce’s face, the breeze tousling his sun-kissed, blondish brown hair as he stood tall. In that moment, he was every bit the seafarer—restless, untethered, and bound to the call of the horizon.

His sea-green eyes swept the skyline, a sharp mix of anticipation and familiarity tightening in his chest. As the ship carved through the rolling waves toward London’s bustling harbor, the city’s silhouette rose before him. A striking blend of grandeur and industry, where towering spires met the smoke-streaked sky.

The wind whispered through the rigging, the rhythmic lap of water against the hull a steady pulse beneath him. He inhaled deeply, tasting the salt-tinged air, the scent of the Thames mingling with distant coal fumes.

Here, amid the restless clash of tradition and progress, he stood as one of the navy’s youngest captains, returning to a world that had shaped him as much as the sea.

Bryce traced the familiar skyline, his grip growing firmer on the railing. The river carried him forward, but his mind drifted backward—back to a time before the Navy, before war, before duty stole the years away. Back to Basildon. Back to his best friend, Beatrice. He could still hear her laughter if he let himself, the way she had always dared him into trouble and never allowed him to forget when she bested him at anything.

"It’s a fine day to return to England, isn’t it, Maynard?" Fairfax remarked, his voice carrying a mixture of anticipation and pride.

He lowered his father’s telescope, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Indeed, sir. The journey across the Mediterranean was smooth. The men will welcome an early day’s arrival. A pleasant surprise for their family and friends."

"Aye," the Admiral replied with a nod, his eyes twinkling. "I would agree. The ship’s company trusts you with their lives. Your dedication to duty is commendable, Maynard."

At the rail, Reginald stood with squared shoulders, his gaze fixed on the docks as they inched closer. After a moment, he cast a sidelong glance at Bryce. "Tell me, Captain—how do you plan to spend your leave? Will you remain in London before our next departure?"

A thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Not on this occasion, sir. I will be heading straight to Berkshire."

One brow lifted. "Eager to get home? Twelve years at sea—England must feel like a distant memory. Your family might not even recognize you."

It was longer than most tours, certainly. Bryce had been mentored and served under Reginald during the Napoleonic War and, when it ended, kept getting assigned irresistible missions.

His gaze shifted from the shoreline to the Admiral. A faint grin reached his eyes. "As you grew up in my neighborhood, you may recall that the Earl and Countess of Basildon are hosting their annual ball. Our families have been neighbors since I was a whippersnapper. It’s never an event to miss, and I suspect this year will be exceptional."

A smile tugged at Fairfax’s lips, warm with memory. "Ah, yes. A glorious occasion indeed. I asked my wife for her hand—God rest her soul—at a Basildon Park ball. I have tentatively accepted just in case my schedule allows, but I’ve no doubt you’ll have a spectacular time."

Bryce paused, fingers tightening around his telescope. He hadn’t considered the Admiral’s past, nor what the sea had taken from him. "My condolences," he said quietly. "If I may ask, how long has it been?"

The harbor glinted in his eyes as shadows of old ghosts stirred behind them. "Seventeen years," he muttered, voice little more than a breath. His fingers curled into a fist.

Bryce watched as he shook off the memory, pulling himself from his thoughts. "How about you? Do you have any plans for matrimony?"

"Marriage?" he hesitated, hands tightening on the railing. The Admiral’s question should have been easy to answer. He had planned to marry—just not while the sea still called. 

The thought of leaving a wife behind each time duty summoned him never sat well. And yet, a face flashed unbidden in his mind. Hazel eyes, wind-tossed hair, laughter like a whispered challenge. He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "No plans, sir. Not yet."

He had given his life to the ocean. Over a decade of salt and storm, of war, service, and discipline. He had never questioned it until now. Until the thought of home finally drew near, stirring something deeper than duty. Until he wondered if Beatrice Stanhope still climbed trees, still rode like the wind, still laughed without restraint.

Over the years, his mother’s letters had kept him tethered to England, filled with news of his family, their neighbors, and inevitably, his best friend. 

She had flourished, they said. Danced at grand balls during her debut. Gained suitors. He supposed that was expected—he had been absent longer than anyone predicted. They surely would have told him if she had married, right? But something about it unsettled him, though he could not quite say why. Was it simply the idea of change? Or was it the thought that, perhaps, he had been gone too long?

A chuckle broke through his reverie. Reginald clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, the weight of it both reassuring and knowing. "Well, Maynard, two months of leave await you." His eyes crinkled with amusement, though his words carried the warmth of pride. "Enjoy the ball and your time at home. I’ve written to your parents to express my gratitude once more for entrusting you to my command. You have proven your worth, and I am certain you’ll make an excellent admiral one day. But remember—hold fast to your morals, and the sea will always call to you."

Bryce’s eyes shone with determination and pride. "Of course, sir. Sailing is in my blood. As it was in my father’s, and in both our parents' fathers. And I shall return when called. But for now, family and friends await."

The ship eased alongside the pier, and the men dispersed to issue orders for disembarkation. 

Bryce couldn’t help but feel a swell of anticipation for the days ahead. The enchantment of the ball, the warmth of familiar faces, and the promise of new beginnings. 

As he gazed toward the approaching dock, he knew that whether on land or at sea, adventure awaited.

"Stand by to drop anchor!" The tension in the air was palpable as the massive metal swayed over the bow, its weight teetering on the edge of release. One last command from him, and it plummeted into the depths with a thunderous splash, sending cheers through the ship. At last, they were home.