His son had been a disappointment to him, I could see.

“Let me see your fingers,” I demanded.

Hague raised his hands. A Templar ring glittered. My heart hardened.

“And you, Sir Robert.”

His hands remained laced across his stomach. “You’ll see no ring on me, Captain Kenway.”

“Why does the idea tickle you? From what I’ve seen, the Templars enjoy rank and status. How am I to know that I am not addressing their Grand Master?”

He smiled. “Because no power is absolute, Captain Kenway, and my purpose here is not to act as ambassador for one side or indeed the other. My purpose here is to prevent an act of barbarism.”

I scoffed. Barbarism? It didn’t seem to bother them when they were burning my parents’ home. Where was Sir Robert Walpole then? Sipping port, perhaps, with his Templar friends? Congratulating himself on abstaining from their schemes. He could afford to, of course. His wealth and power was already assured.

From the cabin Matthew Hague snivelled and whimpered.

“You have returned to these shores on a mission of vengeance, I take it?” called Walpole.

“There are those with whom I have scores to settle, yes.”

Walpole nodded. “Woodes Rogers being one of them?”

I gave a short, surprised laugh. “Yes. He would be one of them.”

“Would it make a difference if I told you that Rogers currently languishes in debtor’s prison? That the wounds you inflicted on him have left his health in a terrible state of disrepair? That his Order has disowned him? His hot temper, his continued slave trading. He is a broken man, Captain Kenway. I wonder if perhaps you might consider that matter settled?”

He was right. What more harm could my blade do to Rogers other than to put him out of his misery? Either way . . .

“He is not my immediate concern,” I called. “That honour belongs to the man in the cabin below.”

Walpole gave a sad smile. “A silly, shallow boy, influenced by others. You must believe me when I tell you, Captain Kenway, that the principal malefactors in that particular episode are already dead at your hands. Rest assured that Matthew’s current shame is punishment enough for his wrongdoing.”

I took a deep breath. I thought of my mother asking me how many I’d killed. I thought of Black Bart’s cruelty. I thought of Mary Read’s spirit and Adewalé’s courage and Blackbeard’s generosity.

And I thought of you. Torres had been wrong when he said I had nobody. I did have somebody. I had you. You, who shone with hope.

“Today I should like to make you an offer, Captain Kenway,” continued Walpole. “An offer I hope you will find favourable, that will finally draw a curtain across this whole sorry affair.”

He outlined his proposals. I listened. When he was finished, I told him my answer and dropped the torch.

SEVENTY-THREE

Except, of course, I dropped it into the sea.

Because he offered pardons for my men and me, and I saw their faces turn expectantly to me, every one of them a wanted man with the chance of having his slate wiped clean. He offered us all, every man-jack of us, a new life.

And Walpole had offered much more besides. Property. The chance to make something of myself, with business contacts in London. When I’d finally climbed down from the rigging, the soldiers had put down their muskets and the crew of the Jackdaw relaxed; when Matthew Hague had been released and run to his father and offered me tearful apologies, Walpole took my arm and led me away, speaking of who I would be introduced to in London: the Stephenson-Oakley family, a lawyer, an assistant by the name of Birch to help me in my new business dealings.

My mercy would be handsomely rewarded, he assured me. In return he would see to it that I became the man I always wanted to be: a man of quality.

Of course, I had since gained greater expectations of myself. But money, business and a house in London would be a fine foundation on which to build a new and richer life. A fine foundation indeed.

A place I could use to attend to my other business. My Assassin business.

Shall we go, my darling? Shall we set sail for London?