Читать книгу Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion - James McGee - Страница 13

“I’m sending you, Hawkwood, because there’s no one else available. Besides,” James Read said wearily, looking up from his desk, “I’d have thought you would welcome the diversion.”

Hawkwood gazed disconsolately down at the Chief Magistrate, knowing from the latter’s expression that this was an argument he was unlikely to win.

The diversion, as Read had called it, was a grand ball. It was often the case that Runners were assigned to attend such entertainments to guard against thieves and other miscreants who might view the event as an opportunity to indulge themselves in both petty and grand larceny.

On this occasion, the ball was being held at the London home of Lord Mandrake. Lord Mandrake, who held estates in Cheshire and the Americas, had made his fortune through trade and banking and was a well-entrenched member of the establishment. He was a confidant of several members of parliament, including the Foreign Secretary. There was a rumour, Read told Hawkwood, that the Prince Regent might well put in an appearance.

On hearing this, Hawkwood groaned inwardly. He had attended similar functions and detested them with a vengeance. He would rather have faced a frontal assault from a detachment of French lancers.

“What about Redfern?”

This time Read did not bother to look up. “Redfern’s in Manchester. A forgery case. He’s unlikely to return in the immediate future.”

“Lightfoot, then?”

“Protection duty at the Bank of England, overseeing the transportation of a bullion consignment.”

With studied deliberation, James Read laid down his pen and sighed audibly. “Hawkwood, you are perfectly aware how many special constables I have at my disposal. Precious few. Seven, to be precise, including yourself. Now, whilst I’m not obliged to furnish you with details of their individual assignments, I will do so, if it will help to ease your troubled mind.

“Redfern and Lightfoot, we’ve already mentioned. George Ruthven is in Dublin, attempting to serve a warrant on the embezzler, Patrick Doherty. McNiece is investigating a double murder in York. Lacey is recovering from wounds sustained in the arrest of the Taplin brothers –”

“And Warlock?” Hawkwood enquired desperately, sensing as he did so that it was a futile exercise.

“Also unavailable. The Woodburn case.”

“Woodburn?” Hawkwood queried, mystified; though there was no reason why the name should have meant anything. Given the demands of the job, each Runner was usually too concerned with his own workload to take note of a fellow officer’s assignments.

“The missing clockmaker.”

Hawkwood feared he had misheard. “You’ve sent Warlock off to look for a clockmaker?”

“Not just any clockmaker,” Read responded sharply, with just a hint of rebuke. “Josiah Woodburn is a master craftsman. A clockmaker to the nobility. Examples of his work grace half the salons in London, not to mention the grandest houses in the country.”

“And he’s disappeared?” Hawkwood said hollowly.

“It would appear he failed to return home from his workshop last evening.”

“Probably spent the night tumbling some Haymarket doxy and lost track of the time.”

There was a pause. A small nerve tremor dimpled the flesh on the magistrate’s left cheek.

“Hardly,” Read said. “The man is sixty-eight years old and a strict Presbyterian.”

The Chief Magistrate frowned suddenly, drew a watch from his pocket and compared the hour with that shown by the tall clock in the corner of the room. “Though perhaps it’s Officer Warlock’s timekeeping that has gone astray. He was supposed to call in and make his report but he has not yet done so. Most curious. It’s not like him to be tardy.” The frown disappeared, to be replaced by a beatific smile. “So, as you can see, Hawkwood, there’s no choice in the matter. You shall go to the ball.”

The expression on Hawkwood’s face spoke volumes.

“Frankly,” Read said, putting his watch away, “I would have thought you’d be flattered.”

“I should? Why?”

“You were requested by name. Upon the recommendation, I understand, of Sir John Belvedere. It seems Sir John was most impressed by the way you conducted yourself at his wife’s recent birthday celebrations.”

Hawkwood recalled the evening a month previously: a well-attended but dull affair in Chelsea, enlivened only by an ill-fated attempt to remove, by stealth, Sir John’s birthday gift to his wife; an ornate and expensive necklace, reputedly once owned by the wife of the first Duke of Marlborough.

Hawkwood had run the thief to ground, ruining a good pair of breeches in the process. In retrospect, though, he had to admit that the night had not been without its reward. Sir John had been effusive with his thanks and generous in his compensation, to the extent that it had almost restored Hawkwood’s faith in human nature. But he still loathed the pomp and ceremony.

“What about the coach robbery?” Hawkwood said, grasping at one final straw.

“I think it most unlikely that a breakthrough will be forthcoming between now and breakfast,” Read said. “Don’t you?”

The Chief Magistrate pursed his lips and sat back. “Your lack of enthusiasm confounds me, Hawkwood. Had any of the others been available for duty, they would probably be fighting to attend.”

Read was pointing out, none too subtly, a long accepted understanding. A Runner’s salary verged on the pitiful; just over a guinea a week, supplemented by equally meagre expenses should the assignment entail travel to a distant part of the country. A Runner also received a share of the parliamentary awards given for the seizure and conviction of criminals, but by the time the awards were split among the arresting officers the final sum usually amounted to little more than small change. Most Runners made their money through private enterprise; as bodyguards to royalty and politicians, or by hiring themselves out to institutions and wealthy private citizens for investigative and security work.

“Now,” Read continued, ignoring Hawkwood’s pained expression, “while I’m sure you have your reasons for not wishing to attend, they are in this instance irrelevant for, had the others been here, I would still have assigned you, seeing as you’re the only one of my officers who speaks French.”

It was Hawkwood’s turn to frown.

The Chief Magistrate sat back in his chair. “As you may or may not be aware, Lord Mandrake has gained something of a reputation as a benefactor to the less fortunate members of our society: orphans, widows of the parish, war veterans and so forth. Meritorious causes, one and all. And his good works have not been limited to these shores. His patronage has also extended beyond our nation’s boundaries.”

Hawkwood’s attempt to appear interested was only marginally successful.

“Émigrés, Hawkwood. One of his most ardent suitors is the Comte d’Artois.”

Hawkwood knew all about the Comte d’Artois, brother to Louis XVIII. In the early months of the Terror, the Comte had fled to England to escape the guillotine and set himself up as leader of the French in exile. Determined to see the monarchy restored, d’Artois and his compatriots, using funds donated by British sympathizers, had been running military training camps at Romsey, on the south coast, in preparation for the eventual overthrow of Emperor Bonaparte.

“I’m told it’s Lord Mandrake’s desire that tonight’s ball will help forge even stronger links between Britain and the legitimate Bourbon government. It’s expected that several of the Comte’s inner circle will be attending the festivities. Hence the request for a French speaker. I need not remind you,” Read continued sternly, “that you are expected to conduct yourself in a manner befitting an officer of the law.”

The Chief Magistrate scribbled on a card. “Here’s the address. You are to present yourself without delay.”

Mandrake House was situated on the corner of St James’s Place and, although the long shadows of evening were still some way off, the mansion was already lit as brightly as a chandelier. Hawkwood, having presented his credentials to Lord Mandrake’s secretary, was watching the scurry of the servants with some amusement. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the first guests began to arrive. The string of carriages would probably stretch around the corner to Pall Mall and beyond. It was imperative, therefore, that Mandrake House was at its most resplendent. So the mirrored walls gleamed, the lights twinkled like stars in the firmament, the gold and silver columns glowed, and the servants ran hither and thither like frightened mice in a granary.

The secretary returned. “His lordship will receive you in the library.”

Hawkwood had never met Lord Mandrake, but of the two men who were present in the comfortable book-lined room, it was not difficult to pick out his employer for the evening. Tall and rotund, with a hooked nose and red-veined cheeks, Lord Mandrake exuded authority and bonhomie in equal measure. He greeted Hawkwood with bluff cordiality.

“Ah, you’ll be Read’s man. Hawkwood, isn’t it?”

Hawkwood confirmed his identity and looked beyond Lord Mandrake’s shoulder towards the room’s other occupant, a thickset man with short, gunmetal grey hair, handsomely attired in formal evening wear, standing by the fireplace, leafing idly, with the help of a conveniently placed candelabra, through the pages of a small leather-bound volume of de Montaigne’s essays. The choice of reading matter suggested to Hawkwood that this was probably one of his lordship’s Bourbon associates.

“Excellent!” Mandrake said. “Now, Magistrate Read’s explained what’s required of you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Splendid, splendid! I must say, Hawkwood, my friend Belvedere was fulsome in his praise. Tells me you’re a damned fine officer. Most reassuring. Not that we’re expecting a similar occurrence, of course.” Lord Mandrake chuckled before turning to indicate the man by the fireplace, still engrossed in his book. “Oh, by the by, this gentleman is a house guest of mine; the Comte de Rochefort. The Comte’s newly arrived from the Continent. Indeed, we’re most fortunate in having several of his countrymen and their ladies here with us this evening.” Lord Mandrake drew close and spoke in a quiet aside. “I’m afraid the Comte’s command of English is lamentably poor, though he assures me he understands it better than he speaks.” Lord Mandrake raised his eyebrows questioningly. “You speak French, I believe?”

Again Hawkwood replied in the affirmative.

“Capital!” Lord Mandrake beamed with pleasure. He turned to the man by the fire and spoke in French. His accent was execrable. “Our man here’s a special constable, come to make sure no one runs off with the knives and spoons, ha! ha! ha!”

Hawkwood glanced towards the Frenchman. While Lord Mandrake chortled loudly at his own wit, the Comte, sensing he was being addressed, looked up from his book. A pair of pale blue eyes passed over Hawkwood with what looked to be complete indifference, before resuming their study of the printed page.

“So, Officer Hawkwood,” Lord Mandrake spoke jovially, “any questions? No? Excellent.” Lord Mandrake smiled and indicated his aide who was waiting patiently, framed in the open doorway. “My secretary, Carrington, will see to all your requirements. Anything you need, he will arrange it.”

And Hawkwood found himself dismissed. It had been smoothly done.

Lord Mandrake watched Hawkwood’s departure with a cool eye before turning to his guest. As the door closed, he addressed the Comte in English. “Well now, there’s an interesting fellow.”

The Comte closed the book, placed it on top of the mantelpiece, and replied fluently in the same language. “He certainly looks capable enough.”

His lordship smiled. “Oh, I’d say he’s a deal more than capable. I’m reliably informed he’s Read’s best man. I’m also told our Captain Hawkwood’s a former army officer – the Rifle Corps, no less – with a very impressive record. Brave, intelligent and resourceful.”

“A formidable combination,” the Comte mused.

“Indeed.” Lord Mandrake nodded. He gazed thoughtfully at his guest for several seconds, as if expecting the other to speak, but the Comte had taken up the book of essays once more. Caught at a loss by the Comte’s marked lack of response, Lord Mandrake fumbled for his pocket watch and feigned surprise at the time on the dial. “Bless my soul, is that the hour? Here we are, engaging in idle chatter, when I have urgent duties to attend.” Lord Mandrake closed the watch lid with a sharp snap. “You’ll forgive me, my friend, if I leave you for a time, but I fear there are retainers to harry and guests to welcome. I’m sure you understand.”

The Comte de Rochefort waited until Mandrake had departed the room before laying his book down once more. Reaching inside his coat, the Comte removed a thin Moroccan leather case. He took a cheroot from the case and placed it between his lips, then returned the case to his coat pocket. Lighting the cheroot from one of the nearby candles, the Comte inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He picked a shred of tobacco leaf from his lip and stared into the candle flame. Then, taking the book of essays, he moved to a nearby chair, lowered himself into the soft leather, took a second draw on his cheroot and began to read.

Hawkwood, dressed in black, felt as conspicuous as a crow in a flock of parakeets. The ball was in full spate, with every room in the Mandrake mansion a vibrant swirl of light and colour.

The women’s dresses caught the eye at every turn. The current fashion for a high waist and low bodice tended to suit the more slender form and for those ladies who were blessed with attractive figures, the effect was exquisite. Several of the women, confident in their looks and with only a passing attempt at modesty, had elected to wear creations of such finely woven material they were almost transparent. Even though he was forced to admire them from the sidelines, Hawkwood thought it small wonder the men were perspiring like dray horses. The underlying odour of sweat mingled uneasily with the sweeter scents of perfume and eau de cologne.

A jewel thief, Hawkwood reflected, might well have thought he’d died and entered paradise. Diamonds, pearls, rubies and sapphires sparkled in the bright candlelight, their brilliance reflected back a thousand-fold in the huge chandeliers.

The male guests were as glitteringly attired as the women. A substantial number wore uniform, bedecked with all manner of sashes, ribbons, medals and stars. By his own reckoning, Hawkwood estimated that upwards of two score regiments and a scattering of naval personnel were represented. Between them, there was enough gaudy plumage to stock an aviary.

Even the servants were not to be outshone. The liveried, bewigged footmen, who at first glance appeared to outnumber the guests by at least five to one, were adorned with so much gold braid they could well have been mistaken for generals. And generals there were aplenty; along with admirals and luminaries from every tier of nobility.

From his discreet observations, Hawkwood could see that the ball was a great success. It was hard to believe that, less than a mile away, in the pitch-black, rat-infested city slums, entire families were dying of disease and starvation. As to the war with France, despite the presence of so many military personnel, it might just as well have been raging on the moon for all the relevance it appeared to have to the immediate festivities.

While Lord Mandrake’s guests disported themselves beneath the bright lights and dined at tables groaning under the weight of enough sumptuous food to feed a small army, British soldiers were dying in Spain. It wasn’t the wealth of the rich that Hawkwood detested. It was their indifference.

By the late evening, with most of the guests wined and dined to repletion, the atmosphere had relaxed considerably. In the library, declared a masculine domain for the duration, several games of hazard were in progress. Cigar fumes roiled like cannon smoke, while in the drawing rooms the women had gathered in discreet groups to discuss the eligibility of the younger and more handsome male guests. The strains of a minuet drifted from the ballroom, where the more energetic guests continued to take their turn across the dance floor.

Hawkwood, fortified by a plate of cold roast beef and a glass of claret, courtesy of Lord Mandrake’s well-stocked cellar and an over-friendly and well-endowed kitchen maid, made his way along one of the many long corridors in search of trespassers.

He was turning into one hallway when a young couple suddenly appeared around a corner, hand in hand, giggling in unison, faces flushed with excitement. The man paid Hawkwood no heed but the girl caught the Runner’s gaze as she skipped by. She was very pretty, the white feather in her hair bobbing as she ran. It was possible they had taken a wrong turn, but more than likely they were looking for a discreet alcove where they could enjoy each other’s company, away from the prying eyes of the girl’s chaperone. There had been a precocious glint in the girl’s eye that made Hawkwood suspect this was probably not the first time the young lady had managed to slip the leash. Hawkwood grinned inwardly at the thought and left them to their clandestine rendezvous, envying their youth and audacity.

Several women had attracted Hawkwood’s attention during his patrols. Some of them, although only glimpsing him in passing, had been astonishingly forward in their appraisal, raising their fans on the occasions he caught their admiring glances, often just slowly enough for him to read the invitation in their eyes and on their lips before anonymity was re-established. Given the quality of the barely concealed charms on display, it was difficult to remain immune. But the job, Hawkwood reminded himself, always came first. Well, nearly always.

Twice during the evening he had spotted the Comte de Rochefort. The first time, the Comte had been on the other side of the room, Hawkwood having espied him through a gap in the crowd, talking to a portly individual dressed in a general’s uniform. The second time, he had found himself staring into de Rochefort’s calm blue eyes, an experience which he had found faintly disturbing. He didn’t know why. The Comte had not openly acknowledged Hawkwood’s glance but had held the look for a few seconds before turning his attention to another point in the room. It had been as unsettling as it had been curious.

It was warm inside the house, oppressively so, and the narrow servants’ corridors added to the feeling of claustrophobia. In search of a clear head, Hawkwood made his way down a passage towards the rear of the house and let himself on to the first-floor terrace.

The terrace overlooked Green Park. An ivy-covered wall separated the house and gardens from the wide green expanse, but so cleverly was it concealed by trees and shrubbery, it looked as if the grounds extended far beyond their true borders, thus giving the property the feel and appearance of a vast country estate.

The Mandrake family had always been able to afford the best, be it architecture or landscaping, and a great deal of thought had been employed in the layout of the gardens. Thus there was much to please the eye. There were lawns, flower beds, rose-covered terraces, all linked and bisected by gravel pathways bordered by high hedges. Hidden behind the hedges were secluded groves and leafy arbours. There were several fountains and in one corner of the garden there was even a small, intricately patterned maze.

Anticipating that many of his guests would at some point feel the desire to take the evening air, Lord Mandrake had arranged for the grounds to be illuminated by braziers lining the main pathways. In addition, gaily coloured Chinese lanterns hung from the branches of the trees.

Making his way down the steps from the terrace and along the side of the house, Hawkwood checked the time. It was just past midnight. So far, the assignment had proved singularly undemanding, and for that Hawkwood was exceedingly grateful. The past few days had not been without incident and he was looking forward to the comfort of his own bed. He recalled the laughing eyes of the girl in the corridor and smiled to himself.

It was the sound of hurrying footsteps that broke the spell. By the light of a brazier, Hawkwood saw that it was one of the footmen, not quite running, but clearly agitated nonetheless. Seeing Hawkwood, the footman checked suddenly. “Officer Hawkwood?” The footman’s hands fluttered as he spoke. “I fear there’s trouble brewing. Some of Lord Mandrake’s young gentlemen friends …” An expression of anguish moved across the footman’s face. “They’ve been drinking. There’s a young lady … Please, come quickly …”

Hawkwood groaned inwardly. This was all he needed. “All right. Where are they?”

The footman looked behind him and pointed a wavering finger. “By the pavilion. I’m fearful for the lady’s honour … I …”

Hawkwood sighed. “Show me.”

They had not gone fifty paces when a movement among the trees to his right caught his eye; a dark, indistinct shadow which hovered briefly at the edge of his field of vision and then was gone. He paused, uncertain. Had he imagined it? Perhaps it had been nothing more than his eyes playing tricks. The night suddenly seemed unnaturally quiet. He took a step forward when a sixth sense made him turn. The footman had gone. Hawkwood looked around. He was alone.

The snap of a twig breaking underfoot made Hawkwood spin. There! Someone moving away behind a bank of tangled foliage. Man or woman, there wasn’t enough light beneath the trees to tell the difference. Perhaps it was the footman. He was on the point of calling out when he heard a snort of laughter and what sounded like a cry of distress. He moved forward quickly.

A slatted trellis rose before him, some ten feet high and woven with honeysuckle. The scent of blossom hung heavy in the night air. Through gaps in the trellis he could make out what appeared to be a grassy clearing and the outline of a small wooden structure, painted white.

Rounding the trellis, the summer house came into view; octagonal in design with a gently sloping roof, ringed by a veranda. Several lanterns hung from hooks under the eaves. Hawkwood’s appreciation of the architecture was fleeting. Hardly had he taken in the scene when he became aware of a slim figure flying out of the shadows towards him. He had a brief impression of a pair of dark eyes set in an oval face below a crown of raven hair, but by then it was too late. Even as he put out his arms to protect himself, the woman was upon him.

It occurred to Hawkwood that the last woman to have clasped him to her bosom had been the Widow Gant, a far from pleasant experience. The old harpy’s foul breath still lingered in his memory. In contrast, the shapely form now struggling in his grip was as far removed from the Widow Gant as was humanly possible, a fact made obvious in the seconds before he relinquished his hold and regained his balance. As he did so he saw the reason for her fear.

He knew their type. He could tell simply by looking at them. Sons of the aristocracy; young, handsome, expensively dressed in their silk knee-breeches and buckled shoes. He had met their kind in the army. The officer corps was rife with them: vain, arrogant young men, commissions secured by virtue of the family name and the depth of their father’s purse. They treated the army as a game and the lower ranks with contempt, convinced that advancement was a right rather then a privilege, and secure in the erroneous belief that the world owed them a living. In civilian life, they were no different.

Of the three, it was clear that the one on the right had been drinking. Even if the bottle hadn’t been dangling from one hand, the lack of focus in the young man’s eyes told its own story, as did the bleary grin on his face. His companions did not appear quite so tipsy, though from their demeanour Hawkwood had no doubt that they, too, had been enjoying Lord Mandrake’s generous hospitality.

It was the one holding the bottle who broke the silence.

“I say, Ruthers, old man, looks like we’ve got company! A bloody servant, no less! Come for a peek, have you? Go on, bugger off! Or else you’ll get my boot up your arse!” A shock of wavy hair fell over his eyes as he swayed forward, flagon raised.

Hawkwood said nothing, nor did he retreat. He was aware that the woman had moved to his side. Her gloved fingers grabbed his arm, as if seeking tactile confirmation that protection was at hand. Hawkwood found himself wondering why she was without an escort. He recalled the figure he thought he’d seen among the trees. Perhaps whoever it was had been frightened off or had gone to summon help. If that was the case, Hawkwood wondered what sort of man would leave a woman to the tender mercies of three drunken revellers.

“Don’t think the fellow heard you, Giles!” the one on the left drawled. “Obviously deaf as well as stupid!” The speaker, chubby-faced and porcine in stature, cupped his hands around his mouth. “Didn’t you hear, my friend? He told you to bugger off!” He laughed and looked to his companions for their approval.

Hawkwood ignored him and turned to the woman. “Are you hurt?”

Silently, she shook her head. She was quite beautiful, Hawkwood saw, with the most expressive dark eyes he had ever seen. A strand of pearls had been woven into her hair. They shimmered in the lantern glow. Her breasts rose and fell under the thin muslin of her gown. Reluctantly, Hawkwood dragged his gaze away.

An inner voice told him that the middle one of the three was the ringleader. He was in his early twenties, with sharp features and a thin, petulant mouth: a young man used to getting his own way. He stared back at Hawkwood, his expression one of acute irritation.

“Well?”

Hawkwood regarded the speaker levelly. “Well, what? Clearly the lady’s grown tired of your company. I suggest you and your friends seek your entertainment elsewhere.”

The air seemed suddenly still. From the direction of the mansion, muted by the barrier of trees, the sound of music and merriment could be faintly heard. Distant lights glimmered.

The young man’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one who was hard of hearing,” Hawkwood said.

The speaker raised an imperious eyebrow. “Do you know who I am?”

“No, and I can’t say it interests me much, either,” Hawkwood said.

The young man gasped, but to Hawkwood’s surprise the man on the right, who appeared to have sobered slightly, laughed. “By God, Ruthers, I wonder where Mandrake found this one. He’s a surly brute and no mistake.” Still grinning, he said, “Perhaps we should enlighten him. Allow me to make the introductions. This, my impertinent friend, is John Rutherford, son of Sir Pierce Rutherford. The stout gentleman is James Neville. And I, for my sins, am Giles Campbell. My father is Sir Greville Campbell. And you are …?”

“Someone who deserves a lesson in manners,” Rutherford said archly. “And I’ve a mind to teach him myself.”

Hawkwood sighed. “That would be a mistake.”

Three heads lifted in unison.

“A mistake! D’you hear that, Ruthers?” Neville cried. “A mistake indeed! By God, you’ve got to hand it to the fellow. He’s a game one! What say you?”

“I say he’s an upstart who’s about to feel the back of my hand,” Rutherford snapped. “I’m damned if I’ll be dictated to by a bloody servant!”

“Quite right, too!” Neville agreed solemnly. “Don’t know what the world’s coming to!”

“You’d best be on your way, friend,” Campbell advised good-naturedly, his words only slightly slurred. “Back to the kitchen while you have the chance!”

His friend Neville grinned. “That’s right, run along now. Only leave the doxy, there’s a good fellow. Haven’t quite finished makin’ her acquaintance.”

Hawkwood felt the woman stiffen. He looked at Neville. “I’d say you owed the lady an apology. And, for your information, you drunken sod, I’m no bloody servant!”

It was probably the look in Hawkwood’s eyes as much as the words and tone of voice that stopped Neville in his tracks, warning him that he might indeed have made a grave error. His gaze moved slowly over Hawkwood and for the first time an expression of doubt flickered across his fleshy face.

Hawkwood watched Rutherford. He could see the youth’s brain working as he considered the implications. If this man who had interrupted their evening’s pleasure was not a servant, that made it likely he was a fellow guest. And yet one whose style of dress seemed oddly sober. Hawkwood could tell that Rutherford was intrigued by the possibilities.

“So, sir, who are you?” Campbell demanded. “Come on, out with it!”

“My name’s Hawkwood.”

“Well, Mr Hawkwood, if anyone deserves an apology, I’d say it was my friend Neville here. Rutherford, too, for that matter, seein’ as it was he she was fixing with the glad eye, leading him on. Ain’t that so, Ruthers? Why, she’s no more than a calculating bit of skirt. It’s a sorry world if a fellow can’t so much as smile at a filly without her branding him a damned libertine! Apologize, indeed! The very thought! Go on, Ruthers, tell him!”

“Quite true,” Rutherford said with disdain. “She’s naught but a tease, plain and simple.”

“Ce n’est pas vrai!”

The woman’s eyes blazed. Hawkwood could feel the heat of her anger.

A flush spread across Rutherford’s pale, haughty face. His jaw tightened. It was obvious he had understood what the woman had said; if not the words themselves perhaps, then certainly their meaning. Through compressed lips, he said, “The bitch called me a liar. You’d take her word against mine?”

Hawkwood returned Rutherford’s direct gaze. “With the greatest of pleasure.”

The insult stopped Rutherford in his tracks. Campbell sucked in his cheeks. Neville just looked confused.

“Why, you insolent –” Rutherford, strumming with rage, took a pace forward, fists clenched.

“Don’t be a fool, boy,” Hawkwood said. “Give it up. Walk away.”

It was the final straw. Rutherford’s face contorted, but even as he swung his arm, Hawkwood was ready. He assumed that Rutherford had intended it to be a slap across the face. The blow, however, never landed. Instead Rutherford found his right wrist held in a grip of iron.

“I warned you, boy,” Hawkwood said. Contemptuously, he released Rutherford’s arm. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Rutherford, white with anger, rubbed the circulation back into his wrist. “How dare you! By God, I’ll not be manhandled or spoken to like this.” Rutherford’s voice rose. “I demand satisfaction!”

Hawkwood blinked. “What? Are you mad? You’re calling me out? I’m an officer of the law, for Christ’s sake! Here to guard the crowns and cutlery! And you’re challenging me to a duel. Do you want me to arrest you?”

A nerve pulsed along the side of Rutherford’s forehead. “Arrest me? My father buys and sells scum like you! And constable or chief justice, I’ll not have you slandering me in front of my friends. I demand an apology! Or else name your second and by God I’ll teach you to guard your tongue!”

This was lunacy. Hawkwood couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was aware that the woman was looking at him. He tried to interpret the expression on her face. Bewilderment? Apprehension? Or something else? He couldn’t tell. Her outburst had identified her as French though evidently she understood English and had had no trouble following the exchange. Was she now expecting him to withdraw his remarks and run away, tail between his legs?

It was Neville who attempted to restore a sense of order by laughing nervously. “Good lord, Ruthers, you can’t call him out! Why the fellow ain’t even a gentleman!”

At which Campbell nodded vigorously. “He’s right, old man. Wouldn’t do at all.”

For a moment it appeared as if their words might be having a calming effect. One look at Rutherford’s face, however, and the still clenched fists, told Hawkwood that the youth was strung as tight as a bow string.

Then, as he watched, Rutherford’s expression changed. As quickly as it had appeared, the fire in Rutherford’s eyes flickered and died, to be replaced by a cold and calculating gleam.

“Why, I do believe he’s afraid. That’s it! D’you see, Campbell? Neville? Go on, tell me if the fellow ain’t scared witless!”

It was then that Hawkwood felt it; a swift and savage loathing and a desperate urge to wipe the supercilious smile from Rutherford’s face.

“Well?” Rutherford smirked. “Hawkwood, did you say? What’s it to be? Speak up! Are you man enough to face me, or are you going to hide behind your warrant and slink away to your sewer like the gutter rat you are?”

It had gone deathly quiet, as if time was standing still and nothing around them existed; not the gardens, the summer house, the distant music, the scent of the flowers, not even the woman. It was just the two of them, face to face.

From a great distance Hawkwood heard himself say, “I have no second.”

The smile on Rutherford’s face was that of a spider enticing a fly into its silken web. He bowed in mock deference. “In that case, may I offer you the services of my companion here? Neville, my dear fellow, perhaps you’d consider acting for our chivalrous friend?”

Neville, clearly stunned by the escalation of events, blinked dazedly. But before he could respond, a voice behind Hawkwood broke the tension.

“That will not be necessary. I’ll gladly act as his second, if he so wishes.”

Everyone turned. Emerging from under the trees was a stoutly built, ruddy-faced individual in full dress army uniform. Peering out from behind the officer’s back was the missing footman. Something about the newcomer struck Hawkwood as immediately familiar. The officer took a step closer and in the lantern light his face became clear. Hawkwood found himself staring into the stern features of Major Lawrence of His Majesty’s 40th Regiment of Foot.

Lawrence ignored Hawkwood’s astonishment, his gaze moving over the small gathering, settling briefly on Rutherford, and continuing on to the woman, whereupon he bowed formally. “Major Douglas Lawrence at your service, ma’am. You’re safe, I trust? The servant here advised me of your predicament.”

The woman inclined her head. “Quite safe, Major. Thank you.” The words, spoken in English, carried a soft yet distinct accent. “Perhaps I should not have ventured out alone, but it did not occur to me that I might be in need of protection. Had this gallant gentleman not come to my assistance, I fear …” The woman’s voice faltered and her hand went to her throat.

Hawkwood recalled the shadowy figure he thought he’d seen beneath the trees. Yet the woman said she had been alone. It must have been his imagination, after all.

Lawrence, apparently oblivious to Hawkwood’s stare, was sympathy personified. “Quite so. Most fortunate.” The major nodded towards the footman. “However, may I now suggest you allow our man here to accompany you back to the house. My friend and I have private business to discuss with these … er … gentlemen.”

The woman nodded. She looked directly at Hawkwood. “I’m in your debt, monsieur.”

Hawkwood was struck by the depth of colour in her eyes. The irises were very dark. Touched by the lantern glow they seemed to burn with a feline intensity. Her full lips parted slightly as if she was about to speak further then, without a word, she turned and was gone, the footman in her wake. Hawkwood was left with a curious sense of loss, the hint of a message left unspoken, and the realization that he didn’t even know her name.

Lawrence watched her depart. “Exquisite,” he murmured. “Quite exquisite.” He waited until she had disappeared behind the trees. Abruptly his mood changed. He turned to Rutherford. “You’ll allow us a moment?” Without waiting for a reply, the major took Hawkwood’s elbow and led him aside.

“Well now, Captain, I’ll confess I’d not expected our paths to cross quite so soon.” Lawrence’s eyes bored into Hawkwood’s own. In a low voice he said, “Oh yes, Captain Hawkwood, I know who you are. I knew you when we met at the Blind Fiddler. Truth is, I saw you earlier this evening, but after our last meeting I was hesitant about making myself known.” Lawrence’s grip tightened. “Tell me you don’t really intend to go through with this?”

“The die’s been cast, Major, though I appreciate your concern.”

“But this is madness!”

“Quite possibly,” Hawkwood admitted.

“Good God, man, you don’t have to fight him. Arrest him, for Christ’s sake!”

Hawkwood sighed. “Major, he has two witnesses who’ll vouch for the fact that he helps old ladies across the street and gives alms to the poor. My threat to arrest him was an attempt to dissuade. There’s little chance I could make the charge stick.”

“But the risk! Have you forgotten the last time? And you’re a police officer! You’d forfeit another career? What if he bests you? What then?”

Hawkwood smiled thinly. “In that case, it won’t matter a damn, will it?”

Lawrence emitted a groan of despair.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, Major,” Hawkwood said.

But Lawrence shook his head. “No, I’ve said I’d stand with you and I’ll not go back on my word.” An unexpected wry grin transformed the major’s face. “Fact is, I should probably thank you for enlivening an exceedingly dull evening. I’m a soldier, damn it. I’ve no time for these affairs. What do these fops know of campaigning? Closest most of ‘em have ever come to a battle is attending one of those bloody pageants at Astley’s. Frankly, I’m sick of the lot of them. Now that we’ve got Boney on the run, I can’t wait to get back to my regiment. I leave for Spain in two days and, between you and me, it won’t be a moment too soon.” Lawrence looked suddenly contrite. “Forgive me. Didn’t mean to stir up memories. My apologies.”

“Forget it, Major. It was a long time ago.”

Lawrence acknowledged the gesture. “Aye, well, I meant it all the same. But look here, let me speak with our hot-headed friend over yonder, see if I can’t persuade him to withdraw. You’ll not begrudge me that?”

Hawkwood looked on as Lawrence walked over to the three men. It was Campbell to whom Lawrence spoke. Hawkwood couldn’t hear what was being said, but there was no hiding the surprise that blossomed on Campbell’s face as he listened to the major. He watched as Campbell left Lawrence and hurried to confer with his principal. Suddenly, Campbell didn’t look so tipsy.

Campbell and Rutherford exchanged words, Campbell looking agitated. Rutherford’s head came up sharply and he stared at Hawkwood. Something moved in his eyes. Unease? Doubt? Campbell took hold of his friend’s sleeve. Rutherford came out of his trance, jerked free and shook his head violently. It was an unhappy Campbell who walked back to Lawrence. The major listened as Campbell relayed Rutherford’s response and gave what looked like a resigned shrug. In a gesture that told Campbell to wait, Lawrence came plodding back. His anger was apparent.

“The fool! The arrogant bloody fool!”

Hawkwood waited.

“I thought if I told them you weren’t without experience in these affairs, they might reconsider. I was mistaken.”

“You tried, Major. Can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Either too proud or too stupid to back down, the idiot! I’d hoped Campbell might persuade him to see sense but I fear my attempt to procure a peaceful resolution has fallen on deaf ears. The man will not listen to reason.”

“You really didn’t expect otherwise, did you?” Hawkwood said.

Lawrence shrugged. “Maybe I was being a trifle optimistic. Still, if that’s his game, so be it. The boy’s made his choice, ‘tis he who must live with it.” The major drew himself up. “Now, seeing as I can’t dissuade either of you from continuing with this reckless adventure, there’s the matter of venue and weapons to arrange.” Lawrence fixed Hawkwood with a penetrating eye. “You were the one challenged, so the choice is yours. What should I tell them?”

And Hawkwood smiled.