So, where is this correspondent of yours? Thats another thing youve neglected to tell me.
Brooke followed his gaze. Is it? That was remiss of me. Hes here Brooke reached out and stabbed the map with his finger.
And waited.
Well, theres a coincidence, Hawkwood said softly. Ive always wanted to see Paris.
Chapter 4
Well, you were right, Brooke said, raising the coffee cup to his lips. Hes certainly a recalcitrant devil.
Thats been said before, James Read responded wryly. Brooke took a drink and set his cup down.
He achieves results, Read said. He took a slow sip from his own cup. Thats the main thing.
Set a fox to catch a rat, eh?
Indeed.
The two men were seated at a table in the first-floor coffee room in Whites. They were by the end front window, through which they had an uninterrupted view over the narrow balcony down on to the northern end of St Jamess Street. There were other club members around them but the tables on either side were unoccupied so both men were able to converse freely without the likelihood of being overheard.
Yknow it was Sidmouth who first brought me here, Brooke murmured absently as he gazed down the long room. Just as well hes a Tory. If hed been a Whig Id have ended up in that other place, which would have been rather amusing. Mind you, it would probably have guaranteed a decent table for supper.Read acknowledged the remark with a polite smile. He didnt have to look to know that the building being referred to sat almost diagonally across from them on the opposite side of the street. The premises housed a similar retreat called Brookss.
James Read was a private man and not, as a rule, a patron of gentlemens establishments. He found them somewhat claustro -phobic, though he acknowledged that they did provide a convenient forum in which to conduct business, especially business of a clandestine nature. The staff was uniformly efficient and discreet which, given both Brookes and Reads professions, was a decided advantage and, despite his cynicism, the dining room could usually be called upon to produce an acceptable bottle of claret and a competent lamb chop at relatively short notice.
An interesting fellow, though, Brooke said, still musing. Whats his full story? What was he doing before he took the kings shilling? Do you know?
Im not sure Id consider that relevant, Read said.
But . . .? Brooke pressed.
You know, I was thinking that I may well stay on for luncheon, James Read said, looking off towards the door to the dining room. I hear the new chef serves a rather fine truffle sauce with the turbot. He dabbed a napkin along his lips.
The superintendent, who was well aware of Reads antipathy towards the surroundings, sighed. All right, point taken.
Brooke studied Read over the rim of his cup. You knew hed accept, though, didnt you?
He responds to a challenge, Read said. Its what drives him.
Theres no family, I take it?
Read shook his head. No.
Mmm, probably just as well, in the circumstances. Not many friends either, I suspect.
Theyre few in number, but impressively loyal.
And demons? Id hazard a guess he has his fair share.
Show me a man with twenty years of soldiering who hasnt, Read said.
And Ill wager those scars could tell a few stories, Brooke said.
Read, refusing to rise to the bait, made no reply.
Brooke smiled, finally accepting defeat.
Both men took another sip of coffee.
How much did you tell him? Read asked.
What we agreed. That wed provide him with all document ation and a meeting point. After that he . . . they . . . are on their own.
Can I assume you did not reveal the correspondents identity?
You can. That omission was covered by the need for secrecy. Read reached for the coffee pot, drew it towards him and proceeded to refill his cup.
You look . . . worried, Brooke said.
Read put the pot down. Merely pondering upon their chances of success.
It sounds as if youve a soft spot for the fellow.
Hes a good officer. Hes my officer. I dont relish placing any of my men in harms way if I can help it.
Well, hes mine now, or at least for the duration. And the opportunitys too good to pass up. Wed be fools if we didnt try to take advantage.
Read tried to quell the feeling of disquiet prompted by Brookes crass proprietorial comment. I believe thats what was said the last time this was attempted.
Ah, but the bugger was in Spain, remember. This time, hes in Russia; not so close to home. Its an entirely different kettle of fish.
Then let us hope it is to our advantage, Read said. Have you informed the Prime Minister, by the way?
Brooke shook his head and used his fingertips to smooth a non-existent bump in the table cloth. Not as yet.
Is it your intention to do so?
Im of a mind to keep it between ourselves for the time being, Brooke said. Given that were still in the preparatory stages. He favoured Read with an oblique glance. Unless you have any objections?
Read shook his head. Whatever you think is appropriate.
I think its for the best, Brooke said. Besides, theres no requirement for him to be privy to everything we do.
And our émigré friends? Read asked.
Brooke shook his head again.
Not even the Comité? Their collaborations proved of great benefit to us in the past.
Indeed it has, and my department is exceedingly grateful, but you cant be too careful. We live in dangerous times. We must exercise caution, even where our so-called allies are concerned.
Composed of émigrés drawn from the ranks of former government ministers, senior clergymen and a coterie of aristocrats all loyal to the French crown, the Comité Français was effectively the royalist government-in-exile. Its goal was the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.
Besides, theyve been rather peppery of late, Brooke added.
Brooke was referring to the rift between the heirs to the French throne: the Comte dArtois and his brother Louis Stanislas. Having fled France in the wake of the Revolution, both were now resident in England. Although Louis was the next in line following the execution of his brother and the death of his nephew while detained in the Temple prison, it was the Comte dArtois to whom the majority of the émigrés looked for guidance, a state of affairs that had led to deep mistrust between the two siblings.
Youd have thought sharing a common foe would have put paid to the damned bickering, Brooke said. It makes you wonder why we continue to support them. Its costing us a fortune. Itll only take one slip for Parliament to get wind of our special donations and theyll be at our throats. Theyve been looking for excuses to reduce our funding. If that happens, were all out of a damned job.
In that case, we must pray that Hawkwood and . . . Read paused . . . your correspondent . . . are successful in their endeavours.
In that case, we must pray that Hawkwood and . . . Read paused . . . your correspondent . . . are successful in their endeavours.
Indeed, Brooke said. He smiled silkily and raised his cup. Heres to good fortune.
When does he embark? Read asked.
Tonight, Brooke said. A private coach is transporting him to Dover. Theres a vessel waiting. If the weathers kind to us, hell sail on the evening tide.
Then we should pray for calm seas, as well, Read said. Brooke kept his cup raised.
Amen to that, he said.
Maddie Teague watched silently from the open doorway as Hawkwood rolled the spare shirts and breeches he had removed from his army chest and laid them on the bed next to a battered valise. The lid of the chest remained propped open. Inside it, a curved sabre lay sheathed atop a dark green tunic. Even though it was folded, it was obvious that the uniform jacket had survived many campaigns and had been repaired innumerable times. Next to the tunic was a pair of grey cavalry breeches and a waist sash the colour of dried ox blood. Below the tunic and breeches lay an officers greatcoat and under that, partly hidden, was a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. One end of the oilcloth had worked loose, revealing the polished walnut butt and brass patch-box cover of an army rifle.
Matthew? Maddie said softly.
Hawkwood turned.
Maddie lifted her gaze from the contents of the chest. Her eyes held his. Should I keep the room?
Hawkwood found himself transfixed by her look.
It was a jest, she said, though her emerald eyes did not hold much humour.
Maddie was tall and slender. Her auburn hair, pale colouring and high cheekbones hinted at her Celtic roots, while her strength of character could usually be measured by the depth and force of her gaze. On this occasion, however, there was only concern on her face.
She continued to stare at him. What are you thinking?
Hawkwood shook his head. Nothing.
Maddie stepped forward and placed her right hand on his chest. Youre a poor liar, Matthew Hawkwood.
Hawkwood smiled. I was thinking yes, you should definitely keep the room for me.
Her face softened. She tapped his waistcoat with her closed fist.
Its my job, Maddie. Its what I do, Hawkwood said.
I know.
She rested her palm against his cheek. Her hand was cool to the touch.
He thought back to the first time theyd met. It was not long after his return to England from Spain. Hed been in search of a roof over his head and Maddie was the landlady of the Blackbird Inn, with two empty rooms in need of an occupant. The financial arrangement had suited both of them; Maddie in particular. Her husband had been a sea captain and hed bought the inn to provide an additional source of revenue when he retired. But Captain Teague had perished when his ship had fallen prey to the storm tossed waters of the Andaman Sea, leaving his widow with a string of unpaid bills and a lengthening queue of creditors. Hawkwoods timely arrival had kept the wolves from the door and given Maddie the time shed needed to turn the Blackbird from a debt-ridden back-alley hostelry into the respectable establishment it had become.
It had taken some months before their business partnership developed into something more; for the trust between landlady and lodger to grow into a bond of friendship, and it had still been a good while after that when Maddie Teague had first visited Hawkwoods bed. Neither of them had ventured to translate feelings into words and yet it had become clear over time that what existed between them had long since transcended the need for mere physical gratification. There had been dalliances along the way, on both sides, and yet the affection and the closeness had endured.
If you dont hear from me and you need help, go to Nathaniel, Hawkwood said. You know how to get a message to him?
She removed her hand and nodded. Yes.
There was a silence, mirrored by the look in her eyes. How long should I wait for news?
Youll know, Hawkwood said.
She absorbed that. Does Nathaniel know where youre going?
Im not even sure I do, Hawkwood said.
She lifted her hand again and ran a fingertip along the line of his cheek, below his eye, tracing the scars. Your wounds have barely healed.
No rest for the wicked, Maddie, Hawkwood said. You should know that by now.
Her green eyes flashed. Thats what you said the last time. She stepped back and folded her arms about her, as if warding off a sudden chill. Just dont expect me to cry myself to sleep. Thats all.
Hawkwood had always suspected Maddie Teague was too strong a woman for that, though in truth her comment made him wonder; was she still jesting, or not?
Curious, Hawkwood said. Thats what I was going to say.
She gave a wan smile and waited as he placed the shirts and breeches in the valise. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned.
Take care, Matthew, she whispered.
He nodded. Always.
Maddie lowered her arms and smoothed down her dress. Ill have Hettie find something in the kitchen for your journey. We dont want you going hungry.
Perish the thought, Hawkwood said.
She frowned. Now youre making fun of me.
He shook his head. Id never do that.
She gazed at him intently and took a deep breath. Then, without speaking, she leaned forward and kissed him fiercely before turning on her heel and exiting the room.
Leaving Hawkwood to his packing, alone with his thoughts.
There was something eerily familiar about her lines, even by moonlight, and as he drew closer Hawkwood saw why. She was a cutter. The long horizontal bowsprit, the sharply tapering stern and the preposterous size of her rig in proportion to her length and beam were unmistakable. The last time hed boarded a similar vessel it had been at sea, in the company of Jago and the French privateer, Lasseur, and hed been fully armed with a pistol and a tomahawk and screaming like a banshee. This time, his arrival was a lot less frenetic.
The journey from London had taken four changes of horses and the best part of the day, so it was late evening when the coach finally made its bone-rattling descent into the town; by which time Hawkwoods throat was dry with dust, while his spine felt as if it had been dislocated by the constant jolting.
Even if it hadnt been for the silhouette of the castle ramparts high above him and the lights clustered at the foot of the dark chalk cliffs, it would have been possible to gauge his proximity to the port purely by the miasma of odours arising from it; the most prominent being smoke, cooking fires and sewage, the unavoidable detritus of closely packed human habitation.
Dover was home to both an ordnance depot and a victualling yard, and keeping the navy armed, watered and fed was clearly a twenty-four-hour operation, if the number of people on the streets both in uniform and civilian dress was any indication. The town looked to be wide awake. The public houses in particular, to judge by the knots of men and women weaving unsteadily between them, were still enjoying a brisk trade.
The coachman, clearly adhering to prior instruction, steered the vehicle away from the main part of the town and into a maze of unlit cobbled alleyways leading down towards the outer harbour. After numerous twists and turns, the coach finally drew to a halt and Hawkwood, easing cramped muscles, stepped out on to a darkened quay.