by James McGee
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 a
ppear 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.�
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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.”