Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1)

by Benerson Little

  “My lord, you haven’t yet read the letters from Brennan and Allin.”

  “Lord Brennan and Sir James Allin,” Deigle corrected him severely. “Bunion, damn you! Bring me the letters from Brennan and Allin!”

  Deigle read both letters, then Brennan’s again, more slowly and carefully the second time. There was no hiding his disappointment. Edward, having read both letters, knew there was nothing of great import in either. Deigle reread the rapparee letters again and shook his head.

  “I still do not see it.”

  “Even so, my lord, what harm? You must admit the possibility. If the letters do speak of regicide, then the king will owe you much; and if they don’t, raising the alarm won’t harm you. If I may, my lord, it would appear from your reaction to Lord Brennan and Sir James’s letters that you have not received what you expected. If this indeed is the case, the rapparee letters may take their place. You might even send all of the letters together. If it turns out there is no great substance to them, the king would still owe you for looking after his person.”

  “The King would owe you as well. Is this what you’re after?”

  “I do seek a commission, my lord.”

  “If not by my influence, then by that of the King himself?”

  “I’ve brought the letters to your attention, my lord,” Edward said, thinking Damn the fool! Doesn’t he see what he holds in his hands?

  Deigle, his hands behind his back, walked back and forth for several minutes.

  Surely he’s not considering whether to send the letters to London, Edward thought, surely he’s only deciding how to present them and what gain he may have from them. Surely.

  “You should also know, my lord, that the men who attacked me were intent on stealing the letters I carried for you,” Edward pointed out. “And one of them, whom I wounded in the affray, was hanged, I think because he lost the letters you hold in your hand. They must be of great import.”

  Deigle snorted, opened the curtains in front of a window, and stared into the street below.

  “I will send you, Captain MacNaughton, with all of the letters,” he said ten minutes later. “I will also send a letter of introduction and other correspondence with you, which you may present to the Earl of Portland. It’s too late to depart today. Tomorrow morning then, and I’m sure you can afford the expenses of the journey. I recommend you purchase a horse and not rely on the post. I would offer you mine, but I have none here to spare.”

  Damn you! thought Edward, You won’t even pay for horses or lodging! Cheap, squinty-eyed bastard! Thankfully, we have Sir William’s goldsmith’s note for expenses.

  “Good,” continued Deigle, taking Edward’s glare as acceptance of his terms. “Bunion will have letters delivered to you at your lodging in the morning. God speed, Captain MacNaughton.”

  Handsome Harry turned on his heel and was gone, doubtless to find Lydia or some other woman. Edward shook his head.

  “Well, Jonathan, what now? Will you come with me to London?”

  “I can’t keep up with you on horseback, Edward, and anyway, I’ve business with Deigle’s secretary and lawyer in the morning.”

  “I’d forgotten already.”

  “Relax a little, Edward. Chasing this venture has lately made you ill-humored. Hell, man, take the waters, they might even help heal your wounds.”

  “You already know my theory on that subject. And anyway my wounds are fine, and I’m fine. Just get me away to sea!”

  “Well, it’s to London first for you. I say it’s cards tonight after you buy a horse or two, and with luck we’ll have Deigle entirely on our side by noon tomorrow, with written agreements to back us up. Until then, forget about whatever’s on your mind. I’m going to find a tavern, probably the one nearest our lodging.”

  “I’ll meet you there after I tend to the horses I need,” Edward said, suddenly feeling both lonely and a bit melancholy. His mind passed to Molly and Jane, probably the result of seeing Lydia and knowing Deigle would have her tonight. He noticed a maid selling oranges in the distance, a woman who had briefly flirted with him earlier and whose conversation had been surprisingly invigorating.

  Jonathan, noticing Edward regarding the woman, retorted, “You won’t meet me there, damn you, but I’ll wait up for a few hours anyway. Let Deigle have that Upcott woman. You’re moping like a dog who’s lost a bone he never chews. She’s poison, Edward, she’s not the sort of adventure you need right now—she’s luring you in by keeping her distance. Find a good woman soon, one quiet and quick on her feet, screaming and scratching on her back, and marry her, otherwise you’re bound to be clapped sooner or later.”

  “I won’t be long, Jonathan. Horses first, then a few words in the company of a woman.”

  “It’s never words I need from a woman. Bring your purse if you have any silver left after your purchase of horseflesh; I’ll have the cards ready.”

  Edward saluted Jonathan with his walking stick and headed out to find a reputable horse jobber. As he walked, he tried not to obsess over the curious paradox Jonathan had alluded to.

  Chapter 20

  Familiarity encourag’d my Friend to a further Freedom …

  —Edward Ward, The London Spy, 1718

  Edward spent an hour with a horse jobber, haggling over the price and quality of two horses more expensive than he really could afford. On the other hand, he could travel more swiftly with his own horses, and time was now vital. He would bear the expense because he had to.

  He had considered hiring post horses, but they limited him to roughly ten miles before he must hire new mounts; and independent horse hire required him to stop at designated inns en route. Both of these means would slow him down. He might have taken the flying coach—two days to London in good weather—but it had already departed. The stage coach at three or more days was too slow, and carrier wagons were simply out of the question.

  For an hour afterward he ambled into dusk, then darkness, pausing to procure a link boy with his torch of pitch and tow to light the way, another expense he really could not afford but tonight was willing to allow. He wended his way toward the location he had last seen the young orange woman, but she was gone.

  Edward knew exactly what he was looking for as he wandered the streets idly: he wanted pleasure within his reach and beyond it as well. Something to distract him until morning. An unusual conversation. An adventure. A woman. Cards would not do. In this distraction of mind he would likely lose to Jonathan’s sharp playing, so he wandered off, not to find what he sought, but to let it find him. He was no longer concerned about an ambuscade, certain that he had left that possibility behind in Ireland. And besides, until tomorrow the letters were in the hands of Deigle’s secretary, a man far more likely to preserve them safely than even Deigle himself.

  Not even Deigle’s mistresses could get their hands on them, Bunion had told him privately.

  This made him think of Lydia and suspect her as Jonathan did, which led to thoughts again of Jane and Molly, which brought to the surface a conclusion he had been wrestling with deep amidst his sense of morality. If Molly or Jane were a spy, or even simply associated with Jacobite plotting, as he believed Molly surely was, if not Jane, then the letters he would carry to London might ultimately destroy their lives.

  And others’ lives too. Sir William’s life would certainly change by his association with Molly were she involved—not to mention the loss of his daughter, Molly.

  Edward indeed required a distraction! There were solutions to his mental state; as his father used to say: “Fighting or fucking is always a better answer than drinking your woes away.”

  Aye, conflict or copulation it is, Edward thought. He had resolved not to drink himself even mildly insensible until the letters were safely in the hands of the Earl of Portland.

  He wandered another block, down Horse Street, and paused at the River Avon. Clearly there was nothing more to see in this direction. He took a right turn along the quay, intending to take a turn down s
ome of the smaller lanes that led back toward the baths. He heard the sound of quick steps behind him, but no voices, and instinctively turned halfway around to assess whether or not he need be concerned.

  Two men stopped just within the light of the link boy’s torch. Edward recognized them immediately as the two sallow gentlemen from King’s Bath earlier that day, the pair who had disappeared after Edward threatened the fops. One was taller than average, the other likewise shorter. If they were footpads, they were obviously new to the trade, the sort of down on their luck gentlemen or pretend-gentlemen who would challenge others of their class to a duel and rob them instead.

  “You rudely jostled my friend here,” the tall one said, “and made no apology.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” Edward said plainly. If the Scotsman were looking for a fight, one had just found him.

  “No man speaks to us that way, sir!” the tall gentleman replied.

  “I’m sure that’s a damn lie, too,” Edward replied provocatively.

  “You will give us satisfaction for that, sir!”

  Before Edward could answer the challenge, a third gentleman, laughing with an older bawd who had lighted his way down the stairs with a candle, staggered from a darkened door nearby.

  “Now why do you want to go looking for a pair of strolling strumpets when you’ve a house full of fine whores here?” laughed the woman, dressed in velvets and bright calicos, to her companion.

  “Who’s this?” Lord Mohun shouted when he realized he had an audience. His hand strayed playfully to his sword. “By God, it’s that pirate MacNaughton. Sir, I believe you insulted me earlier today.”

  “I did not.”

  “Ah. Well, do so now,” Mohun ordered, apparently delighted with the world, or at least with the liquor he had consumed.

  “Not tonight. Perhaps when I’ve more reason and you less claret. And besides, I’m already accosted.”

  “You refuse me? An insult! Indeed, a double one, for you accuse me of being cup-shot! But first, sir, I and my bon ami—where the hell has my companion Sir Robert gone?”

  “Back to the coffee room, my lord,” said the bawd.

  “Damn him! Does he actually prefer the allure of pliant pulchritude to my own fine company?” Mohun said gleefully. He glanced at the two men confronting Edward. “And who are these penniless gentlemen clearly gone on account?”

  “Who we are is none of your business, sir,” said the taller.

  “Well, sir, my name is Jack Killdevil, and this is my friend Edward MacNaughton the famous buccaneer. If you’re planning on meeting him then you must also meet me!” Mohun said loudly, then leaned over and whispered in Edward’s ear. “A sharp rum-bite, my false name, eh, sir? They wouldn’t meet me if they knew who I really am.”

  “You’re drunk,” Edward whispered back.

  “‘Tis no matter, sir, I fence as well in my cups as when sober. And besides, I want to continue our conversation about Tom Wharton,” he whispered.

  “Sir!” said the tall sallow gentleman loudly. “You first insulted my friend and then the both of us! You will walk with us to the Ham or we’ll draw on you here!”

  “Well then, lead on, sir!” Mohun said, grinning.

  “Let the link boy light your way, we’ll follow you at distance so none suspect,” replied the tall gentleman.

  “Like hell—” Edward began, but Mohun cut him off.

  “As you please, you pitiful gentleman!” Mohun interjected.

  “Are you mad?” Edward asked him severely, and wondered Is this an ambush? And Mohun a part of it?

  Mohun slipped his arm through Edward’s. “Trust me, sir, I’m your friend tonight,” he whispered, and, led by the link boy, turned toward the Ham, a large field in the bend of the River Avon. “Follow us, fools!”

  “Where are you off to, my lord?” the bawd called after them. “Come back, follow your friend back up the stairs! My wenches are finer quality than any pair you’ll find on the street!”

  “We’re going to meet a pair, my sweet dove, and we’re going to spit them not with our cocks but with our swords! But I promise we’ll return!” he shouted back.

  Mohun interrogated Edward as they walked along the quay and turned onto Horse Street.

  “So you did indeed meet Tom Wharton some months ago here in Bath, sword-in-hand?”

  “I did, and on the Ham if it matters.”

  “You challenged him, then?”

  “I did not.”

  “He sends no challenges, but refuses none,” Mohun said accusingly.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Edward said calmly, and, but for the pair of armed men behind, would have been darkly amused by Mohun’s boyishly murderous enthusiasm.

  “If it suits my purpose. Yet you haven’t answered me.”

  “It was mutual, and sudden. An affray, you might say.”

  “Over a woman!”

  “I don’t fight over women.”

  “But for them, I warrant, when necessary. Some actress Tom was debauching?”

  “We kept the quarrel between us.”

  “How did you fare?”

  “I didn’t sleep in a whole skin that night.”

  “A pity, but not unexpected.”

  “Nor did he.”

  “Truly? Truly!” Mohun almost shouted for joy. “But perhaps it’s as I thought. I’ll chastise him for this, I will. He told me the pain in his groin was due to a pocky wench, he said he received no hurt from you. You’re surely the first man to put a hole in him, and I wanted that honor for myself. Perhaps one day. Tell me, how did you receive his point, and he yours? Together? Did he try to disarm you? He is a master of the disarm, you know.”

  “No man has ever disarmed me in single combat. We pushed together, his but barely through the flesh of my shoulder, mine likewise through the flesh of his hip. Both wounds were slight, and we considered honor settled,” Edward said, as he cast an eye again at the gentlemen footpads some fifty feet behind.

  “Unwise, sir, unwise! A contre-temps! Perhaps you sought his blade but were hasty? You committed to the attack as he deceived? Or he sought yours, in seeking to disarm you, but you deceived? Neither of you is fool enough to receive an exchanged thrust, but I can’t account that either of you were fool enough to make a contre-temps either. Such accidents are common, but true swordsmen avoid them. It’s mere chance that you were not spitting up your lung and he spilling his gut. You were careless, sir, careless, and he too!”

  “Hold, gentlemen!” called the tall, sallow gentleman.

  Edward and Mohun waited until their two adversaries came up with them.

  “You must leave your link boy here,” warned the tall gentleman.

  Edward told the lad to go away, tossing him a coin and reminding him to tell no one what he had heard. Even with the loss of light, making skullduggery more likely, it still was better to have no witnesses to whatever end lay ahead. The four turned right and walked down the street between the gardens on the left and the Ham on the right.

  Edward became coldly furious at the situation. He considered the very likely possibility that he had walked into a trap. Logically he knew it was impossible that Mohun had set up an ambuscade, for there was no way he could have anticipated Edward’s movements. Further, for what reason an ambush? The letters were not now in his hands. On the other hand, he realized, it might be a trap that Mohun had nothing to with.

  The Scotsman felt an involuntary flinching in the small of his back. His left hand strayed to his scabbard, his right toward his sword hilt.

  Something’s missing! he thought suddenly, then realized that the accompanying footsteps of the sallow gentlemen had paused momentarily, and now their rhythm was changed.

  He spun around to the left on the ball of his right foot, his right hand dropping his walking stick and drawing his French colichemarde as the other released the scabbard and slipped into his left pocket to pull a pistol. But the pistol snagged, so Edward, his hand still in his pocket, drew the skirt o
f his coat up to parry a backstabbing thrust.

  He retired a step, parried another thrust with his sword almost vertically in prime, and broke measure again as his adversary recovered to his guard and retreated two steps. In the brief respite, Edward let go of the pistol, pulled his left hand from his pocket, and with it took his hat from his head to aid him in parrying.

  Edward glanced quickly at Mohun. The rake had already unsheathed and skewered his opponent through the forearm and back.

  The wounded man dropped his sword and ran, Mohun in drunken pursuit and shouting, “Sir Fowl! Sir Fowl! You have forgot your sword and I have yet to truss your other wing!”

  Edward’s adversary stood warily before him, on guard with most of his weight resting on his rear leg, his sword held straight out before him. He glanced left and right, then narrowed his eyes at Edward, who knew what he was thinking: his companion was both injured and pursued, Edward’s companion might be raising a hue and cry or returning soon, or both, and Edward had successfully parried two thrusts, one at his back and then its immediate reprise. He was deciding whether to fight or flee, knowing that if he ran he might be pursued and backstabbed, and if he stayed he might be killed. Edward watched him warily; the man was surely full of tricks. He might pull a pistol, hurl dirt or snuff in his eyes, or dart his sword at him.

  “Behind you, sir! The watch!” the man shouted at Edward.

  Edward turned his head just enough to draw the man’s attack, then, as it was dark and difficult to follow a blade with the eyes, made a round parry, found the blade, and thrust swiftly. Sensing his adversary’s counter-parry, he turned his sword hand up, allowing it angulate around his adversary’s parry, and, covering with his left hand as he thrust, hit his adversary just below the right collarbone.

  The sallow gentleman grasped the wound with his left hand, retreated backward several steps, then turned and ran. Edward did not follow, using his still recovering foot as an excuse. In fact, he did not want this exchange to come to the attention of the watch or magistrate, for it might be called a duel, no matter that it had become a backstabbing affray before they could strip and fight like gentlemen in the dark. Lord Mohun had reputation, wealth, and friends with which to free himself, as they had done in the past when he was accused of murder or manslaughter. Edward did not.