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

by Benerson Little

  Edward blushed. “I assure you my business is not mere conquest or other trifles.”

  “A pity. I had hoped you might stay long enough to test my own heart. It goes aflutter so seldom these days.”

  “You’re fencing with me, madam, and not even seriously.”

  “Only to see what will pink your self-assurance. Are you sure you don’t want to kill two birds with one stone? To keep company and protect your affairs, or privateering ventures or whatever they are, while you use the pretext to attempt to seduce me while I preserve my virtue, the goal being to enjoy the conversation and give-and-take?” she said impishly.

  “It’s quite tempting, but I’ve business and you’ve a reputation to protect, and probably a husband as well, no matter that your intent may be nothing more than to converse.”

  “How chivalrous! Come, then, if you won’t make a subtle, gentlemanly assault on my virtue, at least let’s talk for a little while, of all the great world and of all the small matters that make it so.”

  And so they talked by the fire until late into the night, the excellent conversation and imperfect wine leaving him as relaxed as he had been in Ireland while recovering from his wounds. He made no attempt on the woman’s virtue, nor she on his, and he found himself briefly at peace. Afterward he fell easily asleep, and thoughts of assassinators, highwaymen, and swashbucklers on the road did not wake him that night. Brief dreams of the women in his life did.

  At the woman’s insistence, Edward remained with the flying coach the next day, making conversation as they went, he mounted, she speaking to him through a window. Periodically he rode ahead to survey the road, but there were no more rencontres or other adventures. That evening they arrived in London and said their brief goodbyes.

  Edward found lodging at the Black Horse on Water Lane, an inn and neighborhood he knew well from the aftermath of his trials for piracy, then made a brief stop at John’s Coffeehouse on Birchin Lane, a place of ship owners and mariners. A sea captain there advised him he would do better these days at Lloyd’s coffeehouse if he were seeking maritime business. Edward took his advice, largely to get a better feel for the maritime circumstances of London in this time of war. Even at the late hour, Lloyd’s was busy with Exchange brokers and the sound of their gavels.

  Later, Edward headed afoot in the darkness toward his lodgings, alert to those who might follow him. He sensed, as he had in Ireland, that he was watched. Even so, his brief experience with the highwaymen reminded him that not all who had set upon him were assassins seeking secret letters. Lynch was probably just a jealous fool, Ingoldsby was a proven fool, and the sallow gentlemen in Bath were probably just amateur footpads.

  Yet in spite of this reasoning, as he made his way west across Fleet Bridge the sensation of being followed was suddenly overwhelming. Moments later he put a name to the warning sense when he turned to look behind him.

  He was certain he saw the bully ruffian John Lynch passing beneath a street lamp, and then he was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Have at you, Villain.

  —Thomas Shadwell, The Libertine, 1676

  Edward stepped away from a nearby lamppost and into the shadows, and waited. For several minutes he watched in all directions, but Lynch, or whoever resembled him, never reappeared. Edward walked quickly past St. Bridget’s cathedral, hooked into an alley on the other side, jogged for one hundred feet, then slipped back to Fleet Street, hoping to slip behind his possible enemy.

  This was the one area in London he knew well, not to mention the one that best served his purposes, past and present. For these reasons he had taken lodging here: Water Lane divided Whitefriars to the east from Salisbury Court to the west. The former had once been a criminal sanctuary and still retained a sense of its past, and the latter remained a sanctuary for debtors, a convenience Edward had twice found useful. In this area mingled the working, middle merchant, and criminal classes, and, near the Queen’s Theater, the upper as well. It was Edward’s favorite place in London, and his familiarity with it might save his life.

  After ten minutes of observation, he found neither Lynch nor anyone like him, and he now assumed it likely that his former adversary was conjured in his imagination by a vague uneasiness combined with the figure of a man who somewhat resembled the sword-for-hire.

  Edward headed west on Fleet Street toward the Black Horse. As he did, a woman chanced to bump into him, or more likely pretended it was by chance. Edward put his left hand to the wallet beneath his waistcoat and his right to the woman’s shoulder in case she were trying to pick his pocket.

  “Easy, my handsome man! We must agree first!” she said loudly.

  Rather than replying immediately, he surveyed her as he might a ship in the offing. She wore too much paint and powder, he thought, not to mention one too many patches (one above her lip, another on a cheek, a third on her forehead). There was no kerchief above her breasts, pushed into sharp cleavage by her stomacher, and the skirt of her bright calico mantua gown was cut to valiantly show off her white dimity petticoats trimmed at the bottom in several bright colors. Over her mantua she wore a pin-up jacket of Scotch plaid, edged with cheap beaded lace, known as bugle, at the wrists and neckline. Her shoes had high stacked heels and narrow square toes, and were tied with large red bows. But it was her hair, neatly coifed with a medium-tall frontage cap, her winsome smile, and her bright, intelligent eyes that drew his attention.

  “I beg your pardon, mistress,” Edward replied as he stepped just out of reach.

  “You’re not afraid of me, a rum mort, are you?” she asked, shifting to the sweetly manipulative tone of suggestive emasculation that baits too many men, and which only some women, amateur or professional, can manage well.

  “Tonight, of anyone, man or woman. Perhaps another time,” he said, smiling wryly.

  “Don’t I know you?” she asked.

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the men you accost. Next you’ll be telling me that I remind you of a great, strapping lover you once had, and am I sure I’m not him? Play your tricks on merchants’ sons, not me, my darling. As I said, perhaps another time.”

  “Pity,” she said. “I could tell you things if you don’t want to clip and kiss.”

  “Again, thank you, no,” Edward said, and turned away.

  “Maybe about that ruffler following you?”

  Edward stopped, turned back, and took the woman by the wrist.

  “What ruffler?”

  “I’m a tradeswoman, sir. Everything has a price.”

  “Half a crown if your intelligence is worthy.”

  “Two. And I’ll forget you both.”

  “Half.”

  “One.”

  “Don’t cross me. Half.”

  “All right then, half. Let go of me.”

  “Good,” he said, releasing her. “Your half-crown—if your intelligence is useful,” he said, withdrawing a coin and holding it up. “Tell me about the man you say is following me.”

  “He’s down the street, on the right, pretending he’s not watching.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “A tall one, but not as tall as you,” she said flirtingly, “with a fat, sweaty munns but not entirely unpleasing, a belly like he’s a few months gone with a lullaby cheat, and a long, long rapier like the bully swordsmen wear, but it’s not a rum or witcher tilter, not one a good thief would take the time to bite the bill from the cull. His beaver’s white, but he’s holding it by his side so you won’t see it, and his coat is as black as a beadle’s but trimmed with rusty white lace. The cul snilches.”

  “What?”

  “He watches you.”

  “Stop your canting and speak English, I didn’t understand half of that. How do I know he didn’t hire you to lure me somewhere?”

  “I’ve seen that bugger around here before; he talks a lot but won’t pay for anything.”

  Edward gave the woman the coin. His reason suggested his was part of a trap, his instinct considered
it unlikely. In either case, he was on his guard against two potential enemies.

  “Come with me.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve just tipped me the wink, and I’ve paid haven’t I? To Water Lane, then to a place we’ll be safe from his eyes.”

  “If you want to dock, it’ll cost you more,” she said.

  “Pardon me, mistress, but you’re pricing your wares a bit high, aren’t you?”

  “I’m worth every penny and shilling of a guinea,” she replied indignantly.

  “I believe you,” Edward said sincerely.

  “The half-crown was for intelligence only. I think you’re interested and I know you can pay. I’m not poxed or clapped, and not yet buttered tonight, you’d be the first. My ganns are soft and sweet, my pratts are as smooth as a gentlewoman’s, or so I’ve been told, and my breasts as white as milk and sweet as any tit-bits. We can be quick about it if you like, I won’t even un-rig.”

  Edward smiled. “Thank you again, but no, I just want that man to think I’m with you. Come, now, and you have my word I’ll pay you another half-crown.”

  Edward grabbed her by the upper arm and drew her close, as if he had hired her. They walked quickly, from lamppost to lamppost in order to be seen, Edward holding the woman tight at his side. She in return played her part well, attempting to undo a few buttons on his waistcoat so she could reach into his breeches. Edward pulled her hand away, concerned about the safety of his letters, but to anyone watching, he appeared in haste to have his way with her, only not in public. At no point did she try to lure him in a different direction: either she was no part of a trap set by Lynch, if indeed it were Lynch he had seen, or by accident Edward’s chosen destination was that of the ambush.

  To make certain, Edward suddenly pulled her into an alley almost impossible to find by day, much less by night, and barely wide enough for a single person to walk. He drew the woman close behind him, made a sudden right turn to a very small courtyard, then a left down a few steps onto Hanging Sword Alley where they could barely walk two abreast, even as close as they were to each other. Here were backdoors to homes, brothels, gaming houses, and a canting gang or two. Formerly and appropriately, the alley had been home to fencing schools. Edward and his companion stopped in the darkness of an alcove roughly forty feet from a small lighted lantern at someone’s back door.

  “You know your way around here, sir!” the woman said admiringly.

  “Whisht!” he whispered. “Keep your voice down. I’ve been here before, but not for some time.”

  “I really do remember you now! You were that pirate who lodged at the Black Horse!”

  “And that man who follows might have told you this.”

  “No sir—I remember you pinking a bugger of a talley-man with your tilter!”

  “Do you?”

  “I saw you. He wasn’t supposed to be here collecting a debt, you told him to bugger off, he drew his tilter and you pinked him in the stump. He was trying to put his hands on me without paying, I was happy you stuck him, everyone was.”

  “That was you, indeed? My apologies for not knowing you. Now, with further apologies, mistress, I have to search you, I need to know I won’t be stabbed in the back.”

  “Not without paying!” she said angrily. “No one touches me without paying! You’ve no need not to trust me—I could have informed the thief-takers on you for a reward, or blackmailed you when you pinked that bugger who put his hands on me!”

  Edward, casting an eye down the alley in the direction from which they had come, and an ear behind them, drew another half-crown from a pocket, felt for her hand, and put the coin in her palm.

  “For your help, and with my apology,” he said with a hint of sardonic condescension. “Now go!”

  Edward gently shoved her down the alley behind him, then checked to make sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. He hoped he had done the right thing by not searching the woman. The last thing he needed right now was a knife at his back. He felt something brush against his leg: the woman had not departed. Both began to speak, but Edward’s hand placed over her mouth cut her off.

  “Go, now,” he whispered sternly, this time pushing her firmly down the alley behind him.

  “An enemy of yours, then?” she whispered back.

  Edward grabbed her hard by the upper arm.

  “This isn’t your affair. For your own good, be gone, now, and forget me and him!” he hissed and shoved her away.

  Yet instead of leaving at his order, she grasped him close and whispered, “There!”

  Quickly Edward turned and saw the outline of a man walking quietly but very quickly in their direction, low candlelight glinting off the half-extended sword blade in his hand and off the high points of his face. His white hat was gone, surely to better hide himself in the dark.

  “Lynch!” Edward cursed to himself. His hand flew to his sword. For safety he simultaneously opened his measure, bumping into the woman, then into a small corner where two houses came together. He heard footsteps behind him, the woman finally running away. Edward held a slight advantage in spite of having his back to the small corner, for the lantern vaguely silhouetted Lynch but left Edward entirely in the dark.

  Lynch paused. Edward realized this was because he had lost sight of his adversary. It was one thing to sneak into an alley to murder a man as he felt up the skirts of a prostitute, but quite another to seek a forewarned, and thus forearmed, enemy in the darkness.

  Lynch drew a dagger, not a pistol, with his left hand—clearly he wanted this business kept quiet, as did Edward, who for the same reason did not draw one of the turnoff pistols in his pockets. Lynch extended his sword arm and moved slowly forward, probing.

  As he came into range, Edward, unable to retreat with his back to a wall, battered his enemy’s blade up and immediately cut right to Lynch’s bare left hand—no cheating gauntlets this time!—and cut it to the bones. Lynch dropped the knife, cursed “Bastard!” under his breath, and leaped back. Immediately the assassin recovered his wits and lunged furiously, breathing out with a sharp “Huah!” to fortify his courage.

  In the blink of an eye Edward, having shifted to the high hanging guard, beat down his adversary’s blade so sharply that sparks flew into the darkness, then thrust forcefully at Lynch’s forearm, or where it should have been. But Lynch recovered swiftly; as he did Edward shifted quickly to the right, away from the corner, to give himself more room to fight, only to strike the opposite wall hard with his right shoulder—but now the way behind him was open. Lynch attacked again with a powerful straight lunge, hoping to force any parry Edward might make.

  But Edward was no longer there, or at least not where Lynch expected. Completely covered by the inky darkness, Edward had lunged backward, his left hand dropping to the ground, his body bending inward, his blade shooting forward at Lynch’s belly: the Italians called this passato soto, but some of Edward’s English contemporaries called it the “night thrust” for its utility in the darkness.

  The blade struck Lynch full in the belly, the best place to hit—no ribs, no cartilage. Yet Lynch only grunted, “Ha, fool!” as Edward swiftly beat his adversary’s blade upward and recovered into the darkness.

  Damn me for a fool! Edward thought. I forgot his mail shirt!

  The assassin retreated three steps into the greater candlelight. Edward followed: his enemy must not get away. Lynch was now committed to open fight, for, reasoning as he believed others would in like circumstances, he was certain that if he turned his back and ran, Edward would stab him in the back.

  Lynch lunged again as soon as he had recovered. Edward made a round parry, the best sort in the dark, at least when one’s back was not to a wall, although some masters opposed it: but then, they had likely never been in a street fight at night. Edward found his enemy’s blade and riposted but, sensing his enemy’s counter-parry, disengaged and, using his left hand to prevent a double hit, thrust low, toward the lower belly and groin which might not be protect
ed by the mail.

  But again he struck metal links. Edward recovered quickly, his left hand ready to intercept a counter-thrust, but slipped on the muddy cobblestones.

  He thrust high and dropped his left hand to the ground as he went down on one knee. Lynch bound his blade strongly as Edward pushed off hard with his front leg, trying to return to a good guard while subtly yielding to and parrying his enemy’s attack.

  Too slow! Edward realized. A contre-temps! We’ll both be hit!

  But neither blade landed, for a brick struck Lynch in the chest, surprising him more than hurting him, and forcing him back a step. Like lightning Edward re-engaged his enemy’s blade powerfully and carried it wide to the right, and thrust to the face through the opening—and this time he felt the blade penetrate.

  “Shithellfire!” Lynch hissed sharply as he felt the burning blade push through his cheek and into his mouth.

  Quickly Edward stepped in and grasped his adversary’s sword by the shell, ensuring that his enemy could not make a thrust in return, out of reflex or revenge. More than once Edward had almost been killed by an exchanged thrust, either having failed to secure his adversary’s blade while recovering from a lunge, or simply failing to get the hell out of the away quickly enough.

  But in spite of the deep wound just below the cheekbone, his enemy resisted, and Edward suddenly feared the man might wrest his blade free.

  Having no choice, Edward powerfully jerked his blade a hand’s breadth backward and jabbed again at the face. This time the blade passed through Lynch’s right eye and into his brain.

  Lynch fell. His face, illuminated for a moment by a faint ray from the lantern, contorted into a surprised grimace for a moment, then lost all emotion. The dead body almost pulled Edward over with it—one of the disadvantages of the thrust,—for Edward’s sword was stuck in the back of Lynch’s head. Heart beating strongly, Edward placed his foot on Lynch’s jaw and wrenched sword from bone. The entire rencontre, from first blade contact to fatal wound, had lasted less than a minute.