“Are you sure about Toulon?” asked Harry, who had an interest, since he’d just returned from that part of the world, having at one time been a guest of Admiral Hood aboard the Victory.
“Certain. And he has failed to eliminate the French fleet, though apparently the fault lies in Spanish inefficiency. It is not yet confirmed, I grant you. We only have private intelligence on the matter. No official dispatch has yet arrived. What I am trying to say, sir, is this. That though your stocks have shown considerable gains, should the war deteriorate into stalemate, which is likely unless it is more vigorously pursued, I need your permission to liquidate those stocks and move into more stable areas such as gold.”
“What would be the result?” asked Harry.
Benedict Cantwell thought for a moment before replying, his thin lips pursed in concentration, as though he was a man who found he needed to impart bad tidings, but didn’t know how to begin. Yet when he spoke his words had little connection with the expression on his face.
“You will incur a certain loss if we are wrong and make a fortune if we are right.”
“A certain loss?” asked Harry.
For the first time Cantwell smiled. “Nothing that could not be repaired by a couple of stout prizes.”
“Then it seems I have little to say. Do you wish my consent in writing?”
Cantwell nodded, pulling a prepared paper from under his report of Farrar. “A simple signature, Mr Ludlow, so that there can be no doubt as to your wishes.”
Harry took the proffered quill and signed quickly, once he’d read the note. He did wonder at the necessity, since Arthur would have taken the advice just as readily as himself. Still, bankers worried all the time, it was in their blood. He handed back the note and turned to another subject entirely.
“This may be outside your area of competence, Mr Cantwell, but I have a mind to acquire a property in London. Somewhere reasonably fashionable, and big enough to entertain on a decent scale.” Cantwell’s eyes had been blank since Harry had misused the word competence. To him there was nothing outside his competence. “Would it be better to buy or lease?”
“I do not have your portfolio to hand, Mr Ludlow. But I believe you own a fair tract of land by the river in Chelsea. In that case it would be better to build.”
Harry thought of Anne and the impending birth, of the joy it would give her to see Arthur settled and in pursuit of his own fortune.
“If one was in a hurry?”
“That is never advisable, sir,” said Cantwell sharply, before he arched his fingers and adopted a pose of deep thought. “A short lease, to cover you while you built, would be best,” he said finally.
Harry was halfway to the door when he replied. “Thank you, Mr Cantwell, you have been most obliging.” The banker stood up, but Harry was through the door before he could come out from behind his desk. He sat down again as the door closed, wondering if he should have told his client the real reason why he’d asked him to sign that paper. Yet he could see no way of not breaching his confidentiality if he did so. He could hardly tell Harry Ludlow that his brother-in-law, another customer of the bank, was up to his ears in debt. Lord Drumdryan had not only speculated with his wife’s portion, but he’d also in the last few days been borrowing from Nathans, the Jewish bankers. This piece of intelligence had come through one of Nathans’s employees who had a stipend from Cantwell’s for that very purpose. As Cantwell’s was excluded from the transaction, he had no idea where the money was going. It had become imperative to have the power to overrule Lord Drumdryan in writing. Men in such a parlous situation, regardless of their apparent personal probity, could not always be relied on to make the right decisions.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I TAILED HIM to the edge of town, an’ waited till he was out of sight from the top of Sholden Hill.”
Temple, in full-dress uniform, sat in his high-backed chair in the tap-room. He flicked a finger to dismiss the man he’d set to tail Pender. He had said he intended to return to Cheyne Court, to await his master’s return, but Temple was a cautious man, apt to worry, something which had kept him alive and rich in a dangerous occupation. That lie about Cephas Quested had come instinctively. The crack on the head had left his batman with a goose-egg bump and a nasty cut, but his thick skull had saved him serious injury. Quested had overstepped the mark in obliging Trench, then compounded the error by failing to tell him of the attempt to kill Ludlow on his return. Temple smelled treachery, though Quested, given the proof he had of Ludlow’s complicity, claimed he’d merely made an understandable error of judgement.
Temple rarely made anyone privy to his innermost thoughts, including his right-hand man. Quested had shared the little information he’d gleaned about Bertles, just as he knew where it came from, but he had no inkling of his leader’s machinations in Sussex. He’d tried to persuade the Romney Marsh and Hastings smugglers, who bordered on his territory, that Trench, with his violent nature and uncontrollable ambitions, should be removed, since he threatened them all; not one of them would stir, even although he’d already poached a fair amount of their trade. Trench, safe in his east Sussex hinterland, with a web of family connections that included a lord lieutenant, local magistrates, and several members of the judiciary, inspired too much fear. Now Temple was faced with the fact that his attempts to unseat him would become known. If they were, then he was in grave danger.
Things had gone too far, and now threatened to get completely out of hand. Bertles had been a damn fool, forcing him to act at the first hint from Trench that a Deal man was involved in stealing his goods. He’d given up Tobias Bertles to Trench’s revenge willingly enough, which should have been enough. Yet he could not blame another, for it was his own admission of Bertles’s endemic poverty that had alerted Trench to the fact that the man must have a backer.
He’d said it innocently enough, almost as an aside, for he had drawn the same conclusion. It had never occurred to him that Trench would want the identity of this person. He assumed that he would be content with the man who was stealing his goods. Not so. There was the hint that he himself might be involved, one which he’d managed to stifle. But Trench was adamant about the need to find out. The memory of what had happened to the Hawkhurst gang, and the role of the Deal men in that, ran too deep. He was determined to root out the entire connection as a warning to others tempted by rich pickings to “shear off.” No doubt that was his reason for hanging the Planet’s crew.
The memory of that conversation made him angry, for Temple prided himself on his standing. He was acknowledged, and feared, as the leading smuggler on the east Kent coast. Through his connections, and his brother, he damn near controlled Deal. He was the warden of the Deal pilots, which gave him power, a ready source of information on incoming cargoes, and control of their community chest. On top of that he was an officer in the Volunteer Fencibles. He’d felt a damn fool when Trench had demanded the information about a matter relating to his own backyard and he had been unable to provide it.
And now it seemed, if Quested was to be believed, that the man who claimed innocence and offered a temporary partnership, a marriage of convenience, was none other than the man who’d backed Bertles. Quested claimed to have seen the written evidence with his own eyes. But had he? He had high hopes of finding out the truth this very day. But if it was Harry Ludlow, what was his game? Perhaps, having used Bertles as a foil, he’d seen what the trade was worth. Was he out to get rid of Trench, just to take over the Sussex man’s trade? Such an act would oblige more than the Aldington gang. But Harry Ludlow would be operating from around Deal. Temple had expended much effort to reduce the local competition. Through a combination of threats, bribes, and the odd piece of information, he had Braine eating out of his hand. Now he was faced with a new danger from Harry Ludlow. That thought was even less welcome than the idea of a successful Obidiah Trench.
His mind turned back to the third part of the conundrum. Had Quested betrayed him? Was he in league with
the Sussex man? He’d sent him to see Trench, ostensibly to strike a bargain: Temple would cease his attempts to remove Trench and give him Harry Ludlow in return for peace. If Quested was reliable, Trench would probably accept, since a war with the Deal smugglers would do them equal harm.
But if there was treachery in the air he could reverse the situation and betray Trench to Ludlow. That still left Quested, of course. His next thought made him smile. He picked up his sabre, which was lying across the table. His face looked long in the narrow reflection of the silver scabbard, accentuating his dark, sharp features. It really didn’t matter about Quested. His batman, even if he was reliable, was getting ideas above his station. He was expendable. And he’d be much safer with Trench out of the way as well. Which only left Harry Ludlow. That turned the smile to a grin, with his teeth now huge and menacing in the mirror of his scabbard. In his mind he could see a way to scupper them all. The means to do so were close at hand, and his to command.
He stood up and hooked the long, curved, cavalry sabre to the thick buff belt that had gained the regiment its nickname, “the Buffs.” It was a source of great pleasure to him that he had gained a commission in the local Volunteer Fencibles. He’d subscribed handsomely, of course, to the fund set up by Billy Pitt. The locals had enjoyed many a laugh over a drink at the prime minister’s expense. Pitt, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, had initiated the idea of the Fencibles as a militia to protect the coast against invasion, with the unstated hint that they might take a hand in suppressing the smuggling trade.
William Pitt prided himself on being known as the scourge of the contrabandiers, the man who’d ordered all the boats on Deal beach to be burned. Clever he might be, in the ways of government and the like. But it was counting-house cleverness that blinded him to the obvious. Quite simply, he wasn’t local, for all he had a residence at Walmer Castle. Temple, along with all the others on the coast who had an interest, had immediately signed up for his regiment. The best way to make sure that they never interfered with smuggling, in any major way, was to be the ones responsible for its suppression.
“I’m expecting company,” he barked to the man behind the serving hatch. “A lady. Show her up to my rooms as soon as she arrives.”
He would have been a damn sight less pleased with himself if he’d seen Pender at that moment. He would have cursed himself for not asking his man how he’d managed to follow someone on a horse so easily. Pender had spotted the tail right away, and set off on foot to make his way out of Deal, reasoning, rightly, that Temple’s man would not follow him all the way home. As soon as he dropped out of sight in Mongeham village, he turned and retraced his steps, actually following the other fellow right back into the town.
He was now touring the hostelries, like the Ship Inn and the Albion, cautiously approaching the more obvious sailors, and offering them prime rates to join an unnamed ship. They were suspicious, of course, for this was a favoured ploy of the less talented crimps, who would lure a tar to a quiet spot with the promise of a merchant wage then have him knocked on the head and handed him over to the press. To all, his message was the same.
“Meet me behind the mill near Sandown Castle. If you have a mate who’s a proper seaman, bring him along as well. Now you can’t approach that spot without being seen for half a mile, so you’ll have the chance to leg it, if’n you smells a rat. I will meet you there before sundown.”
“An’ what then?”
“Then you’ll find out who seeks to employ you, friend.”
“Merchant rates?”
“More’n merchant rates, friend. You’ll be sailing under a captain who knows how to make men rich.”
They took the coin Pender offered in different ways, but all posed the same question. “Who is he?”
“In good time. First step is to be at the back of Sandown Castle, with any kit you’ve got, at the right time.”
“Thank you for coming, Harry,” said James.
He looked pale and drawn, like a man who hadn’t slept or eaten for days. Harry restrained himself from remarking on his brother’s appearance, made worse by the loose paint-streaked coverall he wore.
“I presume the encounter is still on?”
James nodded wearily and made his way backwards through the pile of packing cases that filled his narrow hallway, all the objets d’art he had purchased on their travels, including bronzes and sculptures. Harry pitied the poor souls who’d had to manhandle some of the objects up the steep stairs.
Harry had never been in an artist’s studio which wasn’t a complete mess. Even James, fastidious in his dress and manners, was no exception. As a breed they seemed incapable of confining their paints to the canvas, nor the canvases themselves, finished or bare, to anything other than untidy heaps. No wonder they donned hats and smocks to protect themselves. The private rooms at the rear were altogether different. Equally well lit by a large skylight as well as large sash windows, they showed James off to better advantage, being tastefully and expensively appointed.
Portraits adorned the walls, and Harry reasoned that many were of women with whom his brother had been romantically involved. Yet he could not see the one of Caroline Farrar, which on his last visit had occupied pride of place above the mantel, and that surprised him. It had been replaced by one of James’s more preposterous seascapes, of a ship on its beam ends in a mass of foaming water. He was there, in one of his brother’s earliest efforts, resplendent in naval lieutenant’s uniform. It was a portrait that he’d always disliked: it did scant justice to his brother’s talent while reminding him of his chequered past, and James had caught a look which made Harry uncomfortable. Not evil exactly, but avaricious, with just a hint of a man who would kill lightly.
Classical statuary filled the alcoves between furniture, a mixture of old and new, with dark, heavily carved Jacobean oak mingling with the more colourful mahoganies and plain simple lines of the newer pieces. The light from above glinted off silver and crystal. A polished box, its interior lined with deep red silk, lay open on the Sheraton sideboard. Harry walked over to look at the pistols it contained, a gift he himself had given his brother.
“You must be fatigued after your journey,” said James, throwing off his paint-streaked smock. He took up a decanter and poured two glasses, one of which he handed to Harry. “There are biscuits in that tub by your hand.”
“How long have you had these pistols, James?” asked Harry, knowing the answer perfectly well. His brother, sipping some wine, didn’t reply, but the look in his eyes said all that was needed. Harry picked one out, rubbing the silver and gold filigree work which adorned the stock. “Have they ever been fired?”
“No,” said James.
“Do you have others?”
James merely shook his head, well aware of what Harry was driving at. “I have never felt the need to practise with such weapons. I know how to use them, Harry. That will suffice for what needs to be done.”
“That is clearly nonsense, brother. They need to be used, to have the sights checked and properly aligned. If you do not do that you could well find your aim off by several feet, quite apart from the mere advantages to be gained from firing them a few times.”
“A fine sight I’d be, in Green Park, blasting off with pistols. With poor sights I could remove some very famous people.”
Harry resolved to see to the pistols himself. For some reason James appeared like a man resigned to a terrible fate, one that he could do nothing to avoid. It was evident in his face and his demeanour.
“You have to tell me what is amiss, brother?”
James finally laughed, but it emerged as the cackle of a slightly deranged man. “Is it not obvious, Harry? I am about to risk everything.”
“That wouldn’t bother you, James,” said Harry flatly.
“But it does, Harry. Eighteen months in your company, despite our adventures, has not made me bloodthirsty.”
“You didn’t need to be with me. If I had a guinea for every time I’ve heard you c
urse Lord Farrar, I’d have enough to fund the National Debt.”
“That is true,” James replied.
“So now you are about to be afforded the chance. A clean shot, a rival disposed of, money saved, and Caroline a widow. What could be better?”
James smiled weakly. “Imagine the scandal if Caroline married the man who shot her husband.”
“You’re no more afraid of scandal than you are of facing her husband,” snapped Harry, finally losing patience. “I have come a long way, James, at your request. Please oblige me by informing me why you’re behaving like this.”
“You are striking a very elder brother pose, Harry.”
That made him even angrier. “Eyewash. Just answer the question, for I have no intention of standing still to watch you approach a duel in this frame of mind.”
James, who’d squared his shoulders to tease his brother, let them slump again. “How much would you say I have sacrificed for Lady Farrar?”
“A lot. But the true answer to that is something only you could know. It would also be worthwhile to remember that she too has made sacrifices.”
James’s eyes dropped to the floor. “True, brother, true.”
Harry walked slowly over to James and laid a hand on his shoulder. “What could I say that would press you to speak?”
He looked up. “Nothing, for no man likes to be seen to be a fool, Harry. But you, of all people, deserve some explanation. That night, I should not have gone anywhere near her house. It was a foolish thing to do.” Harry nodded in agreement, well aware that he would probably have done the same. “I was readily admitted, Harry, and Caroline was delirious with happiness when she saw me. We were locked in an embrace when he entered unannounced.” James rubbed his eyes, as if to hold back tears. “I’ve held that woman many times, Harry. I’ve felt that rush of blood that makes my skin seem like a burden.”
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