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

by Benerson Little

  Michael recognized the curious synergies of man and Fortune that put him here on this road at this nexus of important events, patiently observing a quarry who had committed two sins, one of desire, the other of politics. It was almost as if Fortune herself had arranged it.

  The officer changed direction, toward a small ordinary in the Irish village nearby, a place frequented both by the Protestant English of Ireland—who hated being called Irish, especially when visiting in England—and the native Irish themselves, and where decent French claret and brandy were served. Doubtless the officer would refresh himself before heading to one of the nearby homes of English landowners, in pursuit of one of their daughters if their fathers were so foolish as to admit him.

  Michael followed the officer to the village. Most of its poor lived with their livestock and poultry in small huts they called cabins, and survived on bonny clapper and potatoes. They commonly spoke Irish, these Teagues and Bog-Landers and Dear Joys, and those who did speak English rarely used it, often pretending they did not know the language.

  The Irishman heard the faint cries of wailing and knew thereby that most of the villagers were attending the visitation for some poor soul recently departed. A dozen or more women mourned over the body, some of them hired to do so. All shared a pipe and tobacco to cover the stench of the corpse as they drank poteen, sounded their grief, and enumerated the deceased’s personal and material virtues.

  Suddenly the Irishman smiled. Fortune, being a woman, was therefore to be commanded, not served, and not treated with for terms. And by Mary, Mother of God, he knew now how to command her, and her servants too. There would be no hue and cry. If he were lucky, he would kill two men with one stone. But if only one fell, he could bide his time for the other. And neither Molly nor the spy would be the wiser—a doubly satisfying revenge.

  As soon as the officer was out of sight among the village houses, the Irishman turned his horse down the hill and rode slowly to the ordinary. Here, while most villagers were paying their respects to the deceased, the Irishman introduced himself as William O’Sullivan to the English officer, and engaged him in local gossip he modified only slightly from the truth.

  “Have you heard,” he asked between swigs of claret, “of that slander on the docks, of some English officer who hid in the hold during the fight between that merchant ship—What’s her name, Peregrinator?—and the French privateer? Surely you know who he is? I can’t believe it myself, but I overheard it from the Scotsman who was aboard, MacNorton his name was, or MacKnight, something like that, used to be a buccaneer, said the officer was a damned coward, nothing more than a base ignoble coward. I can’t understand what sort of man lets someone abuse his honor like that.”

  And now, the fuse lit on the luxury of a common revenge, Michael O’Neal could devote his full attention to killing a king.

  Chapter 9

  Such tempting Charms what Mortal can avoid?

  —Ned Ward, The London Spy, 1718

  “Is that all?”

  The voice, a bit scornful and much bewildered, drew him from his slumber.

  Edward opened his eyes. Before him he saw two breasts, well-shaped, large yet surprisingly delicate. Behind them lay a body neither too slender nor too full, with smooth skin but for tiny wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and juncture of the breasts.

  The widow Hardy, for the crimson-flushed body was hers, sat astride, gripping his loins and hips with her thighs, her breasts parting and meeting as she breathed in and out in time with the pitching of her hips. She wore pale blue silk stockings gartered above her knees and a linen shift unlaced from breast to waist and torn open from waist to hip.

  “Mrs. Hardy. Good morning,” he said slowly.

  “Good morning? That’s it? I’ve known many men—well, not too many—but I never expected the cursory treatment of this morning from you, not after last night! I could have had this brief moment from some fat merchant! Only hours ago you were in a fever for me, I hope not just because of the whiskey. But now? What the hell, sir?”

  “Mrs. Hardy, I humbly beg your forgiveness,” Edward said, gathering his wits. “I’m afraid last night’s celebration left me slow under the moon and quick under the sun. Rest assured, your attractions have not faded with the sun’s rising and my setting.”

  “Don’t use your tongue on flowery words that would fool only an ignorant maid. That’s not what I expect it to be used for.” She was quiet for a moment, then softened and smiled. “I know well enough not to take a man to bed with his boots on. And anyway, two out of three in a night isn’t so bad. Excuse me, my darling adventurer, but the sun is up and I shouldn’t be seen undressed.”

  She slipped from the large bed. Edward sat up.

  One week more, he thought, one week, certainly no more than two, and I sail for Bristol.

  He had been in Kinsale for more than a week now, and not for a single moment had he been entirely at ease. The phantom of the dream that followed him to shore—the sense that he was being watched—had only grown with each passing day. To reassure himself he went well-armed everywhere. Three days past, while taking care of the business Molly had identified correctly as an intrigue, he’d felt certain he was being followed, but even after circling around and waiting in ambush above the road, he could not confirm this. If someone were following him, he was good at his trade—and probably knew something of his business as well.

  The meetings themselves had left him annoyed, almost angered, but he suppressed his emotions for the sake of his purpose. This favor of letters and information for Lord Deigle should help him in his quest for his privateering commission.

  The first meeting had not gone well.

  “You may go, sir,” Viscount Brennan had said, without looking at Edward after he’d delivered the secret letter.

  “My Lord, I am under instructions from Lord Deigle, who informs me he acts on behalf of the Crown, to remain here while you read the letter, and not to go until I receive your verbal answer to the main question. This is his insurance in case your written reply is stolen. However, I’m to pick up your written reply later, for I must have it before I sail.”

  The viscount had walked up a short stair, then, with all the arrogance of a man born to privilege and fully believing in his entitlement, turned, looked down at Edward, and smirked.

  “You may tell my friend Lord Deigle that I have no relationship with Tories or Jacobites, that I will provide him with what I know of them and any plans they may have, which will be little enough, and that I will happily engage in the trading adventure he proposes. Now you may go, sir. My servants will show you out.”

  “As you wish,” Edward had replied, refusing to use the man’s title. “I’ll return in five days for your letter.” Unconsciously he’d put his hand to his sword.

  The second meeting had gone better, at least in terms of polite address. Sir James Allin, Baronet, had been more than cordial, perhaps because as a baronet he was a member of the gentry, not a peer. But along with his pleasant manner was a disquieting fascination with Edward’s past.

  “You, sir, were once a Jacobite, isn’t this true? And so was I, but times change, sir, times change. It is sad, sir, sad. A new king, what is it now, seven years almost? Yet Tories still plot. Tories, that’s what we call Jacobites here, you understand? You do? Of course you do. I trust I can trust you, sir?”

  “If I could not be trusted, Lord Deigle would not have sent me.”

  Here again Edward had seen, albeit only for an instant, the patronizing smile he had seen on Lord Brennan’s lips, and he’d wondered if Deigle were to be trusted.

  “Can you imagine, sir, the import of Lord Deigle’s missive?” the baronet had said, waving the letter around. “He wishes help gauging the loyalty of the local gentry and nobility in case there’s another Irish uprising in anticipation of another French invasion! And he wants a list of Irish conspirators, too, if I can provide it. And in cipher! I love ciphers, such an exercise in words and mathematics! One day,
sir, my loyalty shall make me a peer.”

  Edward did not trust men or women who were fascinated with intrigue, especially not those who talked about this fascination. Not only could they not keep secrets, they were otherwise untrustworthy: invariably they were the first to run when things went sour, leaving honest fighting men behind to hold the line and die. Edward had briefly pretended to share the baronet’s fascination, then excused himself.

  Jane Hardy interrupted his reverie.

  “I take it you’ve completed your affairs here? There’s talk that you and Sir William intend to buy a ship to seek the French. Aren’t there enough investors in Bristol?” she asked, as she pulled on her mantua and sat down upon a chamber pot just out of his sight.

  “There are interested parties in Bristol,” Edward replied, “but not enough, nor do I have enough money of my own to purchase a ship or outfit it, and for a commission I need a ship. Investors are cautious right now, and most don’t believe I can secure a commission, or that I’ll make a profit if I do. It’s been two years since a privateer sailed from Bristol. It’s not easy anymore. After all, it’s France, not Spain, we’re fighting, and the French don’t do as great a trade by sea as some other nations. But I intend to sail to West India again, a grand voyage, not a mere summer’s cruise as a Channel privateer.”

  “That’ll be expensive to outfit.”

  “With Sir William’s money to help guarantee a ship, I’ll be able to convince other investors, and also an influential noble or merchant to back my petition. It’s a long process, full of the sort of pandering I despise, but worth it to get to sea again.”

  “And if this doesn’t work out?”

  “The world is full of opportunities.”

  “Of Fortune, you mean.”

  Edward smiled. “Of late I prefer to see it as opportunity made at my own hand, and not at Fortune’s. At any rate, just in case my main plan fails, I’m already in contact with the Spanish for a commission to pursue smugglers along the Main; I’d also take anything else, French ships, I mean, that might come my way. Spain has a long history of hiring former pirates under the idea that it takes a thief to catch a thief, so my ‘piracies and plunders against Spain,’ as they put it, shouldn’t keep them from considering me, at least as long as I’m willing to pretend to become a papist. I could also take a cargo and get a commission as a letter-of-mart ship, permitting me to take prizes along my trade route. I could also seek a commission from one of the English colonies in America.”

  “What of Scotland? Can’t you seek a commission in Glasgow?”

  “Probably, but I suspect only to cruise Scottish seas. I briefly commanded a Scottish privateer once, but I won’t bore you with the story today. All’s not lost if I can’t get a commission in England, for I will somewhere create the opportunity. One way or another I’ll return to sea and to America again, armed and plundering.”

  Jane stood up, brushed her fingers lightly across Edward’s shoulders, then called for wine and a brand with which to light her pipe. Maria arrived moments later, bearing both and grinning broadly.

  “Would you like a cup?” Jane asked as she poured some wine for herself. “No?” She put the pitcher down, then lit her pipe. “I don’t expect your having once been a buccaneer will help your cause. Or will it? You stood trial for piracy, didn’t you?”

  “Twice. In my defense, I was sailing under a French commission, albeit a very dubious one, when accused the first time. I was acquitted of piracy, yet was likely to be found guilty of manslaughter for the associated killing of a man in a duel. Thankfully, our former king pardoned me because he suspected their lies, and perhaps because he didn’t like their politics. The man I killed was a thief and a coward. He challenged me, not the other way around. But he also had friends willing to lie and pretend he was an honest gentlemen whom I murdered in an affray.”

  “What profitable purpose did it serve to accuse you of murder?”

  “I see you’re well-acquainted with mankind. The man’s embezzlement had enriched my accusers, and if I proved this, they’d have been accused as well. Unfortunately, I ended up embargoed for two years from the Americas, so I took my sword to Scotland, Ireland, Hungary, and Transylvania, even had some intrigues in Spain believe it or not, before heading back across the sea to America, only to find myself embargoed yet again, this time for honestly plundering a Spanish pirate.”

  “Maybe you should embrace Fortune, and not shun her.”

  “Embracing her hasn’t worked; it’s only gotten me into various affrays and misadventures.”

  “So it’s true what I hear, you’re still not immune to, what do you call them, rencontres?”

  “Indeed?”

  “A passenger who arrived here two days ago spoke of you. In fact, there’s a rumor that you lugged out and whipped a man through the lungs in Bristol just before you left. And that you did so over a woman.”

  “Damned gossips and their tongue-clack. I did pink a fool, but only in his ass as he turned his back in a fair fight, or at least it was fair on my part. And a woman may have put him up to it, but she’s no lover of mine, or at least not for some months, and had no cause to send a ruffian to stick me with his bilbo.”

  “Lydia Upcott.”

  “You’re well-informed.”

  “A trim frigate, as I recall.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not well, but in Bristol I cast a wide net in spite of my reputation.”

  “Trim indeed, she is, and with a sharp set of teeth. The boarding of her is easy, but then she springs her closed quarters, and damn, her suitor catches a Tartar. She was best rid of, and quickly.”

  “And thus her revenge. Edward, darling, be careful around women.”

  “Thus my philosophy!”

  “Yes, Edward, you’ve already explained your theory of women and Fortune to me once, and that was more than enough. Frankly, it sounds like nothing more than an excuse to avoid marriage; or, God forbid, a means to pretend to treat women well, but only in passing. That is to say, in bed and conversation. And while you may be able to avoid wedded bliss—I’ll be honest and say I’ve indulged in marriage twice, but found its bliss to be brief and will never wed again—you can’t avoid women or Fortune for long. You proved this with me last night.”

  “I don’t intend to avoid women,” Edward replied, enjoying the fencing. “I intend to avoid their entanglements, especially in regard to Fortune.”

  “With one the other, Edward. They’re inseparable, women and entanglements. Yet I agree with you in part: the combination is either fortunate or unfortunate, almost never in-between. You can’t separate women from entanglements, nor from Fortune. And you shouldn’t try.”

  Edward shrugged. “My instinct disagrees and my philosophy requires a practical test. Damn, what’s the time? I need to get up, I promised Molly O’Meary I’d escort her to the race meeting this afternoon. If I don’t leave soon we won’t arrive in time. Sir William is racing two horses.”

  “Be careful, my tall man.”

  “Indeed?”

  “There are dangers around here you are unaware of, in spite of your vast martial experience.”

  “I can look after myself,” Edward replied, unsure of her direction.

  “You can begin by looking after yourself around Molly O’Meary.”

  “Her?”

  “Don’t be a fool. Word around here is that she’s been at your side since you arrived. Your own philosophy argues that you should keep your distance from her.”

  Edward grinned. “I think you’re jealous.”

  “I’m sure it’s only my bed you’re in, lad, and I’m too experienced to be jealous of anyone. I know what I have and what I can have. My old trade was an honest one, and my payment up front—I let you lie with my maid in advance in return for lying with me. If I’m not jealous of my maid I’m not going to be jealous of Mistress O’Meary.”

  Edward smiled, then shrugged. “I would have lain with you anyway. As for Molly, she’s
promised to another.”

  “So she says, and he a man rumored to be jealous and a scoundrel; some say he was a rapparee in the North, and a pirate before that. He’s surely a Jacobite. Don’t you find it curious that he’s never around, yet is said to tolerate her dalliances?”

  “You make it sound as if she’s playing all men one against the other.”

  “And maybe she is. Or perhaps she’s increasing her odds at finding a rich husband. Or trying to make her betrothed jealous. Or trying to trade him for a man worth more money. Or distracting herself from her anger by playing coquettish games. Or wanting a man made of parts of several. Or tangling you up in some other net all her own. Some women are best kept clear of, my dear.”

  “How do you know so much about her? You’ve only been here a week.”

  “One can learn a lot in a week, and I’ve known of her for a long time. People gossip, and I read their letters. You forget that my husband owned this estate for many years. I’ve lived here before, if only for a short time.”

  Edward sat fully upright, the result of a minor epiphany. “Wait—you condemn me for my philosophy, yet tell me to avoid getting entangled with a woman. Isn’t this the same as telling me to practice what I preach?”

  “Varium et mutabile, Edward.”

  “The young officer, Ingoldsby, quoted this to me the day we were chased by La Tulipe Noir.”

  “How clever of him to show his education while drunk. With most men it’s the other way around,” she said sarcastically. “I suggest you keep your distance from him, too, if you don’t want delays in pursuing your venture. He’s a hothead, and we already know him for a drunk. It’s a bad combination. And I hear he holds a grudge against you.”

  “Whisht! Let him fume in the barracks and taverns. But back to our philosophical discussion: I think you’re jealous of Molly, in spite of your denials.”

  “Always a possibility, I’m a woman after all. More importantly, you need to recognize the flaw in your philosophy: you lump all women together, and Fortune with them. But we’re not all alike, nor are Fortune’s interventions. You should have learned this already from Lydia Upcott in Bristol, and surely from others like her. An adventurous man can hardly avoid meeting a few such women in his life, not to mention Fortune in her many guises.”