But then I would never know who was waiting for me in St James’s Park, would never learn the secret they wished to spill. A mystery left unsolved for ever. Damn Fleet, the cunning bastard. How could I resist the intrigue? It was like putting a bowl of punch in front of a drunk.
One meeting, that was all. A brief conversation with a noblewoman, no doubt about some trifling matter. A stolen bauble, a petty piece of blackmail. I would pass her troubles on to Fleet and he would resolve the rest. One meeting. And never again, of course.
West, then, to St James’s Park. I did not stop to consider the Burdens’ house as I passed, never thought to look up at the windows or wonder about the previous night’s drama. Too much had happened since then for me to think of it. It was eight o’clock and already dark – most likely Joseph Burden had already locked and bolted the house for the night. I didn’t even notice.
I hurried through the Garden with my head down against the wind, the chill air digging its fingers through my clothes like a thief searching for coins. I pulled my coat tighter, striding past Tom King’s coffeehouse, ignoring the raucous shouts and cheers of its customers. I’d wasted a hundred nights in there with King’s clever, dangerous wife Moll. Not tonight. She would only winkle the truth from me and use it in some poisonous way, then dismiss her betrayal with a laugh. Best to keep yourself locked and bolted against that one. She was fine company, but she’d pinch the soul from your body and flog it to the highest bidder given the chance.
Walking along the windswept Strand I prayed for a hackney cab to escape the cold, but they were all busy, horses clattering by with steaming breath, drivers swaddled in thick blankets, holding their whips in numb fingers. So I continued on, shoulders hunched, jumping over puddles of rainwater and filth.
As I reached Charing Cross I heard a gruff shout of ‘By Your Leave, sir!’ and footsteps pounding hard behind me. I jumped aside, narrowly avoiding collision with a sedan chair jolting fast along the pavement, the man inside gripping the window edges hard to stop himself being flung about. The second chairman tipped his chin in thanks as he passed, but his passenger leaned out and glared back at me in outrage. He was an older man in his fifties with a red, sweating face. ‘Damn fool!’ he cried, spittle spraying from his lips.
I halted in surprise at his rudeness, searching for a suitable reply. A waterman turning for home watched the chair bobbing its way down the Mall. ‘Twat,’ he observed, cheerfully.
That would do. I touched my hat in appreciation and pressed on.
On Pall Mall, the blazing lights of St James’s Palace cast a bright glow upon the pavement. Somewhere deep inside those rambling old buildings the king and his family would be playing cards or backgammon, watched by bored, obsequious courtiers. If I were king I would insist upon something fresh and new every night – a ball, a masque, a play. Or dismiss the entire court and wander naked through the palace, frightening the servants – why not? What use was being king if you could not do as you pleased? But by all accounts King George liked nothing better than routine – the same wearying pomp and ceremony day in and day out. It was said he visited his mistress at the same hour every day, pacing about outside her rooms if he were a few minutes early, squinting at his watch. I had distant cousins on my father’s side of the family who spent their lives at court fighting for power and position amidst all that drudgery. My God – they were welcome to it.
I reached the end of the Mall and slipped into the park beyond, a hand resting on the hilt of my sword. St James’s Park was a good deal safer than the stews of St Giles, but courtiers drove their carriages along Kensington Way late into the night. And where courtiers drove their carriages, foot pads and highwaymen were never far away – lean Highland wolves prowling amidst a flock of plump, dozy sheep.
I headed deeper into the park where the grass was higher, cursing silently as the wet mud splashed my stockings and pulled at my shoes. The lanterns along the King’s Coach Way shone like jewels on a necklace. I crossed back into darkness, low and swift. I must not be seen here – not by a soul. A courtier meeting a young man alone at night in the park – reputations had been ruined by less.
Deep in the shadows of Buckingham House I took out my watch, holding the face up to the moonlight. Half past eight. Fleet’s mysterious client should arrive at any moment. As a courtier, doubtless she would ride through the park from the palace itself. And as a woman, surely she would come by chair or carriage, with servants to protect her. I tucked away my watch and waited, stamping my feet to keep warm.
A few minutes later I caught the whisk of wheels along the King’s Way. Out of the darkness a handsome black and gold carriage glided smoothly across the grass towards me, the driver urging on the horses with a light tap of his whip. Liveried footmen stood on either side of the carriage, guarding the doors, and a third stood on the back. The red velvet curtains at the windows were drawn tight. My heart began to pound, blood singing through my veins. Ahh . . . this was why I had come, in truth. This brief feeling of mystery and excitement. No doubt in a few seconds the door would swing open and some trembling old dowager would tell me that her pug had run off, and might I find it for her.
I was about to step forward when someone gave a shout close by. ‘Halt! Halt you dogs!’
A shot rang out, exploding in the night air with a bright flash. I spun around in time to see a figure surge through the gun smoke. In my shock it took me a moment to realise this was the same man who had cursed me from his sedan chair near the Mall. Now he was sprinting towards the carriage, his face wild with rage.
‘Run, damn you!’ he snarled at the driver, who was trying to calm the terrified horses. ‘Run – or by God I’ll shoot you dead!’
The driver almost fell from his perch in terror, sliding to the ground and racing off into the darkness. Two of the footmen ran too, without a backward glance. Only the guard closest to the assailant stood firm – an older man, with a scarred face.
‘For shame,’ he called down. He gestured into the carriage. ‘Would you attack an innocent woman?’
‘Innocent?’ The man with the pistol laughed nastily. ‘She’s a whore. The whole world knows it. Stand aside.’
With a great cry the guard leaped down from the carriage, landing heavily upon the other man. He shoved him to the ground and punched him hard in the stomach.
I sprang forward. By the time I had passed around the horses, the two men were rolling in the mud, punching and tearing at each other in a violent struggle. The horses had begun to rear up in fright, hooves thumping into the ground, knocking the carriage from side to side until the door slammed open. I caught a glimpse of a woman trapped inside, wrapped in a black velvet cloak, her face frozen in terror. As her clear blue eyes met mine, I realised with a jolt that I knew her.
Henrietta Howard. The king’s mistress.
The guard was losing ground. I hesitated, not sure who to help first, then jumped onto the carriage step and held out my hand. Mrs Howard looked at me in a daze.
‘Hurry,’ I said. The horses were whinnying with fear, ready to bolt at any moment. I leaned into the carriage. ‘Madam – please. Your hand!’
She started, as if waking from a nightmare, and slid towards me. As the carriage jolted forward she fell into my arms and I pulled her by the waist to the ground. A second later the horses took off, dragging the carriage behind them at a deadly pace.
I had saved Mrs Howard at the expense of her guard, who was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and swaying on his feet. He lifted his fists, but there was no strength in him. His attacker struck out with one last, fearsome punch and the guard thudded to the earth. He didn’t move again.
Mrs Howard put her hands to her mouth. ‘No,’ she said, softly.
The man heard her and grinned, full red lips gaping wide. He looked half-mad, eyes gleaming with excitement. In the confusion of the attack, I had thought he must be a highwayman, but now I was not so sure. Highwaymen did not travel by sedan chair. From his clothes I thought he must
be a nobleman, but he had an old rake’s face, blotchy and ruined by years of debauchery. There was blood pouring from his temple down his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice it. Too drunk, no doubt – but my God he was fierce with it. He gave the guard a vicious kick to the ribs then staggered back, panting hard.
A cloud drifted apart and the moon shone bright, flooding us in silver light. Something gleamed bright by the man’s boot, a glint of metal. The breath caught in my throat. The pistol. I drew my sword and prayed to God he didn’t look down.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he slurred.
‘Nobody. I heard shouts.’
‘Well, Sir Nobody. That whimpering bitch belongs to me.’ Mrs Howard gave a low sob and he leered at her. ‘What – did you think you were free of me, slut? Did you think you were safe?’ He laughed. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten paces.
Mrs Howard gripped my arm. She was shaking with fear. ‘Please, sir, I beg you. Don’t let him take me.’
I pushed her behind me.
In a flash he was on me, knocking me down and dashing the blade from my hand. He was fearsome strong, despite his age and the drink – and he knew how to fight. I kicked out in panic, but he swung his fist hard, catching my jaw. My head smacked against the ground and my vision blurred. I slumped back, stunned, as the world spun about me.
In an instant he had pounced on me, fingers tearing at my throat. I grabbed his wrists and tried to struggle free, but he was too strong. I thought of the guard lying a few feet away, knocked senseless but alive. I might not be so lucky.
The man let go of my throat, raising his fist for another blow. This was my chance. I pushed up with all my strength, twisting and kicking at him in a fury. There was no grace or strategy to my blows, but I was bigger than him, half his age, and sober. As we rolled in the mud, my hand hit something hard. The pistol. I snatched it and aimed the muzzle at his head, pinning him to the ground with my free arm.
He fell still, staring at the barrel pointed an inch above his face. Then smiled. ‘There’s no powder.’
He was right – there’d been no time to reload it. I turned it around in my palm, felt the heft of it. Then I raised it high and slammed it against his temple. He gave a grunt of pain, and lay still.
I staggered to my feet, reeling. My jaw throbbed and I could feel blood seeping from my throat where his nails had torn into my skin. ‘Mrs Howard,’ I called out into the night. ‘My lady?’
But she’d vanished.
Chapter Five
The house was dark and empty when I returned home. I heated a pan of mulled wine over the fire in my chamber, breathing in the warm, soothing scent of cloves and nutmeg.
I had been in a shocked stupor on my walk home, lurching through the streets in a daze. Now, as I collapsed into a chair by the fire, I realised how close I’d come to losing my life. I pulled off my wig and loosened my cravat. My left cheek was badly swollen and my jaw was throbbing so hard that I could only take tiny sips of wine. It did not seem broken, but I could tell it would take days to heal. So much for the thrill of adventure, Hawkins – you damned fool.
What the devil had happened? The ferocity and speed of the attack had left me reeling. I had seen men strip to the waist in the street to fight over some imagined slight. I’d been beaten and chained to a wall in gaol. I’d survived a riot, for heaven’s sake. But I had never seen a man rage so far out of control and so fast. He was like a fighting dog, driven into a frenzy by a lust for blood. Could Mrs Howard have inspired such madness? Or was he cursed with an endless fury, always ready to leap into battle? Considering the way he’d spat and sworn at me from his sedan I guessed it was the latter. Either way, I prayed to God I never encountered the brute again.
As for Mrs Howard, who would blame her for running back to the safety of the palace? Whatever her present troubles, her lover could protect her far better than I. He was the king, damn it! I was glad to have saved her tonight, but I wanted no more part in such a dark intrigue. Court politics, James Fleet, and a raving mad man with a pistol? No, thank you, indeed.
I closed my eyes, exhausted now the danger had passed and my blood had cooled. I drifted into a fitful sleep, still sitting in the chair . . . and woke in darkness. The fire had burned out. Voices drifted from the shop downstairs, snatches of laughter. I pulled myself slowly to my feet. Kitty was singing a ballad – loudly and somewhat off-key. A man begged her to spare his ears, and then they both laughed.
A shard of jealousy pierced my heart. It was John Eliot; I recognised his voice at once. Old, blissfully married, and round as a football. But still, he was alone with Kitty. I stole down the stairs, listening to their conversation. It was nothing – idle talk about the play and the devilish annoying people in the seats around them. I stood by the door and tortured myself for a few moments, even so. How could she sound so cheerful, when we had argued so badly just hours before? Did she not know that I had almost died tonight? That she could have come home to discover she had lost me for ever? Well, no. She did not know that, Tom. In fact you refused to tell her where you were going, if you recall.
Feeling somewhat foolish, I nudged open the door and bade them both a good evening.
‘Ah! Hawkins!’ Eliot exclaimed, rising to his feet and smiling warmly. They were seated at the table with a bottle of wine between them, lit only by a solitary candle.
‘So,’ Kitty said in a flat voice without turning around. ‘You are home.’ As if she did not care tuppence.
I took Eliot’s outstretched hand.
‘Brought her back for you, Hawkins,’ he said cheerfully, then lowered his voice. ‘She was in half a mind to stay with us tonight . . . Good God!’ He squinted at me. ‘What’s wrong with your face, man?’
‘What’s this?’ Kitty scraped back her chair, then gasped in shock. ‘Tom!’ she cried, pushing Eliot aside and dragging me towards the candlelight. ‘Is that blood?’ She touched my cravat, saw the deep gouges beneath. ‘Oh . . . You’re hurt . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ I sighed, secretly delighted.
‘Sam!’ she called and a dark figure released itself from the shadows. I had not even seen him hiding there. ‘Run across to Mrs Jenkins and fetch some ice. She took a load this morning.’ She pushed him from the room and ran half up the stairs. ‘Jenny!’ she yelled, in a voice that must have woken every Jenny in a five-mile radius. ‘Wake up! Mr Hawkins is hurt!’
A few minutes later I was settled on a low couch while Kitty washed the wounds at my throat with a scalding mix of brandy and hot water. I winced and gestured to the bowl. ‘Could I not drink that instead? It looks . . . medicinal.’
‘You’re filthy,’ she said, dabbing hard at one of the deeper cuts. ‘Have you been rolling around in the mud?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I was attacked in St James’s Park.’
Kitty’s brows rose sharply. ‘A highwayman?’
‘I’m not sure what he was. A mad man, perhaps.’
She nodded and continued tending my wounds. After a little while, she said, ‘I am a good, patient soul, am I not, Mr Eliot?’
Eliot had returned to the table, a glass of claret balanced on his fat belly. ‘A saint,’ he agreed.
‘Because I do know how you hate to be nagged, Tom. And of course I am not your wife, so it is not my place to ask, “and what took you to the park so late?” or “who did you expect to meet there?” It would be most indelicate of me to suggest that perhaps you should have taken me to the damned play this evening instead, as you bloody well promised. Gah!’ She scrubbed at a spot on my jaw. ‘Damn it. This dirt won’t come off.’
‘I think it’s a bruise,’ I said, weakly.
‘Oh. So it is.’ She stopped scrubbing. Touched her lips to it.
‘Kitty . . .’
‘This was James Fleet’s work, wasn’t it?’
I gave a small, grunt, admitting nothing.
‘It’s no great puzzle,’ Eliot called from the table. ‘Kitty mentioned your visit this afte
rnoon . . .’
‘ . . . and then – all of a sudden – you had a secret, unexpected meeting,’ Kitty finished. She cupped a hand to my swollen jaw and held it there lightly. ‘Tom. Tell me this. Is it finished with?’
‘Yes,’ I said, without hesitation.
‘And you promise you won’t work for that bastard again?’
‘Never.’
She reached over and hugged me close, hiding her tenderness in a grip that half-crushed my ribs. ‘Well then,’ she said, when she was done injuring me. ‘You are forgiven. Are you not the luckiest dog alive?’
Sam materialised, and dropped a packet of ice in my lap. I shrieked an oath.
‘Mrs Jenkins wants sixpence.’
‘Cow,’ Kitty muttered.
‘Did you enjoy the play, Sam?’ I asked, once I’d recovered.
Sam shook his head, curls flying.
‘Oh!’ Eliot and Kitty protested together.
‘It was made up,’ Sam shrugged. ‘Don’t see the point of it.’
‘What was the play?’
‘The Beggar’s Opera,’ Kitty answered for him, when it became clear that Sam did not know and did not care. ‘We’ve been talking about it for weeks, Tom.’
‘Oh . . .!’ I said, crestfallen. ‘I was longing to see that.’
Kitty muttered something under her breath.
Eliot slapped his hands upon the table and pushed himself up from his chair. ‘I’m sure it will run for weeks. Anything that rude about parliament is sure to be a success.’
‘Was it not about a gang of thieves . . .? Ah.’
The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins Page 5
