For Our Liberty (19 page)

“I apologise,” I said. “I did not mean any offence, but consider things from my perspective. I have been shot at, chased across France and betrayed. It does not cheer me to find out that I was merely a small cog in a larger intrigue.”

“My dear Blackthorne, isn’t that all any of us are?”

“Perhaps, but I do not have to like it.”

“Good, a desire to see the wider ebb and flow of events is an asset in this profession.”

“You mentioned my father earlier. What part did he play?” I didn’t relish discussing my father but if I was to confront him about once again meddling in my life I thought that I had better know the facts of the matter. I let my anger bubble beneath the surface for now; relations between myself and my long absent father were no one’s business but my own. I promised myself he would feel my wrath later. He could not involve himself in my life only when it suited him. Brooke must have sensed something though because he chose his words with even more caution.

“We met at Almacks, and he mentioned your name and the fact that you were in Paris. He was concerned lest war break out again and you should be arrested. I asked his opinion of your character and upon his quite flattering reply I began to think that you might be suitable for what I had in mind. I made my own enquiries about you and decided to put the matter to your father. I believe that his Lordship said that the experience would do you good.”

“In future I would appreciate it if you did not discuss me with him.” I did my best to control my voice. If anything annoyed me more than my father interfering with my life when I was quite capable of frittering it away on my own it was my father being right.

“As you wish. There is one matter that I would like you to consider though.”

“Which is?”

“Working for the Alien Office on a more permanent basis.”

“Perchance I have been in France too long and have become unused to the English sense of humour. Are you in earnest?” I asked and, for the second time that day, laughed and then regretted it.

“Quite,” he said.

“Why do you think that after escaping from France with my skin barely intact I would volunteer for more of the same? Why do you think I would want to be a spy?”

“Because I think you are good at it. Because I think that you enjoy it.”

“You really do think that I’m a gullible fool. I intend to rejoin my regiment,” I said. I hadn’t up until that moment but it sounded good when I said it. I’d had enough of Brooke and his intrigues. I could exchange my commission for one in the militia regiments and never leave England’s shores again. I was exhausted and I had no appetite for any more adventure, intrigue or danger.

“I don’t really think that the strictures of the military life sit easily with you.” Brooke took out his watch and flicked it open. “You must forgive me but I have another appointment. Please consider what I have said.”

“I will.” I said, not intending to at all. I didn’t know for sure what I was going to do with my life but it did not include a badly paid job as a government agent, especially if my damn father was in favour of the idea. Brooke shook my hand again and showed me to the door.

“Thank you again, Mr Blackthorne. I wish you well.”

“There is just one thing you can tell me. What was the name of the girl that I woke up with that morning?”

“I think that ladies appreciate discretion above all else, especially one of the former French aristocracy. Shall we just leave it at that?” Henry Brooke said as he smiled and closed the door.

As I said, in the first chapter of this volume, I never did find out her name.
 

The line of émigrés had gone. I stood alone on the doorstep to the Alien Office, wondering what to do and where to go. As a rule I have often wanted to get drunk but have seldom needed to get drunk. That evening was one of those exceptions. I had a thirst for something stronger than Madeira.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The One Tun Tavern in Jermyn Street had the benefit of only being a short walk away, and having one of the few landlords that hadn’t at one time or another seen fit to show me the door. It was also known for its popularity with the sporting fraternity, or The Fancy as they preferred to be known. Now I had never been a member of The Fancy, I never had the cash to bet the sums that the gentry did for one thing, and also had never acquired the taste for watching two men bludgeon each other to death. A good game of cards was a much more civilised way to rob some poor dim-witted tulip of his money and if there was a thing you could always count on in the One Tun it was finding some idiot up from the country with a wad he wanted to lose.
 

As soon as I walked in a part of me felt at home; the sawdust on the floor congealed with a week’s worth of spillages, the fug of tobacco smoke hiding the ceiling, and the smell of sweat, beer and vomit was offensive only for a moment until I once again became acclimatised to the atmosphere of a true London tavern. There were a few faces I recognised but fortunately few who recognised me. The celebrated pedestrian Captain Barclay sat with a gaggle of cronies singing sporting songs and doing their best to drink the place dry. This was some years before Barclay’s famous wager of a thousand miles in a thousand hours for a thousand Guineas but even so, his fame was already such that there was always a small crowd around his table.
 

I fought my way to the bar and nodded to the landlord, Bill War, a former pugilist who bore the scars of his trade.

“Hello Bill. Brandy if you please,” I said.

“Well, well, Mr Blackthorne. It’s been a while,” he said, looking around the tavern behind me. I knew who he was looking for and I had checked when I came in that I didn’t owe anybody there a penny.

“Just got back from France,” I said.

“Happen to bring any gelt with you Mr Blackthorne?” he said, his west-country accent broader than I remembered.

“Don’t worry Bill, I’m in funds,” I reassured him, waving the cheque beneath his misshapen nose. He looked at it doubtfully before finally agreeing to pour me my drink. I thanked him and turned to look at the punters in the tavern, like an eagle looking for its prey. I spotted mine in an instant. He was on the edge of Barclay’s crowd, standing up, sipping his drink slowly, laughing at jokes a moment after everyone else and mumbling the words of the songs. He did not belong there. I walked over and started chatting to him. I could patter the flash as well as one of The Fancy and after a couple of glasses we sat at a table near the back and I borrowed a deck of cards from Bill. He handed them over with a look that said that he would brook no trouble in his tavern and I got the message that any cheating would be severely dealt with. Which was fine with me, I knew I wouldn’t have to cheat, or at least not so much that there was a chance of me being caught.

I returned to the table after suitable protestations of intending to play an honest game. We played whist and the wagers on the hands were small at first, and I let him win. I didn’t cheat. I just didn’t play my best. His confidence increased and when I had him hooked I raised the stakes and after a couple more hands my poor victim was handing over his purse. He could afford it, his father owned half of Norfolk, and so I saw it as merely another form of taxation on the rich, one that went far more directly to the needy.

I left the casualty to whimper home and went over to the bar to talk with Bill. I asked for another brandy and as Bill handed it to me he bid me to lean closer to him.

“Mr Blackthorne, it be none of my business but Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett have heard that you are back in town. I would not be quite so sociable if I were you.” He wandered off, polishing a glass as he went and my blood turned to ice.

Messrs Oldfield and Bennet were the proprietors of one of the less salubrious gambling hells I used to frequent in Bury Street. The two of them had a personal as well as business relationship, if you know what I mean. Their predilection led many to suppose that they were a soft touch but I had learnt to my cost that they were not gentlemen to cross. The tender ministrations of one of their lackeys had been instrumental in my flight across the Channel. I had hoped they might have forgotten the seventy guineas that I owed them, but apparently not. I looked around the tavern again, this time as the hunted rather than the hunter and I decided it had better not be long before I left. Oldfield and Bennett must have eyes everywhere to know so quickly that I was back in town. Needless to say I had another couple of drinks, promising to myself that each brandy would be my last.

I supped the ball of fire and earwigged on the conversations around me. The buzz was much the same as in the Crown & Anchor; would the French come? Only in the One Tun the discussion was more about odds than strategy. I struck up a conversation with a girl who I had seen in there before and just kept on knocking back the brandy until I was well foxed and the money I had won ran out. I thanked Bill and left unsteadily. The cool air outside sobered me up, slightly, and I wove my way across Piccadilly in the direction of Golden Square, looking over my shoulder as I went.

My darling sister Lucy had a house in said square and was about the only one who would take me in, she was also more than used to me turning up at her door well above par. Golden Square in those days was not the fashionable address it had been, but nor was it full of foreigners as it is now. Rather, where it had been the home of Earls and Dukes before Mayfair drew the Ton away, it was currently home to their mistresses. The now infamous Mrs Jordan, long time mistress of the Duke of Clarence, the late King William IV of course, and mother of ten of his children lived at number 30. My own dear Lucy lived just around the corner. Golden Square was close enough to both St James’s and Mayfair to enable the rich suitors of my sister to pop in and enjoy the hospitality of the house they were paying for.

Now, let me be honest dear reader, my sister was not a paragon of virtue; like me she could not afford to be. She was, in the common parlance of the day, a demi-rep. She was a courtesan whose virtue, if not for sale, was open to negotiation. She lived by her wits and by her beauty, and she had plenty of both. I often felt quite sorry for the poor coves that became ensnared in the web-like intrigues of her romances but in her dazzling company and warmth they more than got their money’s worth. Besides I am in no position to judge her morals, and the very kindness of her soul, I think, will ensure her a place in heaven whilst I will, no doubt, will be somewhere a tad warmer. What’s more, society looked far kinder on her type before Harriet Wilson began to publish her memoirs and blackmail her former lovers, my old chief the Iron Duke amongst them, and before the icy winds of German morals blew in from over the North Sea with the accession of our dear Queen.

Now, where was I? Stumbling up to my sister’s door as I recall. I rang the bell and slumped against the railings, fighting the urge to flash the hash on the well-scrubbed steps. I waited for only a few moments before the door opened. The maid screamed as I fell across the threshold. I stood up and announced myself, shouting for Lucy. It must have been later than I thought because the house was dark until I saw the light of a candle spiralling down the elegant staircase. It was Lucy, looking like a ghost in pale grey silk, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. She was berating the maid for the noise and then she saw that it was me. She stopped and screamed my name and jumped the last few steps into my arms, splashing me with hot wax and singeing my hair with the candle.

“Ben! I can’t believe it’s you. Oh God, Ben. I thought you were dead or locked up by Bonaparte or something!” She was crying and I dare say my own eyes weren’t entirely dry.

“Lucy, my dear Lucy. You can always count on me coming back,” I said as I embraced her.

“Only when you are drunk or up tick river again. Which is it this time?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Both,” I admitted.

The next thing I remember it was morning, or at least the next day. The strength of the sun burning my eyes as Lucy opened the drapes led me to suspect that noon had been and gone. My mouth was dry and the sour feeling in my stomach had returned. I groaned. Not because of the pain, although my head was pounding, but because I had remembered the night before. I think a man who has vowed to better himself needs at least one final relapse to remind himself of just how debased he can get. I struggled to recall the name of the poor country lad I had fleeced. I attempted to recollect just how much I had drunk. I failed on both counts and contented myself to feeling guilty and ashamed. I groaned again. I couldn’t help but think what Dominique would have said if she had observed me in the Tun; she wouldn’t have cared to know me I felt sure.

Lucy came and sat on the side of my bed and handed me a glass of Hock and soda. She was a good girl and knew not to speak until the restorative had begun to take effect. The room was elegantly decorated in shades of forest green, the sheets crisp and expensive and the furniture smelling of freshly applied beeswax. Lucy had obviously spent the last year far more profitably than me I thought as I put the empty glass on the bedside table and looked up into her kind cow eyes. Her hair was in tight ringlets and she wore a simple muslin dress in a pale cream that complimented her complexion.

“Hello, sister.”

“Hello, brother. Do you feel as bad as you deserve to?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it,” she said as she straightened the covers in a motherly manner.

“You’re probably right,” I admitted.