Zulu Hart (6 page)

George followed Andrews up one side of the sweeping double staircase to a charming set of rooms: a bedroom complete with four-poster bed, a bathroom and even a dressing room, and all with magnificent views of parkland studded with oaks. As Andrews was leaving, George asked him if he knew the identity of the other houseguests.

‘I know that Lord and Lady Fitzmaurice are expected,’ said Andrews. ‘Also Captain Bell, Colonel Alexander of the

Seventeenth Lancers and a young
lady
called Mrs Bradbury. She’s in the suite next to yours.’

As George lay in a bath so hot it reddened his skin, he tried to remember where he had heard the name Mrs Bradbury. Then it came to him. She was the beautiful young widow who had only been married six months when her Old Harrovian husband, a captain in the Royal Artillery, was killed in battle during General Wolseley’s victorious war against the Ashanti of the Gold Coast in ‘74. It had been the talk of the school. It was a bit odd, he thought, for a widow to be staying with a man like Harris, a committed bachelor with a reputation as a ladies’ man. Then again, with a rake like the Prince of Wales setting the social agenda, what could you expect?

He entered the bedroom, with only a towel wrapped round his waist, to find a young
chambermaid
unpacking his clothes. She did not notice George at first, giving him a chance to admire a curvaceous figure that not even her drab black uniform and white apron could disguise.

‘What’s your name?’ asked George, as he reached for his Paisley pattern dressing gown.

The girl jumped at the sound of his voice and turned. She was extremely handsome, with green eyes and alabaster skin, her lovely oval face framed by a few wisps of curly chestnut hair that had escaped from her white cap. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ she said, bobbing. ‘My name’s Lucy Hawkins.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Lucy Hawkins.
Where are you from?’

‘Devon, sir.’

‘And your family?
What do they do?’

‘My father’s a farrier and my mother’s in service, as are my two sisters.’

George nodded, desperately trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going, and prevent this vision of loveliness from leaving. ‘How old are you?’ he said at last.

‘Eighteen, sir.’

‘Same age as me.
Oh, and don’t call me sir. My name’s George, George Hart.’

‘I know, sir. We’re given a list of all the guests’ names.’

‘Of course you are. Tell me, Lucy, do you enjoy working for Colonel Harris?’

The girl raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s an odd question. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, no reason in particular.
It’s just that most of the officers serving under the colonel, myself included, find him a little temperamental.’

‘Cornet Hart, I appreciate your condescension, but I really don’t think it’s my place to discuss my employer with a man I’ve never met, even one as affable as you.’

George chuckled. The girl obviously had beauty, spirit
and
vocabulary, a dangerous combination. ‘Thank you for the compliment, and please accept my apologies. Of course you mustn’t indulge in tittle-tattle about your master. Whatever next? But I think I can surmise, even from your guarded response, that the colonel has his moments.’

‘You can surmise what you like,’ said Lucy, as she hung George’s smoking jacket in the wardrobe. ‘I prefer to hold my tongue.’

‘Clever girl.
You’ll go far,’ said George, laughing. ‘Don’t bother with the rest,’ he said, gesturing towards his clothes. ‘But if I need you later, will you be available?’

‘I’m on duty all night, sir. Just ring the bell by the bed.’

‘I’ll do that. Thank you.’

George had never been shy around women. He knew they found him attractive, and some of the young
ladies
he had met while at Sandhurst had all but thrown themselves at him. And yet his only two sexual partners to date had been a kitchen girl at Harrow and a Haymarket prostitute. He often asked himself why. And the best answer he could give was that he feared awkward questions about his background; the
sort of questions that lower-class girls like Lucy were
unlikely to ask. He was intrigued by Mrs Bradbury, though, and looked forward to meeting her. It promised to be quite an evening.

With seven fast approaching, he dressed hurriedly in black evening dress and white bow tie, and made it to the drawing room before the clock struck the quarter-hour. It was a high- ceilinged, beautifully proportioned room with heavy silk drapes covering three picture windows that overlooked the front and side of the house. The furniture was Louis XVI, as was the large crystal chandelier that dominated the centre of the room.

‘Ah, Hart,’ said Harris, catching sight of George, ‘come and meet the other guests.’

They were grouped in a small knot around the large Adam fireplace, some on sofas, others standing. Harris himself was leaning against the mantelpiece, a glass of champagne in his hand. Addressing the group, he said, ‘I would like to present Cornet George Hart, the newest member of my officers’ mess.’

Harris then introduced George to each guest in turn. ‘Of course you know Bell,’ he said of the penultimate guest. ‘And, last but not least, Mrs Bradbury.’ A pretty
blonde
gazed up from the sofa, her eyebrows rising ever so slightly. She was wearing a low-cut dinner dress of pale blue satin that matched her eyes, offset by a train of ruby velvet. Her hair she wore up in a chignon, with the odd ringlet falling to the nape of her neck. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cornet Hart,’ she said, extending a shapely hand in George’s direction.

‘The pleasure,’ said George, admiring her upturned nose, ‘is all mine.’

At dinner George was seated next to Mrs Bradbury on one side and Lady Fitzmaurice, a portly matron, on the other. He talked to her ladyship for the first course, and then turned and monopolized Mrs Bradbury. Her name, he discovered, was Sarah. She came from a respectable northeast farming family and had married at the age of seventeen in 1873, which meant she was only four years George’s senior. Her late husband had not been wealthy, and after his death she had found work as a governess for Lady Charlton’s children, at whose house she had met Colonel Harris. The colonel had been ‘very kind’, she told George, who thought it best not to enquire further. But one thing was obvious: she could not have afforded her dress on a governess’s salary.

After the
ladies
had retired, port and cigars were brought out and the conversation eventually turned to cards. ‘Fancy a game of baccarat later, gentlemen?’ asked Harris.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Lord Fitzmaurice, a large florid- faced man. Colonel Alexander and Captain Bell also assented.

‘What about you, Hart?’ asked Harris, a smile on his lips.

‘I can’t say I’ve ever played baccarat, sir. We preferred chemin de fer at Sandhurst.’

‘There’s very little difference. You’re still aiming for a
points
total of nine, preferably in two cards, but in baccarat the banker deals three hands rather than two. Other than that the rules are virtually the same. Interested?’

George hesitated. ‘The thing is
,
I lost rather a lot of money gambling …’

‘If you’re worried, we’ll keep the stakes low,’ Harris said. ‘How about a maximum bet of a guinea?’

‘All right by me,’ said Lord Fitzmaurice.

They both looked at George. He was desperate to say yes, not least because he loved gambling, and did not want Harris to think him priggish, not now they were getting on so well. Yet since the bombshell about his father and the stopping of his allowance, he could not afford to risk even a few pounds. Then again, what if he won? The money would certainly come in handy. He was in a dilemma. ‘Perhaps I could watch the first few hands, and maybe join in later?’ he said without conviction.

‘Look, Hart,’ said an exasperated Harris, ‘if money’s a bit tight, I’m happy to lend you some.’

‘I appreciate the offer, sir, but I’d prefer not to get into debt.’

‘Suit yourself. Well,
gentlemen
, I think we’ve kept the ladies waiting long enough. Shall we?’

George cut a tormented figure as he followed his host to the drawing room. He knew his refusal to play had disappointed Harris, and he feared the consequences; but he also knew that gambling was a pleasure he no longer had the means to indulge.

‘You look pensive,’ said Mrs Bradbury, as he approached the fireplace.
‘Penny for your thoughts?’

‘The colonel’s suggested a game of baccarat. Most times I’d jump at the chance, but I thought it best to decline.’

‘Why?’

George sat down next to her. ‘Let’s just say,’ he said with a smile, ‘I haven’t always enjoyed the greatest fortune at cards.’

‘So you’ve lost money. Everyone does. The good news is your luck’s about to change.’

‘Really,’ said George. ‘How can you be certain?’

‘Because / always win at cards, and I’ll be your lucky charm.’

‘I’d love to take up your offer, but I have to confess I’m a little out of pocket this month.’

‘It happens to us all! Tell you what,’ said Mrs Bradbury, grinning.
‘I’ll bankroll your first ten pounds’ worth of losses.
I can’t say fairer than that.’

‘I can’t let you do that.’

‘You can and you will,’ she said, grasping George’s hands in hers. ‘Sir Jocelyn won’t let ladies play on their own, so you’re my only hope.’

George looked up into the roundest, brightest pair of blue eyes he had seen. They seemed to be imploring him to say yes. The effect of that look, allied to Mrs Bradbury’s subtle perfume and sensual touch, was utterly bewitching. All thought of placating his mother vanished from his head. How could he say no? ‘You’ve found yourself a partner.’

She had been as good as her word, thought
George,
as yet another hand went his way. He glanced down at his growing pile of chips and estimated his winnings at around £30. And they had only been playing for an hour. If he kept this up, he would be able to move into more salubrious lodgings
and
have a few pounds to spare for his mother. ‘I told you so,’ said a happy Mrs Bradbury, seated on a chair behind his left shoulder.

He smiled back, and wondered for the umpteenth time that evening who he found more appealing, Mrs Bradbury or Lucy. The widow was clearly the more experienced and sophisticated of the two, but Lucy had all the allure and innocence of bright-eyed youth. It was a close call.

‘Sorry to interrupt your pleasant musings, Hart,’ said Harris, tight-lipped. ‘Are you placing a bet on the next hand?’

‘Of course.
How much is the bank’s stake?’

‘Ten shillings, as before.’

‘Well, I’ll match it.’

‘Banco, eh?’ said Captain Bell on George’s left. ‘Probably best to make hay …’

‘What do you mean by that?’ said George, turning.

‘Only that you’ve had a good run. It never lasts.’

‘We’ll see.’

Harris, the banker, dealt three closed hands of two cards each: one to the players on his left, George and Bell; one to the players on his right, Fitzmaurice and Alexander, and one to himself. George looked at his cards: a four and a king. With picture cards scoring zero, his total was four. He needed a five to give him the strongest hand, and only a six to a nine would weaken his hand. The odds were with him, but just to be sure he conferred with Mrs Bradbury, who advised taking another card. ‘
Carte
,’ he said to Harris.

It was a four, giving him a total of eight. He turned to Mrs Bradbury and winked.

Fitzmaurice had a total of five and decided to take another card. It was a nine. ‘Damn,’ he said, realizing his new score of fourteen was rounded down to four.

That just left Harris, who turned over an ace and a five. Should he take another?
he
asked himself. Why not? He revealed another ace. ‘Six,’ he declared.

‘Too good for me,’ said Fitzmaurice, throwing in his cards.

‘But not for me,’ crowed George, showing his cards.

Harris shook his head and handed over two crowns.

And so it continued, with George winning at least two hands out of every three. The only sour note was when Harris queried the size of one of George’s losing bets. ‘I thought your stake was ten shillings?’ said Harris.

‘No, a crown, as you can see.’

‘I could’ve sworn it was more.
Must have been mistaken.’

A few hands later, after yet another win for George, Harris again questioned the amount he had bet. ‘Surely it was half a crown?’

‘You can see that it’s a crown,’ said George, his brow furrowing.

‘It’s a crown
now.”

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Nothing.
Forget it.’

George put Harris’s odd behaviour down to sour grapes and the fact that they’d all consumed a fair amount of champagne, wine, port and brandy during the course of the evening. He had, in any case, other matters on his mind. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, as the clock struck two, ‘I hope you will excuse me. It’s been a long night and I think it’s time to turn in.’