“It’s His Royal Highness’s intention to visit the ship and accompany her on the first part of her journey.”
“To Sheerness?” The Chief Magistrate’s face was a picture of incredulity.
Charles Yorke shook his head again. “Woolwich.”
Hardly an epic voyage of discovery, Hawkwood thought. It sounded as if the Prince was fulfilling one of his many and increasing fantasies. It was well known that His Royal Highness held several delusions above his already exalted station. It was not unheard of for the Prince to dress up as a famous warrior from history – a medieval monarch, even a Chinese mandarin – and relive scenes from a blood-soaked and glorious military career, usually to the acute embarrassment of friends and sycophants who were either too loyal or too afraid to tell him the truth: that his prowess on the battlefield existed only in his own fertile imagination.
No doubt, Hawkwood reflected, the Prince’s trip along the river would metamorphose at a later date into a second Battle of the Nile, with the Prince a veritable hero of the quarterdeck.
The Chief Magistrate fixed the First Sea Lord with a gimlet eye. “And why was my office not informed of this?”
The First Sea Lord shrugged. “Perhaps His Royal Highness did not want to burden you with trivialities.”
“Trivialities?” Read responded sharply. “I would hardly consider the protection of the Prince Regent a triviality.”
Charles Yorke sighed. “This was not perceived to be a civilian matter, Read, and His Royal Highness will not want for protection. A contingent of marines has already been drafted in from the Woolwich yard. He’ll be escorted for the entire journey. There’s no cause for concern.”
“There was no cause for concern,” Read said venomously. “I would submit that circumstances have changed somewhat in light of this new development, wouldn’t you?”
Charles Yorke straightened. “Good grief, man! His Highness will be perfectly safe. He’s only going as far as Woolwich. It’s not the bloody Baltic!”
“You still intend him to go through with the visit?” Read said.
The First Sea Lord gave a tight smile. “It’d take a braver man than me to tell His Royal Highness that his visit’s been cancelled. Word is, he’s already taken delivery of a new uniform from Schweitzer and Davidson. Let’s pray it’s something appropriate and that he doesn’t turn up looking like the Sultan of Ranjipur.” The First Sea Lord lifted a caustic eyebrow. “You know what he’s like.” Adding quickly, “No offence, Colonel. I know you count His Highness as a friend, but sometimes …”
Congreve gave an amused shake of his head and waved a hand. “None taken, my lord.”
Charles Yorke was being surprisingly indiscreet, Hawkwood thought, though he could well understand the First Sea Lord’s apprehension. The Prince was renowned for his flamboyant costumes, often of his own design, incorporating everything from leopard-skin sabretaches to gold epaulettes, all of which bore little resemblance to any recognizable regimental attire.
“Besides,” the First Sea Lord continued, “he’s in no danger, not in the middle of London.” He turned to Dalryde. “However, once the ship reaches the estuary, that is a different matter. I want her captain summoned. And send a signal to the senior officer, Sheerness Dockyard. No, better still, issue a dispatch to all commanders on station in the Thames Estuary. ‘Utmost vigilance to be employed in the defence of all vessels.’ Best to be on the safe side.”
As he gave the order, the First Sea Lord moved briskly to the wall above the fireplace. Affixed to the wall were a dozen rolled charts. He chose one and lifted it down. A space was cleared on the table and the chart was unfurled. Hawkwood saw that it covered the mouth of the Thames from Tilbury eastwards to Harwich, then south to Margate. To Hawkwood, it looked to be a vast area. How could you protect a vessel from something you couldn’t see?
“We can increase patrols,” Yorke said, as if reading Hawkwood’s thoughts. “Lower netting, deploy boats to form a defensive ring, post extra lookouts.”
“Why not warn vessels to head for port?” Hawkwood suggested.
“Certainly not!” The First Sea Lord bristled. “You can’t have the ships of His Majesty’s Navy scurrying for cover like frightened rabbits! No, by God, we’ll face this threat with grit and determination. We’ll show Bonaparte it’s still Britain who rules the waves, not some colonial upstart in an upturned bloody rum cask!”
As the Board Members continued to examine the charts, the Chief Magistrate drew Hawkwood aside. “You see now,” Read murmured, “why it is imperative we track down our highwaymen? We must find out who they were working for.”
“You think French agents?” Hawkwood said.
“Quite possibly. We know full well Bonaparte has spies in England. It’s likely Ramillies’ pursuers in France got word to them. It’s probably how they knew Ramillies was on the coach. It’s vital, therefore, that we run our villains to ground. Likewise, we need to know Runner Warlock’s role in all this. How did the plans come into his possession? The Mandrake connection certainly concerns me. I suggest you make enquiries in that direction, especially as we’ve not yet heard from your underworld friends.”
“There is someone who may be able to help,” Hawkwood said.
“Good,” Read said. The Chief Magistrate glanced towards Yorke’s broad back. His face was neutral. When he turned back to Hawkwood, he kept his voice low. “Do what you have to do. Whatever it takes.”
“Why, Captain Hawkwood! You swore to me you were no longer a soldier, I remember distinctly!” Catherine de Varesne arched an eyebrow in mock reproach before smiling and dropping her gaze suggestively. “Yet, here you are, standing to attention like a grenadier!”
Her hand reached down and Hawkwood winced.
She paused in her caress. Her eyes widened in concern. “Your wound still pains you?”
“You took me by surprise, ma’am,” Hawkwood said, grinning.
The frown lifted and she returned his smile. “In that case, my love,” she murmured softly, “I will be very gentle.” She bent forward and kissed him. While her hand continued with its tender manipulation, her tongue flickered teasingly between his lips. Her dark, cat-like eyes glowed.
They were seated on her bed, close together, hip to thigh. Lit by candlelight, their bodies projected bold silhouettes on to the canopy above.
She moved in closer, her lips soft against his cheek. “Tell me what you would like to do with me, Matthew,” she whispered, still stroking him. “Anything you desire … anything.”
Hawkwood stroked her slender waist and heard her breath catch. She raised her hips, eased herself on to him and lowered herself slowly. She leaned away, pelvis pressed down, head thrown back. Her full breasts lifted provocatively. Hawkwood placed a hand on the base of her spine and pulled her to him. Her arms enfolded him and they began to move as one.
Afterwards, cross-legged among the tangled sheets, they sipped wine. A plate of pear quarters lay on the bed beside them. She had selected the fruit and used the engraved stiletto to core and split the ripe white flesh. Dipping one of the pear segments in the wine, she offered it up to him. Hawkwood bit down, severing the slice in two. She raised the remaining half to her own lips. As she did so, a drop of juice splashed on to her breast. Stemming the watery trickle with the end of her finger, she traced it around her nipple, raised it to her mouth and, in lascivious display, slowly sucked the juice from her skin. At no time did her eyes leave his face.
Hawkwood had arrived at the house an hour before