‘The army’s all he’s fit for,’ he muttered in a low, angry voice. ‘There’s bad blood on that side of the family. He was scarcely out of infancy when his mother fled to Europe with her lover, some lowly serving man. Since then, Marcus Forrester has shown a dangerous instability. I never thought to see him return alive from the war in America.’
‘No,’ put in Viscount Lindsay rather maliciously. ‘I bet you didn’t, Corbridge. Seems as if young Marcus has found out, too, exactly what you’ve been up to while he’s been away with his precious old godfather and that rather splendid estate at Lornings. All in all, it’s rather damned bad luck for you that he’s returned at all, isn’t it? Alive and well and primed for action, it seems.’
Lord Sebastian Corbridge was silent. But his slender white hand, which glittered with jewelled rings, twisted in some agitation around the stem of his glass.
Outside the sepia clouds still surged menacingly overhead, and the pavements glinted with puddles in the yellow light of the street lamps as Hal and Marcus proceeded on foot towards the Strand. But at least the rain had ceased; and the citizens of London were heading out again for the gaming clubs of St James’s, or the colourful taverns and theatres beyond Leicester Fields. Hal Beauchamp—as fair as Marcus was dark, with a slighter build, and an open, sunny countenance—was cheerfully extolling the merits of the dining parlour at the Bull’s Head. They’ll set us up with some excellent victuals, Marcus!’ he promised. The claret’s first rate as well, I assure you. And then we could go on somewhere for a decent game of hazard—’
‘No! No gaming.’ Marcus’s vivid, handsome face, which had relaxed in the company of his friend, was suddenly serious once more. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever cast the dice again, Hal.’
Hal Beauchamp pulled a droll expression. He was dressed as usual in the most expensive, if discreet of styles; his long greatcoat that swept almost to the ground was exquisitely tailored, and his beaver hat and shining top-boots bore evidence of the tender care of a skilful valet. ‘Oh dear, oh dear me,’ he sighed. ‘It’s the end of the world indeed if Major Marcus Forrester renounces the fine art. What would your devoted soldiers say? Remember the game of hazard we had in camp, just before the raid on Wilmington last year? The enemy were all around, and you were saying, “One more throw, gentlemen. Just one more throw. I feel that my luck is in…”’
Marcus laughed, but his eyes were bleak. ‘It hasn’t been in lately, Hal.’
‘No.’ His friend’s expression softened. ‘I heard about your injury, at the siege of Savannah. Do you have somewhere to stay in London?’
Marcus shook his head. ‘Not yet. The army pensions office offered me some tedious post in recruitment with lodgings all in, but I refused. And I haven’t started looking for anywhere else yet. I just wanted to find Corbridge.’
‘And kill him? So I must assume you were planning on sleeping in Newgate gaol tonight,’ said Hal lightly as they jostled their way through the crowds that thronged Haymarket. ‘I have a better suggestion. Come and stay with Caroline and me, in Portman Square. Far more comfortable than Newgate, I assure you.’
Marcus struggled, then smiled. It was very difficult not to smile when Hal was around. They’d been at Oxford together, then the army; they’d shared good times and bad. But now they were both out of the war; Hal because his only sister, who had been recently widowed, needed him at home; and Marcus because of a rebel’s musketball through his thigh.
‘ You are more than kind,’ said Marcus, turning to face his friend. ‘But your sister—I would be imposing, surely?’
‘Not at all, dear fellow. She always had a soft spot for you. And your injured leg will give her something to fuss over.’ Hal hesitated. ‘I heard, you know, about your godfather Sir Roderick and the business with Corbridge. It must have come as a blow to you. The loss of your inheritance, the decline in your prospects…’
Marcus said quietly, The worst of it, Hal, was seeing what it has done to my godfather. This business has all but finished him off.’
Hal nodded, frowning in sympathy. Then stay with us, while you see what can be done.’
‘I have no wish whatsoever to be in anyone’s debt.’
‘My dear fellow,’ responded Hal swiftly, ‘let’s have no talk of debt. Consider our house your home for as long as you wish.’
And to ensure there could be no further argument, Hal resumed his steady pace along the Strand, where the candlelit shop windows with their displays of millinery and trinkets glittered enticingly. Carriages clattered by, and sedan-bearers pushed through the crowds, their polite calls of ‘By your leave, sir!’ swiftly changing to their usual ripe curses if people failed to move out of their way. Marcus hurried to keep up with his friend’s loping, athletic stride, knowing he shouldn’t have ridden so damned hard for the best part of two days—but what else could he have done other than resolve to take action, any kind of action, once he’d seen the state his gentle, kindly godfather was in?
Sir Roderick Delancey had been a friend and neighbour for as long as Marcus could remember to the Forrester family on their rather ramshackle Gloucestershire estate, and when Marcus’s mother had run off, amidst such disgrace that her husband, a broken and impoverished man, died soon after, Roderick took responsibility for his godson Marcus without hesitation. Not possessing any children himself, Sir Roderick had paid for Marcus’s schooling; and in the vacations Marcus spent long weeks at his godfather’s beautiful country mansion, which he came to regard as his home, his own home having to be sold to cover his father’s debts.
After Oxford, when Marcus set his heart on joining the army, Sir Roderick had offered to buy him a commission in one of the top cavalry units; but Marcus, who had his own kind of pride, refused, and became a captain in a line regiment. He was swiftly promoted, and when his regiment was sent to America to fight under Cornwallis, Sir Roderick continued to write regularly to his godson—but last autumn the letters had stopped.
And now Marcus knew why.
Some day, Marcus had resolved, he would return to active service. But not yet. He had another battle to fight first, on Sir Roderick Delancey’s behalf.
At the corner of Half Moon Alley, a crowd had gathered around a couple of street entertainers who, using a stretch of low wall as their table, were tempting passers-by to bet on which of three upturned cups covered a coin. The first of the pair, a ragged-looking man with a wooden leg, was dextrously switching the cups to allow onlookers tantalising glimpses of the bright coin, while his accomplice, a slim youth wearing a long coat and a cap rather too big for him, was strolling around and drumming up trade in a light, cheerful voice. ‘Roll up, roll up, ladies and gennelmen! Put your penny down, guess which cup hides the sixpence—it’s easy, see?—and win it for yourself! Yes, win a whole, shiny sixpence! Roll up, roll up—’
Then the lively youth broke off, because his sharp eyes had observed what Marcus now saw—a fat member of the Watch huffing and panting towards the pair with his stick raised, and two of his companions coming up behind. ‘Haul them two coves in!’ the watchman roared. ‘They’re thieves and scoundrels, the pair of ‘em!’ The man with the peg-leg had his coin and his little cups thrust deep in his pockets in no time; tucking his wooden limb under his arm, he raced away on two exceedingly sound legs, while, doubtless by prior arrangement, his young companion took off in the opposite direction towards Hal and Marcus, twisting and turning nimbly through the crowds that thronged the pavement. Marcus watched, interested and impressed, as the lad, though caught briefly by the wrist by one of the Charleys, kicked his way free and ran on boldly, his ragged coat flying and his cap crammed
