case we ’as to hide behind it,” Jago had quipped when they’d sat down.
Hawkwood doubted lightning would strike twice in the same place in the space of a few days, but as it was Jago’s home patch he wasn’t going to argue with the former sergeant’s logic. There was no sign of Jasper, Del or Ned, but Micah was there, seated at the table at the top of the stairs, and Hawkwood had to admit to himself that the young man’s quiet presence was surprisingly reassuring.
“Any more Shaughnessys turn up?” he asked.
Jago took a sip from his mug and shook his head. “They have not. I’ve put the word out, but nothing’s come back. With luck, if there were any hangin’ round, they’ve buggered off back to the bogs. Still keepin’ my eyes open, though. Can’t be too careful and I did suggest that if Del or any of the others wanted to take a leak, they should piss in pairs just in case.”
Jago grinned as he topped up Hawkwood’s mug from the bottle by his elbow. “Connie said the Widow knows people and I should warn you to watch your step.”
“Don’t I always?”
Jago snorted. “You expect me to answer that?”
Hawkwood smiled thinly.
“Suit yourself,’ Jago said. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t go talking to any strange women.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, that’s the sole purpose of my visit.”
Jago winked and took a sip from his glass.
“By the way,” Hawkwood said, “in all that excitement, I forgot to ask: did you and Connie ever buy yourselves that carriage?”
“Carriage?” Jago blinked at the sudden change of subject.
“I’ll take that as a no, then. What happened? Before I went away, you were thinking of buying a horse and gig so that you and Connie could ride around Hyde Park and mix with the swells.”
“Ah, that.” Jago stared at him. “Remind me again; how long is it you’ve been gone?”
“Three months.”
“Well, that explains it.”
“You mean there was a change of plan?”
“Not certain there ever was a plan, as such; more like a bloody stupid idea.” The former sergeant smiled ruefully. “Be honest, can you see me and Connie swannin’ round the park in a carriage?”
“Connie, maybe,” Hawkwood said. “Not you.”
“I’ll tell her you said that, she’ll be tickled pink.” Jago frowned. “What made you think about Connie and carriages?”
Hawkwood did not reply.
“What, you getting maudlin in your old age?” Jago asked. Then his chin lifted. “Ah, don’t tell me; you and Maddie had words? Is that it?” Jago nodded to himself as if everything had suddenly been made clear, then tilted his head enquiringly. “What’d she say when you got back?”
“Not a hell of a lot,” Hawkwood said.
Maddie was Maddie Teague, landlady of the Blackbird tavern. Three months before, when Hawkwood had been preparing to leave for France with no expectation of an imminent return, Maddie had asked him if she should keep his room. Her green eyes had transfixed him when she’d posed the question. She’d tried to make light of her enquiry, telling him it had been made in jest, but he’d read the concern in her face and her genuine fear for his safety.
Hawkwood had smiled and told her that she should keep the room, but they’d both known there was no guarantee that he’d make it back. Despite that, there had been no whispered endearments, no lingering embrace. Instead, Maddie had stepped close and tapped his chest with her closed fist before resting her palm across his cheek. She had then asked him how long she should wait for news.
“You’ll know,” Hawkwood had told her.
“Then don’t expect me to cry myself to sleep,” she’d retorted, but she had not been able to hide the catch in her voice.
It had been a cold and damp morning when the mail coach deposited Hawkwood at the Saracen’s Head in Snow Hill. The 270-mile journey from Falmouth had taken four days. If he’d travelled by regular means it would have taken a week. It was the same route by which the news of Nelson’s death at Trafalgar had been conveyed to the Admiralty by Lieutenant Lapenotière, commander of the schooner HMS Pickle; or so Hawkwood had been informed by the clerk at the Falmouth coaching office. Lapenotière had supposedly made the journey by post-chaise in thirty-eight hours. Having no urgent dispatches to deliver, Hawkwood had been forced to settle for a slower ride. When he alighted from the un-sprung coach for the last time, it had felt as if his back had been stretched by the Inquisition. He wondered if Lapenotière had suffered from the same discomfort.
The Blackbird lay in a quiet mews off Water Lane, a stone’s lob from the Inner Temple. It was a short walk from the Saracen’s Head and the route had taken him down through the Fleet Market. It had felt strange, making his way past the shops and stalls, because even at that hour of the day they were crowded and after being surrounded by wide open seas and even wider skies during the crossing from America, the hustle and bustle of London’s congested streets, while instantly familiar, had come as something of a shock, as had the smells. After the clean air of New York State’s lakes and mountains and the bracing bite of the North Atlantic winds, he’d forgotten how much the city reeked. At the same time, it felt as though he’d never been away.
The Blackbird’s door had been open, in readiness for the breakfast trade. Maddie’s back had been to him. Her auburn hair tied in place with a blue ribbon, she’d been directing the serving girls as they’d flitted between the tables and the kitchen, taking and delivering orders. Hawkwood had waited until Maddie was alone before he’d enquired from behind with a weary voice if there were any rooms to be had. Maddie had turned to answer, whereupon her breath had caught in her throat and her eyes had widened.
The sound of her palm whipping across his left cheek had been almost as loud as a pistol shot. Breakfast diners within range had looked up and gaped; more than a few had grinned.
Hawkwood hadn’t moved as the burning sensation spread across his face.
Maddie Teague had stared up at him, her eyes blazing. Then, as quickly as it had flared, the anger left her and her face had softened.
“You could have written,” she said.
“On the bright side,” Jago said, chuckling. “She could’ve been carryin’ a bowl of hot broth or a carvin’ knife.”
“Lucky for me,” Hawkwood said.
“You made up, though, right? She didn’t stay mad?”
“No,” Hawkwood conceded. “She didn’t.”
“There you go then.” There was a pause before Jago added, “She asked if I’d heard from you.”
Hawkwood stared at him. “She never mentioned that.”
“Sent me a message.
