The Black Hawk

Forty-six

THE SMELL OF A FANCY BALL IN LONDON WAS SWEET wine, sweat, and perfume. In winter, add damp wool to that. It didn’t smell too different from a whorehouse, really.

“I hate seeing her without a gun,” Hawker said.

“Here I thought you didn’t like guns.” Doyle strolled at his side, looking stupid and benign and well-groomed. The quintessence of English aristocrat.

“I don’t. But Justine does.” He followed the lilac silk weaving through the forest of black coats and pastel debutante gowns. That was Owl, with Séverine beside her, working her way around the reception room. “I let her talk me into sending her in with one wing out of commission and no gun. I must be out of my mind.”

“You and the generality of mankind.”

The Pickerings’ ballroom, reception room, all the antechambers, and every damn room in the place was noisy, crowded, and covered with gilt and mirrors. Overheated, over-scented, overdecorated. Pax and Owl searched, dancer by dancer, wallflower by wallflower, looking into every face, trying to spot one sparrow out of the flock.

“She has a knife in her sleeve,” Doyle said. “She’s got another under her dress. She’s been in worse places, with less—so has Sévie, for that matter—and we got five men wandering around, armed to the teeth. I’ve seen pitched battles with less weaponry.”

That was an exaggeration. “It only takes one bullet.”

“Which our Caché is not going to contribute unless she’s stuffed a gun down her titties.” Doyle shook his head. “You’re staring at Justine again. I taught you better than that.”

“I’m keeping track of an operation.”

“You’re staring. This is why I never put a husband and wife in the field together.”

“We’re not married.”

“I don’t put lovers together, either.” Doyle nodded to a man Hawker didn’t know. When they were out of earshot, Doyle murmured, “Richard Shaw, Justice of the Peace, up from the country. Rabid Tory. Probably trying for an introduction to Liverpool.”

Liverpool, the Prime Minister, was standing in an alcove on the far side of the room. Eight or ten men had gathered in close, basking in the glow of power, chatting. A respectful distance cleared around them.

“Castlereagh, Granville, and Melbourne.” Doyle named them.

“Liverpool is knee deep in Whig politicians.”

“Diplomatic business, since it’s Castlereagh. Probably the Prussian tariffs.” Doyle said, “Cummings is busy.”

Lord Cummings had wedged himself into a place on Liverpool’s right hand. He was taller than the other men around Liverpool, gray-haired and distinguished, but he seemed flimsy next to the others.

“Small fish for that pond.” Lordship or no, Cummings wasn’t the equal of the other men in Liverpool’s circle. “He’s talking nineteen to the dozen. I wonder what he’s up to.”

“At a guess, he’s mending bridges. Military Intelligence is unpopular in England. Liverpool’s being criticized in the newspapers, and he doesn’t like it. He’s not cozy with Cummings lately.”

“Who shall blame Liverpool? Let us go trolling for a Caché.”

The ton parted to let them through—diplomats, MPs, bankers and bishops, staid country gentry, the aristocracy of Europe. They moved aside for the boy from the rookeries of St. Giles.

There’d been a time when his greatest ambition was to be a gentleman. Gentlemen—he was sure of this—ate all the sausages and eel pie they wanted. They kept coal fires burning on every grate. They wore silk nightshirts to bed and they pissed in gold chamber pots.

He’d set out to make himself a nob. He’d succeeded. Trouble was, it had stopped being an act years ago. Somebody named Sir Adrian had crawled into his skin and set up housekeeping. The boy from St. Giles wasn’t quite comfortable in there anymore.

“Hawkhurst. I thought you were out of town.”

“Jeremy.” Greet a friend. Shake hands. Promise to talk when they met for cards next week at Mortimer’s house. Walk on.

For all he was a friend, Jeremy knew Sir Adrian. He didn’t know Hawker. In St. Giles, men knew Hawker but not Sir Adrian. Sometimes, it felt like neither half of him was the real one.

“You’re watching her again,” Doyle said.

“I like watching her.” He kept his eye on Owl as she slipped along, inconspicuous, looking at faces. A flock of women milled around her, fluttering, gesturing. Any one of them could be carrying a knife.

For a decade, she’d kept herself alive on battlefields and in back alleys. She was watching her back. He had to believe she could survive one night at the Pickerings.

Besides, Pax was following her, ten paces behind.

He turned away, casual-like, so he didn’t have to notice Mrs. Gaite-Hartwick waving cheerily in his direction. The Gaite-Hartwicks weren’t the only family making it clear they’d overlook any amount of Hawkhurst mysterious origin as long as he owned a snug little manor near Oxford, part of a shipping company, and considerable London property.

Doyle said, “If I were her husband, I’d drink. Let’s get out of the main thoroughfare.”

“Suits me. Looks like Owl’s about finished.”

“Let’s go down and take inventory of the latecomers in the lobby. Terrington party next. Anybody who wasn’t here is going to be there. It’ll be larger than this.”

“Always a silver lining.”

“There’s more of a foreign contingent at the Terringtons’. Our Caché may have gone back to being French.” Doyle narrowed his eyes. “Cummings is whispering in Liverpool’s ear, and they’re both looking this way.”

“Have we done anything to irritate Liverpool in the last little space of time?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Let us hope Cummings is annoying him with the antics of the Yorkshire Luddites. Ah . . . Reams comes this way, being impolite to all the nice old ladies in his path. How very direct the military is.”

Colonel Reams arrived in all the glory of his scarlet coat, dress sword at his side, a big, red-coated slab of aging muscle. He wouldn’t think of himself as a messenger boy, but that was his role. “Liverpool wants to talk to you.”

Reams might as well have capered in triumph. Cummings had something clever planned, and Reams knew what it was. The Prime Minister was involved.

Interesting.

Nothing like walking into a trap to set the blood pumping. Plots and machinations littered the ground like caltrops. The game was in play.

He signaled Pax to move in closer to Owl. “Keep an eye on things,” he told Doyle.

“I’ll keep an eye on you instead.” Doyle slipped a thumb into his fob pocket and turned to be at his side.

Reams blocked the way. “I was told to bring Hawkhurst, not you.”

Doyle didn’t twitch a muscle. He just transformed from a large, indolent gentleman enjoying himself at a party into Lord William Doyle Markham, Viscount Markham, heir to the Earl of Dunmott, cousin, in one degree or other, to everybody important in the room, and married into one of the great aristocratic houses of Europe.

And him . . . he let himself be Sir Adrian Hawkhurst, who was God knew what, from God knew where, but rich, powerful, and at home in this ballroom.

Possibly Reams recalled the reputation for deadliness hovering over the men he confronted.

It was time to behave like an aristocrat. Time to be damn-your-eyes arrogant. He said, “Get the hell out of my way.” He and Doyle walked past Reams like a jackass in uniform didn’t even exist.

They didn’t hurry. Reams got left in their wake anyhow.

Liverpool beckoned when they got close, inviting them in. “Hawkhurst. Markham. Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

“Sir.” The Head of the British Intelligence Service met fairly often with the Prime Minister. So far, they’d dealt well. Liverpool liked to get reports face-to-face. Liked to ask questions. He understood there was just a startling flock of secrets that never got set down on paper.

Nods exchanged all around the circle. He knew these men, some better than others. On every face, he saw the kind of avid curiosity given to carriage wrecks.

The Prime Minister was an amiable man in private, pig-stubborn politically, and nobody’s fool. He was not pleased at the moment, which was likely to be bad news for somebody. His big twitchy eyebrows drew together. “Tell me about these two dead Frenchmen.”

Cummings made placating gestures. “I’m not accusing Hawkhurst. I am entirely convinced of his integrity. I merely raise the question of whether he should temporarily step down from his position until—”

Liverpool interrupted, “I want to hear what he has to say. Well, Hawkhurst?”

Cummings planted his cane on the marble floor, set both hands to the head of it, and gloated in a genteel manner.

Well, well, well. This was the duel. This was facing an enemy, weapons drawn. Him against Cummings. High stakes. He couldn’t grin and rub his hands. Instead, he drew himself up, stiff and offended. “What do you mean, ‘step down?’ ”

Cummings gave an elegant tilt to the cane. “In light of certain allegations that have been brought against you, it would be wisest if the government replaced you with someone outside your—” Cummings didn’t get to finish.

“Tell me about the dead men,” Liverpool said.

The Head of the British Service played political games as well the Great Game of spying. This was the cross-and-jostle work of British politics. He let himself look exasperated, with a dash of mysterious spicing it up. “There have been two deaths, both French émigrés. They’re being investigated by Bow Street. The first murder—”

“The stabbings are the work of the same man,” Cummings said quickly. “He—”

Liverpool snapped, “Let him talk.”

Good. Liverpool wasn’t on Cummings’s side. Not necessarily on his side, either, but not on Cummings’s.

“Stabbed. Yes. We know a good bit about the circumstances.” He paused. The circle of men leaned forward, listening. Nothing like murder to entertain the nobility. “There’s more to it than brutal murder.”

“What do you mean?” That was Castlereagh. You could be foreign secretary and still hungry for the details of violent death.

Time to lift the corner of the curtain and reveal some shadow. Damn, he should have been a street performer. “The same method was used in both cases. One stroke to the heart.” He jerked his fist upward, suddenly. “It takes timing and skill and—I hate to say it—practice. We’re dealing with an expert.”

Castlereagh muttered, “Cowardly. Cowardly work.”

“In London, you say?” That was an MP from Suffolk.

“What’s the world coming to when there’s bloody murder in London?”

Men die worse than that in London every day, in Whitechapel and St. Giles. “Bow Street called us in because of the connection with France. We’ve learned that both the dead men were former French Secret Police. They left France during the Revolution, changed their names, and set up in London as shopkeepers.”

Reams, who’d been hanging around the outskirts, shouldered forward. “Should have been hanged the day they arrived.” One man raised an eyebrow. Liverpool looked annoyed. Reams plowed on, oblivious. “Too many damn French in England anyway. The war’s over, but they’re still stirring up trouble.”

Ass. Didn’t he know these men had ties and ties again to France? Blood, marriage, friendship. He paused to let the idiocy of Reams sink in, then went on. “We think the murderer is French, too, from the method. The knives used—”

“They’re your bloody knives.” Reams didn’t have the sense to keep his mouth closed. “Your name’s on them, for God’s sake. The initials A and H. Do you think you can stand here and pretend not to know?”

Noblemen are born knowing how to freeze impertinence. He’d had to learn. “I beg your pardon.”

“Your knives. I’ve seen them, you murdering little—”

“Enough.” He rapped it out. He lifted ice from inside his belly and put it in his voice. “I’ve had enough of this. Silence!”

Reams didn’t dare—didn’t quite dare—to answer back.

“There’s a superficial resemblance to knives used in overseas operations a decade ago. If you had military experience in the field,” he looked deliberately up and down the uniform, “or if you’d taken two minutes to examine the knives, the differences would be obvious.”

“I’ll be damned if—”

He cut it off. “That’s enough, Colonel. If one of my men went off half-cocked like that, I’d break him to sergeant. Be glad you don’t answer to me.”

He turned his back on Reams. “The knives are the crux of the matter.” He gathered the group with his eyes. They were all listening. “The blades are marked L’Atelier de Paris. That makes them very possibly French Military issue. French steel.” He glanced scathingly at Reams. “Not British.”

Reams wasn’t in a position to contradict, not knowing French steel from Italian sausage.

“A quarrel between Frenchmen?” Liverpool offered.

“Not as simple as that, unfortunately. The knives are engraved on the hilt, yes. But not AH. The letters are N and B—”

Castlereagh understood instantly. “The devil you say.”

“NB for Napoleon Bonaparte. The knives were left at the scene as a warning. These are undoubtedly political murders. We’re looking at French revolutionary groups operating in London. There are still fanatics out there.”

There were murmurs of agreement. Significant glances back and forth. Napoleon might be an old man, embittered and sick, exiled to a remote outpost in the North Atlantic, but his name was still imperial. Every one of these powerful lords had been afraid of Napoleon’s Grande Armée.

Cummings knew he’d been outmaneuvered. What he’d seen in the evidence boxes at Bow Street was gone now. The face under the graying hair was pale as a fish belly. His mouth stretched in a tight smile, holding back rage.

Let’s finish this before he gets his balance back.

Time to frown and look serious. “I’ve sent word to our branch in Paris. We hope . . .” He was judicious for a second or two. “We hope this is some old revenge against two particular men, but we have to take into account the possibility of a larger plot.” His gesture spoke of a hundred secrets not told. “We’re investigating.”

One man nodded to the next. Before dawn, half the ton would know there was a plot to free Napoleon from St. Helena. Prime Minister to ten-year-old schoolboy, everyone loved plots.

Reams said, “Damn it! I know what I saw.”

Cummings knew when to retreat. “That’s enough, Colonel.” Whatever wormwood was, Cummings had bitten off a wad of it. “You were mistaken, obviously.”

Liverpool said, “It would be best to avoid such mistakes in the future.” From him, in this company, that was enough.

Castlereagh wanted to know if there was blood on the knives still. Fortunately, he was able to say, “There is. Yes.” Nothing like attention to detail.

It could have gone the other way. He could have been the one humiliated. He could even have been removed from the British Service. That quick. That easy. Whoever wanted to ruin Adrian Hawkhurst had found a fine instrument in Lord Cummings.

“Give me a few minutes with Sir Adrian.” Liverpool glanced around.

Men separated off in groups. Doyle chatted with Melbourne, who was with him at Cambridge. Reams stalked off muttering about “that upstart foreign bastard,” Hawkhurst, who was “half a Hindu, probably,” till Cummings put a lid on him.

Liverpool’s grandmother was Indian. Melbourne was, famously, Egremont’s bastard. Somebody should have shared this with the colonel.

When they were alone, Liverpool said, “I dislike settling quarrels between my intelligence departments.” That was both support and a warning. Liverpool was the consummate politician and, above all, a practical man. They understood each other reasonably well. “I don’t want to know what you did with those knives. Will the government be embarrassed in the newspapers?”

“It will not.”

“Cummings says there’s a Frenchwoman living at your headquarters. The implication is she’s a spy and involved in those murders.”

“A spy?” He allowed himself a wry smile. “Hardly. Markham’s foster daughter, Séverine, is staying with us while he’s in London. Also her sister, Mademoiselle Justine DeCabrillac. She goes by the name DuMotier in England.”

“DeCabrillac . . . ?”

“Daughters of the last Comte DeCabrillac.”

“Ah. Killed in the Revolution, wasn’t he? Terrible business for the daughters. I know the current comte. They’d be DuMotiers on the mother’s side. Some kind of cousin to Lafayette.”

That was the nobs for you. Always knowing who was related which way. “As to being spies . . . I’ll ask you to keep this sub rosa, but those two gathered intelligence in France during the war.” Which was true enough. No need to say who Justine had been working for.

“Admirable.” Liverpool ran eyes over the reception room, knowing everyone, noticing who was talking to who. “Someone asked me, the other day, if you were one of the Kent Hawkhursts. Nobody knew. You’re quite the mysterious figure.”

“I have never attempted to be. Merely . . . private.”

“Quite so. In your position, it’s natural.” Liverpool pursed his lips. “Markham took in a three or four French orphans, didn’t he, back during the Terror? Séverine DeCabrillac and one of the Villards—the old duc’s heir. There were some others. You’re a protégé of Markham, yourself, I understand.” He added delicately, “Another of those French orphans?”

“I’ve known Lord Markham a good long while. The DeCabrillac daughters are here tonight. Over there by the—”

“One of the difficulties with the French war was the pack of hungry émigrés that washed up in England. French second cousins we’d never heard of, mostly. A few turned out to be worth their salt. Some of them made fine army officers. I suppose Markham steered you in the direction of his own service.”

“You might say that.” Doyle had been persuasive about joining the British Service back when he was a kid. There’d been some mention that the other choice was hanging.

Liverpool nodded. “You know there are rumors about your background? Someone mentioned the translation of Hapsburg into English is Hawkhurst.”

I didn’t know that when I made the name up. “A coincidence. Speaking of émigrés who settled in England, both the DeCabrillacs are interesting women. Very independent. The older one keeps a shop in Exeter Street.”