Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel (40 page)

‘I’ve come for my change,’ he said, but he smiled all the same and Edwin looked down at the brown bucket-top boots that were older than both of them.

‘Aye, Cap’n!’ he said. ‘Let you off at Execution didn’t I? Leicester House, Cap’n, Monday last!’

Was it only then? Twelve days? It had been warm. The weather was changing as swiftly as events. Men dead, good men. Dandon still unable to stand and Devlin’s own biting injury slowing his every move, a taut pain forcing a limp to not stretch it further.

Edwin saw the face distracted and pained; he hoped the remark about the shilling was as jocose as it sounded. ‘Are you all well, Cap’n?’

And then the pain and the thoughts were gone. ‘I want your boat, Edwin. I want you and your boat. One hour but a long one. What say you?’

Edwin could see in the face that his options would be slight if any, so he blustered like any Londoner. ‘I don’t know, Cap’n. I could make a lot of money in an hour.’

‘Can you make gold?’ And Devlin showed him the face of King Louis and paid it into his hand.

Edwin closed his fist around two months’ wages. ‘Well,’ he pulled down the peak of his cap, for this was secrecy. ‘If you put it like that, Cap’n . . .’

Albany Holmes was not tied, nor deprived of the sword he so treasured. He was free to move around the upstairs room of the Plough, the inn that had favoured the pirate’s gold, the landlord swallowing his fear of refusal by bolstering his pride with coin. Besides, there was no need to restrain Albany when Hugh Harris and his twin turnover pistols guarded him: restraining Albany would have been a folly akin to tying up chickens to protect the foxes.

Albany paraded around the room, and had already rubbed clean a circle of the bottle glass window to look out on the street below. Occasionally he swung a hateful glance at Hugh who only grinned back with a pistol crooked in his arm, swinging his leg like an imbecile to a tune whistling inside his head, counting the holes he would place in Albany if he moved wrong but once, planning to tell Devlin that he moved wrong twice. Still, Hugh was set aback and stopped his swinging leg when Albany ceased his pacing and looked warmly at him.

‘Hugh is it not?’ Albany asked. He had spent almost the last fortnight with the pirate, close enough to smell him on the tartane to Paris, and had even sailed from Madagascar with the rogue during their last encounter. The name was still a guess, however.

‘Aye.’ It was the first word Hugh had ever spoken to the long-coat, who was a fop once again now he had returned to his London clothes.

‘You know I am a man of means? That has not escaped you?’

Hugh had about two thousand pounds to his own account but did not own a horse or a Buckinghamshire estate, so nodded accordingly.

Albany took a step closer, mindful of the sheen of sweat on the brute’s face as being either nervousness or a dry liver.

‘We could both leave this place,’ he held out his arms, both to remove them from his sword and to highlight the damp, shoddy room. ‘I have a patron in George Lee. Soon to be
Sir
George Lee. We are both founding members of the Hellfire Club here in London at the Greyhound inn. There are many pleasures we could indoctrinate you in that you have only dreamt of. We could make Oxford by tomorrow and George would reward you greatly for my freedom . . . as would I.’ He took another step. ‘It is only one door we have to walk through.’

Hugh leant forward, rubbing his chin, and Albany relaxed and raised his own chin for Hugh’s word.

Hugh spoke slowly and clearly. ‘You do know that I would take pleasure in shooting you in the face? We are accorded on this? I would count it as supper – you understand?’

Albany grumbled something and went back to pacing at the window. He watched the lamp-lighters at their work.

There came a knock at the door, softly, more to not startle Hugh than ask for entrance. Devlin and Peter Sam walked in. They had abandoned the coach in Southwark after finding Edwin and watched human vultures instantly strip it to a carcass. He pitied the horses for their fate as cackling widows dragged them away; he at least hoped that some children might get some meat, or that the sale of the leather bridles would help someone walk and talk for another week. Even the velvet seats seemed to have a price as a fight ensued over their ownership. The pirates walked away as the teeth and nails of women bit and scraped, and aproned men went about the wheels with care and skilled hammers and nodded to the two for their gift.

Peter Sam held their flag in his arms, bundled like a newborn, and they turned their backs; the Caribbean seemed civilised in comparison but they the last to judge. The coach was just a point scored against Walpole, a possession credited on the pirates’ side to the loss of Black Bill. Hurt rich men in their purse. Eight hundred pounds’ worth of coach. Bill’s body sent to the sea yesterday. Weigh that if you can.

‘Albany,’ Devlin stated the name. ‘You are with me tonight.’ He took his pistol off his belt. A time ago he had adapted a hanger to its stock as he had seen gentlemen carry pistols. It made for more comfortable wear but could jump if you moved fast. Devlin lately was not moving so fast as to worry about it.

He checked the load and made sure that Albany saw its bore and its master’s confidence. ‘I’ll take one of your Dolep’s as well, Hugh.’ He held out his hand and Hugh slapped the weapon in his fist without question. The Dolep pistol, two barrels, under and over. Three shots for Devlin that his bad back would not slow. As he was he could not rely on his cutlass: every strike would be agony.

‘And what, pray, are we to do?’ Albany scoffed. ‘The opera? A bagnio house? Find some arse over quim for your ape?’

The floor shook as Peter Sam exploded from the door; he grabbed a chair and Albany went for his sword.

Albany was not fast enough and Peter nailed him to the plaster with the chair legs and dust flew from the walls with the impact. Albany, winded and pinned, struggled then grinned as Devlin dragged the bald man back.

He still had worth, obviously; the pirate had need of him. He smiled more broadly as Peter Sam crushed the chair in his hands like kindling and stormed from the room.

Albany brushed down his coat. ‘Hah! I think he has a fancy for me! He protests too much!’

Devlin dismissed Hugh to calm Peter Sam. He shook his head at Albany and went for the door.

Albany jeered at his back. ‘I tire of you all! Bring me some supper and I’ll forget the apology. But know that Walpole will hear all of this.’

Devlin’s hand was on the doorknob as Albany went on: ‘You are dismissed.’

The pirate checked that the corridor was empty, then Albany watched him close and lock the door, the key poking out of his fist as he turned and slowly crossed the room. Something like a grin was slashed across the pirate’s face.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Walpole did not wait for the sleepy servant to get up from his stool. He pushed open the double doors of the prince’s chambers and framed himself dramatically in the doorway like a bloodied soldier announcing the death of a king.

Timms and the prince looked up unimpressed. Walpole was dressed like a clergyman after mass. Dull black coat and scarf, round hat, no imperious wig, the same half-gaiters since the afternoon. Walpole’s reaction to what met his eyes was very different: he stared wide-eyed at the prince, who had apparently gone through his dressing-up box for his finest pirate gear. Or at least a prince’s version of it.

Deerskin breeches and ruddy deerskin coat to match. A red silk sash that trailed to his calves and, discordantly, a black jockey’s cap bouncing in his hands. Boots were clearly unsuitable for any evening so whale-skin buckled shoes and black stockings would suffice.

The prince slapped his thigh as he rested his foot on the window seat. ‘We three are well met!’ he cheered, as innocents do before they die.

Walpole walked in, found a glass this time and helped himself. ‘We shall leave shortly, Your Highness.’ He glanced at Timms in his funeral cloth. ‘You will accompany, Timms?’

Timms was dry and coughed that he would. ‘But no arms, Minister. I will observe only.’

Walpole snorted. ‘We will all observe, I hope. I will carry no arms.’

The prince went to his desk. ‘But I shall. As befits.’

He opened a maplewood box and stuffed about his sash two silver and ebony Acquafresca pistols: Italian genius with Parisian styling. They had been a gift from the Duke of Tuscany but never fired. Now they were at last being loaded, by candlelight, by a grinning prince.

‘This will be a fine night! What is our plan, Walpole?’

Plan? Walpole thought. This was no plan, this was an aberration run up a mast for an idiot’s salute.

‘His Highness will appreciate that his safety is foremost in my mind. To that end I will take precautions. We will not be alone on the water.’ He sank his wine, and secretary Timms felt braver at his words. ‘We will meet the pirate on the river. We have our bag of gold,’ he slapped the pocket of his coat and a soft jangle rang out. ‘He has our diamond. If he has some notion to cheat us I will cut him down.’

The prince placed his cap rakishly over one brow. ‘And once we have the gem? We let him go with our gold?’

Walpole walked back to the wine, poured just enough to steady his hand and dared to speak to the prince with his back still turned. ‘That depends on how grateful he is for our allowing him to assist us.’

Timms cleared his throat. ‘And what of Albany Holmes?’

Walpole’s neck clicked as his head went back to swallow his glass whole. ‘He would understand I’m sure,’ he wiped his scarlet lips. ‘And do not underestimate Albany Holmes, Mister Timms. The pirate and he have a history that I would dread wished upon even you. I chose him for that very reason. They will not part with the shaking of hands.’

The hoot of an owl drew all their pale faces to the night outside.

The prince slapped his thigh again. ‘An owl in Leicester square! Bless my soul what an omen, no?’

Walpole spoke kindly to the Prince of Wales. ‘A group of owls is called a parliament. That may be fitting.’

‘Did not the Romans perceive owls as the warning of death?’ Timms touched the nearest wood to him.

Walpole slammed down his glass. ‘Depends if you read Latin or Greek, Mister Timms.’

The prince cocked his ear to the haunting sound as it bounced off the walls of the square again. His education was superior to both of theirs.

‘
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night. The time when screech-owls cry, and ban-dogs howl, and spirits walk and ghosts break up their graves.
’

Walpole sniffed and tightened his scarf about him. ‘I have always found Shakespeare to be nonsense.’ He noticed the letter of the pirate lying near the wine.

There should be no trace. Nooses could be fashioned from paper.

He snatched it up. Three steps and he had thrown it to the great fireplace; he poked it as the letter crackled.

‘Come. His Highness will permit me to lead. We will meet the pirate.’

Timms blew out the lights in the room, and their footsteps echoed through the house as they descended the winding stairs in silence, the sconces on the walls casting dancing shadows before them until Walpole opened the door and the night snatched them away.

Devlin studied the diamond in his hand then closed his fist around its sparkle, still apparent even in the dark. He had heard only of the death concerning the diamond’s origin, and did not believe in curses; but he knew nothing of the regent’s loss of his beloved daughter. And then Bill had died and men had been wounded although compensated in silver for their pain, as was the pirate’s way. And others – himself – scarred forever, still bleeding through their shirts. This night he would be rid of it. He buried the stone in his pocket, paid it no more mind.

He offered Albany a chew of his tobacco, affecting to forget that Albany’s hands were tied, his mouth gagged. Then Devlin went back to his watch of the river.

They waited by the wet waterman stairs off Cherry Gardens on the Surrey side where there was no lamplight to cast a glow on them.

Devlin lounged against the slimy stair wall and sliced tobacco with his ebony-hilted dagger, its blade just as black. Once he had neglected to pack it about him and had been as lost as a carpenter without a nail, almost dying at the hands of Hib Gow in a garden in Charles Town two years before. Never again.