For Our Liberty (23 page)

“No, not there. Your side,” he said, pointing.

He was right. I put my hand inside my waistcoat and it came back sticky with blood. My wound from France had opened, probably in the fall down the steps. I think I shocked even the doxies who had come to stand and watch the fight with my inventive use of expletives. James let me vent my spleen, although judging from the amount of blood it was doing a good job of venting itself without my swearing. He took my arm and led me to a cab that had also stopped to watch the sport. The small crowd went back to their various occupations and James rapped on the roof of the cab and asked to be taken to Golden Square.

I was becoming used to Lucy’s maid screaming when she opened the door to me. We must have been quite a sight, James and I; our clothes were torn, our faces bruised and bloody. We staggered into the hall and the household erupted into panic. The boot boy was sent for a physician and the footman led us into the salon. The maid ran up stairs to fetch her mistress. I heard Lucy cursing before she came into the room. She stood in the doorway, the candles from the hall giving her an angelic halo.

“Benjamin Blackthorne you’re a damn fool. Were you caught with someone’s wife again? Were you so drunk you fell into the gutter where you belong? Or did some questionable acquaintance from your past demand payment of a debt?” she stormed from the doorway and I was fully expecting her to add to my injuries when she stopped and went white as a sheet. Her hand went to her mouth.

“Mr Hawkshawe, have you also been injured?”

“It is nothing, Miss Blackthorne. I assure you that I am quite well,” Hawkshawe said, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips. “Certainly I am all the better for seeing you. Do not concern yourself, it was a trifling matter and Ben will pay the men off in the morning.”

Lucy took her hand away, glanced at me and then gave further orders to the servants.

“Johnson, get Mr Hawkshawe a brandy. Becky, see where that damn boy has got to with the doctor,” she said. Then she turned to me, still white, but now it was with a cold fury I had never seen in her before.

“Ben, you may do what you wish with your sorry excuse of an existence but when your sins start to harm others better than you it is time to stop. Either you arrange your affairs into something approaching respectability or you will no longer be welcome in this house.”

So Hawkshawe got his brandy and I got a lecture. It was nothing less than I deserved of course. My sister has a habit of being right. It was time to stop. Some people can drift through life with no particular aim. They can amuse themselves with the mundane, with balls, hunting, salons and the theatre. I cannot. Boredom always makes me seek the darker side of life, to seek risk and danger. The tiny thrill of winning a game of cards outweighs any guilt about the debts of the many hands lost. The numbing affect of another bottle masks the dullness of conventional existence. Flirting with a married woman brings with it the danger of discovery. Everyone was right; I was suited to the life of a confidential agent. Not because I had courage, I didn’t even have the courage to face myself in the mornings. Not because I was a good liar, although I lied to myself all the time. The reason that I would knock on Henry Brooke’s door the next day, after having first visited my father and then Oldfield and Bennett, should by now be obvious to you, dear reader. Going back to France as a spy and embroiling myself in a life of treachery, danger and quite probably death was the only way of keeping myself out of trouble, and of seeing Dominique again.

Oh, and by the way, James married Lucy two years later.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was early evening but a forbidding sky as black as my mood and heavy rain made the street dark and deserted. I turned off Jermyn Street into Bury Street and approached the plain black door that led down to The Fortuna Club, hidden as it was in the cellars beneath a row of shops. I’d already spotted the orderly man, he was huddling in a doorway just around the corner smoking a pipe. His job was to keep an eye out for constables and give warning to the porter. I didn’t think there was much risk of a raid. The constables would have been content to stay dry and count their hush money.

The porter stood at the door. His bearing and scarred face marked him for an old soldier. He wore a long cloak, its collar turned up and his hat pulled down tight against the rain. I nodded to him. He raised an eyebrow and opened the door. I entered, removing my dripping coat and hat, handing them to an usher who then picked up a lantern and led me down the dark narrow staircase. I wondered if I would come back up those stairs alive or wrapped in a blanket ready to be dumped in the river.
 

The noise and the smell of the club became louder and stronger. I would like to be dramatic and say the smell was that of desperation but really it was brandy, gin and tobacco. The noise was the clink of glasses, cries of triumph from the winners and groans of despair from the losers. The groans drowned out the cries. The ceiling was low, the walls bare. The furniture was battered and stained, as were many of the customers. It made Henri’s place look like a palace. Whereas gambling was tolerated in Paris, in London it took place in the shadows and the depths. Club proprietors had to pay the justices and constables to remain open. Those that fell into arrears were raided and closed.

I signalled to a waiter to bring me a brandy and stood at the back of the room. I’d had a busy day and needed a restorative before completing my final task. Something to steady the nerves and steel my resolve. I’d visited Mr Brooke at the Alien Office and accepted his offer of employment. He’d been surprised I’d come around so quickly, until he noticed the bruises on my face and then he’d looked as though he regretted the offer but he did not retract it. After that I’d called on my father once more. The apology I gave him cost me a lot but cost him seventy guineas. The wad of notes and coins were in my pocket and would soon be given to Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett, thus paying off my final debt.

I took out my watch, it was nearly nine. I looked around the room and marked out the employees of the house, those that would likely impede me if I needed to make a hasty exit. The crowpees of course were easy to spot, sat at each table dealing the cards and handing over the dice. The director stood at the back of the room, like me, and kept an eye on the tables. Every now and then he would catch the eye of another member of staff, giving some signal or other. From watching him I spotted the puffs, those paid to play with the house’s money to encourage others to place bets. Both had the look of inveterate gamblers who had sunk so low as to have to play with another’s money and invite others to share their fate. A flasher flitted from table to table declaring how often the bank had been stripped, giving false hope to those foolish enough to listen. The dunner, a brute of a man that you wouldn’t want to argue with, waited to recover any monies owed to the establishment. I knew this because I recognised him as one of our assailants from the night before. We locked eyes and he started towards me but a restraining hand from the captain stopped him. The captain’s job was to calm any customer who grew peevish for losing. If he failed to calm him then the captain might resort to violence but usually the mere threat would be enough to get the hapless punter reaching into his pocket before having to suffer the more brutal attentions of the dunner.

The customers were drawn from every level of society, at least all those levels with money. There were gentlemen of course, but in a house like the Fortuna not of the very best sort. The merchants tended to be fatter and more careful with their coin as they had to earn it for themselves but still they couldn’t resist the thrill of the games or they wouldn’t have been there. The girls were there hoping to pick up trade helping winners celebrate or consoling the losers. The shopkeepers, clerks and servants were the most desperate as they had the least to lose. You could tell those really dedicated gamblers by the large leather guards around the wrists, worn so their cuffs would not get dirty as they leant on the tables. The tables were mostly faro or hazzard and all were busy. The captain caught my eye and nodded towards a door in the far wall. The dunner wove his way through the crowd until he was between me and the exit. I didn’t fancy renewing our acquaintance and so made my way to the door indicated by the captain and went through to the quiet of the corridor beyond.
 

A guard barred the way and motioned me to raise my arms while he patted my pockets, looking for weapons. He was the other assailant that had attacked James and I. I winced as his hands went over a badly bruised rib and he took great delight in patting the spot a little harder. I did not make even a verbal retort. I knew I had taken a big risk going to the club. This was their turf and making trouble would just make things worse for me. I just wanted to pay my debt and leave, hopefully in one piece. The guard didn’t find anything. Eventually he stood aside, looking disappointed, and walked on to knock on the door at the end of the corridor. I didn’t wait for an answer but went straight in.

Mr Oldfield and Mr Bennett were both reading, seated either side of a lit fire. The room was very warm. Even though it was raining outside, it was still June and not cold. In contrast to the squalor of the club the proprietor’s room was furnished richly and wouldn’t have disgraced a country house. The walls were panelled, the furniture well polished, and a collection of porcelain figurines was arranged neatly on some shelves.

“Ah, Mr Blackthorne. So nice of you to visit,” said Mr Oldfield. Of the two he was the taller. Slim and elegant, he was dressed well but not flamboyantly. His hair was grey and pulled tightly back in a queue. He could have been a country parson. He placed his book on a table, stood and offered his hand. I didn’t take it.

“Come now,” he said. “Let us at least maintain the pretence of civility.” When I didn’t move there was a glimpse of annoyance in his countenance. His face may have betrayed his age and his eyes looked a watery and faded blue but he put the fear of God into me despite the outward appearance of respectability. There was something cruel about him, like a child who would pull the wings from flies or flick hot ash at a dog.

“To business then,” said Mr Bennett. He was dressed just as well as his partner but he had a slight Irish accent. His face was thinner, his nose more angular. His hair was wavy and flowing to his shoulders. He had the look of a dancing master, or an artist perhaps. The two of them were never seen apart. Bennett also stood and the two of them walked over to a desk and both sat behind it. I approached and threw the purse on the desk.

“There’s your money,” I said.

Oldfield tipped the notes and coins into a pile and quickly counted it out. Nodding to Bennett when he was satisfied with the total.

“I would like to thank you, but I won’t. You caused us a lot of trouble, and injured our employees when they came to remind you of your debt to us,” said Bennett. I think he was expecting me to apologise. I didn’t.

“An establishment such as ours depends on reputation, Mr Blackthorne. You did ours no good by absconding to Paris with money still owing. No good at all,” said Oldfield. He picked up a small hand bell and rang it.

“You have your money now,” I said, glancing behind me to see if the door was opening to his summons.

“Too little too late, I fear,” said Bennett.

“I owed you seventy guineas. I have paid you seventy guineas.”

“But what about our costs?”

“What costs?”

“The interest accrued. The surgeon’s charges for patching up our two boys.”

“Come now, my dear. Let’s not be unreasonable,” said Oldfield placing a placating hand on Bennett’s arm and leaving it there. “Let us take this payment as a mere instalment. I’m sure Mr Blackthorne will pay us the rest very, very soon. Will you not?”

“No. I will not,” I said. “Our business is concluded.”

“Far from it, I’m afraid,” they both said, almost in unison. The door opened behind me. The guard came in and stood beside me, waiting for a command like a loyal hound. I felt both anger and fear rise inside me. My hand reached down to the front of my breeches and pulled the small, slim pocket pistol from its hiding place. There are some places that most men are not eager to search.

“I have paid my debt,” I said, pointing the pistol at Oldfield and then Bennett. “I will choose to forget the manner that you reminded me of it. Our business is done. If I see you or your cronies again you will regret it. Understand?”

“Is he threatening us, my dear, with that tiny thing?” said Oldfield.

“I think he is,” said Bennett.

“A foolish thing to do, Mr Blackthorne. Very foolish,” said Oldfield.

“A man with little to lose can still afford to be foolish,” I said, I cocked the pistol for effect. “I don’t think your reputation would be enhanced if word got around that even when people paid up you were not satisfied. It would not give people much incentive to settle their debts with you, would it?” Bennett glanced at the guard. I stepped to the side and indicated that he should join his employers behind the desk. I wasn’t going to take any chances. The gun wasn’t loaded of course, I hadn’t wanted to take any risk with something stuffed in the front of my breeches.

“Perhaps, perhaps. What do you think Mr Bennett?” said Oldfield, turning to his partner but keeping an eye on the pistol as well.

“I think I’m feeling generous,” said Bennett, patting his friend’s arm.

“As am I,” said Oldfield. “Go then. We will consider your debt paid, for now. But we might change our mind, might we not? We don’t like having pistols pointed at us.”