The Mark of the Golden Dragon (38 page)

"Because I know you for a man of honor, despite your protestations to the contrary. And Flashby, while he is a vile bastard, remains in the supposed service of His Majesty, as do you. So I thought that might cause a problem."

"No problem, Prettytail, no problem at all. So what are you going to do with it?" asks Richard, unable to wipe the grin from his face as he gives the prisoner a none-too-gentle nudge with the toe of his boot. "I would expect an anchor and chain wrapped around its neck, followed by a discreet splash over the side, and then the noble Flashby gargles his last."

"No, milord, I am going to use it as bait," I say, and tell him of my plan...

"...and then you and your men will ride out from your hiding place to capture the Black Highwayman alive."

"My duty is such that I must bring down the Highwayman, Princess, whoever he might be," warns Richard. "Even if it be your Mr. Fletcher."

"Oh, do not worry, milord, you will do that. Trust me."

"Very well, then," says Richard, getting to his feet. "It could be fun. Be seeing you on Thursday, then, Flashbutt." He reaches to pat Flashby on the head, and is rewarded with a glare of the purest hatred.

Lord Allen reaches out his hand for me, and I take it and rise.

"A last glass of wine with you, Jacky, in your cabin, hmmm...?"

Sure, why not...?

Late in the afternoon of this very busy Monday, Liam, Tink, and I take a coach to go back out to the Blackthorne Inn to speak once more with Bess, the landlord's daughter.

"You three again," she says upon seeing us enter and sit down. She is not at all friendly.

I speak right up and get to the point immediately.

"Harry Flashby will be on the Plymouth coach Thursday night."

"What's that to me?"

"I think it will be of interest to a mutual friend."

"I don't know what you mean. Do you want something to eat or drink? If not, move on." Her dark eyes hold my gaze, telling me she ain't gonna be tellin' Jaimy nothin'.

"Show him this," I say, as I slap Flashby's identification papers on the table. "Please do it."

She looks down but does not move. I press on.

"Listen, Miss. You know your Highwayman eventually will be caught and hanged. All of them have been, you know, and it will happen to him, too. He has been lucky so far."

Probably because you've been selecting his targets for him.

She still does not move, but her eyes grow more uncertain.

"There is a way out for him ... and for you, too," I continue. "If he is allowed to settle his score with this Flashby, I believe he will cease his outlaw ways and the Black Highwayman will ride no more."

Her eyes flash.

"And you?" she asks. "What about you?"

I take a breath.

"If you do this, I will not interfere anymore. I shall not reveal myself to him. He will be yours. You can both leave and start a new life. I'm sure you have enough money for that. If not, I'll give you some."

She glances down at the papers.

"Please, Miss," I say, my eyes welling up and begging her to do it.

Abruptly, she nods, snatches up the papers, and turns away.

I let out a breath of relief.

Tink puts his hand on mine.

"So, Jacky," he asks gently. "You really love him so much that you would give him up?"

I nod, letting the tears flow freely.

Yes, I do ... and yes, I would.

We enter the Great Hall of the British Museum, Sidrah on the arm of her father, Charlie of the House of Chen, and I on the arm of Cavalry Captain Richard Allen, all of us looking splendid. Sidrah and I are dressed in our Oriental finery, and Charlie in his Savile Row best. Ravi stays alongside us, ready to pick up any silken train that might trail in the dust. I'm thinking that this will be the last time I'll be appearing in this guise and I intend to enjoy it. Once inside, I doff my silk shawl and am rewarded with a great number of gasps from the crowd. This bunch sure ain't the usual Cockpit crowd. I twirl about a bit so they can properly appreciate, and oh, I do love it so! I know it is sinful of me, but I do!

"I must hand it to you, Princess," observes Lord Allen as we proceed into the Hall. "For a self-proclaimed guttersnipe, you have managed to get poor Richard Allen into some
very
interesting places. It is rumored that King George, himself, will attend today."

"I hear that is possible, milord," I say, smiling my winning smile all about.

"Well, that will be rare company, indeed, for a poor cavalry captain."

I cut the arrogant but undeniably charming rogue a look as we proceed down the aisle.

"A poor cavalry captain who is also the fifty-first Earl of North-whatever-land. Poor little fellow, indeed."

"Ha. Well put." His face takes on a false dreamy look. "Oh, Fabled Northcumberland, place of my birth ... Truth to tell, it is actually a rather shabby little estate located in the north of England. Dreadfully cold and rainy. We are forced to run around in kilts much of the time ... and those god-awful bagpipes wailing away. Quite poor. You wouldn't like it at all."

"Poor, eh? Only a thousand or so serfs for you to order about?"

"We prefer to call them 'tenants,' dear one. They seem to shoulder their burdens better being named that. Gives 'em a bit more dignity, like. And you should know we have only a mere hundred or so, at last count. They do keep having babies, against all sense, so the number might be higher now."

That gets a bit of a rise out of the commoner Jacky Faber. I puff up and say, "So, when the Revolution comes, Lord Richard Plantagenet Allen—"

"On that glorious day, I will be out there leading the mob, Princess. Count on it."

"I do not doubt that, milord." I laugh. "Your kind always rises to the top, doesn't it?"

"I certainly hope so, Miss ... Ah, here we are..."

There is quite a number of people in the hallowed marble halls of the museum, probably due to the rumor that the King might attend this opening of the new Oriental collection. I look about with a bit of pride, because the place looks a lot grander now thanks to Charlie ... and me.

There are serene Buddhas sitting in front of glowing bowls of incense, and the Grecian maidens are lined in an elegant row over there, and to Ravi's delight, there's a golden elephantine Ganesh bestowing good will upon all. There's also golden jewelry from every corner of the East, along with Chinese dragons and fierce suits of armor from Japan ... and a whole line of Grecian urns.

Richard and I pause in front of the large pottery jars. They were probably made to hold wine or olive oil and are quite well proportioned and elegant. They are black and have white lines etched on them depicting Greek soldiers fighting with sword and shield, and Greek wrestlers wrestling with...
ahem
...nothing on.
Nude
Greek soldiers and wrestlers...

I point at one of the fighting ones and say, "Funny how even in battle, their little ... dangly bits ... point up all jaunty. Could that be so, my Lord Allen? You have been in battle and you are a man, so you would know."

A short snort of a laugh from my escort.

"No, my inquisitive little nymph who always asks the most impertinent and outlandish questions, an emphatic
no.
In the heat of battle, I assure you that Little Dickie Allen was very quiet. He was lying low, as it were. Very low."

"During that time on the Mississippi when we had our little bit of a swim, I do not recall him being all that ... little." I give Richard the big, innocent eyes.

"You do know how to flatter a man's vanity, do you not, my little minx?"

"Umm. I have found that, as a group, you men are all rather easy in that regard."

"Ha! I am sure of that." Richard laughs. "Before your formidable charms, we are all as mere beamish boys and ... ah, wait ... What's this?"

There is a commotion at the door, and every head swings in that direction.

"I believe the King is coming, Richard," I say, suddenly breathless in spite of myself. "Let us rejoin Charlie."

A few quick steps and I am beside Chopstick Charlie. Sidrah, looking radiant, stands on his other side, while Richard guards my left flank. The rest of the museum goers are lined up against the wall, facing the entrance. You do not ever,
ever,
show Royalty your backside.

We wait, but we do not wait long. Presently, a man walks in, hits a brace, and announces, "His Majesty, King George, by the Grace of God, King of England, Scotland, and Wales!" and...

And there he is! Imagine that.

He is a large man, rather tall and dressed quite simply—for a king. He wears a scarlet jacket with a large medal on it, white breeches, and black boots. It appears as if he might have just come in from a ride, though I doubt that. His prominent brow and nose and rather fleshy chin are softened a bit by his powdered wig. He looks, in fact, very much like the coins that have been struck in his honor. He gazes about him with hooded eyes and a half smile on his face. He gives a slight wave and proclaims to the crowd, "Come, dear friends, please be at your ease. This is not a state visit. Let us not stand on ceremony, but rather savor the treasures of this place."

I'll wager there are many here who wish he
would
"stand on ceremony," which would mean that they would be presented to the King and thus would have something to tell all their descendants.

Alas, they shall not have that pleasure ... but it turns out that we will.

The King, who is escorted by his son, the Duke of Clarence, strides across the floor directly toward us.

Oh, my...

When he gets close, Sidrah falls to her knees in the Oriental fashion and puts her forehead to the floor. Since I am dressed in similar garb, I, too, drop to the floor, my pigtail swinging to the side of my shaven head. I would not have been able to perform an acceptable curtsy in this tight-fitting sari, anyway. Although I cannot see them, since the tiles are only a few inches from my nose, I know that Charlie has bowed very low, and that Richard has done the same.

"Up, please, both of you, and let us see. Oh, how wonderfully exotic ... and a little Hottentot, too!" The royal eye had undoubtedly fallen upon Ravi, who is probably cowering on the floor behind me in a very similar posture.

"How marvelous! William, please introduce us!"

"Certainly, Father," says the Duke of Clarence. "May I present Mr. Charles of the House of Chen—"

"Delighted, Sir!" says the King. "On behalf of the people of Britain, we thank you for this incomparable treasure!"

"How good of you to honor my poor House," says Charlie, his hands clasped in front of him. "May I present my Number One Daughter Sidrat'ul Muntaha, and my Number Two Daughter Ju kau-jing yi?"

"How lovely, both of you. Welcome to England."

Sidrah bows her perfectly coiffed head and I bow my pigtailed one, and my spinning mind, uncontrollable beast that it is, thinks,
Thanks, Georgie, it's good to be back!

"Now, perhaps, Mr. Chen, you will show us your wonderful collection," says our monarch, and Charlie smoothly waves him over to a display.

Crazed mind of Little Mary Faber of the Rooster Charlie Gang quickly composes a letter to Amy Trevelyne and the girls of the Lawson Peabody: Oh, by the way, dear Sisters, I met King George the other day ... yes, that King George. Now that I have met the two main combatants in this war, the King of England and Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, dear Amy, if you could please arrange for me to meet your President Jefferson when next I land on your shore, I shall pronounce myself satisfied.

"Please tell me what this is," I hear the King demanding of Chopstick Charlie.

"It is a porcelain dragon from the Ming Dynasty, Your Grace, and this is a suit of armor that belonged to Genghis Khan."

"Quite impressive. Should hate to meet anyone wearing
that
on a battlefield."

"Indeed, Your Majesty, it was designed to intimidate. Now, over here, I think you will find this particularly interesting ... I have heard that Your Highness is of a scientific bent? Yes, this is the astrolabe that might have been devised by the Greek mathematician Eratosthenes, who first figured out the circumference of the world back in, by your reckoning, around 200 BC."

"My word!" exclaims the King. "The one who figured it out by looking down a well? I cannot believe it!"

"Yes, Majesty ... and over here we have..."

The two drift off in earnest conversation.

"Hard to believe that pleasant man is the one who lost our American colonies," I say to Richard.

He cocks an eye at me.

"
Our...?
"

"Faber Shipping has a certain proprietary interest in things of that nature. When I am in England, I am English. When I'm abroad, I fly whatever colors suit me."

"Spoken like a true pirate," he says, with an affectionate smile. "Well, if you must know, it wasn't the King who lost 'em. It was his ministers ... Pitt and that rotten crew."