The Last Confession Of Thomas Hawkins Part 3

'Half.'

'A quarter.'

'Half.'

A long, long pause. The blood was pounding in my ears. What was I doing, bargaining with a man who could break my jaw with one swipe of his fist? But I couldn't resist it; I was almost feverish with excitement. My G.o.d I hadn't felt this alive in months.

Fleet leaned forward until our knees were almost touching. He stared deep into my eyes. 'Now here's a man I can work with,' he murmured. 'A third.'

I held out my hand. By some miracle, it wasn't shaking. 'Agreed.'

Chapter Four.

Kitty was closing the shop by the time Sam and I returned from St Giles and a hurried chophouse dinner. She hummed to herself as she tidied books back on to the shelves, tucked a sheaf of nude line drawings into a leather wallet. I loved her more than anything in these moments. They reminded me of the first time I'd seen her in the Marshalsea, making a pot of coffee, the simple grace as she moved back and forth, the quick and capable way she worked.

She saw me and her face lit up the warm gleam of pleasure that I was home. A blink and it had vanished. Kitty would walk about our bedchamber without a st.i.tch of clothing and not give a d.a.m.n how hard I looked at her. But she kept her deepest feelings hidden from me as much as she could, as if they were a poor hand of cards I might play against her one day.

'And are you staring at my a.r.s.e now, Tom Hawkins?'

'Always.'

She grinned and wrapped her arms about my neck. 'Where have you been?'

'St Giles. Fleet wanted to see his boy.'

Kitty stiffened and glanced at Sam, who was pouring himself a mug of small beer. Sam's uncle, Samuel Fleet, had been her guardian and she had loved him fiercely, for all his faults. This was the only reason she allowed Sam to live under her roof. She did not trust or like James, his father. 'Dangerous place to be strolling about,' she said, running her fingers down my waistcoat. 'I hope you took care of him.'

'It was perfectly safe, we-'

'I was talking to Sam,' she laughed, letting me go.

Sam's cheeks flushed pink. It was hard to read his thoughts in the main, but where Kitty was concerned he might as well have shouted them from the rooftops. She was a lively, pretty young woman. He was a fourteen-year-old boy. Not everything in life is a mystery.

'You are in a merry mood,' I said, smiling down at her. I was pleased she had recovered from Gonson's visit.

'I have a gift for you.' She kissed me upon the lips, stopping the question. 'Tonight.'

A gift. My mind wandered over the delicious possibilities. Was it too much to hope she'd found a willing friend and asked her to join us . . .?

Yes, most likely it was.

She removed the ap.r.o.n she'd tied about her waist and shook out the dust. 'You must change before we leave, Tom. I can smell the stews on your clothes.'

I frowned, sniffing my shirt cuff. 'Leave? Where?'

Her lips pinched into a hard line. She folded the ap.r.o.n hard. Snap. Snap.

Oh, Lord. 'Supper . . .?' I guessed.

'Supper. Theatre. The Eliots.'

d.a.m.n it. I had clean forgot. John Eliot was Kitty's lawyer, and an old, trusted acquaintance of her father. He and his wife Dorothy were fond of Kitty and saw a good deal of her at the risk of their own reputation. An unmarried woman, sharing my bed and running a notorious print shop? As far as good society was concerned, Gonson spoke the truth Kitty was nothing more than a wh.o.r.e. 'Better a wh.o.r.e than a slave,' she would say with a curl of her lip. But her defiance starved her of companions. She was not a wh.o.r.e, nor a servant, nor a lady. She did not fit. The Eliots, thus, were precious friends. Dorothy who was much younger than her husband was expecting her first child in the spring. Kitty had taken to visiting her several times a week, basket br.i.m.m.i.n.g with fresh fruit and home-made tinctures.

The Eliots were pleasant enough company and I loved a night at the theatre, for the audience as much as the play. There was always some great spectacle or scandal, and it was amusing to watch the n.o.bs rub shoulders with the rest of us. But I had made a deal with James Fleet and I could not free myself of it now. 'Kitty . . .'

Her eyes widened. 'Don't you dare.'

Quietly, stealthily, Sam drifted upstairs to hide.

I reached out to touch Kitty's shoulder.

She pulled away. 'You promised. You don't even remember, do you?'

'Of course I remember,' I lied. 'It's just that I have an appointment tonight. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's important.'

'More important than me?'

Well there was a question not to be answered.

Kitty turned away so that I couldn't see the disappointment in her eyes. She began to shuffle the books upon the shelf. 'Who is it you're meeting?'

I searched for an answer that wouldn't create more trouble, but what could I say? I was drunk and bored, so I told the most dangerous villain in London I might work for him. 'I'll take you another night. I promise-'

'I don't give a d.a.m.n about the theatre!' she cried, gripping my shirt so hard I thought she'd tear it. 'What's the matter, Tom? Why are you acting in such a strange, sneaking fashion? Tell me! Where are you going?'

'For pity's sake!' I snapped back. 'Would you stop all this nagging. You're not my wife, d.a.m.n it.'

She flinched and drew back, as if I'd slapped her.

I hadn't meant to hurt her only to stop her questions. The words had flown from my lips without thought. But they were mean, and the message behind them was cruel. That we were not bound together after all. That I might abandon her whenever I chose broken-hearted and ruined. 'Oh, Kitty,' I groaned, reaching out for her.

She hugged her arms across her chest, stepped beyond my grasp. 'No. It's true,' she said, cool and remote. 'I'm not your wife. And you are free to do you as please.'

With that she stalked silently from the room.

Kitty left for the theatre an hour later, too angry even to call a goodbye. She took Sam with her in my place.

I sighed and trudged slowly up the stairs to change. I knew nothing about the woman I was to meet tonight, except that she was a courtier, afraid and desperate enough to seek James Fleet's help. I selected a black silk coat and breeches, and a red waistcoat. Sober, dependable, with a military dash. That would do well enough. I tied my cravat with a flourish, gathered my hat and cane from the hallway, and stepped out into the night.

A couple of young rakes and their companions were sauntering down Russell Street, away from the Garden. I recognised one of the girls. She winked at me as they pa.s.sed. That young fool with his arm about her waist would most likely find his purse missing in the morning. But for now they were a merry bunch. I stood in the middle of the street, tempted to slip into their wake. That way lay Lincoln's Inn Fields, the theatre, Kitty and the Eliots. I could still go to them forget all about my secret a.s.signation. James Fleet could always find another gent real or otherwise to complete his business. There was no need for me to risk my easy, contented life for a stranger. Head east. Head east and chase after Kitty.

But then I would never know who was waiting for me in St James's Park, would never learn the secret they wished to spill. A mystery left unsolved for ever. d.a.m.n Fleet, the cunning b.a.s.t.a.r.d. How could I resist the intrigue? It was like putting a bowl of punch in front of a drunk.

One meeting, that was all. A brief conversation with a n.o.blewoman, no doubt about some trifling matter. A stolen bauble, a petty piece of blackmail. I would pa.s.s her troubles on to Fleet and he would resolve the rest. One meeting. And never again, of course.

West, then, to St James's Park. I did not stop to consider the Burdens' house as I pa.s.sed, never thought to look up at the windows or wonder about the previous night's drama. Too much had happened since then for me to think of it. It was eight o'clock and already dark most likely Joseph Burden had already locked and bolted the house for the night. I didn't even notice.

I hurried through the Garden with my head down against the wind, the chill air digging its fingers through my clothes like a thief searching for coins. I pulled my coat tighter, striding past Tom King's coffeehouse, ignoring the raucous shouts and cheers of its customers. I'd wasted a hundred nights in there with King's clever, dangerous wife Moll. Not tonight. She would only winkle the truth from me and use it in some poisonous way, then dismiss her betrayal with a laugh. Best to keep yourself locked and bolted against that one. She was fine company, but she'd pinch the soul from your body and flog it to the highest bidder given the chance.

Walking along the windswept Strand I prayed for a hackney cab to escape the cold, but they were all busy, horses clattering by with steaming breath, drivers swaddled in thick blankets, holding their whips in numb fingers. So I continued on, shoulders hunched, jumping over puddles of rainwater and filth.

As I reached Charing Cross I heard a gruff shout of 'By Your Leave, sir!' and footsteps pounding hard behind me. I jumped aside, narrowly avoiding collision with a sedan chair jolting fast along the pavement, the man inside gripping the window edges hard to stop himself being flung about. The second chairman tipped his chin in thanks as he pa.s.sed, but his pa.s.senger leaned out and glared back at me in outrage. He was an older man in his fifties with a red, sweating face. 'd.a.m.n fool!' he cried, spittle spraying from his lips.

I halted in surprise at his rudeness, searching for a suitable reply. A waterman turning for home watched the chair bobbing its way down the Mall. 't.w.a.t,' he observed, cheerfully.

That would do. I touched my hat in appreciation and pressed on.

On Pall Mall, the blazing lights of St James's Palace cast a bright glow upon the pavement. Somewhere deep inside those rambling old buildings the king and his family would be playing cards or backgammon, watched by bored, obsequious courtiers. If I were king I would insist upon something fresh and new every night a ball, a masque, a play. Or dismiss the entire court and wander naked through the palace, frightening the servants why not? What use was being king if you could not do as you pleased? But by all accounts King George liked nothing better than routine the same wearying pomp and ceremony day in and day out. It was said he visited his mistress at the same hour every day, pacing about outside her rooms if he were a few minutes early, squinting at his watch. I had distant cousins on my father's side of the family who spent their lives at court fighting for power and position amidst all that drudgery. My G.o.d they were welcome to it.

I reached the end of the Mall and slipped into the park beyond, a hand resting on the hilt of my sword. St James's Park was a good deal safer than the stews of St Giles, but courtiers drove their carriages along Kensington Way late into the night. And where courtiers drove their carriages, foot pads and highwaymen were never far away lean Highland wolves prowling amidst a flock of plump, dozy sheep.

I headed deeper into the park where the gra.s.s was higher, cursing silently as the wet mud splashed my stockings and pulled at my shoes. The lanterns along the King's Coach Way shone like jewels on a necklace. I crossed back into darkness, low and swift. I must not be seen here not by a soul. A courtier meeting a young man alone at night in the park reputations had been ruined by less.

Deep in the shadows of Buckingham House I took out my watch, holding the face up to the moonlight. Half past eight. Fleet's mysterious client should arrive at any moment. As a courtier, doubtless she would ride through the park from the palace itself. And as a woman, surely she would come by chair or carriage, with servants to protect her. I tucked away my watch and waited, stamping my feet to keep warm.

A few minutes later I caught the whisk of wheels along the King's Way. Out of the darkness a handsome black and gold carriage glided smoothly across the gra.s.s towards me, the driver urging on the horses with a light tap of his whip. Liveried footmen stood on either side of the carriage, guarding the doors, and a third stood on the back. The red velvet curtains at the windows were drawn tight. My heart began to pound, blood singing through my veins. Ahh . . . this was why I had come, in truth. This brief feeling of mystery and excitement. No doubt in a few seconds the door would swing open and some trembling old dowager would tell me that her pug had run off, and might I find it for her.

I was about to step forward when someone gave a shout close by. 'Halt! Halt you dogs!'

A shot rang out, exploding in the night air with a bright flash. I spun around in time to see a figure surge through the gun smoke. In my shock it took me a moment to realise this was the same man who had cursed me from his sedan chair near the Mall. Now he was sprinting towards the carriage, his face wild with rage.

'Run, d.a.m.n you!' he snarled at the driver, who was trying to calm the terrified horses. 'Run or by G.o.d I'll shoot you dead!'

The driver almost fell from his perch in terror, sliding to the ground and racing off into the darkness. Two of the footmen ran too, without a backward glance. Only the guard closest to the a.s.sailant stood firm an older man, with a scarred face.

'For shame,' he called down. He gestured into the carriage. 'Would you attack an innocent woman?'

'Innocent?' The man with the pistol laughed nastily. 'She's a wh.o.r.e. The whole world knows it. Stand aside.'

With a great cry the guard leaped down from the carriage, landing heavily upon the other man. He shoved him to the ground and punched him hard in the stomach.

I sprang forward. By the time I had pa.s.sed around the horses, the two men were rolling in the mud, punching and tearing at each other in a violent struggle. The horses had begun to rear up in fright, hooves thumping into the ground, knocking the carriage from side to side until the door slammed open. I caught a glimpse of a woman trapped inside, wrapped in a black velvet cloak, her face frozen in terror. As her clear blue eyes met mine, I realised with a jolt that I knew her.

Henrietta Howard. The king's mistress.

The guard was losing ground. I hesitated, not sure who to help first, then jumped onto the carriage step and held out my hand. Mrs Howard looked at me in a daze.

'Hurry,' I said. The horses were whinnying with fear, ready to bolt at any moment. I leaned into the carriage. 'Madam please. Your hand!'

She started, as if waking from a nightmare, and slid towards me. As the carriage jolted forward she fell into my arms and I pulled her by the waist to the ground. A second later the horses took off, dragging the carriage behind them at a deadly pace.

I had saved Mrs Howard at the expense of her guard, who was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and swaying on his feet. He lifted his fists, but there was no strength in him. His attacker struck out with one last, fearsome punch and the guard thudded to the earth. He didn't move again.

Mrs Howard put her hands to her mouth. 'No,' she said, softly.

The man heard her and grinned, full red lips gaping wide. He looked half-mad, eyes gleaming with excitement. In the confusion of the attack, I had thought he must be a highwayman, but now I was not so sure. Highwaymen did not travel by sedan chair. From his clothes I thought he must be a n.o.bleman, but he had an old rake's face, blotchy and ruined by years of debauchery. There was blood pouring from his temple down his cheek, but he didn't seem to notice it. Too drunk, no doubt but my G.o.d he was fierce with it. He gave the guard a vicious kick to the ribs then staggered back, panting hard.

A cloud drifted apart and the moon shone bright, flooding us in silver light. Something gleamed bright by the man's boot, a glint of metal. The breath caught in my throat. The pistol. I drew my sword and prayed to G.o.d he didn't look down.

'Who the devil are you?' he slurred.

'n.o.body. I heard shouts.'

'Well, Sir n.o.body. That whimpering b.i.t.c.h belongs to me.' Mrs Howard gave a low sob and he leered at her. 'What did you think you were free of me, s.l.u.t? Did you think you were safe?' He laughed. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten paces.

Mrs Howard gripped my arm. She was shaking with fear. 'Please, sir, I beg you. Don't let him take me.'

I pushed her behind me.

In a flash he was on me, knocking me down and dashing the blade from my hand. He was fearsome strong, despite his age and the drink and he knew how to fight. I kicked out in panic, but he swung his fist hard, catching my jaw. My head smacked against the ground and my vision blurred. I slumped back, stunned, as the world spun about me.

In an instant he had pounced on me, fingers tearing at my throat. I grabbed his wrists and tried to struggle free, but he was too strong. I thought of the guard lying a few feet away, knocked senseless but alive. I might not be so lucky.

The man let go of my throat, raising his fist for another blow. This was my chance. I pushed up with all my strength, twisting and kicking at him in a fury. There was no grace or strategy to my blows, but I was bigger than him, half his age, and sober. As we rolled in the mud, my hand hit something hard. The pistol. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it and aimed the muzzle at his head, pinning him to the ground with my free arm.

He fell still, staring at the barrel pointed an inch above his face. Then smiled. 'There's no powder.'

He was right there'd been no time to reload it. I turned it around in my palm, felt the heft of it. Then I raised it high and slammed it against his temple. He gave a grunt of pain, and lay still.

I staggered to my feet, reeling. My jaw throbbed and I could feel blood seeping from my throat where his nails had torn into my skin. 'Mrs Howard,' I called out into the night. 'My lady?'

But she'd vanished.

Chapter Five.

The house was dark and empty when I returned home. I heated a pan of mulled wine over the fire in my chamber, breathing in the warm, soothing scent of cloves and nutmeg.

I had been in a shocked stupor on my walk home, lurching through the streets in a daze. Now, as I collapsed into a chair by the fire, I realised how close I'd come to losing my life. I pulled off my wig and loosened my cravat. My left cheek was badly swollen and my jaw was throbbing so hard that I could only take tiny sips of wine. It did not seem broken, but I could tell it would take days to heal. So much for the thrill of adventure, Hawkins you d.a.m.ned fool.

What the devil had happened? The ferocity and speed of the attack had left me reeling. I had seen men strip to the waist in the street to fight over some imagined slight. I'd been beaten and chained to a wall in gaol. I'd survived a riot, for heaven's sake. But I had never seen a man rage so far out of control and so fast. He was like a fighting dog, driven into a frenzy by a l.u.s.t for blood. Could Mrs Howard have inspired such madness? Or was he cursed with an endless fury, always ready to leap into battle? Considering the way he'd spat and sworn at me from his sedan I guessed it was the latter. Either way, I prayed to G.o.d I never encountered the brute again.

As for Mrs Howard, who would blame her for running back to the safety of the palace? Whatever her present troubles, her lover could protect her far better than I. He was the king, d.a.m.n it! I was glad to have saved her tonight, but I wanted no more part in such a dark intrigue. Court politics, James Fleet, and a raving mad man with a pistol? No, thank you, indeed.