The Reckoning. James McGee

on the mantelpiece. Turning back, she said, “Yes, well, unfortunately, much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I see time is against us. I have an evening’s entertainment to arrange, so you must forgive me.” She gazed at him beguilingly. “Unless there is anything else you wish to ask?”

      “Not at this time. I may need to call on you again at some date.”

      She inclined her head. “Of course.”

      Hawkwood was about to turn for the door, when she said quietly, “I think, perhaps, I should like that. Despite your questionable manner and the reason for your visit with all this talk of graveyards and murder, you have enlivened what would otherwise have been an exceedingly dull afternoon.”

      Her eyes held his. “I have the distinct feeling that there is more to you, Captain Hawkwood, than meets the eye. I suspect that, were I to scratch the surface, I would unearth all manner of interesting truths. Why is that, do you suppose?”

      “I have no idea,” Hawkwood said, “though, curiously, I was thinking exactly the same thing about you.”

      She continued to regard him coolly for several seconds. “Then, perhaps, if your investigation allows, you might consider visiting in a more … private capacity?”

      “On my salary? I doubt it.”

      “Then you do yourself a disservice. Attendance is not solely dependent on the depth of one’s purse. If you were to attend, it would be at my invitation.”

      She let the inference hang in the air between them.

      “I wouldn’t want to lower the tone,” Hawkwood said.

      She smiled, more warmly. “Oh, I think you’ll find we cater for most persuasions. Who knows? You might even see something you like. And as I mentioned earlier, you would be in excellent company. Our evening soirées are extremely popular.”

      “I’m sure they are.”

      Raising her hand, she caressed the jewel at her throat. “Well, then, will we see you again?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “Perhaps? That sounds like a man contemplating retreat. I do hope we haven’t frightened you away.”

      “I’d prefer to call it a strategic withdrawal.”

      She bit back a smile. “In order to advance again at a more opportune moment?”

      Before he could reply, she rose sinuously. “If that is your intention, I should probably summon reinforcements. Before I do, though, let me give you this.”

      From the white marble mantelpiece she took a small silver box. Opening it, she removed what looked like a deck of playing cards. Selecting a card, she held it out. “Should you decide to call.”

      There was no script. One side of the card was plain and coloured black. When Hawkwood turned it over he saw that the face side was embossed with the image of a red rose on a white background.

      She picked up a small hand-bell from the table. At the first ring, the door opened. Flagg stood there, poised and looking not a little disconcerted to find that Hawkwood was still standing and in one piece.

      “Madam?”

      “Thomas, if you would be so kind as to show the officer out. We have concluded our business. Oh, and treat him kindly, otherwise we might not see him again. And that, I think, would be rather a pity.”

      Ignoring the manservant’s baleful look, she inclined her head. “Until next time.”

      Hawkwood slid the card into his waistcoat pocket, by which time she was already turning away. As dismissals went, it was hard to fault.

      “Ever wear a uniform, Thomas?” Hawkwood asked, as the manservant walked him through the lobby to the front door.

      The reply was a borderline grunt. “East Norfolk, First Battalion.”

      Hawkwood nodded. “Thought as much; seems there’s a lot of it about.”

      The manservant frowned but did not respond. He remained silent as he let Hawkwood out.

      A light drizzle had begun to fall. As the door closed behind him, Hawkwood turned up his collar and walked away into the rain.

      Wondering what Eleanor Rain had been hiding.

       8

      “This one’s new,” Maddie murmured softly, running her fingers along the line of puckered flesh. “Or is it because you have so many now, I’m losing count?”

      The furrow followed the curve of Hawkwood’s left bicep, as if a spindly grub had burrowed beneath the skin. A musket ball had grazed him as he was leading a Mohawk raiding party against an American advance column which was attempting to seize a British-controlled blockhouse on the Lacolle River, five miles north of the Canadian border. It had been a foolhardy enterprise from the outset, though the mission had been deemed a success because it had delayed the column long enough to allow British forces to launch a counter-attack. Victory, however, had come at a heavy price. All but three of Hawkwood’s war band had died and the survivors – Hawkwood, Major Douglas Lawrence and the Mohawk war chief Tewanias – had all received wounds.

      Almost two months had passed since the engagement. The injuries – including the cut on his forehead and the bayonet graze on his thigh – had healed well, a process aided by native poultices and the attention of the surgeon on board the Royal Navy frigate that had transported Hawkwood from Quebec to Falmouth. Other than fresh scar tissue and the odd twinge from the damaged arm muscle, everything was back in working order, save for when Maddie went exploring and memories were reawakened.