have assigned you, seeing as you’re the only one of my officers who speaks French.”
It was Hawkwood’s turn to frown.
The Chief Magistrate sat back in his chair. “As you may or may not be aware, Lord Mandrake has gained something of a reputation as a benefactor to the less fortunate members of our society: orphans, widows of the parish, war veterans and so forth. Meritorious causes, one and all. And his good works have not been limited to these shores. His patronage has also extended beyond our nation’s boundaries.”
Hawkwood’s attempt to appear interested was only marginally successful.
“Émigrés, Hawkwood. One of his most ardent suitors is the Comte d’Artois.”
Hawkwood knew all about the Comte d’Artois, brother to Louis XVIII. In the early months of the Terror, the Comte had fled to England to escape the guillotine and set himself up as leader of the French in exile. Determined to see the monarchy restored, d’Artois and his compatriots, using funds donated by British sympathizers, had been running military training camps at Romsey, on the south coast, in preparation for the eventual overthrow of Emperor Bonaparte.
“I’m told it’s Lord Mandrake’s desire that tonight’s ball will help forge even stronger links between Britain and the legitimate Bourbon government. It’s expected that several of the Comte’s inner circle will be attending the festivities. Hence the request for a French speaker. I need not remind you,” Read continued sternly, “that you are expected to conduct yourself in a manner befitting an officer of the law.”
The Chief Magistrate scribbled on a card. “Here’s the address. You are to present yourself without delay.”
Mandrake House was situated on the corner of St James’s Place and, although the long shadows of evening were still some way off, the mansion was already lit as brightly as a chandelier. Hawkwood, having presented his credentials to Lord Mandrake’s secretary, was watching the scurry of the servants with some amusement. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the first guests began to arrive. The string of carriages would probably stretch around the corner to Pall Mall and beyond. It was imperative, therefore, that Mandrake House was at its most resplendent. So the mirrored walls gleamed, the lights twinkled like stars in the firmament, the gold and silver columns glowed, and the servants ran hither and thither like frightened mice in a granary.
The secretary returned. “His lordship will receive you in the library.”
Hawkwood had never met Lord Mandrake, but of the two men who were present in the comfortable book-lined room, it was not difficult to pick out his employer for the evening. Tall and rotund, with a hooked nose and red-veined cheeks, Lord Mandrake exuded authority and bonhomie in equal measure. He greeted Hawkwood with bluff cordiality.
“Ah, you’ll be Read’s man. Hawkwood, isn’t it?”
Hawkwood confirmed his identity and looked beyond Lord Mandrake’s shoulder towards the room’s other occupant, a thickset man with short, gunmetal grey hair, handsomely attired in formal evening wear, standing by the fireplace, leafing idly, with the help of a conveniently placed candelabra, through the pages of a small leather-bound volume of de Montaigne’s essays. The choice of reading matter suggested to Hawkwood that this was probably one of his lordship’s Bourbon associates.
“Excellent!” Mandrake said. “Now, Magistrate Read’s explained what’s required of you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Splendid, splendid! I must say, Hawkwood, my friend Belvedere was fulsome in his praise. Tells me you’re a damned fine officer. Most reassuring. Not that we’re expecting a similar occurrence, of course.” Lord Mandrake chuckled before turning to indicate the man by the fireplace, still engrossed in his book. “Oh, by the by, this gentleman is a house guest of mine; the Comte de Rochefort. The Comte’s newly arrived from the Continent. Indeed, we’re most fortunate in having several of his countrymen and their ladies here with us this evening.” Lord Mandrake drew close and spoke in a quiet aside. “I’m afraid the Comte’s command of English is lamentably poor, though he assures me he understands it better than he speaks.” Lord Mandrake raised his eyebrows questioningly. “You speak French, I believe?”
Again Hawkwood replied in the affirmative.
“Capital!” Lord Mandrake beamed with pleasure. He turned to the man by the fire and spoke in French. His accent was execrable. “Our man here’s a special constable, come to make sure no one runs off with the knives and spoons, ha! ha! ha!”
Hawkwood glanced towards the Frenchman. While Lord Mandrake chortled loudly at his own wit, the Comte, sensing he was being addressed, looked up from his book. A pair of pale blue eyes passed over Hawkwood with what looked to be complete indifference, before resuming their study of the printed page.
“So, Officer Hawkwood,” Lord Mandrake spoke jovially, “any questions? No? Excellent.” Lord Mandrake smiled and indicated his aide who was waiting patiently, framed in the open doorway. “My secretary, Carrington, will see to all your requirements. Anything you need, he will arrange it.”
And Hawkwood found himself dismissed. It had been smoothly done.
Lord Mandrake watched Hawkwood’s departure with a cool eye before turning to his guest. As the door closed, he addressed the Comte in English. “Well now, there’s an interesting fellow.”
The Comte closed the book, placed it on top of the mantelpiece, and replied fluently in the same language. “He certainly looks capable enough.”
His lordship smiled. “Oh, I’d say he’s a deal more than capable. I’m reliably informed he’s Read’s best man. I’m also told our Captain Hawkwood’s a former army officer – the Rifle Corps, no less – with a very impressive record. Brave, intelligent and resourceful.”
“A formidable combination,” the Comte mused.
“Indeed.” Lord Mandrake nodded. He gazed thoughtfully at his guest for several seconds, as if expecting the other to speak, but the Comte had taken up the book of essays once more. Caught at a loss by the Comte’s marked lack of response, Lord Mandrake fumbled for his pocket watch and feigned surprise at the time on the dial. “Bless my soul, is that the hour? Here we are, engaging in idle chatter, when I have urgent duties to attend.” Lord Mandrake closed the watch lid with a sharp snap. “You’ll forgive me, my friend, if I leave you for a time, but I fear there are retainers to harry and guests to welcome. I’m sure you understand.”
The Comte de Rochefort waited until Mandrake had departed the room before laying his book down once more. Reaching inside his coat, the Comte removed a thin Moroccan leather case. He took a cheroot from the case and placed it between his lips, then returned the case to his coat pocket. Lighting the cheroot from one of the nearby candles, the Comte inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He picked a shred of tobacco leaf from his lip and stared into the candle flame. Then, taking the book of essays, he moved to a nearby chair, lowered himself into the soft leather, took a second draw on his cheroot and began to read.
Hawkwood, dressed in black, felt as conspicuous as a crow in a flock of parakeets. The ball was in full spate, with every room in the Mandrake mansion a vibrant swirl of light and colour.
The women’s dresses caught the eye at every turn. The current fashion for a high waist and low bodice tended to suit the more slender form and for those ladies who were blessed with attractive figures, the effect was exquisite. Several of the women, confident in their looks and with only a passing attempt at modesty, had elected to wear creations of such finely woven material they were almost transparent. Even though he was forced to admire them from the sidelines, Hawkwood thought it small wonder the men were perspiring like dray horses. The underlying odour of sweat mingled uneasily with the sweeter scents of perfume and eau de cologne.
A jewel thief, Hawkwood reflected, might well have thought he’d died and entered paradise. Diamonds, pearls, rubies and sapphires sparkled in the bright candlelight, their brilliance reflected back a thousand-fold in the huge chandeliers.
The