Honour Redeemed (13 page)

Markham wasn’t searching for luxuries, but Lizzie Gordon was. And so in the dark interior of one warehouse he bumped into her, without her husband, accompanied only by an Italian maid. Fortunately he was spared any hard looks, since Rannoch had stayed out in the street.

At first she pretended not to notice him, suddenly concentrating instead on a bolt of canvas that couldn’t possibly be of interest to her. The small warehouse was poorly lit, and smelt musty from goods kept too long unsold. But as he moved a little closer he could just pick up a trace of her perfume, a lemony odour that he recalled from their first meeting. That made his blood race.

‘I’ve often thought women in ducks an attractive notion,’ he said in a low voice. She didn’t reply, or turn round, but he saw the slight shiver of her ear and cheek as she set her face. ‘The ladies at Sadler’s Wells are wont to wear them when they do a naval pageant, and very fetching it looks.’

There was a significant pause before she finally spoke. ‘I daresay you know quite a few of them intimately enough.’

Markham was looking at the Italian maid, small, dark-haired and rather plump, who with the acute antennae of her type had immediately picked up the sensuality of the exchange, the brown eyes widening as they swept from her mistress to this officer and back again.

‘I won’t deny that fortune has favoured me on occasions with a view closer than that from the stalls.’

‘Which would go some way to explaining your reputation as a rake.’

‘It would perhaps justify the ease I feel in the company of women.’

She turned slowly, her finger still rubbing the thick, cream canvas. ‘So much less brutal in judgment than your fellow men.’

‘Certainly,’ he smiled, though there was a harsher note
in his voice. ‘And far less boorish when full of claret. They have such a civilised attitude, women, and not just to killing and maiming.’

Lizzie knew he was referring to Hanger, and declined to respond. She hadn’t missed the maid’s expression either, and her blue eyes flicked very slightly in that direction. ‘You will forgive me, Lieutenant, I must return to our villa.’

‘A villa?’ he replied, without moving aside to let her pass. ‘A pleasant situation, I trust.’

‘It is.’

‘Does it have a name?’

‘The Villa Ancona. Occupied by a French officer before us. He took most of the comforts of civilised existence with him when he departed. My husband wishes to entertain, but will struggle to do so without plates.’

Markham bit his tongue. The name Hanger and the word entertain sat very ill together. ‘But at least your Frenchman left you a maid?’

‘No. I brought Maria from Leghorn. She has the advantage of a little English.’

‘How very convenient,’ Markham said, with a note of deep irony, since the strain on that modicum of language was obvious. Maria was trying very hard to understand the words, as well as the mood, of what she was witnessing. ‘And where is your Villa Ancona?’

She looked him right in the eye then, knowing he was asking a question the answer to which he could pick up easily elsewhere. The location of Colonel Hanger’s quarters would be common knowledge. Both were aware that another small piece of her defence was being challenged. He wanted her to say it, to give an indication of her position. He knew he’d won when the eyes dropped.

‘The square is termed la Place des Chaumettes, though I believe the locals give it a different, more Italianate name.’

‘Then with your permission, ma’am, I will call on you
there.’ He paused for half a second before continuing. ‘And your husband, Colonel Hanger, of course.’

That brought the eyes back onto his, and they had a blaze of anger in them. The idea of George Markham calling on Augustus Hanger was ludicrous, said only for the benefit of Maria. He could see the strain in her, as she fought back the hard words she wanted to belabour him with, also constrained by the maid’s presence.

‘That will not be possible, Lieutenant. My husband has gone over the passes to Cardo to carry out an examination of the French fortress line.’

It was a delight to him to observe the confusion that followed those words, in a woman who wasn’t absolutely sure of her motives for using them. And she could see, plainly, by the smile on Markham’s face, that he was choosing to interpret them as an invitation.

‘It wouldn’t be seemly,’ she continued, with a slight catch in her throat, ‘for you to call when Colonel Hanger is absent.’

His smile had evaporated. He wanted to move in closer, to see how she would react. But Maria made that impossible. The doubts that raged inside him became unbearable – not a new situation to Markham, who had done just such a thing with many women, only to be rebuffed for effrontery. But it was one of those moments of truth, too rare in any attempt to establish a mutual attraction, an occasion when, to win an inch forward, he had to risk a complete reversal.

‘I told you before this that I would feel myself under no such constraints. And if I did call upon you, it would be the act of a deep and committed friend, who holds you in the very highest regard.’

The blood filled her cheeks, and he steeled himself for a slap. But even though her fists were balled, she didn’t strike him, and the air which had filled her body to provide energy for the blow slipped out slowly. The lips, which had been pressed together, parted slightly, in a very inviting
way. Lizzie Gordon didn’t smile, but as far as Markham was concerned she didn’t have to.

‘Come Maria,’ she said to the maid. ‘Let us continue our task, and see if we can find the wherewithal to provide a decent table for the moment when my husband returns.’ She swept past him in a wave of lemon scent. ‘Good day, Lieutenant.’

As he bowed, he caught once more the brown eyes of Maria, open slightly too wide, an indication of her poorly concealed curiosity. When he smiled, it looked as if it was aimed at her. But it was more of an internal than an external pleasure. Lizzie Gordon didn’t trust her maid, a wise precaution with any servant. And just so Maria couldn’t hint to Hanger who her mistress had met while out shopping, his name hadn’t been used once. Given the means to kill his pursuit stone dead, Mrs Elizabeth Hanger hadn’t employed it, which left him wondering about the internal arrangements of the Villa Ancona, as well as the disposition of the other servants that must belong to the place.

Rannoch had seen her exit, and gave him a sour look when he emerged. Markham ignored him, and they continued in their quest, eventually finding a woodworker down by the harbour who would be happy to adjust the stocks. As soon as they returned to the billet, Markham requested that Quinlan and Ettrick be required to stand by, which earned him a deeply questioning stare from his sergeant.

‘Regarding that woodworker,’ Markham said quickly. ‘We can’t send all the weapons in at once, so when I’ve finished with these two, we must sit down and work out our schedule.’

Rannoch didn’t answer. He favoured his officer with a cold stare, the like of which Markham hadn’t seen for months, that had him speaking for the mere sake of it. ‘Then we must make sure we have enough balls to fit the guns.’

‘We will not achieve what we managed before,’ Rannoch said after a long pause, during which he picked up a French cartridge. ‘Even if I work all night.’

‘Put someone else to it.’

‘Never. There are too many sloppy hands.’

‘At least let some of the other men re-stitch the cartridges.’

‘You’re taking away the two most nimble,’ Rannoch replied, nodding to Quinlan and Ettrick, who had donned their coats and were waiting for him near the doorway. As an oblique way of asking him what he was up to, it would have been perfect if he’d been prepared, for one second, to answer.

‘Try some of the Seahorses,’ Markham replied gaily, as he turned to leave. ‘Who knows, one of them might be a true seamstress in disguise.’

Quinlan and Ettrick had gone outside by the time he emerged himself, and were trying unsuccessfully to trade for some tobacco with the Corsican soldiers who were lounging about. He called to them impatiently, and they fell in quickly, staying at his heels as he made his way through the narrow streets full of locals. The men had the grace to step aside when they saw a red coat coming: the British were allies. But judging by the fierce expressions in their black eyes, that was not a courtesy they’d extend to an enemy, even if that man was a conqueror.

‘They’re an ill-looking bunch,’ said Quinlan, which was odd coming from him, given that he was no hundred-guinea portrait himself. ‘Half the buggers are ever on the move, dashing this way and that, yet there are more, like them rankers outside our billet, who just stand around an’ watch us.’

‘As if they was waitin’ for somewhat to happen,’ Ettrick replied. ‘Or actin’ as a Runner’s snitch.’

Markham was only listening with half an ear, aware that these two were a couple of proper villains, whose presence in the colours was either a timely escape or a
sentence handed down by a beak as an alternative to hanging or transportation. He had seen Quinlan pick locks with ease, and the way they worked was clear enough proof that they had been a team in civilian life too. Sharp-tongued, small and wiry, both with a foxy air to their features, they were the slipperiest pair in the Hebes, adept at ducking unpleasant duties. But that didn’t matter to Markham. They’d proved themselves as fighters, and that was what interested him in the main.

‘That’s it,’ he said, pointing across the small square to the thick wooden gates of a stunted villa. ‘I want the number of servants, where they sleep, and the layout of the main rooms inside.’

‘That last be the hard part,’ said Quinlan, his face screwed up.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a couple of soldiers in there too,’ Markham added, with an air of innocence.

‘Whose abode is it?’

‘Colonel Hanger’s.’ Both men whistled a little, then looked at each other. They knew the occupant of the house just as well as their officer did. ‘He’s away at present.’

‘Just as well,’ hissed Ettrick, ‘given his love of a-stringin’ folk up on a rope.’

‘I can’t, of course, order this.’

‘No need for that,’ Quinlan chirped, suddenly all smiles again. ‘Bullock servants being inside will make it easy.’

‘Why?’

‘Never known one yet that wasn’t keen to sell his master’s claret. All we need, to get everything you want, is the means to buy a few bottles.’

It was slightly embarrassing, even in front of this pair, when he produced a purse that sagged enough to show how little it contained. Markham fetched out a few coins and handed them over, doling them out like a careful parent.

‘That’ll do, your honour,’ Quinlan said. ‘They won’t be
tying to vend it for top coin. We’s’ll be buying at wholesale, you might say.’

‘Two hours,’ Markham said.

‘Just as long as you square it with the Viking, if’n we come back staggering. Rannoch will have our back skin.’

‘You leave Sergeant Rannoch to me.’ Markham watched them as they walked out into the open square, sure that they were talking, but unable to hear their whispered exchange.

‘He ain’t plannin’ to knife the bastard, is he?’ asked Ettrick. ‘’Cause I want no party of that, if he is.’

‘He is in a manner of speaking, friend,’ Quinlan replied with a giggle. ‘But the blade he has it in mind to shove home for the mortal wound is more akin to a blood sausage than a knife.’

‘’Course!’ Ettrick exclaimed. ‘Old Hang ’em High went an’ got wedded.’

‘Can’t be more’n a two-month. Not that such will put a block on Lieutenant George Tenby Markham. Our boy’s a proper Irish goat an’ no error. He’s no sooner marked ’em than he’s half inside their petticoats.’

Ettrick laughed loud enough at this pun for his officer to hear him, which left Lieutenant Markham wondering how they could be so utterly relaxed when he was in such a state.

‘You take my word for it, mate,’ Quinlan continued. ‘That scarfaced sod Hanger will have a pair of horns to add to his head afore we see daylight again.’

To most people, the idea of climbing through a woman’s bedroom window in the middle of the night would appear farcical, the stuff of a cheap novella rather than real life. But looking at the sketches Quinlan and Ettrick had executed for him, badly drawn, and stained with some of the drink they’d consumed, there seemed little alternative. The whole of the ground floor, apart from the public rooms, was occupied by either servants or Hanger’s military valet and footmen. There were neither attics nor basements to accommodate them, and every room they used opened, in the Roman manner, onto the main hall and staircase.

The other difficulty was opportunity. Hanger was away on a specious reconnaissance for the army, but the place he was visiting, Cardo, lay a mere nine miles from San Fiorenzo, so close that he’d left the majority of his attendants behind. That told Markham two things: he was travelling light, and he intended to return swiftly to the comforts of his new wife and the commandeered villa. He could, of course, ask at headquarters, since the movements of someone like Hanger would be noted. But that risked drawing attention to himself, especially since their mutual antipathy was a poorly kept secret.

Markham believed in spontaneity, in matters relating to sex as well as war. Surprise was the basic key to success; an opportunity observed was best exploited quickly, lest it evaporate. It had generally served him well in both situations, and the times at which it had led him into trouble tended to be buried under the slightly vain
awareness of the more frequent pleasures. If what he was contemplating bordered on madness, that merely reflected his emotions. Shut off in his small cubicle, with his men preparing to bed down for the night, he shaved carefully, humming to himself a soft rendition of ‘Garry Owen’, his favourite marching song. His thoughts were a flowing mélage of conquests past, the faces of women he had wooed and seduced mixed with the prospects for the forthcoming adventure.

His cloak would be an encumbrance, so that must be left behind. He’d have worn civilian garments if he had them, rather than his scarlet uniform coat, and even contemplated going without sword or hat. But that notion was discarded when he realised just how singular he would look. Out of doors in a war zone, on a dark night, being unarmed and bareheaded would draw attention to him rather than deflect it. The streets he was going to traverse would be quiet, but they wouldn’t be completely devoid of life, even if the generals had imposed a curfew. Few Corsicans would be out late, but the Army would have patrols, and not just to suppress an imagined enemy. There might be no brothels in San Fiorenzo, and strict injunctions against molesting the womenfolk, but that had never stopped the British Army, wherever it billeted. Men would risk a thousand lashes for an illicit drink or an hour with a woman. It was only as he raised his hand to gently pull back the curtain that Markham realised that in reflecting on them, he was to a great measure, describing himself.

The wry grin produced by that thought had to be wiped away quickly. He was subjected to curious glances from around the room, some blatant, others covert. Rannoch was cleaning his musket, an almost obsessive nightly ritual with the Scotsman. Bellamy was alone in a corner, reading a book. To the assembled Lobsters that would appear very strange, much more so than if he’d been executing some wild tribal dance. He’d removed the top of the bandage
from his crown, leaving just a strip tied round his head, which looked more like decoration that anything medical. Ettrick and Quinlan were still drinking, consuming with a few of the other Hebes claret that both he and Hanger had paid for, watched enviously by the Seahorses. Some of that emotion was transferred to him. Holding a King’s commission, he was not required to explain himself, and if he chose to go out in darkness that was his affair. The curfew didn’t apply to officers.

The street seemed deserted, the night air chilly, even crisp, under a clear sky that had taken any warmth off the earth before the sun went down. A slight scuffing sound made him turn to look, but the area it came from was just a dark hole, the kind of spot that could hide a dozen cats or scavenging dogs. No other sound followed, so he turned and headed in the direction of the Place des Chaumettes, still softly whistling ‘Garry Owen’, the rhythm of the air dictating the speedy pace of his feet.

The cobbled roadway, when he joined a wider thoroughfare, produced something very close to a marching crack from the heels of his boots. He maintained it, first because it suited his mood, and also because he reasoned that he would attract less attention by appearing to be confident of his business, and was thankful for the moon- and starlight which rendered his progress so swift and painless.

The Place de Chaumettes lay no more than ten minutes from his own quarters, and soon he was by one of the side walls, close to a clump of stunted pine trees that Ettrick had alerted him to. Mentally conjuring up images from the drawings he’d been given, he reckoned this to be the best point to scale the wall that enclosed the surrounding garden. The facing was old, rendered lime with enough cracks and exposed bricks to provide ample hand and footholds.

Markham took off his hat and sword, then hesitated. Another soft sound, like a shoe clipping a stone, catching
his ear, was one reason. But the main one was the nagging thought he’d had all along; that a note should have been sent to Lizzie Gordon hinting at his intentions. He’d havered over this ever since he’d first had the idea, giving her something in writing that would at least allow her a degree of choice. Markham had discarded it, not sure if he had done so because he knew she’d be bound to refuse. But that at least would have avoided the worst scenario he could imagine: that not only would she not welcome him into her private chamber, but that she would scream the place down, summoning her attendants who would then chase him off the premises.

Was that what he wanted? To so frighten her that she would be bound to inform her husband of his attentions? Publicly faced with such information, Hanger would have to challenge him, an option to a senior officer in pursuit of justice from a junior which was denied, for obvious reasons, in reverse. He had that scarred face in his mind’s eye now, not Lizzie’s, as he contemplated the satisfaction he’d receive from finally, in a quasi-legal setting, being given the opportunity to revenge himself for the events of thirteen years before.

Thinking like that almost made him give up the whole idea. He had a natural aversion to any situation which forced others to pay a price for his actions. The new Mrs Hanger, even if she did tell her spouse, would never convince him that she had not, in some way, encouraged his efforts at seduction. She might have called him a rake to his face, but it was a well known fact that women were, for better or worse, attracted to men with such a reputation.

‘In the name of Christ, Georgie, me boy,’ he whispered to himself, ‘will you be after making yer bloody mind up?’

The image of himself, standing so indecisively, sheathed sword in one hand, hat in the other, made him laugh, and that in turn restored his confidence. He crept forward, to hide both articles in the thick, well pruned pine, his nose
rubbing against the pungent greenery as he jammed both into the branches, to a point where they could not be seen by any passer-by. Exiting backwards, in the narrow gap between trees and wall, he looked up at the sudden sound of running feet, and the sight of two dark and silent shapes racing towards him produced the dive that took him back into the bush, as much to protect his body as to retrieve his sword.

He shouted, but the pair heading towards him remained silent. All he saw in the moonlight was the flash of a silver blade.

It was the trimmed pine that saved him, being thick enough to stop the hands jabbing forward from reaching their target. But confined as he was by both it and the wall worked against him as well. He couldn’t unsheathe his sword, since the hilt had become jammed round a branch. He would die if he stayed still. Even if he could get his weapon clear, the time it would take him to wield it would be more than enough for one of his assailants to plunge a knife into him.

Instead he ran his hands up the wall, feeling frantically for a hold that could lever him upwards, yelling like a man possessed to alert Hanger’s servants or any passing patrol to his plight, praying that even the most subdued response would scare off the robbers. When his foot slipped George Markham guessed he wasn’t going to make it. Not willing to be stabbed in the back, hanging on to a wall by his fingertips, he dropped back to the ground and dragged himself round so that his back was to the cold, crumbling masonry. The robbers had taken one side of the bush each, and were pushing in behind it to get at him. Rather than wait for both, he rushed one. As he jabbed forward with his left hand he hit something metal and sharp, though he could feel no pain.

The weight of his body took the footpad out into clear space, and he fell backwards in a flurry of pine needles, stabbing again, though fruitlessly. The point of his blade,
slowed by Markham’s hold, was deflected by the knotted aiguillette on Markham’s shoulder. Vaguely, he was aware of sounds from the other side of the wall, the shouts of alarmed servants coming to investigate the commotion. He was also alive to the fact that the man he’d attacked had ceased to try and kill him personally. Instead he was intent on holding him so that his companion could do the job with ease. His hands pushed against the rough cloth of the coat, in a vain attempt to get clear, the smell of the man, a mixture of stale sweat and garlic, in his nostrils.

The other shout, being on the outside of the wall, was loud enough to freeze every motion. In the moonlight, what they saw was like a ghostly apparition, a dark, nearly black face with a thin white strip around the brow. Markham reacted first, getting one hand free enough to land a blow on his attacker’s cheek. It lacked the force to knock him out. But with whoever had come to his rescue moving forward to engage the man intent on knifing him, it provided just enough time to get partially clear, as well as enough space to allow him to grab hold of the arm that still held a knife.

The words that passed his ear were neither French, English nor even Italian. But the boot that took him in the side was international in its language and effect. Not only did it remove every ounce of air from his lungs; it sent him rocketing sideways as the man beneath him simultaneously heaved. He rolled hard against the wall, his feet scrabbling uselessly to give him the purchase that would allow him to dodge the follow-up blow.

But the man who’d kicked him had moved away, which allowed Markham to haul himself upright and attempt to marshal his senses. Sounds began to filter into his brain, as he tried hard to focus. His attackers were yelling incomprehensibly to each other, one engaged in what looked like a duel between a bayonet and a knife, while the other was gesticulating wildly. The Villa Ancona had lights in every window, as well as servants in the garden, calling
over the wall behind him to demand an explanation. Third, and most important, was the heavy tread of military boots as a British army patrol came towards them. It was that which made the villains run rather than stay. They were gone quickly, mere ghostly shadows again, by the time the soldiers entered the square.

What had been a small empty piazza now became crowded, as first the patrol, then Hanger’s servants appeared. Soon every house had disgorged its occupants, everyone carrying lanterns, curious to find out the reason for the commotion. Winded, with a thudding pain in his ribs, George Markham pulled himself upright. His head, once he was erect, came up last. The black eyes of Marine Eboluh Bellamy searched his face, the large whites matching the thin strip of bandage that remained round his head.

‘Lieutenant Markham,’ he said, his voice carrying a trace of shock.

‘Bellamy?’ Markham answered weakly.

‘Stand out of the way, you bastards,’ demanded a gruff North Country voice, accompanied by the sound of weapon butts hitting the ground. The crowd, which had gathered very quickly, parted to reveal a barrel-chested army sergeant, wearing a provost’s sash, big enough in his bulk to conceal the men following him. ‘What in the name of buggery is going on here?’

Markham pushed himself off the wall and shoved Bellamy aside, the stinging pain he felt the first indication that his hand had a deep gash. The look that was needed to confirm that slowed his response. But even before he spoke, the sergeant had taken in the cut of his uniform, and the scowl on his face evaporated as he pulled himself to attention.

‘Sir.’

‘Sergeant.’

‘Braithwaite, sir. Twentieth foot. Might I be permitted to enquire what occurred here, sir?’

‘A couple of footpads sought to rob me.’ As he spoke, he saw the sergeant’s eyes flick towards Bellamy, whose red marine coat was just as well lit as Markham’s. ‘Had it not been for my servant here, I would most certainly have been killed.’

Markham hoped the note of sudden inspiration, so obvious to him, wasn’t equally apparent to the sergeant, who was now openly eyeing Bellamy up and down. This time the man’s colour worked in his favour. The curfew applied to the Negro as much as it did to any other ranker. But if a gentleman chose to take a servant along with him, and a black man could be nothing other, then that was that officer’s business.

‘It seems you took the brunt of matters, sir,’ the sergeant responded. Clearly he’d noted the pristine state of Bellamy’s garments, as opposed to Markham’s, and was wondering how an officer could be so attacked while his servant stood by unharmed.

‘I was on the way to pay a visit,’ Markham added quickly, determined to keep talking, even though it caused him pain, ‘and I realised that I left something behind, so I sent my servant back to my quarters to fetch it.’

‘Chancy, your honour.’ As Braithwaite said this, his men pushed forward behind him, opening up the crowd so that they too could see the sorry object in the middle. Several of the locals were more taken with the Negro than Markham, pointing to him and gesticulating. Not so the Provost Sergeant, who was also looking at Bellamy, but with narrowed eyes. ‘Had we come across him out of your company, we has the right to put a ball in him, or take him up before the Provost Marshal.’