Victory of Eagles (29 page)

stepping closer, frowning at the lack of an answer. Laurence was out of the street-light circle, and his

face obscured by the smudged dirt he had applied. But in a moment he should be recognized, and all at

an end: the slightest outcry would bring ten men from the guards outside the party, whether Woolvey

meant to draw them down on him or not.

Laurence took two quick steps to Woolvey’s side and gripped him by the arm, covering his mouth with

another hand. “Say nothing,” he said, hissed and low, to Woolvey’s staring eyes. “Do you understand?

Say nothing; nod if you understand me.”

Woolvey’s companion said, “What are you—” and stopped: Tharkay had caught him from behind and

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clapped a hand over his mouth also.

Woolvey nodded, and when Laurence took away his hand said at once, “William Laurence? What the

devil are you—” and had to have his mouth covered again.

The door of the house opened, a footman looking out, puzzled. “Into the house,” Laurence said.

“Quickly, for God’s sake,” and half-pushed Woolvey up the stairs, before they should draw attention.

The footman backed in at a loss before their awkward rush, Tharkay and Woolvey’s companion—a

gentleman Laurence vaguely recognized, a Mr. Sutton-Leeds—directly on Laurence’s heels.

Tharkay let go Sutton-Leeds as soon as they were inside, and snatched the door away to shut it again.

“What on earth,” the man said, “is it thieves?” more incredulous than alarmed.

“No, stay there, and for God’s sake do not stir up the house any further,” Laurence said sharply, to the

footman who was edging towards the bell-pull. “Enough of a muddle as it—” and stopped; Edith was on

the stairs, in a dressing-gown and cap, saying, “Bertram, may I beg you to be as quiet as you can? James

is only just asleep—”

There was a moment of general uncomfortable silence, until Woolvey broke it, saying pompously, “I

think you had better explain yourself, Laurence, and what you mean by this invasion of my house.”

“Nothing,” Laurence said, after a moment, “but to keep you from drawing attention from the French on

the stoop: we may not be discovered.” His hand was closed and hard upon the pistol in his waist, for no

good reason. The fool, the damned fool, keeping his wife and child in the middle of an occupying army.

Laurence had no right and knew it, but he could not help but ask, “Why in God’s name have you not left

the city?”

“Measles,” Edith said, from the stairs: she had come halfway down, from the landing. Her face was

composed, but her hand gripped tightly on the railing. “The doctor said the baby might not be moved.”

She paused and added quietly, “The French have not troubled us: one officer came to question us, but

they have been perfectly civil.”

“Not that we are sympathizers, and if you mean to suggest as much—wait,” Woolvey said, “haven’t I

heard—you were—” He stopped, and was plainly stuck for an explanation which Laurence had not the

slightest desire to try and give him.

“You must pardon me, I do not know what you have heard,” Laurence said. “I am most heartily sorry to

have troubled you, but we are on an urgent errand, and it is not of a nature to be discussed in your front

hall.”

“Then come into the sitting room: discuss it there,” Sutton-Leeds said: he was more than a little drunk, if

not to the point of slurring. “Secret mission, splendid: I have been aching to do something against these

damned Frogs, prancing through the city as though they owned it.”

Neither was Woolvey sober, or perhaps it was belligerence, but he with more suspicion seconded this

demand, and added, “And I tell you, Laurence, I expect some better answers. No, you shan’t go, unless

you do want me to set up a shout. You cannot accost a man in the street in times like these and then

claim it is all secret missions and go bounding away, you with this Chinaman in tow.”

“I beg your pardon,” Tharkay said, in his most frigidly aristocratic accents, and drew their stares. “I do

not believe we have been introduced, gentlemen.”

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“What the devil are you doing made up like a Chinaman, then,” Sutton-Leeds said, peering at Tharkay’s

face, as if he expected to find some artifice responsible for his features.

In the brief distraction, Laurence caught Woolvey’s arm and said low and sharply, “Do not be a damned

fool. If they take us in your house, they will take you up as a spy, do you understand, and if they care to

be suspicious your wife also. Forget we were ever here and pay your servants to do the same: every

moment we stay here, we put you all in danger, to no purpose.”

Woolvey wrenched himself free and returned, as coldly, “That you
take
me for a fool, I very well know,

but I am not so simple as to take the word of a convicted traitor—yes, I
have
heard—that you are

skulking loose in the streets, the day after Bonaparte marches in, and all for the benefit of the King.”

“Then I am lying and a turncoat for the French,” Laurence said impatiently, “and if you interfere with me

likely I could have you all arrested: either way you had better let me go.”

“I am not a coward,” Woolvey said, “and if you
are
on some black business for that Corsican, I will

stop you if I have to blow a hole in you to do it, yes, and go to prison for it too, damn you.”

“Gentlemen,” Edith said, breaking in to this charged atmosphere, “I beg you go into the sitting room

before you wake all the house,” and there was nothing to be done for it.

SUTTON-LEEDS WAS DISPOSEDof by means of a substantial glass of brandy, which dose left him

snoring in an armchair. The credit was Edith’s: they had scarcely gone into the room before she had

come down again, hastily dressed, and taken the decanter around at once. But though Woolvey

accepted his own glass automatically, he then looked at it and set it down, and said, “I will have coffee,

my dear, if you please,” with determined mien, and waited for the cup with his arms folded across his

chest.

Laurence looked at the clock: nearly eleven. While Bonaparte and so many of his entourage were

engaged at the party, surely gave them their own best chance of success, and every minute was now

doubly precious.

Tharkay caught his eye, and said low, “He has horses,” with a jerk of his head at Woolvey: a suggestion

which Laurence did not in the least like. He saw no better alternative, but every feeling rebelled against

putting his life, all their lives, in Woolvey’s hands, and he did not trust Woolvey’s servants not to listen.

They remained standing all in silence, except for the continuing low snuffles of Sutton-Leeds’s snoring. A

maid brought the coffee service, and took a long while arranging it on the table, covertly glancing up at

them all. They made an absurd gathering: Woolvey in his evening-dress; Edith in a soft high-waisted

morning gown of clear lawn, without stays: she must have snatched it from the closet and put it on alone.

Tharkay and himself, in their rough workman’s clothes, smudged with dirt and stinking, no doubt, of

cattle and of the docks.

“Thank you, Martha,” Edith said at last, “I will pour,” and bent over the table when the maid had gone.

She gave them cups, or Woolvey and Laurence; she hesitated a moment, and then finally poured another

for Tharkay.

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Tharkay smiled with a faint twist at her doubtful gesture towards him. “Thank you,” he said, and drank

the coffee quickly; then setting down the cup he went to the door and opened it again. The maid and

footman lingering outside made shift to vanish quickly. Tharkay glanced back at Laurence and,

meaningfully, at the clock, then he slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him: no-one now would

be able to come near and eavesdrop.

Laurence put down his own cup of excellently strong coffee, and looked at the dark square of the

casement window: framed with thick curtains of velvet in pale blue, with elegant gold tasseled cords. He

had the unreasonable desire to simply smother Woolvey with one of them, and leave him trussed on the

floor while they fled; but of course he would begin to shout at once, and Laurence could not put Edith in

such a position.

“Well?” Woolvey said. “I am not going to be put off, Laurence, and if you keep me waiting any longer I

have a dashed notion to have my footmen put you in the cellar, and there let you sit until morning.”

Laurence compressed his lips on the first several answers he wished to make. He was aware he was

unjust. Woolvey had no more reason to love him than the reverse, and no reason to believe him. “We do

not have until morning,” he said, at last, shortly. “Earlier today a British officer was captured, a dragon

captain—”

“What of it? I hear ten thousand men were captured yesterday.” Woolvey spoke bitterly and with real

feeling: one sentiment at least which Laurence could share.

“It means his beast is taken prisoner, too,” Laurence said. “He is hostage for her good behavior: and his

beast is our fire-breather—our only fire-breather.”

“Oh,” Edith said, suddenly. “—I saw her, this morning. She came down in Hyde Park.”

Laurence nodded. “And there is some little chance he is yet held at the palace itself,” he said. “Do you

understand now our urgency? While Bonaparte—”

“I am not a simpleton,” Woolvey said, interrupting, “but why only you and this havey-cavey fellow with

you—”

“One good man is better than a dozen of lesser ability, in such an expedition,” Laurence said. “We were

the only ones nearby enough, to make the attempt. No: enough questions,” he added sharply. “I am not

going to waste time answering whatever sequence of objections you can dredge up. If you mean to

continue this blundering interference, where you have no understanding of the situation, you may be

damned: we will take our chances in the street with Bonaparte’s guardsmen.”

Woolvey looked still undecided. “Will,” Edith said, quietly, and they both looked at her, “will you swear

on the Bible that you are telling the truth?”

This gesture did not entirely satisfy Woolvey, but Edith took him by the arm and said, “Dearest, I have

known Will since we were little children: I can believe he would have managed to get himself convicted of

treason, but not that he would lie under oath.”

Sullenly he said, “Still; it is all a dashed rum affair if you ask me.” He drew away from her and poured

himself a second cup of coffee, in an irritable tension that splashed it across the china and the polished

wood, and did not bother to put in the cream but drank it straight from the cup, a few swallows only, and

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set it down again with a clatter. “So what is it, do you mean to rescue him?” he said abruptly, with a new

note of something even more dangerous than suspicion: enthusiasm.

“If we can,” Laurence said, and forced himself to ask, “If you can spare us your carriage-horses—”

“No,” Woolvey said after a moment. “No, I will
take
you, in the carriage. Lord Holland’s servants

know me, and his grounds march with the palace gardens: it is not a mile from his house. If you really

mean to get yourselves into the palace, and it is not all a phantasy, I will see you there. And if it is all a

pack of nonsense, and you have some other thing in mind, I dare say with the coachman and a couple of

footmen we can just as well put paid to your notion.”

Edith flinched. “Woolvey, do not be absurd,” Laurence said. “You have not been brought up for this

sort of work.”

“Driving you an easy couple of miles, to the house of a gentleman of my acquaintance, and then a stroll

through his park?” Woolvey shot back, sarcastic. “I dare say I will manage somehow.”

“And then?” Laurence said. “When we have gone into the house, and taken Granby out, and a hue and

cry is raised after us?”

“I am certain I know Kensington Park a damned sight better than you,” Woolvey said, “so as for getting

out, I have a better chance than you of doing it. What is your next objection? I am ready to be as patient

as you care to be, Laurence,
you
are the one insisting on a hurry.”

Woolvey went upstairs to change his clothes, having first taken the precaution of calling down two

footmen to watch them, while the coach was pulled around. “Can you not persuade him?” Laurence

asked Edith, low, in a corner: she had her arms folded about her waist, hands gripping at the elbows.

“What would you have me say?” she returned. “I will not counsel my husband to be a coward. Will this