Rebellion

Read shook his head. “Whatever you think is appropriate.”

“I think it’s for the best,” Brooke said. “Besides, there’s no requirement for him to be privy to everything we do.”

“And our émigré friends?” Read asked.

Brooke shook his head again.

“Not even the Comité? Their collaboration’s proved of great benefit to us in the past.”

“Indeed it has, and my department is exceedingly grateful, but you can’t be too careful. We live in dangerous times. We must exercise caution, even where our so-called allies are concerned.”

Composed of émigrés drawn from the ranks of former government ministers, senior clergymen and a coterie of aristocrats all loyal to the French crown, the Comité Français was effectively the royalist government-in-exile. Its goal was the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.

“Besides, they’ve been rather peppery of late,” Brooke added.

Brooke was referring to the rift between the heirs to the French throne: the Comte d’Artois and his brother Louis Stanislas. Having fled France in the wake of the Revolution, both were now resident in England. Although Louis was the next in line following the execution of his brother and the death of his nephew while detained in the Temple prison, it was the Comte d’Artois to whom the majority of the émigrés looked for guidance, a state of affairs that had led to deep mistrust between the two siblings.

“You’d have thought sharing a common foe would have put paid to the damned bickering,” Brooke said. “It makes you wonder why we continue to support them. It’s costing us a fortune. It’ll only take one slip for Parliament to get wind of our special donations and they’ll be at our throats. They’ve been looking for excuses to reduce our funding. If that happens, we’re all out of a damned job.”

“In that case, we must pray that Hawkwood and . . .” Read paused “. . . your correspondent . . . are successful in their endeavours.”

“Indeed,” Brooke said. He smiled silkily and raised his cup. “Here’s to good fortune.”

“When does he embark?” Read asked.

“Tonight,” Brooke said. “A private coach is transporting him to Dover. There’s a vessel waiting. If the weather’s kind to us, he’ll sail on the evening tide.”

“Then we should pray for calm seas, as well,” Read said. Brooke kept his cup raised.

“Amen to that,” he said.

Maddie Teague watched silently from the open doorway as Hawkwood rolled the spare shirts and breeches he had removed from his army chest and laid them on the bed next to a battered valise. The lid of the chest remained propped open. Inside it, a curved sabre lay sheathed atop a dark green tunic. Even though it was folded, it was obvious that the uniform jacket had survived many campaigns and had been repaired innumerable times. Next to the tunic was a pair of grey cavalry breeches and a waist sash the colour of dried ox blood. Below the tunic and breeches lay an officer’s greatcoat and under that, partly hidden, was a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. One end of the oilcloth had worked loose, revealing the polished walnut butt and brass patch-box cover of an army rifle.

“Matthew?” Maddie said softly.

Hawkwood turned.

Maddie lifted her gaze from the contents of the chest. Her eyes held his. “Should I keep the room?”

Hawkwood found himself transfixed by her look.

“It was a jest,” she said, though her emerald eyes did not hold much humour.

Maddie was tall and slender. Her auburn hair, pale colouring and high cheekbones hinted at her Celtic roots, while her strength of character could usually be measured by the depth and force of her gaze. On this occasion, however, there was only concern on her face.

She continued to stare at him. “What are you thinking?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Nothing.”

Maddie stepped forward and placed her right hand on his chest. “You’re a poor liar, Matthew Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood smiled. “I was thinking yes, you should definitely keep the room for me.”

Her face softened. She tapped his waistcoat with her closed fist.

“It’s my job, Maddie. It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said.

“I know.”

She rested her palm against his cheek. Her hand was cool to the touch.

He thought back to the first time they’d met. It was not long after his return to England from Spain. He’d been in search of a roof over his head and Maddie was the landlady of the Blackbird Inn, with two empty rooms in need of an occupant. The financial arrangement had suited both of them; Maddie in particular. Her husband had been a sea captain and he’d bought the inn to provide an additional source of revenue when he retired. But Captain Teague had perished when his ship had fallen prey to the storm tossed waters of the Andaman Sea, leaving his widow with a string of unpaid bills and a lengthening queue of creditors. Hawkwood’s timely arrival had kept the wolves from the door and given Maddie the time she’d needed to turn the Blackbird from a debt-ridden back-alley hostelry into the respectable establishment it had become.

It had taken some months before their business partnership developed into something more; for the trust between landlady and lodger to grow into a bond of friendship, and it had still been a good while after that when Maddie Teague had first visited Hawkwood’s bed. Neither of them had ventured to translate feelings into words and yet it had become clear over time that what existed between them had long since transcended the need for mere physical gratification. There had been dalliances along the way, on both sides, and yet the affection and the closeness had endured.

“If you don’t hear from me and you need help, go to Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said. “You know how to get a message to him?”

She removed her hand and nodded. “Yes.”

There was a silence, mirrored by the look in her eyes. “How long should I wait for news?”

“You’ll know,” Hawkwood said.

She absorbed that. “Does Nathaniel know where you’re going?”

“I’m not even sure I do,” Hawkwood said.

She lifted her hand again and ran a fingertip along the line of his cheek, below his eye, tracing the scars. “Your wounds have barely healed.”

“No rest for the wicked, Maddie,” Hawkwood said. “You should know that by now.”

Her green eyes flashed. “That’s what you said the last time.” She stepped back and folded her arms about her, as if warding off a sudden chill. “Just don’t expect me to cry myself to sleep. That’s all.”

Hawkwood had always suspected Maddie Teague was too strong a woman for that, though in truth her comment made him wonder; was she still jesting, or not?

“Curious,” Hawkwood said. “That’s what I was going to say.”

She gave a wan smile and waited as he placed the shirts and breeches in the valise. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned.

“Take care, Matthew,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Always.”

Maddie lowered her arms and smoothed down her dress. “I’ll have Hettie find something in the kitchen for your journey. We don’t want you going hungry.”

“Perish the thought,” Hawkwood said.

She frowned. “Now you’re making fun of me.”