Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion

Hawkwood shrugged. “A grudge I can live with. Better than having his death on my conscience.”

Lawrence blinked. “You were a soldier. You’ve killed before. What about Delancey? You killed him in a duel.”

Hawkwood stopped walking. “Delancey was a professional. He’d fought other men in duels, and won. I couldn’t afford to give that bastard the edge. As I said before, Rutherford’s a boy, a foolish, arrogant boy, who got carried away. And in case you’ve forgotten, Major, I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to prevent bloody duels, not take part in them!”

Lawrence fell silent. Then he grinned. “Has anyone ever told you, my friend, you’ve a tendency to sail mighty close to the wind?”

For the first time since he had met him, Lawrence watched a smile of genuine amusement break across Hawkwood’s face. It was startling, he thought, how the Runner’s expression softened. The scar beneath Hawkwood’s eye all but disappeared.

Hawkwood laughed. “Frequently, Major.” He thought it was probably wise not to tell the major about the ribbons of sweat that had been running down his back as he had listened to Neville counting out the steps.

They had reached the footpath that ran along-side the King’s Road. Ahead of them lay the Hyde Park turnpike and the road leading to Piccadilly.

“Well, at least we can be thankful for one thing,” Lawrence mused. “Rutherford’s unlikely to announce his defeat, especially when it was at the hands of someone who’s not even a gentleman!” The major grinned again then added seriously, “And I doubt Neville and Campbell will be anxious to spread gossip.”

That was probably true, Hawkwood conceded. Duels were generally accepted to be private affairs. Although, over the years, there had been a few notable exceptions; usually when one or both of the principals possessed a high public profile. Fortunately, neither he nor Rutherford, despite the latter’s own high opinion of himself, fell into that category, so it was conceivable the affair would remain undetected by the authorities. The major had already assured Hawkwood that Mandrake’s servant had been taken care of. The jingle of sovereigns and the threat of reprisal had been sufficient to ensure that the footman’s mouth would remain for ever closed. As for the other witness, the woman, Hawkwood reasoned she was unlikely to advertise the incident. More probably she would want to put the whole sordid business behind her.

Had he killed Rutherford, of course, it would have been a different matter. The major had railed against Rutherford’s arrant pig-headedness in not retracting his challenge. If the truth were told, Hawkwood asked himself, was he any different? In a moment of crass stupidity, aggravated by his own bitter prejudices, he’d allowed himself to be goaded into a senseless confrontation. The fact that he’d survived was due to nothing less than good fortune based on the inexperience and poor marksmanship of his opponent. In short, he had been lucky.

He thought about James Read. The Chief Magistrate was a stern taskmaster but a fair one. He worked his officers hard, but in doing so, mindful of the often adverse conditions in which they operated, he allowed them an extraordinary degree of latitude. In exchange, he demanded and expected total dedication and loyalty. It was a matter of trust. By rising to the bait and accepting Rutherford’s challenge, Hawkwood was fully aware he’d betrayed that trust. And in doing so he had jeopardized everything; not only his career but his relationship with a man to whom he owed a great deal, a man he admired. Had he killed Rutherford, Hawkwood knew that his severest punishment would have been facing the look of disappointment on James Read’s face.

Hawkwood flinched as pain from the wound flared across his belly. He should have let the physician examine him, he reflected, but then he remembered the man’s palsied hand shake. Medical attention would have to wait.

They had reached the public road. Opposite was the path that cut through to Knightsbridge.

Earlier, when they’d first arrived at the park, the roads had been empty. Now, however, the city was emerging from its slumbers and the streets had started to fill. The number of vehicles had increased considerably, as had the flow of pedestrians. Barrow men, flower sellers, knife grinders and chimney sweeps rubbed shoulders with candle makers, coal men and rag pickers; soon the trickle would become a flow and the flow would become a flood. It reminded Hawkwood of the rag-tag columns of camp followers that trailed in the wake of Wellington’s armies as they marched across the Peninsula. A meandering river of pathetic pilgrims in search of a promised land.

They were on the point of crossing the road when the rattle of carriage springs caused them to pause. Hawkwood stepped back and waited for it to pass. Then he realized the carriage was slowing. As it drew abreast, the coachman hauled in the reins and the carriage stopped. The door opened.

“Captain Hawkwood?”

The breath caught in his throat. He recognized the voice immediately. He stared. She was alone in the carriage, a dark cloak drawn across her shoulders. She leaned forward, inclined her head, and acknowledged Lawrence’s presence with a seductive smile.

“Good morning, Major.”

“Indeed it is, ma’am,” Lawrence agreed, doffing his shako. The major glanced at Hawkwood and a broad grin broke out across his face.

Transfixed by Lawrence’s imbecilic expression, it occurred to Hawkwood that the major did not seem at all surprised by the woman’s appearance. His suspicions were further heightened when Lawrence, in a woeful impersonation of spontaneous thought, pulled out his watch, gave it a cursory glance, held it to his ear, shook it, and announced, apologetically, “Ahem … well, now, if you’ll both forgive me, I must be away. Regimental duties, you understand. Fact is I’m due to meet up with young Fitz in an hour. I packed the lad off to his family for a couple of days. Thought it best, as there’s no knowing when we’ll be home again. As it is, we’ve precious little time to lick our new recruits into shape before we ship ‘em off to Spain.”

Before Hawkwood could respond, the major stuck out his hand. “Goodbye, my dear fellow. It was a pleasure. I do hope we’ll meet again.” He glanced into the carriage and gave a short bow. “Your servant, ma’am.”

Hawkwood had to admit it had been neatly done. One moment the major was there, as large as life, the next he was gone. If nothing else, one had to admire his nerve.

The rustle of a petticoat made him turn. She was gazing at him, her expression both mischievous and beguiling. “Well, Captain Hawkwood, won’t you join me?”

Hawkwood looked up at the driver. The man’s features were indecipherable, hidden as they were behind his collar and cap. His whip was poised.

The moment of indecision passed. Hawkwood climbed into the carriage. As if on a given signal, the driver flicked his whip and the vehicle moved off.

“You’re surprised to see me?” Amusement illuminated her dark eyes.

Hawkwood stared at her, his senses racing.

“Then perhaps my appearance disappoints you?” she challenged.

Hawkwood found his voice. “How did you know I’d be here?”

The cloak slipped off her shoulder. She was wearing a high bodice, but even that could not disguise the curve of her breasts. She returned his stare and, with disarming frankness, said, “The major sent me word.”

So, Hawkwood thought, Lawrence’s guilt was proven. No wonder the bastard had been grinning like a lunatic.

She smiled bewitchingly. “Did you think we wouldn’t meet again?”

He took in the smooth line of her throat, the soft swell beneath the bodice. “I thought it unlikely.”

“But you hoped we might?” Her eyes searched his face.

He nodded. “Yes.” He was amazed at himself for admitting it so readily. He recalled that she had addressed him by his former rank and wondered what other information the major might have given away.

“Did you kill him?” she asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

Hawkwood collected himself. “Rutherford? No, he’ll live. He might die from embarrassment, but that’s all.”

She considered his answer in silence. He couldn’t tell if she was pleased or disappointed. He decided to match her directness. “So, why did you come?”

She looked across at him, the smile still hovering on her full lips. “You realize, Captain Hawkwood, we’ve yet to be formally introduced. My name is Catherine –”

“I know who you are,” Hawkwood said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes widened. “And how do you know that, Captain?”

Hawkwood grinned. “The major sent me word.”

She laughed then, the light dancing in her eyes. I could fall for this one, Hawkwood thought, and wondered why, despite her obvious attractions, the possibility disturbed him.

“So,” he repeated, “why did you come?”

Her reply and gaze were as direct as before.

“Why do you think?”

8 (#ulink_773eb943-8b15-5bc9-876d-e6d1df57f0ee)

Hawkwood lay pressed back against the pillow, his arm around her waist. Her cheek rested on his chest. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing softly. The bed sheets lay in disarray around them. They were both naked.

The carriage had delivered them to a fashionable house on the corner of Portman Square. There were no servants in evidence, other than a maid who had opened the door and curtseyed low before disappearing, at her mistress’s bidding, to her own quarters. Her services, she had been told, would not be required for the rest of the day. The girl had expressed no surprise at Hawkwood’s presence.

Once inside, her first action had been to tend his wound.