The Tiger’s Prey

‘You will not stop me?’

Aboli stepped aside from the door. ‘You are safe, here. But if you are determined to leave …’

‘Safe?’ Francis echoed. ‘Tom Courtney killed my father.’ He had meant it to shock, but Aboli merely nodded. ‘You do not deny it?’

‘I knew your father from the day he was born,’ said Aboli in measured tones. ‘I can tell you from my heart, he was an evil man. A week before William died, Tom went to High Weald seeking help for their brother, and William attacked him. He would have killed Tom, but Tom was the better swordsman, and in the end it was he who had his sword at William’s throat. Yet when Tom tried to make the final blow, he could not do it. His hand would not obey him. A week later, in London, William ambushed Tom on the docks without provocation; he watched other men do his work, and when they failed he drew his pistol to shoot Tom dead himself. I was there. Tom would have died that instant if he had not put his sword through your father’s chest.’

He went on, making no allowances for the impact his words had on the boy. ‘And even then, I think if your father had shown his face – if Tom had known who he really was – Tom would not have been able to strike the blow.’

‘Why are you saying this?’ Francis demanded. ‘To turn me against my father?’

‘It is the truth,’ said Aboli. ‘You may accept it, or not: it is your choice. But if you cling to a lie, eventually it will destroy you.’ He gave a small bow. ‘I will leave you to dress.’

After he had gone, Francis sat a long time on the edge of the bed. The storms that had raged inside him had blown themselves out; he hardly knew who he was any more. He looked at the clothes on the chair, and was not sure he had the strength to put them on. Aboli’s words chased themselves around inside his head until he thought it would split open.

There were some things he could not remember from the night before, but one fact was branded in memory. Tom could have killed him, but he had not done so.

And that one fact had upended everything Francis believed in. He remembered what his mother had told him: Tom couldn’t have killed his brother in cold blood. He had not believed her. Now that he had been at Tom Courtney’s mercy, and lived, he had to consider that she could have been telling the truth.

Sitting there, he saw himself with new eyes. Consorting with thieves and prostitutes, trying to murder a member of his own family: what had he become? And in return, Tom Courtney had repaid him with mercy and kindness.

If you cling to a lie, eventually it will destroy you.

But did he have the strength to let it go?

When Francis came down, Tom was in the parlour sitting in his chair and staring at the Order of St George in his hands. Francis had dressed in a pair of Dorian’s breeches and a shirt of Tom’s which hung off him like a mainsail. He paused on the stairs; Tom thought he might flee at the very sight of him. But Francis knew he could not put this off. He swallowed his fear and continued down.

He reached the bottom of the stairs. The two men stared at each other, uncertain of what to say.

Tom broke the silence. ‘Sometimes it’s easier meeting a man with a sword in your hand,’ he said gruffly. ‘You don’t have to think what to say.’

Francis nodded. Then, all of a sudden, words burst out of him, ‘I am grateful to you for your care. I … You would have been within your rights to send me to the authorities. Or worse.’

‘I am glad we can meet on more tranquil terms,’ said Tom. He stared at the boy as if he might disappear into thin air. ‘Are you really Billy’s son?’

Francis straightened. ‘I am.’

‘Then how did you come to be in the Company gardens with scum like Jacob de Vries?’

‘We met in a tavern. A … a whore introduced us.’ Francis looked shamefaced. ‘Perhaps I should tell you the whole story.’

Tom called Dorian and Aboli to join them. Francis stared in wonder at the two men, Aboli with his scarified face and Dorian in his turban and Arab dress. His real shock came when he learned who Dorian was.

‘Is everything I was told a lie? I always believed you were dead.’

‘It is a long tale,’ said Dorian. ‘Which you shall hear in its turn. But first, I think you were about to tell my brother how you came to find us here.’

Sitting on the torn cushions, Francis told them everything. Tom paced; he cursed audibly when he heard how Sir Walter had ruined High Weald.

‘Poor Alice. Everything stems from the day I killed Billy.’

‘She would have been no happier with William,’ said Aboli. ‘You saw how he treated her. The way he beat her, he might have killed both her and Francis. No,’ he added, seeing Tom’s protest, ‘the boy must know the full truth about his father.’

‘I knew it already,’ said Francis. ‘Before I left, my mother told me about my father and the way he treated her. She said you acted to defend yourself.’ He shook his head, embarrassed. ‘I did not believe her.’

‘Aye,’ said Tom, remembering that infernal night. ‘But it was not all Billy’s fault. I am certain he would not have known where to find us, had Lord Childs not arranged it.’

Francis’ face paled with shock. ‘Sir Nicholas Childs? Then I am doubly forsaken. It was he who sent me, who told me where I might find you. He promised me five thousand pounds if I killed you.’

‘For five thousand pounds, even I might have considered it,’ said Dorian, turning it into a little joke, but Tom continued seriously.

‘You would never have seen the money. Childs is a spider, spinning webs that reach to the furthest corners of the globe. He sits in his lair, his office in Leadenhall Street, and devours any man who threatens so much as a penny of his fortune. I had helped earn him twenty thousand pounds in prize money, yet he ordered me killed because I refused him a share of a tiny sloop. He is a monster.’

‘I see that now.’

‘Wiser men than you have been snared by his schemes. Even your father Billy, I think, did not realize he was but a pawn in Childs’ machinations. Billy wanted to kill me, but it was Childs who gave him the means. No doubt, had Billy succeeded, Childs would have found ways to use his guilt against him.’

Francis frowned. ‘Then what shall I do? Lord Childs gave me letters of introduction to my uncle Guy at the Company factory in Bombay, but—’ He broke off as he registered Tom’s reaction. ‘What is it?’

‘Guy is another story entirely.’

‘But Francis is a Courtney, and he should know the truth of our family,’ said Dorian gently. ‘It is these secrets and half-truths that drive us apart, and give men like Lord Childs the leverage to use us against each other.’

Before Tom could answer, there was a knock at the door. Ana Duarte came in.

‘Am I interrupting? I thought we had agreed to meet this morning to discuss my proposal further.’ And then, taking in the presence of Francis, she asked, ‘Who is this?’

A curious expression had come over her face. Her lips parted; she stared at Francis as if he were the only man in the room. Unconsciously, her hand moved to adjust the neckline of her dress.

Tom gathered his thoughts, and introduced them. ‘This is our nephew, Francis. He arrived from England, er, somewhat unexpectedly last night. Francis, this is Ana Duarte. She is a business partner of ours, or perhaps I am being premature.’

Francis nodded, as if in a dream – the most lucid dream he had ever experienced. Everything about Ana seemed to leap out at him with minute clarity. A lock of hair curling from behind her ear; the playful curve of her lips; the depths of her honey-brown eyes, locked on his.

The silence stretched out. Everyone waited for him to say something, but he did not trust his voice.

‘Francis took a blow to the head last night. Perhaps he has not quite recovered,’ said Tom.

Worry clouded Ana’s eyes. ‘Is he hurt? What happened?’

‘Tom had to knock him out to stop him trying to murder us,’ said Dorian.

Ana looked between the two brothers. She took in the cuts and contusions on their faces and arms. She had been aware of the smell of burned gunpowder in the air and the spot of blood on the carpet that all Mrs Lai’s exertions had not managed to remove.

‘I trust you have persuaded him to reconsider?’

Dorian peered at Francis. ‘I believe so. I think he was under a misapprehension.’

Francis stood carefully, not sure his legs would oblige. His mouth had gone dry.‘I was poorly advised.’