Quin grunted. ‘Possible,’ he allowed, brushing the rain from his one sharp eye. ‘Hold your horse.’

  The carriage door swung open and a stout man pounced out, plainly in a temper. They could hear him shouting, even above the noise of the storm. ‘’Od’s bowels! Now what?’ Then the coachman climbed down too and the pair of them trudged through the mud to inspect one of the nearside wheels.

  ‘Sitting ducks,’ Charlie shouted, gathering the reins ready for a charge down the hill. ‘Are we game, Jack?’

  But Quin held up his hand. ‘Wait,’ he ordered, as the two dark figures stooped towards the coach. The stout man was removing his hat and cloak. He rolled them into a bundle and tossed them into the coach. ‘On his own,’ Quin observed, ‘or he’d not have done that. On his own and not a rich man.’

  ‘How can you tell dammit?’ Charlie complained.

  The stout man was stooping again, wedging his shoulder against the wheel, gathering his strength ready to push. ‘Wears fustian,’ Quin said, still watching closely. ‘Look at his coat. And those breeches. A merchant. In a poor way of trade if I’m any judge. Have you ever seen a rich man put his shoulder to the wheel? No. There’ll be poor pickings in that quarter.’

  ‘Devil take it, Quin,’ Charlie warned, ‘if we let this slip, ’twill be the third tonight. Ain’t we to strike at all?’

  Quin shrugged. ‘Not with this one. The game ain’t worth the candle.’

  ‘I’m for hot punch and dry clothes back at the Pelican,’ the Captain announced, turning his horse’s head. ‘We drown here and to no purpose. I told you ’twould never sene. Only a fool would travel in weather as wild as this.’ And he was gone before either of his companions could argue to prevent him.

  Down on the road the stout man looked up as the last horse disappeared behind the trees. ‘Our company’s gone,’ he observed.

  The coachman grinned with relief. ‘Aye, Sir George sir, so I sees. Thanks be! For a minute back there I thought we was for it.’

  Sir George pushed his coat aside to reveal the pistol tucked into his breeches. ‘Never travel without it,’ he said, winking at the coachman, ‘and I’m an uncommon good shot, let me tell ’ee. Uncommon good. Now then Johnno, one more heave and we shall be clear. Put your back into it. I need to be in Bristol before midnight. ’Tain’t the sort of weather to be out of doors.’

  The Pelican Inn was cramped, old-fashioned and set much too far back from the road to attract the custom of the regular stagecoaches, so it was an ideal hiding hole for Quin Cutpurse and his dubious associates. The Captain had a low opinion of it, for the rooms were dark and riddled with fleas and the mattresses stuffed with straw and scratchily uncomfortable, but having been ordered out of town, he had a poor choice of accommodation and had taken it on Quin’s suggestion and for lack of anything better. At least the food was passable, the drink swiftly served and there was a barmaid to admire him whenever he glanced in her direction. He’d learned young that an amorous look was the easiest way to sweeten service. The canary punch he’d ordered as he strode into the snug was standing by the fire waiting for him when he came down the stairs, dried and dressed in his usual fine clothes.

  He threw himself down on the settle alongside the fire, draped one leg over the arm with the sole of his boot towards the flames, and signalled to the barmaid that she should pour the first three tankards. He and his friends had the room to themselves, except for a gentleman in an old-fashioned brown bob wig and a very antiquated coat who was sitting quietly in the far corner drinking ale and doing his accounts in a small notebook — plainly not a man of any consequence.

  ‘You’ll not prise me out again tonight, Quin Cutpurse,’ he said after a long draught of the hot liquid, ‘not if you plead till you’re blue in the face. I intend to stay here and drink punch till I’m as dry as hay in sunshine.’ And he held up his tankard to be refilled.

  ‘Amen to that,’ Charlie agreed, as the steam rose from his boots and breeches.

  ‘Never mind hay,’ Quin teased them, ‘you’re men of straw, damme if you ain’t. No bottom, either the one of you.’

  Captain Jack gave him a lazy smile, accepting his insult for the compliment they both knew it was, for if his companions understood nothing else about him, two things were certain, he was undeniably courageous and uncommon handsome. More than six feet tall, his face bold to the point of insolence, with dark almond-shaped eyes under determined brows, an aristocratic nose, a fine head of thick dark hair and the easy elegance of the long-limbed, he caught attention wherever he went — and dressed to catch it. Now, in his black breeches and his claret coat, with the white ruffles of his shirt framing his long hands and the embroidery on his cream silk waistcoat rich in the firelight, he looked like a member of the ton out for an evening to sample the low life. But his suavity was deceptive. His past was burdened with too much pain for him to care to remember it, and since he had no prospects and no hope of inheritance, there was no future for him to look forward to, so he lived in the present, dancing from moment to moment, motivated by profit and pleasure and with no thought for consequences.

  ‘I’ll tell ’ee what, Quin,’ he said. ‘Your milord was a man of linsey woolsey.’

  ‘How so?’ Quin asked, preparing himself to enjoy the joke.

  ‘He dursn’t travel in the rain for fear of shrinking.’

  ‘Now that’s true, Jack,’ Charlie chortled. ‘Uncommon true, an’ he’s an arrant knave to boot.’

  ‘I’d boot him if he were here,’ Jack said, happily. ‘For here’s two hours of my time gone to waste on his account and not a penny made and if that don’t deserve a good kicking, tell me what does.’

  ‘He’ll be on the road by first light,’ Quin predicted easily. ‘We shall pick him off then, I guarantee.’

  ‘And then on to Bristol,’ Charlie said, returning to his drink. ‘Ain’t that right, Quin?’

  ‘Bristol it is,’ Quin agreed. ‘What about you Jack? Shall you come with us?’

  Jack considered the invitation, as the coals shifted and the man in the bob wig wrote scratchily.

  ‘I shall follow you, as soon as I may,’ he said. ‘I’ve a mind to see a play.’

  ‘And a deal else besides eh, you rogue?’ Charlie teased.

  ‘I’m not a man to turn down a good offer,’ Jack agreed.

  That nudged Quin’s memory.

  ‘Saw a wench of yours this afternoon,’ he said, pressing tobacco into his clay pipe.

  Jack wasn’t interested. He smiled languidly, ‘Like enough.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know which one?’

  ‘Not particularly. All cats are grey in the dark.’

  ‘Not this feline,’ Quin Cutpurse told him. ‘’Twas a handsome wench. A pearl. Red cheeks. Dark eyes. Fine pair of titties on her, as I recall.’ He recalled, happily, his cheeks flushed by the memory. ‘Name of Suki, so she said. A fiery spirit. She’d been searching for you high an’ low. Most persistent. On account of you’ve fathered a child.’

  The Captain feigned disinterest. But he ran his hand through his hair and was comforted by how thick and luxurious it felt under his fingers. ‘I daresay I’ve fathered several,’ he said casually. ‘What o’ that? I ain’t to be tied. They know that from the outset. I make no bones about it. I’m a free spirit.’

  ‘An eagle,’ Charlie admired, having heard him say as much on many occasions.

  ‘Aye. An eagle,’ Jack agreed, taking off into his familiar fantasy, ‘soaring where no man may touch me, free as the air, a creature of the wild, untrammelled, flying where I will, living as I may.’ It was an image that he particularly enjoyed, expressing power, freedom, boundless energy. ‘An eagle. If you take my freedom from me, Charlie, I am nothing, tied and bound, a beast of burden, less than a carthorse, an ass, a dog cringing, a skinned cat, dead meat from Smithfield.’

  ‘There’s a price for freedom,’ Quin pointed out, drawing on his pipe. ‘Have you thought o’ that when you’re a-soaring?’

  ‘What price?’ the Captain asked, piqued to be brought down to earth again so soon. ‘Freedom is free to my way of thinking.’

  ‘Even an eagle must eat.’

  That was acknowledged. ‘I have my annuity. When I can persuade the lady to pay it.’ The delay this time had been irksome, given the number of creditors pressing.

  ‘Ain’t it come yet, Jack?’ Charlie asked, half sympathetic, half mocking.

  ‘Promised by Sunday at the latest,’ Jack assured them both, ‘and if it don’t come then I shall return to Bath to collect it in person, damme if I don’t.’ It was a fine-sounding boast but, even under the gathering fog of the punch, he knew it was beyond his power and the knowledge irritated him, so that he shifted in his seat. ‘I’ve a mind to write and tell her I need more this time. Damme, if I’m a father I’ve greater expenses to meet.’

  ‘A capital idea!’ Charlie encouraged. ‘Sting the old skinflint for even penny you can, say I! What’s a rich patron for, if she ain’t to be skinned?’

  Encouragement gave Jack pause. Perhaps he was being foolish. He could hear folly in the words as well as daring. ‘I’ve a mind to,’ he repeated, struggling in the tumble of emotions that strong drink always stirred and consequently speaking more boldly this time. ‘Why not? She owes me a deal more than she ever condescends to give.’ He should have been settled long since with a place in society, not left an annuitant, out on the edge, with no claim to fame or fortune. Alcohol fumes were drifting him into self-pity, which irritated him too because he despised self-pity. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have a family name, to be married with a wife to tend to him whenever he required and children to honour him and a fine house to call his own. ‘She don’t treat me as I deserve, damme. My grandfather was a duke.’

  ‘Were he to acknowledge your existence,’ Quin said shrewdly, having heard all this before, ‘’twould be an advantage to you. As it is…’

  ‘Write your billet,’ Charlie urged, eager for mischief and more spending money. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’ll fetch pen and paper.’

  So the materials were provided and the letter written, in terms a great deal more forceful than they would have been had they all been sober.

  Madam,

  I have the honour to inform you that being of an age, I intend to marry and to further the family name. ‘(That will rile her, Charlie, depend on it.)’ In consequence whereof I send to inform you that my present allowance will no longer serve to answer the needs of such a household as I must needs initiate. My affianced bride is well born ‘(she could be, Quin — ’tain’t polite to make such a grimace)’ and will require an establishment of some note, as befits the wife of a man whose grandfather, I scarce need to remind you, was a duke and a man of high esteem.

  Yours, in happy expectation of an honourable response,

  Jack

  It was sealed with a dollop of wax and a crash of thunder and laid upon the table with an enhancing sense of achievement.

  ‘There’s a carter calls in the morning,’ Charlie said, still happily plotting. ‘He can carry it. The landlord will see to it if you pay him sufficient.’

  ‘The storm don’t abate,’ Quin said, from the window. He pulled the curtain aside to peer at the sky. ‘I’m for my bed. We’ve an early start come morning.’

  As Jack turned to wish him goodnight, another thought penetrated the thickening fumes of the punch. ‘I trust you kept your counsel, this afternoon,’ he said. ‘You didn’t tell the wench where I was.’

  ‘Do you take us for fools?’ Charlie grinned. ‘I hope we know the score in that quarter. Women are the very devil.’ What with excitement and fatigue and having drunk his last tankard rather too quickly, his speech was decidedly slurred. But his sentiments were clear as the purest water.

  They gave Captain Jack a moment of equally unblemished pleasure. No matter how ignominiously he was treated elsewhere, how grudgingly his allowance was paid, how often he was sent away as if he were of no consequence, how cruelly his creditors pursued, what black and necessary lies he had to tell, what flea-ridden rooms he was forced to endure, he was part of the brotherhood of the road, the great, trustworthy, honest fraternity of men, who stood together in times of trouble, drank together, fought together, looked out for one another, protected one another from the encumbering wiles of women.

  ‘Predated,’ he said. ‘Uncommon land of ’ee.’

  Chapter 7

  By the time Sir George arrived at his brother’s house in Bristol that evening, the storm was spent but it was pitch dark and still spitting with rain, and, what with arriving much later than he’d intended and having to endure a most uncomfortable journey, he was in an ill temper.

  The inside of the carriage was brimming with moisture and deucedly uncomfortable, and the horses strained up the hill, blowing with effort as their hooves slipped on the greasy cobbles and steam rose pungently from their wet flanks. Sir George stuck his head out of the window to tell his coachman to urge them on but, after one glance, being a better judge of horses than women, he decided against it. The poor brutes had done all they could to keep their balance. In fact, if it hadn’t been such a deucedly inclement night, he would have got out and walked to ease their burden.

  Frederick was standing just inside his doorway, holding up a double-headed candlestick, and peering into the darkness, his face peaked with anxiety. He was more than five years younger than Sir George but so slight and stooped and careworn that he looked considerably older.

  ‘Oh, my dear, dear brother!’ he said as Sir George strode into the hall, his travelling cloak wrapped about him. ‘How glad I am to see you. Come in, come in. You mustn’t take cold, my dear feller. Such a night! Did you hear the thunder? I was quite afraid of the consequences. I thought you would be unable to travel, upon my soul.’

  Sir George drew himself up to his full height. ‘You forget,’ he said, ‘I have endured three hurricanes.’ He had a sudden searing memory of the last one, of the noise and the darkness and the sky screaming, of being stuck to the ground by the force of the wind, unable to shout and barely able to breathe, as the sugar cane was scattered as though it were straw, and his field hands were tossed backwards into the air, their limbs spread-eagled and their faces crazed with shock and terror. Now that was a storm. ‘This is nothing, believe me. A bagatelle.’

  Frederick was impressed but his anxiety continued. ‘We’ve been watching out for you since seven of the clock,’ he said. ‘This is a sorry business. What is to be done, think ’ee?’

  ‘First, I will take a little brandy and hot water,’ Sir George said with the air of a man to whom all problems are capable of solution. Enhanced by the memory of his own courage and freed from the smelly constraint of that carriage, he felt better already.

  ‘Yes, yes of course, to be sure,’ Frederick agreed, signalling to his housekeeper. ‘I’ve a fire upstairs. Oh what a night! Come in, come in!’ And he stooped towards the stairs.

  Sir George looked at his younger sibling with sympathy. He was such a poor creature. Frail from childhood. ‘All will be well,’ he promised. ‘You may depend upon it.’

  But Frederick had never truly felt that he could depend on anything, even though he’d spent his entire sixty-two years in a vain endeavour to pretend that he could. As a child he had been withdrawn and anxious, as a youth mild-mannered and unobtrusive, so, not surprisingly, he had grown into a man with a marked propensity for unquestioning obedience and a strong sense of family obligation. When his father told him it was his duty to marry and consolidate the family fortunes, he didn’t argue even though he had no hope whatever of a happy union. He simply did as he was told. Within two months, he had married his ‘suitable’ bride and within two years he had fathered two extremely noisy babies both, fortunately, male. When his brother told him he needed a trusted lieutenant to run the business from the Bristol end, he undertook that too, a great deal more willingly.

  Married life had not been at all to his taste, but he’d endured it stoically. The noisy babies grew into noisier boys, who filled his days with rattling toys and asinine babble, and his suitable bride became a garrulous wife, who filled his nights with self-centred gossip, pecking away at his patience like a woodpecker in a nightcap. He answered her as well as he could when a pause in her high-pitched monologue indicated a reply and suffered his headaches without complaint. But it was only outside the house — down at the quayside among men and merchants, with his quick brain making accountancy simple and his dry wit endearing him to the company, or out in the manufactory, where molten cane was poured into cones to become sugarloaf, rum was bottled and syrup and molasses oozed into barrels — that he was himself and happy, providing there were no setbacks or sudden catastrophes. As there were now.

  ‘What is to be done?’ he said again, as he led his portly brother up the stairs. ‘Such a tragedy! We’re ruined, Georgie. Ruined. A third of our trade lost and gone and heaven knows what damage to the trader.’ He was so agitated that his wig was askew and he wasn’t aware of it. There was no order or comfort in his life at all. Even the sight of his well-appointed parlour — with its embroidered fire screens, its well-polished sconces, its two fine windows elegantly curtained against the storm — did nothing to calm him. ‘There’s no justice in the world. To lose all, Georgie, after all our labour. Oh, there’s no justice in the world at all. No justice.’

  ‘Come now, brother,’ Sir George teased, as he settled into one of the two chairs drawn up beside the fire. ‘You’re a widower, ain’tcher. The fates were kind to you in that regard. Envy of the town, so you were, when your lady passed to glory.’

  That had to be admitted, although with the familiar residue of shame, for it had all happened so quickly and he’d been so glad of it — a swift fever, a decent period of mourning, his two troublesome boys packed off to boarding school, the sheer relief of his return to bachelorhood. But it was no comfort to him now.