Chapter 2
His collar turned up and his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, Martin braced himself against the unusually bitter April wind and stepped off the gangplank onto the London dock. He was happy to at last set foot on English soil. It had been a cold crossing from France.
Glancing at the young man who’d followed him off the ship, Martin spoke his thoughts aloud. “It’s been ten long years since I left for France, John. So much has happened in that time. Who would have thought Napoleon’s war on a ‘nation of shopkeepers,’ as he called us, would end the way it did?”
“Aye, sir. Though I only saw the last of it, and that from Calais, I know ’twas a long and hard-fought victory. But we sent the Corsican running in the end, didn’t we?”
“That we did. We certainly did.”
The English tongue felt foreign to Martin’s lips, like exercising a stiff leg after long holding it still. He would lapse into French at times, he was certain, but it was best to try and return himself to the language of his countrymen. He had no desire to cross the Channel again anytime soon.
The cold wind off the water blew a lock of dark hair across his forehead, and Martin brushed it from his eyes as he studied the merchant ships lined up in the Thames. The cluster of tall masts stood like a forest of swaying trees bare of leaves, stark against the cold blue sky but, to him, the familiar sight warmed his soul. His senses embraced the smells of the river, the wood of the ships and the dock, salted sails waiting to be mended, sour ale from the taverns and the stench of sewage. One never forgot the smells of home even if they were not always pleasant.
The sounds of the busy river were so different from Paris. Men shouting instructions while they loaded and unloaded cargo, captains calling to their crews and gulls shrieking as they vied for scraps of garbage were the sounds of his youth. The Powell family of merchant seamen had grown wealthy in the trade both war and peace had brought them. Of the four Powell sons, he was the only one who had thus far left the sea. The only rebel. Oddly enough, after choosing to leave it, he missed that life and was looking forward to a return.
Why, at thirty-two, did he feel so old? Perhaps, he considered, it was because in the last decade he had lived another life, a life that was now coming to an end. As the Frenchman Martin Donet, he’d been England’s eyes and ears in Paris during the war with Napoleon. A spy for the Crown. But that was done. With the battle at Waterloo and the Bourbon king restored to the throne, by Prinny’s order Martin was coming home. Not that there wouldn’t still be English spies in France, he mused; the allies had little trust for each other. But Martin would no longer be one of them.
He watched John studying the ships in the river, excitement causing the young man’s brown eyes to glitter. The boy looked younger than his twenty years, but trained as he was in both weapons and stealth the youthful appearance was deceptive. Like Martin and the others who’d served the British Crown in France, John Spencer was more than he seemed.
“’Tis a right pretty sight, sir,” the slim Englishman said.
“Are you glad then you’ve joined me, John?”
“Oh, aye, sir. I am. Though it will be good to see my family and my sisters before ye have need of me.”
“Well, then,” said Martin, handing over a small purse. “Here’s some coin. Enjoy yourself, for soon you will have no time to frolic. Be at Ormond’s townhouse tomorrow at the hour agreed. Do you have its location in mind? ”
“Aye, sir. I recall it well. Though I were only there a few days, I’d not easily forget such a grand place.”
The young man strode away, weaving through the dockworkers, his step light and his head of brown curls bobbing up and down. John was glad to be included in what he thought would be a grand adventure. Martin remembered a time he might have felt the same. Now he just wanted his work for the Crown to be over.
As he started to turn away, Martin caught two seamen arguing as they left a dockside tavern. While he could only hear snippets of the conversation, a few harsh utterances were clear.
“I says His Majesty got what he deserved, livin’ high while some poor curs don’t even have bread!”
“Ye sound like one o’ those bloomin’ marchers, Davie, the ones they call the Blanketeers. Nothin’ will change by yer throwing rocks and ye know it.”
“Might not,” the other man allowed, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Then again, it might.”
The two had ambled too far away for Martin to hear the rest, but their exchange set his mind wandering. What exactly had happened to the Prince Regent? And who were the Blanketeers?
He supposed he would gain the answers soon enough. Ormond would know.
A short time later, Martin walked up the steps of his friend’s Mayfair townhouse. As John recollected, it was an elegant abode.
Martin had not seen Ormond or his wife since the year before in France. Once a rake, attracting women in both Paris and London, the marquess had finally settled down with the mischievous bluestocking who captured his heart. Martin smiled as he thought of the adventure-loving Lady Mary. Had she changed from the hellion she’d once been now that she was Lady Ormond? Recalling what his friend told him, Martin rather doubted it. The pair was alike in that way. Heir to a dukedom, the marquess was also the Nighthawk, a legendary thief of Napoleon’s most guarded secrets. Not many knew the truth.
A butler opened the door, bowed and took Martin’s hat. He was expected.
“His lordship will receive you in the study, Sir Martin. Please follow me.”
The butler led him to an open door, beyond which Ormond rose from behind a large carved desk. “Martin. Come join me. I was just pouring myself a brandy.”
Martin examined his friend. The British peer looked happy. “A drink would be most appreciated. The crossing on my father’s ship was a bit rough.”
“You sailed into London on one of your father’s ships?”
“Yes, the Claire —one of the new schooners, named after my mother. The captain stopped in Calais to pick up some cargo.”
Pouring them each a glass of the rich brown liquor they’d often shared in Paris, Ormond cast him an assessing look. “You seem well, old man—though a bit tired around the eyes, I daresay.”
Martin ran his hand through his hair, a nervous habit picked up in France, a lingering vestige of the stress from his occupation. “I do not always sleep well, as you know.”
Ormond’s dark eyes were sympathetic. “Mary and I were glad to hear of your return to England. The change will do you good. Is it to be permanent?”
“It is,” Martin said, accepting the proffered glass. “When the Prince Regent bestowed on me the Order of the Bath, I agreed to one last assignment, this one in England. So, here I am.”
“Ah, yes, the assignment. But what then? ”
“I am certain Prinny would have another task, should I want one. But my plan is to return to the family business. I’m retiring as a spy. It’s been a long time since I took a ship to sea, and I find myself curiously anxious to get back to a moving deck—at least for a while. My father was so delighted his rebel is coming home that he welcomed my order for a new schooner when I placed it some months ago. Then, after a few sailings, perhaps I shall take up the business side of Powell and Sons.”
“I’ve never seen you near a ship, though I knew your family owned them. Paris has only the river.”
“I’ll not be missing Paris.”
Ormond raised a brow. “The war?” When Martin did not reply, he added, “Elise…?”
After all these years, hearing her name still brought a bitter pain, as did the memory of their last night together; Martin’s nightmares were testament to that. “You were wise to remain a bachelor then, Ormond. Ours was a dangerous business. A spy’s wife is never safe. She’d be alive today if I’d not married her.”
Before his friend could respond, the door to the study flew open. Mary, Marchioness of Ormond, burst upon them like a storm cloaked in sapphire silk, her skirts crackling like lightning. Martin had forgotten how beautiful she was, with golden hair and piercing green eyes. Her presence filled the room. She carried a bundle held tightly to her chest.
“Sir Martin! You’re here! Hugh told me you would be arriving sometime in the next few days. How wonderful it is to see you. I understand you’re here for a new assignment.”
“Just Martin, please. I’m not used to the added title and prefer not to use it in the company of friends. To answer your question, my lady, yes, I’ve returned for the last of Prinny’s tasks. What’s that in your arms—the young heir I’ve heard about? ”
Lady Ormond smiled proudly and held out the sleeping baby for Martin’s inspection. He reached for the bundle, cradling it in his arms.
“Another like his father, I see. What a glorious head of dark hair. Are his eyes dark brown?”
“They are,” said Lady Ormond, beaming with pleasure. She gave her husband a knowing glance. “They were blue for a brief while and then turned the color of brandy. Henry will be the very image of his father.” The proud papa had come over to peer at the sleeping baby as if to verify her conclusion.
“He is a handsome boy, Ormond,” Martin said, handing the baby back to his mother. “The first of many, I assume.”
Lady Ormond blushed as she took him. “Well…at Christmas little Henry should have a new brother or sister.”
Ormond put his arm around his wife and drew her close, kissing her temple. “I am very pleased at Mary’s recent news.”
Lady Ormond returned her husband a warm look, and Martin was suddenly envious of the two, of the love they shared. Without thinking, he let out a long sigh. He had lost not just Elise on that cold December night but the babe she carried.
“Darling, I was just coming to tell you it’s time I leave,” said Lady Ormond. “Henry’s nurse is waiting for me.” She gave her husband a quick kiss and turned to go, then glanced at Martin and added, “I’ll see you tomorrow. You are joining us for dinner, yes?”
“Dinner would be fine. Most gracious of you to ask.”
“Perhaps you will consider staying with us, too? Hugh and I would welcome your company. It would give us a chance to hear the news.”
Martin opened his mouth to protest, but Ormond answered for him. “I will see if I can talk him into it, love. ”
“Wonderful!” came Lady Ormond’s reply. She then departed in a rush of silk, and Ormond refreshed their brandies and gestured to the two chairs in front of the fireplace.
“Stay with us, Martin, or my lady will be gravely disappointed. We have servants aplenty to tend your needs.”
“All right,” Martin agreed, taking a seat. It was an easy enough demand. “Some time with you and your lady before I face the task ahead would be welcome. My belongings are still on the ship. I’ll have them delivered here.”
“Good. And tomorrow we will all discuss the new assignment?”
“Of course. By the by, that reminds me. I heard two old salts arguing on the dock about something involving Prinny. Did something happen to him?”
“Yes. It was a scare, but he’s fine now. I’ll spare you the details until tomorrow when we can all discuss it together. I imagine you need a break.”
“All right. You can expect John and me about six o’clock, as I’ll have some other errands to run during the day. Tonight I just want to forget my work. As you say, I need some time away from Prinny’s problems.”
“What you need is a good woman, Martin. Mary has made all the difference in my life. Suddenly living is very enjoyable. Of course, she tries my patience at every turn”—he stared out the window as if remembering a particular event—“but I can’t imagine life without her. She and little Henry are very dear to me. You need a wife, if you don’t mind my saying so. It’s been too long.”
Martin grimaced. “It had not occurred to me to marry again. But a woman’s warm body just now would be pleasant.” He peered over his brandy at Ormond, and his lips quirked up in a grin. “Know any good bawdy houses? ”
“Not I. Even before Mary entered my life I did not frequent them. I had mistresses in those days, and the last one brought me much trouble.” Ormond seemed to think for a moment. “I did hear Eustace remark one evening at the Club about a place called Willow House. Something about them catering only to gentlemen and their guests. As Eustace told it, the women are supposed to be quite fine. Some have even become mistresses of his friends. I can ask him to recommend you.”
“Times must have changed in London if a recommendation is needed for a brothel .”
“Apparently one does for Willow House.”
Raking his fingers through his hair, Martin chuckled. “Well, I agree it has been awfully long. Too long, in fact. Yes, I think I will take that recommendation.”