Chapter 4
Major Bennet exited the War Office. The adjutant had left him a written message that postponed his meeting with General Foote, his commander, as he was in conference with the new Earl of Matlock, who, since ascending to his position, had subsequently manoeuvred himself onto the War Office Advisory. The general was providing an introductory briefing; Bennet would return later.
The note from the adjutant instructed him to prepare a summary of his reconnaissance, plans, and actions of his year-long campaign in India suppressing insurgent groups from overtaking Fort St George. The War Office desired a military assessment from a trusted officer, as they had little faith in the East India Trading Company communications from the politically motivated Governor-General Warren Hastings.
Bennet had led the investigation into the malfeasance, quietly infiltrating the area with his men. It only took two days to realise the quarterly reports were far from accurate and there was a simmering cauldron of hatred towards the occupiers, only awaiting a spark to set off an all-out explosion. Bennet executed his suppression plans on his eighth day in the country, leading his men to deal harshly with the uprising. It was a brilliant and brutal strategy, and Bennet used the model repetitively, with minor adjustments considering terrain, calendar season, and the weather.
When Hastings’s prevarications were made public, the British government acted quickly; they levelled corruption charges, followed by a pending impeachment verdict. Hastings’s replacement failed to impress Bennet, and envisioning a bleak future, he requested orders to return to England. Command surprised him when they granted his request.
Upon his arrival in London, he had been uncharacteristically forthright regarding the overseas situation. As much as he disliked reliving his international adventures, Bennet was one to follow orders. It surprised him that only General Foote had asked him his opinion of the cause of the local unrest in Madras. Although pleased with his step increase to Major, Bennet reminded himself he was but an advisor to the House of Lords. Now that he was in England and assigned to the Royal Horse Guards, he hoped never again to depart the country’s shores.
Deciding he would wait for the earl and his general at White’s, Bennet began walking. He turned the corner onto St James Street to see General Foote exiting a gleaming, highly polished carriage distinguished by a brilliant coat of arms on the door. His peripheral vision picked up movement from the far corner of the club’s building. A hatted head appeared, then receded. Lord Matlock stepped out of the carriage. Bennet ignored him and focused on his far right. He saw the hatted man again quickly disappear from view.
His unease increased and he looked around for further signs of danger. He confirmed another man wearing matching garb near the club’s corner. Bennet knelt to one knee and pretended to polish his boot; he carefully pulled his skean and cupped it against his wrist, pommel in his palm.
A man with a raised pistol ran across his path. Bennet slashed his leg mid-calf. The man screamed and crumpled to the ground. Bennet rapidly plunged his knife thrice into the fallen man’s chest. He grabbed the pistol from the dead man’s hand and ran towards the carriage. The man he had first spotted, gun raised, ran towards the carriage opposite him.
“Down!” Bennet roared. General Foote and the earl dropped to the street.
A pistol fired, its bullet striking the carriage door. Bennet fired and the villain fell. Everywhere were screams and shouts. Uniformed soldiers, swords out, converged upon the transport. Bennet dropped the pistol and shouted repeatedly. “Post Three, Post Six, Post Nine, Post Twelve, Post Three...”
Four uniformed soldiers, sabres drawn, surrounded the three men on the ground. Each assumed a position on the clock—three, six, nine, and twelve—as commanded and held their swords in the en garde position. “Awaiting your orders, sir!” shouted a soldier.
Bennet exhaled. He had succeeded. He was alive. Now I want information.
He rose and took in the situation. The second-hatted man was on the ground, hands behind his back. His leg was bleeding from a gunshot wound. Another man was sitting on his chest. Bennet called out and captured his attention. He looked up, smiled, and arose from his position upon his captive.
He was dark-haired and of average height. His clothing was of high quality. The two men locked eyes—or rather, eye; a milky-white vertical scar ran down from the man’s left temple, through his eyelid, to the left edge of his mouth. Another Reeves, I daresay.
Glancing down, the man raised his foot and stomped upon the villain’s wound. The prisoner’s scream added to the general commotion. With a wry smile, the man walked to Bennet, hand extended.
“Well done, Major...?”
“Bennet. Thank you...?” Bennet gestured to provoke the man to introduce himself.
“Roark.”
Bennet looked back over his shoulder briefly. The earl, the general, and their carriage were gone.
“And you are?” he asked.
Another smile, this time with teeth. Bennet could not prevent his own, so he joined him. Both chuckled.
“Minding the earl.”
“So, I have inadvertently inserted myself into his lordship’s protective service?”
“Yes and no.”
“Something tells me there is more to that story.” Bennet did not expect to be told more and he was not surprised.
Roark shook his head. “I cannot say more.”
“Very well.” He walked away, turning the corner of the nearest building. He stopped and peered around it.
Roark raised his arm and whistled loudly. A half-dozen more men appeared out of the shadows and joined him.
Interesting indeed.
A week later, Bennet presented himself at Matlock’s house in town. The earl and his elegant young wife rose to greet him as he was announced. “My dear,” said his lordship, “allow me to present Major Thomas Bennet of the King’s Royal Horse Guards.”
Lord Matlock gestured towards a nearby chair. Bennet waited for the countess to retake her seat, then followed. Lady Matlock moved the conversation forward as she enquired of the mundane. Bennet replied politely as the earl listened quietly. When servants entered with a hearty repast, the questions turned more personal.
“You hail from Hertfordshire?” Lady Matlock asked.
“My family’s estate is close to Meryton. Longbourn has been in the Bennet family for a century.”
“Have you brothers or sisters?”
“I do, your ladyship. An older brother, Benedict Bennet, the heir of Longbourn.”
“And you? Were you expected to enlist or did you consider the clergy?” asked Lord Matlock.
“I first read at Oxford. I joined the Regulars afterwards.” He neatly avoided the question of his desired future path; it had been chosen for him by his brother, but he reckoned he was better at fighting than sermonising anyhow, so the point was irrelevant.
Lord Matlock cleared his throat. “The countess and I owe you an immense debt, and would like to reward you for your bravery. I would like General Foote to join me in speaking with the King.”
“Many heroes from the regiments and other services have sworn to protect the crown. I am no special case.” Bennet adjusted his posture. “I ask you to let sleeping dogs lie, as I prefer to remain anonymous. Allow me to go about my daily life. The War Office keeps me busy replaying my past exploits with the colonials, as you know.”
The countess placed her hand upon the earl’s forearm. He nodded. “Very well, Bennet. If this is what you wish, so be it.”
Lady Matlock smiled. “You may rely upon our discretion. One cannot have too many friends, can they?”
Bennet looked to Lord Matlock, who nodded. “I quite agree. Acquaintances are abundant; friends are few.” He raised his glass. “To our newest friend.”
“I am honoured, sir.”
Lady Matlock extended an invitation to dine, which Bennet accepted. The evening marked the beginning of an enduring connexion.
Two days later, Matlock met with Roark. He appreciated the ruffian who had become his security overseer. The man was competent, concise, and ruthless. His ability to speak as an educated son of the gentry one moment and then revert to his Seven Dials roots made him a crafty weapon. It did not hurt that his appearance alone dispelled most potential contretemps. When he eschewed his eyepatch, his visage by itself was lethal.
“Your assessment of Major Bennet?”
“A smart man who knows to respect secrecy,” Roark replied.
“What impels you to offer such an opinion?”
“He asked about my presence. I declined to answer, which he accepted without resentment.”
Lord Matlock smiled. “Investigate his history. Everything.” He tapped his lips with a forefinger. “I believe there is more to the man than we know.”
He levelled his gaze upon Roark. “Unlike Major Bennet, I dislike not knowing.”