The river fog had dissipated as Kestrel left the Old Royal and led Scar into the back alley.
“Let’s hope the gate’s open,” he said, “We’ve got three French gowns for Lady Priscilla Wentworth, and she owes us three guineas. I don’t know about you, but I’d sooner spend that kind of coin than pay off that press-ganging pikestaff De Groot.”
Scar replied with an affirmative grunt.
*
More torches lay ahead. Kestrel squinted to see two soldiers standing guard by the city gates.
“Well, our gambling friend said the plantations were outside the bastion,” He said, “Scale the walls?”
Scar shook his head.
“You’re right. Not with the cargo we still have. How about some kind of diversion?”
Scar shrugged.
“My arse upon this,” Kestrel drew his rapier, “Let’s just fight our way out.”
Scar grabbed his arm.
“Then come up with something. It’s not like we have authority…”
Kestrel’s voice trailed off. He reached into pockets and pulled out Cuthbert’s letters.
“Alright, we might as well try and bluff our way past,” He sheathed his sword, “But if it doesn’t work, previous plan?”
Scar sighed, and then nodded.
Kestrel marched towards the gates. The two guards placed their hands on their swords.
“It’s past curfew!” One said, “State your business or I’ll be forced to arrest you.”
“We’re on official business from the East India Company!” Kestrel held up the letters, “We must get past.”
The guard took the letter and gestured to his partner, who raised his lantern.
“Why do you have company business at this time of night?”
“Making up for lost time,” Kestrel replied, “Now can we please hurry it rapidly along? We must relay our messages to Lady Wentworth before sunrise.”
“There’s something about this which don’t sound right,” The second guard said, “I’d be truthful with us if I was you. What’s that giant of yours carrying?”
Kestrel felt his heart beat faster.
“I’ll truthfully kick your teeth in if you don’t let us through. Doesn’t the East India Company pay your wage? I think Mr Wilkinson will be angry that you’ve interfered with us.”
“He’s a gambler who neglects his missus,” the first guard said, “I don’t care what he feels. He has no clout.”
“And you do?” Kestrel said, “Mr Scar, if you’d please?”
Scar loomed over them and growled. The two guards slunk back and opened the gates.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Kestrel bowed to them and turned to Scar, “I hate dealing with customs. They have a habit of making things intentionally difficult.”
Scar grunted and nodded.
“Oh, do you mind?” Kestrel snatched away the guard’s lantern.
*
Kestrel listened to the chirp of cicadas as they trudged down the dirt roads outside the bastion. Fewer lights showed in the distance.
“I don’t know how anybody sleeps with those bloody things having a party,” Kestrel held the lantern ahead as he saw a mansion silhouetted in the moonlight, surrounded by cotton fields, “I hope this is the right place.”
Scar cleared his throat and pointed. More faint orange glows moved around the fields.
“We’ll have to stumble in the dark then.” Kestrel put down the lantern.
He made his way towards the house. As he drew closer, he sighted the lantern in the hands of a man patrolling the fields on horseback. He felt a large hand pull him into the field. Scar crouched beneath the cotton and put his finger to his lips.
*
Sneaking across the fields, the pair arrived at the manor house. Kestrel led Scar around the property to a servant’s entrance at the back of the house.
“I hope this is the right place…” He knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder. The sound of a bolt being withdrawn emanated from within.
“Yes?” A servant peered out, yawning.
“Is this the residence of Lady Priscilla Wentworth?”
“Yes. What is your business here?”
“We have an order for her,” Kestrel gestured to the chest in Scar’s arms.
The servant opened the door.
“Bring it in.”
Scar set the chest on the floor and opened it.
“Very good,” the servant said, “You may go now.”
He held the door open.
“Not so fast, mate.” Kestrel folded his arms, “Her ladyship owes us money.”
“I was not informed as such.”
Scar loomed over the servant.
“Perhaps we could seek an audience,” Kestrel said.
The servant led Kestrel and Scar to the foyer. With no lights, the ticking of the nearby grandfather clock seemed louder.
“I have the feeling she’s not going to be happy with us waking her at an ungodly hour,” Kestrel said.
Scar said nothing.
“How about a game while we wait? Blind Man’s Buff?”
Scar slapped him across the head, almost knocking him to the floor.
“Your turn.” The burly Antiguan laughed.
*
As the clock ticked, Kestrel sat on the chest and fidgeted.
“I understand that you wish to speak to me.” A blond-haired woman in a nightgown appeared on the landing. The servant accompanied her, holding a lit candelabra.
Kestrel said nothing as she walked down the stairs. In the candlelight, he saw her scowling at them, yet felt warm as he looked at her.
“Have you not the courtesy to answer me?” She said, “I asked you a question.”
“Forgive me, my lady.” Kestrel grinned, “My companion here is usually the silent type. I merely required a moment to compose my thoughts.”
“Well compose them, so you can leave and I can return to bed.” She held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose as she approached them.
Kestrel knelt down and opened the chest. He pulled out a blue mantua and showed it to Lady Wentworth.
“I’m told that this is the latest in Parisian fashions, my lady.” He said.
“Beautiful,” She felt the fabric and nodded, “These will be fine additions to my wardrobe. I am prepared to offer a guinea for the three dresses.”
“They’re a guinea each,” Kestrel said, “That’s our asking price.”
“I’d pay that when buying from a respectable merchant. These haven’t been transported well.”
“That cannot be helped, my lady. But there is no shame in buying from smugglers if it’s something you genuinely need. Like to upstage the other ladies in your circle of friends. I’m sure one of them will make a better offer.”
Wentworth’s eyes widened.
“Very well, two guineas for the three.” She said.
Kestrel looked back at Scar, who shrugged.
“Two guineas and ten shillings,” Kestrel stroked his goatee, “One may need some mending, but I’m sure the others are fine.”
“As I am dealing with an educated man, I accept.” She turned to the servant, “Get these men their money and show them out.”
She turned and ascended the stairs with elegance and grace.
“Educated?” Scar murmured.
“Probably because I said ‘my lady’ instead of ‘m’lady’,” Kestrel grinned, “I don’t know much Latin though. Except perhaps coitus interruptus.”
He watched the servant return with the coins.
“Thank you. Now, perhaps you’d be able to direct us to the King’s Head Inn? We have one more delivery to make.”
Andrew Roberts has been writing as a hobby since the age of 17. After struggling to fit this around a full-time accounts job, he decided to take some time out to study Creative Writing at university.
He hopes to develop a swashbuckler series featuring the wandering rogues Kestrel and Scar
