Storm Tide Read online

  If Hugo knew, his answer was drowned out by a loud rattling of traces and wheels as a large barouche rolled up beside them. It had red wheels with black trim, burgundy woodwork trimmed with gold, and a quartet of matched black geldings harnessed to it. The leather top was pulled down, so Rob could see two pairs of finely dressed men and women seated inside.

  One of them – a young man with sandy hair and a pointed nose, his arm fondling a blonde-haired young woman – greeted Hugo.

  ‘Fine sport today, eh?’

  ‘Lord Tewkesbury,’ Hugo whispered in Rob’s ear. ‘A notorious gambler. He once bet a thousand pounds on which flea would be first to leap off a tart’s backside.’

  ‘Are you running a horse in the race?’ he asked, more loudly.

  ‘Indeed I am.’ Tewkesbury pointed his cane at the tall bay Rob had admired earlier. ‘Sir Bors is mine.’ He leaned forwards. ‘Would you care to make a wager?’

  Rob had never known Hugo refuse a bet, but against Sir Bors even he demurred.

  ‘That would be a damned waste of money. Sir Bors is the finest animal in the field. I doubt you could get twenty to one against him.’

  Tewkesbury looked disappointed. ‘I thought you were a man of mettle, Lyall. But no doubt I will find someone with more stomach.’

  Rob could feel his friend squirming on the seat beside him.

  ‘I will take the wager,’ he called.

  Tewkesbury lifted up a pair of gold pince-nez and squinted at him.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Robert Courtney.’

  ‘Of the Devon Courtenays?’

  ‘The Courtneys of Africa.’

  Tewkesbury frowned. He felt sure he was being mocked, but Rob’s expression was so direct it was hard to believe he was joking.

  ‘I suppose it does not matter where you come from, if your credit is good. Whom do you think has the pace to beat my horse?’

  Rob pointed to a wiry piebald colt he had noticed standing placidly in the background, while his grooms braided his mane into bunches.

  ‘What odds will you give me on him?’

  Tewkesbury gave a sharp, barking laugh. ‘On Alcmaeon? Four to one. A hundred guineas on Sir Bors against your nag.’

  The colour drained from Rob’s face. As much as he had profited from his trades on the Exchange, most of his capital was currently invested in goods he could not sell quickly, except at a loss. He was about to say he did not have the money, when Hugo said suddenly, ‘I will stand surety for Rob’s wager.’

  ‘Capital.’ Tewkesbury reached out of his barouche and stretched out to shake Rob’s hand. ‘It is agreed.’

  The carriage rattled on, forcing its way through the crowds. Hugo slumped into his seat and beckoned one of the ale-sellers to bring him a drink. The look he gave Rob was caught halfway between admiration and anxiety.

  ‘What in God’s name have you just done?’

  ‘Why did you support me?’ Now that Tewkesbury had gone, Rob was trembling.

  ‘I trusted you knew what you were up to.’ Hugo drained his tankard and stared hopefully at Rob over the rim. ‘You do know what you’re up to, don’t you?’

  ‘I have never gambled on horses before,’ Rob said, honestly.

  ‘Dear God.’ Hugo gripped the side of the phaeton. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Used my common sense.’ Rob pointed to Tewkesbury’s horse. His jockey, in red striped livery and cap, was leading him gingerly to the starting post. ‘He looks very fine, but see how his ears twitch every time his hind left leg touches the ground. There is something not right there.’

  Hugo whistled. ‘Now I wish I had taken the wager. And the horse you chose? Alcmaeon?’

  ‘I cannot say.’ Rob wished he could explain that growing up on a farm in such close proximity to animals both tame and wild had given him a sort of intuition to their needs. ‘There is a calmness about him that I liked. An intent.’

  ‘You risked a hundred guineas on your feeling?’

  ‘Actually, it was your hundred guineas I risked.’

  Hugo buried his head in his hands. ‘Then God have mercy on us both.’

  The horses were marshalled into position. The race stewards mounted a wooden tower that had been erected by the starting post. It took some time to be ready, as the bay colt kept tossing its head and bucking about, disturbing the other horses in the line. The piebald, meanwhile, stood placidly, feet planted square and ears pricked up.

  ‘Look at Tewkesbury,’ said Hugo in disgust. His barouche was drawn up near the start, surrounded by a crowd of braying sycophants. ‘Let us hope we wipe the smirk off his face.’

  Sir Bors had had enough. Ignoring the best efforts of his jockey, he suddenly started forwards. The stewards, faced with the unappealing prospect of calling him back, chose the path of less resistance and promptly blew the horn to start the race.

  ‘That is unfair!’ Rob cried.

  Boos rose from the crowd, though not from those around Tewkesbury. Sir Bors was a length ahead of the field before any of the others had started. His powerful legs bounded forwards; his hooves dug deep divots out of the turf. The others could barely keep pace. They raced past Hugo’s phaeton in a blur of colour and noise. Then they were gone.

  ‘Yours is last,’ said Hugo dolefully.

  The piebald colt was keeping a steady pace near the back of the field, galloping along with no great intent.

  Rob stood up on the seat, shading his eyes to follow the distant horses as they made their way around the course.

  ‘Alcmaeon is moving up.’

  It was true. Without seeming to exert himself, the piebald horse had passed two riders already. But it was scant consolation. Sir Bors had powered further ahead, and now had four lengths on the rest of the field.

  ‘Tewkesbury will be unbearable,’ lamented Hugo. Absently, he took a letter from inside his coat, stared at it, then returned it to his pocket. ‘And if my father hears how I have been using my allowance, he will be furious.’

  ‘Alcmaeon is still in it.’

  The horses had reached the far corner, too far off to see clearly. But Rob’s keen eyes could see a blur of grey moving through the field.

  ‘He is only competing to be second.’

  Even from that distance, every man and woman on the course could see Sir Bors still retained his imperious lead.

  The noise of the spectators swelled as the horses rounded the final corner, into the long straight that led up to the winning post. Sir Bors stood out from the field, who were bunched together behind him.

  ‘Alcmaeon is gaining on him,’ said Rob, pulsing with excitement. He stood on his tiptoes, watching the two horses gallop down the straight. Alcmaeon had pulled clear of the chasing pack and was drawing closer to the big bay. Both jockeys hunched low in the saddle, whipping every last bit of pace they could out of their mounts as they bore down towards the finish line.

  ‘There is not enough time for him to close the distance,’ said Hugo.

  With his long legs and powerful frame, all Sir Bors needed was to keep up his pace for another furlong. But . . .

  ‘Look!’ cried Rob.

  Sir Bors’s head was going down. Sweat foamed on his breast. Each thunderous step seemed slightly shorter than the last. His eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, but he could not eke out those final yards.

  ‘Come on!’ bellowed Rob, thrilling with the chase. The two horses were neck and neck now, the finishing line only a few yards distant. Thrashing with his whip, Tewkesbury’s jockey managed to coax one last burst of strength from the horse. He edged ahead. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves.

  It was too much to ask. Sir Bors was spent. Alcmaeon surged past him and crossed the line a nose in front. The grandstands and the carriages erupted in frenzied cheering. Only the party around Tewkesbury’s gilded barouche did not join in.

  Rob sought out his rival and tipped his hat, enjoying the chill glare he got in return. Victory flowed hot in his veins. Hugo flung his arms around him and almost knocked him off his feet.

  ‘You did it.’ His eyes shone. ‘I knew you were a marvel. Think how much you will enjoy spending your winnings.’

  ‘Our winnings,’ said Rob. ‘You backed me. We should share the profits equally.’

  ‘And spend them as quickly as possible.’ Word of the wager had already spread, and crowds were starting to gather around the phaeton to toast their health. ‘I do not know which I like better – being four hundred guineas richer, or seeing you prick that bastard’s pride.’

  ‘Four hundred guineas,’ Rob repeated, hardly believing it. It was as much as he had ever made trading at the Exchange – and less work, too. For a moment it was tempting to believe he could do it again, that the horses would always come in and he could make an easy living by gambling.

  Then he remembered how close Sir Bors had come to winning the race. This was a lucky moment, nothing more. He should celebrate it, savour it, and not expect it to happen again. Fortunes would be made by hard work, not chance.

  A new thought rose in his mind. Before he could second-guess himself, he said, ‘We should go to sea together.’

  ‘What?’

  Rob had spoken on impulse, yet the moment he said it, he felt the rightness of the idea strong inside him.

  ‘The Dunstanburgh Castle sails for the Malabar Coast in a fortnight. Her captain has already offered me a berth, and I am sure there would be space for you, too.’

  Hugo frowned. ‘I do not think I would make much of a sailor.’

  ‘We would not be going simply as seamen. We will use the money we have won to buy a cargo and trade it in India, on our own account. Cornish will give us space in his hold. We will see the world, and make ourselves princes.’

  Rob could see the i
dea taking root in Hugo’s mind. In the midst of the crowd of drunken spectators, the air thick with beer and mud and dung, he was seeing the dusky coasts of the Orient: saffron, gold and ivory.

  ‘Is it not what you dreamed of?’ Rob said. ‘Break away from your father. Make your own way in the world – stand on your own feet. Think how proud your father will be when he sees what you have made of yourself.’

  ‘Proud?’ said Hugo softly.

  Something still seemed to be gnawing inside him – doubt; fear? Rob could not tell. Then his face softened. The tension inside him seemed to release. He looked up, his gaze meeting Rob’s with delight in his eyes.

  ‘We will conquer the world together.’

  Rob felt the same thrill he had when his horse crossed the line, the sense of possibilities crystallising into fact. In his mind, he was already halfway across the ocean.

  ‘We should return to London at once. Tomorrow, we can start choosing our cargo.’

  ‘It will be marvellous. Though not tomorrow.’ Hugo’s face darkened. He took out the paper Rob had seen him holding earlier. ‘I have had a letter from a friend of my father’s. Some tedious drone, he is something in the government. He has asked to see me tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No doubt my father has asked him to lecture me on my shortcomings.’ He sighed. ‘I shall have to listen to him, I suppose, commending me to the merits of sobriety and continence. And afterwards you and I will plan our adventure.’

  It was a trivial thing, yet still Rob felt a stir of unease, as if Hugo’s father had magically heard their plan and reached across the ocean to stop it. Hugo saw his concern and laughed.

  ‘Do not worry. I will take my medicine, and the next thing my father knows I will be writing to him from Calcutta. Now let us have another drink to celebrate.’

  N

  ext morning, Hugo approached the door to a great house on Portman Square. He had been there quite often as a child, trailing after his father, but that did not quell the shaking in his knees as he stood on the doorstep.

  He presented his card to a liveried servant. ‘Baron Dartmouth asked me to call.’

  Stepping into the house was like entering another continent. Persian carpets covered the floors, and the walls were hung with silks. There were elephant tusks, fine porcelains from China, and statues of strange gods with animal heads. The sight of so many exotic treasures should have thrilled Hugo – it was, if he thought about it, how he imagined Rob’s home must look. But he barely noticed them.

  Baron Dartmouth received Hugo in his study, sitting behind a carved teak desk. A tiger skin was stretched out on the wall behind him, between portraits of his illustrious ancestors. A hookah pipe filled the room with the aroma of sweet tobacco. Dartmouth wore a wig, which most of London had long since abandoned as outmoded. Hugo had heard rumours he wore it because every hair on his head had been burned off in battle. Other rumours were more outlandish still: that he had fought as a mercenary in India; that he could kill a man with a steel whip. Most terrible of all was his right hand, a prosthetic made of gold that gleamed at the end of his coat sleeve. Men said that he had lost the hand by ramming it in a tiger’s mouth and choking it to death. Nobody ever dared ask if the rumours were fact, because everyone understood the underlying truth. Baron Dartmouth was capable of anything.

  Dartmouth took a long draw on his pipe. Smoke bubbled up through the water.

  ‘Tell me about Robert Courtney,’ he said, without preamble.

  Hugo was astonished. Dartmouth was one of the richest, most powerful men in England. As President of the Board of Trade and Plantations, the entire commerce between Britain and her colonies passed under his eye. He could make or break traders, firms, even whole ministries with a single word. The thought that he should trouble himself with the exploits of two young men amusing themselves in London was beyond Hugo’s comprehension.

  ‘How do you know about Rob?’ was all he could manage to say.

  Dartmouth fixed Hugo with a pair of glittering black eyes.

  ‘I received a letter from your father.’

  That explained some of it. As one of the most prominent West Indian sugar planters, Hugo’s father had long relied on Dartmouth. Hugo could remember the two men talking business, conspiring together, on those childhood visits. The connection had been profitable for both men. When the sugar interest was under attack in Parliament, by free traders or sanctimonious abolitionists, Dartmouth saw to it that their protestations were ignored or crushed. In return, Lyall and his fellow planters made sure that a healthy part of their vast profits found its way into Dartmouth’s own coffers.

  But it still did not explain Dartmouth’s interest in Robert Courtney.

  ‘Rob Courtney is new to London. He has been staying with me.’

  ‘So your father tells me. What do you know of him?’

  Hugo tried desperately to think. ‘His family comes from Africa. He grew up there. He arrived in London some three months ago. We met by chance. He is my friend.’

  Dartmouth’s mouth twisted in a sneer, as if Hugo had admitted some particularly shameful and depraved habit.

  ‘Does he have other friends in London? Allies who would help him?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘Has he ever mentioned me?’

  Hugo shook his head. Dartmouth and Rob were so different, he could not conceive of them occupying the same sphere of existence, let alone that they would overlap.

  ‘I am certain he is as ignorant of your person as he is of the back side of the moon.’ And then, suddenly terrified he had insulted Dartmouth: ‘He is quite innocent. Rather naive.’

  Dartmouth sat back in his chair, thinking hard. There was something monstrous in the way the folds of his brow furrowed, the way his hooded eyes turned inwards. Even the act of thinking was pregnant with menace.

  Hugo waited, his mind a tangle of confusion. So far as he was concerned, the man in front of him had only ever been Baron Dartmouth, the title as fixed and eternal as the king of England. But now a vague memory stirred itself inside him: a dinner party years ago with his father’s friends, the cabal of planters discussing their benefactor. One of them, an old West Indies hand who had held his estates since the reign of Queen Anne, had been forthright in his drunkenness.

  ‘Baron Dartmouth is no better than a jumped-up nabob. I knew him when he was plain Christopher Courtney.’

  Curiosity got the better of Hugo. ‘Am I right that your lordship’s family name was Courtney, before you were ennobled?’

  ‘What of it?’ Dartmouth’s voice was soft as a rapier sliding into flesh. It made Hugo regret ever speaking – but now he had started, he had to answer Dartmouth’s question.

  ‘I wondered . . . if he might be your family.’

  The words provoked the most extraordinary reaction. Almost before Hugo had finished speaking, Dartmouth was on his feet. If there had not been a desk between them, Hugo feared the baron would have grabbed him by his lapels and thrown him against the wall.

  ‘I have no family!’ Dartmouth roared, spitting venom from his lips. ‘My uncle Tom fled to Africa as a murderer. He died childless and unmourned. My father Guy was the only surviving heir of that line of Courtneys. Do you understand?’

  Dartmouth leaned on the table, breathing hard. He had been born Christopher Courtney, though that was a name he seldom used now. It had taken him twenty years of painstaking argument, lobbying and bribery to have his relatives declared dead without issue, so that he could secure the title of Baron Dartmouth that had belonged to his grandfather.

  Hugo didn’t care. All he wanted was to escape as quickly as possible.

  ‘It must be a coincidence,’ he muttered, fumbling towards the door. ‘I apologise for troubling your lordship.’

  ‘Wait!’ Dartmouth roared. ‘I have not finished with you.’

  Hugo froze.

  ‘Tell me everything you know about Robert Courtney. The least detail, however trivial.’ Dartmouth leaned forward. ‘If you hold anything back, anything at all, and I learn of it, you can be sure you will regret it.’

  Hugo struggled to think, desperate for any crumb of information that might satisfy Dartmouth and let him escape.

  ‘He has a sword – a truly magnificent weapon. A family heirloom, I think. It . . .’

  Hugo trailed off. Trying to avoid Dartmouth’s eye, his gaze had landed on a full-length painting behind the desk. It showed a strong, proud man dressed in the fashion of the previous century. The picture must have been painted almost a hundred years ago; the paint was faded, the varnish cracked and yellowed. Yet one spot shone almost luminous from the dull canvas. A great blue sapphire, set in the pommel of the sword that the man’s hand rested on.