Page 3 of Against the Wind

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.”