The Shadow of the Eagle Read Online Free Page B

says the shako ain’t English, sir …’
    But Drinkwater was not listening, he was seized by the sudden thought his visitor might be his own brother who had long been a cavalry officer in the Russian service who had now come to pay him a nocturnal visit. He was certain Edward would be serving on the staff of General Vorontzoff who, Drinkwater had heard, was already in Paris. He swallowed the curse that almost escaped his lips and, doubling his queue, ordered the midshipman to bring the stranger down to the cabin. While he waited, Drinkwater lit more candles and washed his mouth out with a half-glass of wine.
    Edward’s appearance at this time would be damnably embarrassing. A cold and fearful apprehension formed around Drinkwater’s heart. Once, long ago, he had helped Edward escape from England and a conviction for murder. [3] It had been a rash, quixotic act, but Drinkwater had gained the protection of Lord Dungarth and cloaked the affair under the guise of a secret and special service. Now Dungarth was dead, and an untimely resurrection of the usually impecunious Ned would not merely embarrass his older brother. Just when he might retire and enjoy the fruits of his own service, Edward might now ruin him.
    Just as this terrible thought brought the sweat out on Drinkwater’s brow and caused his blood to run cold, Midshipman Paine’s face reappeared.
    ‘Well, bring the fellow in, Mr Paine …’
    ‘He won’t come, sir. Says he wishes you to wait upon him on the quarterdeck.’
    ‘The devil he does! Well, Mr Paine, what d’you make of the fellow, eh?’ The idea the stranger was Edward was swept aside by the conviction that this was one of His Royal Highness’s daft pranks. This thought was given greater credibility by Mr Paine’s next remark.
    ‘Begging your pardon, sir, I told you the officer was speaking English, but what I didn’t say was that I thought the officer’, Paine paused, then went on, ‘might be a woman, sir.’
    ‘You thought the … Well, well, we had better go and see …’
    If it were so, then at least the stranger was not his brother Edward! The cool freshness of the night air soothed some of Drinkwater’s irritation. He braced himself for some piece of royal stupidity, aware of a figure in a cloak standing by the entry, but Lieutenant Marlowe loomed out of the darkness by the mizen mast and waylaid him.
    ‘Beg pardon sir, but have a care. If this fellow’s a Russian he may be dangerous, sir.’
    Drinkwater frowned. ‘Dangerous? Why so?’
    ‘You have a reputation, sir…’
    ‘Reputation?’ Drinkwater’s tone was edgy. Then he recalled Rakov’s hostility.
    ‘You did take the Suvorov, sir …’
    Marlowe’s tone was courtly, a touch obsequious, perhaps a trifle admiring. Drinkwater had destroyed a Russian line-of-battle ship in the Pacific, but that had been six years ago, in what? September of the year eight. Good God, the Russians had changed sides since then, when Boney invaded their country and Tsar Alexander had become the French Emperor’s most implacable foe.
    ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Marlowe.’ The lieutenant drew back and let his captain past, his head inclined in the merest of acknowledgements. Drinkwater approached the cloaked figure. The bell-topped shako with a tall white plume, a mark of Bourbon sympathy, Drinkwater supposed, stood out against the dark sea beyond.
    ‘Well M’sieur, are you French or Russian?’
    ‘I am French, Captain Drinkwater …’ The voice seemed oddly familiar, yet artificially deepened. Paine was correct, a clever lad. He knew in the next instant who his visitor was.
    ‘I know you,’ Drinkwater said sharply, stifling any further explanation, and raising his voice slightly, so that the eavesdropping Marlowe and any other curious-minded among the listening anchor-watch might hear, added ‘and I think I know your business. You are on the staff of the Prince of Conde. Come, we must go below.’
    Drinkwater was certain his