Blood Diamond: A Pirate Devlin Novel by Mark Keating Page B

The opening duel was important and Devlin would not feel awkward. He knew this was how these men ran their lives in houses of servants and slaves. It was how they commanded ships and serfs, how one percent of the population controlled ninety-five percent of the nation’s wealth. Their sneering arrogance was really all they had. Every drawn lip and disdainful eye he had ever seen was seated in that room before him.
    Devlin did not run his hat through his hands. He did not scrape his forehead or shift his feet. He gave his rakish sneer and made for a bowl of grapes on a pedestal set near the round of men. He slung his hat on a chair against a wall and plucked several of the grapes, rolling them like dice in his hand as he motioned to the cards.
    ‘A game of Ombre is it, gentlemen? Full table, so I make it is a five-hand game.’ There was no sixth place, nor any chair, available for their guest.
    A friendly voice came from behind the hand of the familiar face. ‘It is Primero, Captain. And I am not doing well at it I am sorry to say.’
    Devlin chewed on a grape without looking in the direction of the voice. A cough from one of the black-clothed men at last opened proceedings. ‘Forgive our manners, Captain Devlin. Would you allow me to introduce our company, grateful as I am that you have afforded to join us.’ This was Walpole, in charge of the room.
    Devlin spat his pip to the floor. ‘If you would. I’ve come a long way.’
    Walpole drew a breath, and began to gesture toward the first of the men around the table, but the prince waved him down.
    ‘Wait, wait, Robert,’ George turned his chair square to the pirate; put down his cards. ‘This man’s insolence beguiles me!’ Devlin was genuinely surprised by the English from the Hanoverian-born prince. Unlike his father, who ruled Britain with barely a word of it, the son sounded as if he spoke it well enough for the worst whore’s bedroom instructions. The prince pointed to the elegant sword at Devlin’s waist. ‘Whereabouts did you acquire that gold-hilted blade, sir? I’ll wager it at least a hundred guineas by its shine yet you appear to wear quite possibly the dirtiest waistcoat I have ever seen and boots that not even a hangman would put on.’
    Devlin looked down at his boots, the same boots he had taken off a dying Frenchman three years previously. These were the boots that had bequeathed him the map that had set his destiny. There was luck in their soles.
    ‘These boots are Cordova leather. A cordwainer’s masterpiece. Older than you or I, easy to suppose. The stitching is entwined with animal skin; it shrinks tight when wet. The heels are elm and the sole is buffalo hide. I’d be buried in them. As for my sword—’ He scraped it free, prompting a moment of epilepsy around the table save for the prince and the man still smirking behind his hand. ‘I wore it for your company and for the street. Fine for a parade but not much else. You can rest easy on that score.’ He ran it back; cracked more grapes in his mouth. ‘And, if you want to hear the word, I stole it from another man.’ His gaze roamed over all their eyes. ‘That’s what I’m doing here is it not?’
    George grinned and slapped the table. ‘Just so! And I suppose the arrogance of a thief is exactly what we do so indeed require!’ Devlin briefly detected a trace of accent behind the ‘so’s and the ‘r’s.
    Walpole riffled through his papers and hemmed. The prince’s amusement could never be subdued but to allow Devlin too much brevity at this time, in all probability the only conversation they would ever have on the matter, was not his plan. This would be it. Tomorrow Devlin would be gone to his task. This would be ten minutes that would affect the fate of the world and, if he had to, Walpole would speak over his prince.
    ‘Captain Devlin, if I may, my name is Robert Walpole. The gentleman you have availed yourself to be so familiar with is His Highness the Prince of Wales,