Tuileries sufficed to assuage their bucolic impulses.
Parisians did not feel compelled to associate with cows, geese, rabbits, deer, and other beasts in their very parks, while the Londoners—yeomen all, at heart—did. Henri nonetheless chose a shaded bench in Hyde Park for his next assignation with Captain Lord Anderson, in hopes that his lordship might be less remarkable in such an environment.
Anderson did not disappoint. He came striding along in the uniform of the English gentleman—shiny boots, close-tailored doeskin breeches, blue waistcoat, brown topcoat, hat, and walking stick. His watch fob was a tasteful wink of gold, and his gloves were spotless, dyed or chosen to exactly match his breeches. He took a seat on the bench as if enjoying the pretty day, not an ounce of imagination or idiosyncrasy in evidence in his dress or his demeanor.
“Have some gingerbread, mon ami .” Henri passed over a slice of sweet that would never compare with his own sainted grandmother’s recipe, but did not offend when decently covered with butter. “It’s still warm, and I bought more than I should have.”
Anderson looked momentarily nonplussed, no doubt because one did not eat with gloves on, but the English schoolboy won out over the man of fashion. He took off his gloves and accepted Henri’s offering.
“My thanks.” Anderson popped a bite into his mouth, managing to get a crumb lodged in his moustache. “Quite good.”
A bit heavy on the ginger, and a hint of cloves would have smoothed out the aroma nicely. “English gingerbread, like English ale, has no equal,” Henri said. “Have you anything to report?”
He wasn’t about to compliment the English weather. Even Anderson would pick up on that tripe.
“Dirks told me to take myself the hell off. Those were his very words.” His lordship stuffed the last of his gingerbread into his mouth, and damned if the man didn’t even chew like an Englishman—all business, like a bullock with its cud, as if food were not akin to sex in the sensual pleasure it might afford.
“Dirks is Scottish, and you are English. Does he want you to beg, perhaps?”
“I served with him, Henri.”
And such was the bond among Wellington’s former subordinates that it even, apparently, transcended centuries of national animosity. Henri took another bite of warm gingerbread and decided not to chastise Anderson for using his name. Half the French nation was naming its babies Henri, and he hadn’t given Anderson any other means of addressing him—nor would he.
“What about the other one, MacHugh?”
Anderson dusted his hands. “He was sitting right there when I spoke to Dirks and didn’t say a word. Dirks isn’t the man’s name, you know.”
No, Henri had not known. This Dirks fellow had enjoyed the hospitality of the Château for a mere fortnight, and at a time when Henri’s attentions had been absorbed by happenings in Paris.
“Why is he called Dirks, then?”
“Because no matter how many knives you find on him, he always has one more in some location you’d never think to look. I expect he’s bloody competent with a sword too.”
“Which means if St. Clair chose pistols, Monsieur Dirks might not prevail. Why not challenge St. Clair yourself?”
Henri put the matter as a tactical question, when what he wanted to do was goad Anderson into the sort of idiocy upon which brave English officers prided themselves.
The frustrations of fieldwork on English soil were without limit.
“I won’t do it.” Anderson spoke not with bravado, but with the sort of quiet that suggested the bedrock of his Saxon stubbornness supported his words.
“And why will you not rid two sovereign nations of the traitorous embarrassment that is Sebastian St. Clair?”
Anderson brushed the crumb from his moustache and pulled on his gloves. “He had me soundly beaten, more than once. That is not reason enough to take a man’s life.”
“You were bound hand and foot. You could not fight
Parisians did not feel compelled to associate with cows, geese, rabbits, deer, and other beasts in their very parks, while the Londoners—yeomen all, at heart—did. Henri nonetheless chose a shaded bench in Hyde Park for his next assignation with Captain Lord Anderson, in hopes that his lordship might be less remarkable in such an environment.
Anderson did not disappoint. He came striding along in the uniform of the English gentleman—shiny boots, close-tailored doeskin breeches, blue waistcoat, brown topcoat, hat, and walking stick. His watch fob was a tasteful wink of gold, and his gloves were spotless, dyed or chosen to exactly match his breeches. He took a seat on the bench as if enjoying the pretty day, not an ounce of imagination or idiosyncrasy in evidence in his dress or his demeanor.
“Have some gingerbread, mon ami .” Henri passed over a slice of sweet that would never compare with his own sainted grandmother’s recipe, but did not offend when decently covered with butter. “It’s still warm, and I bought more than I should have.”
Anderson looked momentarily nonplussed, no doubt because one did not eat with gloves on, but the English schoolboy won out over the man of fashion. He took off his gloves and accepted Henri’s offering.
“My thanks.” Anderson popped a bite into his mouth, managing to get a crumb lodged in his moustache. “Quite good.”
A bit heavy on the ginger, and a hint of cloves would have smoothed out the aroma nicely. “English gingerbread, like English ale, has no equal,” Henri said. “Have you anything to report?”
He wasn’t about to compliment the English weather. Even Anderson would pick up on that tripe.
“Dirks told me to take myself the hell off. Those were his very words.” His lordship stuffed the last of his gingerbread into his mouth, and damned if the man didn’t even chew like an Englishman—all business, like a bullock with its cud, as if food were not akin to sex in the sensual pleasure it might afford.
“Dirks is Scottish, and you are English. Does he want you to beg, perhaps?”
“I served with him, Henri.”
And such was the bond among Wellington’s former subordinates that it even, apparently, transcended centuries of national animosity. Henri took another bite of warm gingerbread and decided not to chastise Anderson for using his name. Half the French nation was naming its babies Henri, and he hadn’t given Anderson any other means of addressing him—nor would he.
“What about the other one, MacHugh?”
Anderson dusted his hands. “He was sitting right there when I spoke to Dirks and didn’t say a word. Dirks isn’t the man’s name, you know.”
No, Henri had not known. This Dirks fellow had enjoyed the hospitality of the Château for a mere fortnight, and at a time when Henri’s attentions had been absorbed by happenings in Paris.
“Why is he called Dirks, then?”
“Because no matter how many knives you find on him, he always has one more in some location you’d never think to look. I expect he’s bloody competent with a sword too.”
“Which means if St. Clair chose pistols, Monsieur Dirks might not prevail. Why not challenge St. Clair yourself?”
Henri put the matter as a tactical question, when what he wanted to do was goad Anderson into the sort of idiocy upon which brave English officers prided themselves.
The frustrations of fieldwork on English soil were without limit.
“I won’t do it.” Anderson spoke not with bravado, but with the sort of quiet that suggested the bedrock of his Saxon stubbornness supported his words.
“And why will you not rid two sovereign nations of the traitorous embarrassment that is Sebastian St. Clair?”
Anderson brushed the crumb from his moustache and pulled on his gloves. “He had me soundly beaten, more than once. That is not reason enough to take a man’s life.”
“You were bound hand and foot. You could not fight
Similar Books
