Poachers in the Mist
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Desire And Despair: Book 3 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 14: Two Engagements And A Birthday free porn video
"You say these two portraits are by the same artist, Timothy Whyte-Taylor?"
John Stafford peered from one painting to the other. "I will admit the model in the pictures is the same girl, and a damned attractive one at that, but both paintings being executed by the same artist I find difficult to believe."
"That is what Whyte-Taylor told me, and I have no reason to doubt him." I said. "But I agree the degree of artistic skill between the two is that between good and genius."
I had been back in England a few days. After reporting to Colonel Slade I wrote an account of my meeting with Timothy Whyte-Taylor, and then delivered a copy to John Stafford in Bow Street.
His response was as I had expected. Without any scientific evidence of the effects of Satan's Breath, or White Lady as it was named in my report, the authorities could, and would, do nothing.
"I will advise the Home Secretary of your meeting with, and the unfortunate death, of Whyte-Taylor, although at the moment Lord Sidmouth is more concerned with the further unrest in the North. Radicals are stirring up the working population with notions of 'Universal Suffrage." Stafford took a sip from his medicinal measure of Madeira then continued. "And Robert Peel, a terrier of a Tory Member of Parliament, is snapping at his heels. I fancy Bobby Peel could well be the next Home Secretary, and then look out for fireworks."
"At the moment the threat to the nation from White Lady is nothing more than a cloud on the horizon, the size of a man's fist," I said rather portentously. "But, as my companion on the trip pointed out, because the Erythroxylum coca plant does not grow in Europe large amounts of coca leaves will need to be imported before the powder can be produced. However, if the leaves become readily available then the cloud will grow, and envelope us all."
"What is the name of this fellow with such acumen and comprehension?"
"Sergeant Robert Crawshay, late of the Seventh Hussars."
"Hmm, another military man. I find those military men from Colonel Slade's department who are attached to my staff to be all sound men. Patrick Jane to name but one. I am bereft without the young fellow's encyclopaedic memory to assist me. He would possess the knowledge in what climes, other than South America, the plant could be cultivated."
I nodded in agreement. "Indeed, everything Patrick Jane has read he can recall. I was hoping he could throw some light on which, if any, noble family bears a death's-head as a coat of arms. By the way, where is Patrick?"
Stafford got from his chair and firmly closed the door to his office before replying. "He is undercover, up North somewhere. Even I am not privy to the exact location. I send him orders via a third party, and receive reports from him in the same manner." He reached into a drawer in his desk. "Which reminds me, he sent this letter a week or so ago, addressed to a Mademoiselle Matilde Gance, care of you." He handed me a package sealed with red wax. "The next time I write to him I will ask him about death's-head as a coat of arms, although I do recall a Prussian regiment of Uhlans are reputed to wear the dread device."
He held out his hand. "Thank you, Major, for attending to the matter in Belgium. Your account of the visit to Brussels is a lesson in how to write a report. I am in your debt, and should you ever need a favour I will be more than happy to reciprocate."
I thought for but a second. "The rumour is, Mister Stafford, you hold some influence with ... err ... shall we say the more investigative of the metropolis's newspapers, and if you could use your influence to..."
"Keep their inquiring noses out of your business?"
I nodded, and told him of my duel with Jarvis Braxton-Clark, and how, on her return from Bermuda, I had met and fallen in love with his widow.
He rubbed his chin. "Yes, I can appreciate if the papers got hold of that tit bit of information they would add two and two together and make five, six or even seven. We are talking of the Countess of Hungerford are we not? She who was fortuitously impregnated with an heir to the title a few days before the untimely death of her husband on the duelling field?"
I wondered if Stafford held more intelligence concerning Caroline and me than he pretended, or was my conscience pricking me?
"Rest easy, Major. I am able to exert some pressure on the papers you mention; they supply me with information on the rogues and vagabonds they deal with, politicians in other words, and I supply them with society tittle-tattle they use to increase their sales. Your liaison with the Countess will not be made public, or even private."
I thanked him profusely, and then inquired what would happen to the two paintings of Paloma.
"I should like to keep the one which resembles a Rembrandt and have it on show at home, but Missus Stafford would not be best pleased in seeing such a fine looking, naked looking, girl adorning her withdrawing room. I would hang the other picture here in my office but the department is moving from Bow Street to Scotland Yard later this month, and I dare say much paper work, and movables such as a painting, will go astray. Shall you take them home with you?"
"I think having a nude nymph on her wall would cause similar problems with the lady in my life, Mister Stafford. Perhaps they should be offered to the Royal Academy? One of the paintings is as fine as any the Academy proudly display in their galleries. It would be a fitting memorial to Timothy Whyte-Taylor, a brave patriot."
"Well said, Major, a capital idea. I will contact the Academy directly." John Stafford beamed, finished his Madeira, and then slapped me on the back as I left his office.
I made my way back to Horse Guards well pleased – as would Caroline be when she learned the mongrels of Fleet Street would not be sniffing around her.
Colonel Slade's department, now re-titled the Military Intelligence Bureau, was also preparing for the move to new accommodation at Scotland Yard, fortuitously situated just across the road from Horse Guards.
Scotland Yard, which comprised of a dozen or so dwellings grouped about a courtyard, gained its present name when it became the locality the courtiers and lords from Scotland would stay when visiting their king, James VI of Scotland, who was also James I of England – the two independent nations did not unite until 1707.
Previously the area between Whitehall and Northumberland Avenue had been known as Beggars Pound. Scotchophobes suggest the former name should be restored.
Although the Military Intelligence Bureau had not far to travel to its new location the amount of paperwork needing transportation would be overwhelming, had not Zinnia and I been employed to winnow out the detritus among the years of reports. Our training, in swiftly reading briefs and depositions to extract the basic facts, gave us an advantage over those poor souls not as well equipped for seeing the wood for the trees. Many documents contained little military information, and Zinnia, a lawyer to her fingertips, opined we should divert those files to John Stafford's department.
By the time I was due to travel back to Blanchards we had amassed a credible pile of paperwork destined for John Stafford.
"The documents to be transported to our new accommodation in Scotland Yard are marked MIB, as in Military Intelligence Bureau," I announced. "What is the name of Stafford's new department?"
Colonel Slade had not long entered the room, and I had addressed my question to him. "Stafford's department is renamed the Municipal Information Board, and will include the records of the Bow Street Runners, who are also being housed in Scotland Yard." He replied.
I wrote MIB on the box of documents destined for Stafford's office, and then noticed something of a problem. "Both departments bear the same initials. Knowing of the famous law of Mister Murphy many documents will end up being delivered to the wrong department. How shall we differentiate between which office gets which pile of papers? Do the departments possess other addresses I might use?"
The Colonel pondered for a moment. "We are to be billeted in house number five, and Stafford will be next door, at number six."
I wrote MI5 on the box of documents destined for our department and MI6 on the box destined for Stafford's.
"That will have to suffice until someone can think of a better designation."
That same evening I was about to leave the office when Colonel Slade entered.
"Jack, can you spare me a moment?" That was something of a redundant question, as a major can always find a moment for a colonel. I sat back in my chair and Slade perched on the edge of my desk. He had a nervous look on his face, and I can honestly say I had never seen such an expression on his granite like countenance before.
"You and Zin ... Miss Teazle, are old friends?" I nodded, wondering what this was all about.
The Colonel nervously cleared his throat before continuing.
"My question may be thought impertinent, and I apologise in advance, but did you and she ever, err ... umm ... form a relationship?"
"Only a working relationship. Here in the Bureau, and before that when I was apprenticed to her father, where she would sometimes assist me in drawing up a will or codicil. Why do you ask?"
He blushed! Yes, that hardened old soldier, who had fearlessly faced Napoleon's best on the battlefields of Spain and Portugal, blushed like a schoolboy.
"I entertain a high, an extremely high, respect and admiration for the lady, but if I thought for one moment that she bore any, err, romantic feelings for you then I would not make known my feelings for her." The poor man was sweating with embarrassment.
"Colonel, I hold Miss Teazle in high regard, and I'm honoured to call her my friend. We share a mutual respect for each other, but that is the only extent of the feelings held by either of us."
The smile of relief that spread across his face made him appear ten years younger, and I thought to make him even younger, and happier, by saying.
"I well know Zinnia holds you in an equal respect and admiration, and, if I may say so Colonel, it has taken you long enough to get to the point where you are prepared to declare yourself to her. She has probably been waiting for months."
"Do you honestly think so, Jack? I was always aware of her closeness to you, and thought it possible there was more than friendship between you."
"Zinnia was, is, my sister's closest friend, and I am a former employee of her father. She enjoys my company as it reminds her of happy times spent in Grantham. There is only one sure way to find out how the lady feels about you, Colonel, and you know what that is."
"Aye, Jack, I do. But I am terrified the lady will reject my offer."
"Who dares wins, Colonel, and I will lay money she will fly into your arms the minute you pop the question."
I got from the chair, clapped him familiarly on his back, something I would never countenanced an hour previously, and made my way home to 18 Queen Street.
Colonel Slade's beaming smile at Horse Guards next morning informed me my money was safe, and that Colonel Slade and Miss Zinnia Teazle were now officially affianced. I shook his hand warmly, and kissed a glowing Zinnia. In fact I kissed her twice, once for me and once as proxy for my sister Becky.
"When, and where, shall you be wed?" I asked later that day when some of the excitement had quietened down. The marriage was to be celebrated in Saint Wulfrum's, the parish church of Grantham, and the earliest they could manage, with the banns requiring to be called, was in early October, the 4th of the month, which by a stroke of good fortune was Zinnia's birthday. I was of course invited to the ceremony. In fact, much to my surprise, Colonel Slade asked me to act as his groomsman.
"We have known each other from the time you enlisted into the Sixty Ninth, Jack, and we fought side by side throughout Spain and in the Pyrenees. There is no one else alive I have known longer than you, other than Fred Bywaters, who can barely stand on his feet, and Boothby Graffoe in Hanover, who is also stricken with gout."
Of course I accepted the great honour. I left for Calais the next morning with much news to impart to those at Blanchards.
Rob met me in Calais as arranged, and once again we made good time to the chateau. The household came out to greet me, but as it was the middle of harvest we all made an early night, and an even earlier morning, of it.
All, with the exception of Violette who was a town bred girl, helped to bring in the harvest. Matilde, Chloe, with all of the estate workers, and most of the house servants and inhabitants of Wallers, swung sickles to cut the stalks of wheat, and then bound them into sheaves.
Mimi, with Jean-Woodrow carried on her back, worked alongside the young ragamuffins from Waller, stacking the sheaves into stooks. The standing stooks were then loaded onto a farm cart and driven to the barn. Rob and I helped in the reaping and binding, and loading the carts, and after the initial pain of calloused hands and stiff back I soon got into the rhythm of the farm work. The last of the wheat harvest was brought in the day before Matilde's birthday, and then all hands were set to preparing the feast and the attendant ball.
Perhaps 'Ball' was too grand a name for what was really a country dance. And how we danced. Out in the courtyard to the sound of fiddles and a newly invented instrument called an accordéon. This was not the refined dancing of a London salon, where men and women barely touch either hands or bodies. This was more rumbustious and earthy dancing, where after holding tight onto the waist of a laughing wench while spinning her around the dance floor, a young man was more likely than not to end up tumbling her in the barn.
I'm not saying that any tumbling did occur, but having observed the shafts of lust and bolts of desire shooting between the dancers it would surprise me if there had been no sharing of sausages that evening. I noted Matilde and Chloe, with flushed happy faces and sparkling eyes, had traces of straw in their hair, and I even espied the usually demure and retiring Violette picking ears of wheat from her dress.
Many of the great and the good of Valenciennes were in attendance at the celebration. In fact the event was something akin to the Season in Bath, where nubile young maids paraded themselves in front of eligible bachelors, while the older generation looked on in envy.
Hercule Hulot attended, although he looked even closer to death than the last time I had seen him.
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