at Bolitho’s expectant face. “A body-guard, if you like. I saw that prize-fighting fellow in the quarter-boat. Stockdale, that’s his name? Take him.”
Bolitho marvelled. How could Dumaresq contain so many things at once? Out there a man was dying, and Palliser’s own life would not be worth much if he failed to obtain some information. There was someone in Rio who must be connected with the missing bullion, but not the one for whom he was carrying Dumaresq’s letter. There was a ship, her people and the captured Heloise, and thousands of miles still lay ahead before they knew success or failure. For a post-captain of twenty-eight, Dumaresq certainly carried a great burden on his shoulders. It made Jury’s missing watch seem almost trivial.
A tall, black-haired half-caste with a basket of fruit on her head paused to watch the carriage as it rolled past. Her bare shoulders were the colour of honey, and she gave a bold smile as she saw them watching her.
Dumaresq said, “A fine looking girl. And a prouder pair of catheads I never did see. It would be worth the risk of a painful payment later on just to relish her!”
Bolitho did not know what to say. He was used to the coarse comments of sailors, but from Dumaresq it seemed vulgar and demeaning.
Dumaresq waited for the carriage to stop. “Be as fast as you can. I intend to take on fresh water tomorrow and there’s a lot to be done before that.” He strode to the stairs and vanished into his gig.
Later, with Stockdale sitting opposite him and filling half the carriage, Bolitho directed his coachman to the address on the envelope.
Dumaresq had thought of everything. Bolitho or any other stranger might have been stopped and questioned here. But the sight of the carriage with the Viceroy’s insignia on either door was enough to gain access anywhere.
The house where the carriage eventually pulled to a halt was a low building surrounded by a thick wall. Bolitho imagined it was one of Rio ’s oldest houses, with the additional luxury of a large garden and a well-tended driveway to the entrance.
A Negro servant greeted Bolitho without a flicker of surprise and led him into a great circular entrance hall with some marble vases which contained flowers like those he had seen in the garden and several statues which stood in separate alcoves like amorous sentries.
Bolitho hesitated in the centre of the hall, uncertain of what to do next. Another servant passed, eyes fixed on some distant object as he ignored the letter in Bolitho’s hand.
Stockdale rumbled, “I’ll go an’ stir their stumps for ’em, sir!”
A door opened noiselessly, and Bolitho saw a slightly built man in white breeches and a deeply frilled shirt watching him.
He asked, “Are you from the ship?”
Bolitho stared. He was English, “Er, yes, sir. I am Lieutenant Richard Bolitho of His Britannic…”
The man came to meet him, his hand outstretched. “I know the name of the ship, Lieutenant. All Rio knows it by now.”
He led the way to a book-lined room and offered him a chair. As the door was closed by an unseen servant, Bolitho saw Stockdale standing massively where he had left him. Ready to protect him, to tear the house down brick by brick, he suspected.
“My name is Jonathan Egmont.” He smiled gently. “That will mean nothing to you. You must be very young for your rank.”
Bolitho rested his hands on the arms of the chair. Heavy, well carved. Like the house, it had been here for a long time.
Another door opened and a servant waited for the man named Egmont to notice him.
“Some wine, Lieutenant?”
Bolitho’s mouth was like a kiln. He said, “I would welcome a glass, sir.”
“Rest easy then, while I read what your captain has to tell me.”
Bolitho glanced around the room as Egmont walked to a desk and slit opened Dumaresq’s letter with a gold stiletto. Shelf upon shelf of books, while on the floor were several rich-looking carpets. It was difficult to see very much because his eyes were still half blinded by the sun’s glare, and anyway the windows were so heavily shaded that it was almost too dark to study his host. An intelligent face, he thought. A man about sixty, although he had heard that in such a climate men could age rapidly. It was hard to guess what he was doing here, or how Dumaresq had discovered him.
Egmont laid the letter carefully on the desk and looked across at Bolitho.
“Your captain has said nothing of this to you?” He saw Bolitho’s expression and shook his head. “No, of course he would not, and it was wrong of me to ask.”
Bolitho said, “He wished me to bring the letter without delay. That is all I know.”
“I see.” For a few moments he looked unsure, even apprehensive. Then he said, “I shall do what I can. It will take time, of course, but with the Viceroy away from his residence I have no doubt your captain will wish to remain for a while.”
Bolitho opened his mouth and then shut it as the door swung inwards and a woman entered the room carrying a tray.
He got to his feet, very conscious of his crumpled shirt, of his hair plastered to his forehead by the sweat of the journey. Set against what he was certain was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, he felt like a vagrant.
She was dressed all in white, the waist of her gown nipped in with a thin golden belt. Her hair was jet black like his own, and although held in check by a ribbon at the nape of her neck, was arranged to fall on her shoulders, the skin of which looked like silk.
She glanced at him and then studied him from top to toe, her head slightly on one side.
Egmont was also on his feet and said stiffly, “This is my wife, Lieutenant.”
Bolitho bowed. “I am honoured, ma’am.” He did not know what to say. She made him feel clumsy and unable to form his words, and all without saying anything to him.
She placed the tray on a table and raised her hand towards him.
“You are welcome here, Lieutenant. You may kiss my hand.”
Bolitho took it, feeling her softness, her perfume which made his head spin.
Her shoulders were bare, and despite the darkened room he saw that she had violet-coloured eyes. She was beautiful and more. Even her voice as she had offered her hand to him was exciting. How could she be his wife? She must be many years younger. Spanish or Portuguese, certainly not English. Bolitho would not have cared if she had just stepped from the moon.
He stammered, “Richard Bolitho, ma’am.”
She stood back and put her fingers to her mouth. Then she laughed. “Bo-li-tho! I think it will be easier for me to call you Lieutenant.” She swung her gown across the floor, her eyes moving to her husband. “Later, I think I may call you Richard.”
Egmont said, “I will write a letter for you to take with you, Lieutenant.” He seemed to be looking past, even through her. As if she was not there. “I will do what I can.”
She turned to Bolitho again. “Please call on us while you are in Rio. Our house is yours.” She gave a slow curtsy, her eyes on his face, until she said softly, “I have enjoyed our meeting.”
Then she was gone, and Bolitho sat down in the chair as if his legs had broken under him.
Egmont said, “I shall be a few moments. Enjoy the wine while I put pen to paper.”
Eventually it was done, and as he sealed the envelope with scarlet wax Egmont remarked distantly, “Memory has a long reach. I have been here for many years and have rarely strayed but for the needs of my business. Then one day there comes a King’s ship, commanded by the son of a man once dear to me, and now everything is changed.” He stopped abruptly and then said, “But you will be in a hurry to return to your duties.” He held out the letter. “I bid you good day.”
Stockdale eyed him curiously as he left the book-lined room. “All done, sir?”
Bolitho paused as another door opened and he saw her standing there, her gown making her look like another perfect statue against the dark room beyond. She did not speak, or even smile, but just looked at him, directly, as if, Bolitho thought, she was already committing herself to something. Then her hand moved and stayed momentarily at her breast, and Bolitho felt his heart pounding as if trying to join hers in her hand.
