blackboard, and an extremely irritating habit of shifting his voice up or down
an octave when he couldn't reach the right note.
Hawk's hands closed into fists halfway through the first song. By the second,
Fisher had to physically restrain him by clinging determinedly but unobtrusively
to his arm. Hawk didn't care much for minstrels at the best of times, which this
definitely wasn't, and he had a particular loathing for this kind of smug,
cleaned-up hero worship. He usually tended to express this unhappiness by
throwing the offending minstrel through the nearest window. Fisher, feeling
strongly that this might not go down too well with Jamie MacNeil, clung firmly
to Hawk's sword arm with both hands.
Brennan finally ground to a halt in a series of crashing chords and bowed more
or less gracefully to his stunned audience. There was scattered applause,
possibly out of relief that the performance was over. Hawk was grinding his
teeth behind a fixed smile.
'Clap him, dammit,' said Fisher, out of the corner of her mouth.
'Forget it,' growled Hawk. 'If we encourage him, he might do an encore. And I
swear if I hear one more hey-nonny-no out of him, I'm going to ram his fingers
up his nose till they stick out his ears.'
Katrina got the minstrel a drink, and the two of them stood chatting together.
Jamie came back into the room and went over to join Hawk and Fisher. He checked
to make sure Brennan wasn't watching, and then shook his head ruefully.
'He's not very good, is he? Sorry to put you through that, but it's expected of
me that I have my own minstrel. Family tradition and all that. Robbie was my
father's minstrel, and I seem to have inherited him. He hasn't improved over the
years. Dad had cloth ears, but liked to sing, even though he couldn't carry a
tune in a bucket. Robbie suited him very well. Besides, when all is said and
done, he and Dad fought back to back on a dozen major campaigns, when they were
both a lot younger. Least I can do is give Robbie a safe berth at the end of his
days. I just wish I could convince him to retire…'
He looked round as the door opened yet again, and the butler Greaves ushered in
two more guests. Hawk looked too, and his stomach lurched as though one of his
feet had just slipped over the edge of a precipice. He knew one of the men in
the doorway, and worse still, that man knew Captain Hawk. Jamie moved quickly
over to greet the new arrivals, grinning broadly. Hawk struck his best
aristocratic pose, and smiled determinedly. It seemed he was about to find out
just how good his disguise really was.
Lord Arthur Sinclair smiled graciously at Jamie and strolled amiably forward
into the drawing room, wineglass in hand, blinking vaguely about him. He was
short, barely five foot tall, and sufficiently overweight so that he looked even
shorter. He had a round, guileless face and smiled a lot at nothing in
particular, but his uncertain blue eyes gave him a lost, confused look. He was
in his mid-thirties, with thinning yellow hair and the beginnings of a truly
impressive set of jowls. He was also a drunk.
He had no talents and no abilities, and thanks to his Family, little or no
self-esteem. He spent most of his time at parties, while the more conservative
members of High Society murmured darkly that he'd no doubt come to a bad end. To
the surprise of everyone, not least himself, he'd inherited all his Family's
wealth, and for want of anything better to do had spent the last few years
trying to drink himself to death. All in all, he was making a pretty good job of
it; the first and only time he'd made a success of anything. He dabbled
occasionally in politics, just for the fun of it, and had briefly been a member
of the infamous Hellfire Club. Which was where Hawk had met him, while working
on a case. Hawk tried not to feel too worried. Sinclair had been pretty drunk
when they met. But then, he usually was…
Fisher, meanwhile, had been keeping an eye on the other new arrival. Jamie had
introduced him to the room at large as David Brook, an old friend. Like most
people in Haven, Fisher had heard of the Brook Family; they had a long tradition
of high achievement in the army and the diplomatic corps. To excel in one or the
other was not unusual, but to excel in both was almost unheard of. Particularly
in Haven, where diplomacy was usually just another way of sneaking up on an
enemy when he wasn't looking. But, that was the Brooks for you; brave and
intelligent. A deadly combination.
David himself was a brisk, heavyset man of slightly less than average height,
well into his late twenties, and dressed impeccably if somewhat gaudily in the
very latest fashion. He clapped Jamie companionably on the shoulder, and strode
forward to shake hands with the bemused Hawk. He lingered acceptably over
Fisher's hand as he kissed it, and Fisher's smile widened approvingly, almost in
spite of herself. David Brook was devilishly handsome, in a dark, swarthy way.
And he knew it.
He excused himself with polished regret, and moved quickly over to join Holly.
She smiled shakily at him with open relief, and for the first time that morning,
some of the fear seemed to go out of her. She and David smiled and murmured
together with the ease of long affection, their heads so close as to be almost
touching. Lord Sinclair shook Hawk's hand and kissed Fisher's, smiling vaguely
all the while, and then wandered over to join David and Holly, blinking owlishly
as he waited to be noticed. They broke apart reluctantly, and Holly smiled at
Sinclair with the kind of resigned affection usually reserved for puppies that
are cute and lovable but only barely housebroken.
Jamie returned to top up Hawk's glass, and he nodded gratefully. Jamie noticed
Hawk's interest in Holly's admirers, and he raised an eyebrow. 'Do you know
David or Arthur?'
'No,' said Hawk quickly. 'But I have heard of Lord Arthur. I understand he likes
his drink…'
Jamie snorted. 'That's like saying a fish likes swimming. But you don't want to
believe everything you hear. Arthur's a decent enough sort, when you get to know
him. He and David have always been close. And Holly and David have been
practically engaged since they were ten. Childhood sweethearts, and all that.
And I'll say this for Arthur; he stuck by us when all our other so-called
friends ran for cover.'
'He wouldn't be the first to find courage in a bottle,' said Marc, appearing as
usual seemingly out of nowhere. 'Probably too drunk and too foolish to be
scared.'
'You think so?' said Jamie. His voice was polite, but his eyes were hard.
Marc sniffed. 'I know his sort.'
'No,' said Jamie. 'You don't know him at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have
to consult with Greaves about breakfast.'
He smiled at Hawk and Fisher, nodded briefly to Marc, and left. Hawk didn't
blame him. Marc's voice had the kind of insensitive arrogance that would have
had a saint's hands curling into fists. Fisher fixed Marc with a thoughtful
