Read Online Black Gold by Charles O'Brien - Free Book Online

the officers well enough to trust them with his plans. There was still some risk. Gordon and Porter were, after all, British officers and might regard what he intended to do as an affront to British honor. On the other hand, they had probably heard rumors concerning Fitzroy and Sylvie and could easily suspect he was pursuing the Irishman.
    When conversation began to lag, Porter cocked his head and asked, “Paul, what brings you and your aide to England? And how has Captain Fitzroy captured your interest? I can guess but I’d rather that you told us.”
    â€œThis is for your ears alone,” the colonel replied. “Baron Breteuil has sent us to apprehend Fitzroy and return him to France. Privately. Discreetly.” Saint-Martin went on to describe his mission from its beginning in January up to his forthcoming trip to Bath. His friends soon dropped their nonchalance and leaned forward, fully engaged. When he described Fitzroy’s assault on Sylvie and her attempted suicide, both men flinched.
    At the conclusion of the story, they remained deathly silent for a moment, shaking their heads. They glanced at one another. “Fitzroy! What a blackguard!” exclaimed Gordon. “He’s been telling a different story. The young woman was willing enough, he claims. For her sins the baron beat her.”
    Porter seconded his companion with a vigorous thump on the table. “The captain’s a liar, a villain, and deserves to be horsewhipped and shot!” Then he turned to Saint-Martin. “We’ll tell you what we know about him.”
    The colonel settled back in his chair and listened. His friends had met the Irishman many times during the months he spent in London. “He’s a handsome one!” said Gordon, the livelier of the pair. “And has charmed many a bird out of the trees. At the beginning of the year, he lived in the town house of a woman he called his cousin. A tall, auburn, green-eyed beauty. We saw her usually from a distance, walking in Green Park or dancing with him at a ball. He never brought her into our circles or talked about her.”
    The turtle soup arrived at this point. While a waiter was ladling it into their bowls, Saint-Martin leaned over to Georges and whispered in French, “Find out that cousin’s address and what the servants have to say about her and Fitzroy.” Saint-Martin switched back to his friends. “What’s the local opinion of Sylvie de Chanteclerc?”
    Porter tasted the soup, smacking his lips with satisfaction, while he considered the question. “Most people are inclined to believe Fitzroy. The woman is just another French tart. Disappointed in love, she cried rape. They say a man like Fitzroy doesn’t have to beat a woman to get what he wants.”
    â€œSylvie’s different,” insisted Saint-Martin with some heat. “She kept him at a distance. He had to force himself upon her.”
    â€œI’m not surprised to hear this,” Porter conceded. “I’ve seen his violent side. Often gambled with him. Once, he accused a man at our table of cheating at cards. Picked him up and threw him right out the window into the street.”
    â€œAnd he wasn’t charged either,” added Gordon.
    â€œWho protects him?” asked Saint-Martin, amazed. “He left England a decade ago to escape arrest. Why has he been allowed to return?”
    Porter, the more knowledgeable of the two, replied. “According to credible rumors among his fellow officers, Fitzroy has brought information from France that seems useful to the British government.”
    Saint-Martin raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t been privy to any secrets about our armament or tactics. The only strategy he knows is what he’s learned in a boudoir or gambling den.”
    Porter smiled. “Quite right. And that’s where he has gathered his tales of sexual and financial corruption at high levels of the French