CHAPTER ONE

      Cool grey eyes summed up the situation ahead in one glance.  A tall man in black evening dress stood in the narrow street fending off what looked like two – no three, footpads.  His drawn sword was keeping them at bay for the present, but for how much longer?  Even as he stood there, two of the footpads started working together to engage the sword with their sticks while the third angled in to strike a blow at their victim.  The watcher could hear the tall man gasping for air as his sword flashed furiously trying to defend himself from three sides at once.

      Rather reluctantly, the watcher realised he would have to go to the aid of the man under attack.  Moving quickly once he had reached that decision, he drew a small silver pistol from his right hand coat pocket and levelled it carefully at the nearest assailant.  The sudden explosion startled all four men and the nearest footpad clapped a hand to his arm, blood spurting between his fingers.  Four heads swivelled wildly seeking to discover the source of the attack and he shouted excitedly, "Quick after them, Jack, we'll see some sport tonight!"  In a flash, the would-be robbers deserted their prey and fled down the street.

      The watcher waited a minute then stepped out of the shadows and towards the other man who stood still, holding his sword and breathing heavily.

      "My thanks to you, sir, whoever you are, and to your friend.  That was a good shot in poor light."  The only light in fact came from the moon and all that he could see of his rescuer was a dark slight shape of medium height.  His dress however seemed that of a gentleman and his voice confirmed it.

      "T'was my pleasure, sir," He bowed slightly, "Although as you see, I'm afraid I invented my friend for the occasion!" 

      "My house is nearby.  Perhaps you would permit me to offer you a drink?  My name is Carleton by the way, Richard Carleton," the man in evening dress introduced himself.  He held out a hand and his rescuer shook it.

      "Peter Francis," he offered, a little hesitantly it seemed.

      "You'll join me for a drink then?"

      "Well ..."  

      "Just for a few minutes," Carleton interrupted, heading off a refusal.  "Or would it not be convenient?"  This last was said rather coolly and the younger man realised that to decline the invitation would appear churlish.

      "Thank you, that would be very pleasant," he gave in gracefully.

      He fell into step beside the other man and seemed to be concentrating on keeping his footing amongst the cobblestones.  After several minutes silence, Carleton inquired pleasantly, "Have you been in London long, Francis?"

      "No, only a week.  I – I've been abroad."

      "Doing the Grand Tour?"

      "I'm afraid not.  I've spent the last three years living in Italy, and several years in France before that."

      Carleton wondered whether it was just his imagination, but each answer from his companion appeared to be carefully considered before being spoken – almost as if he were making them up as he went along.  However a few readily answered questions about Rome and Florence soon proved he had certainly spent some time in both places.  Perhaps he was merely reserved.  "And that is something I can surely sympathise with," Carleton thought wryly to himself.

      Ten minutes walk found them at the house he had rented for the Season in Grosvenor Place and they went up the steps.  The door was opened by an elderly butler and Peter followed Carleton inside.  He stood blinking in the bright light while the butler removed his master's coat.

      "Bring some claret to the study will you, Rawlings?  This way," he gestured, turning to the other man.  Seeing him properly for the first time, he saw that his "rescuer" was much younger than he had supposed, surely not more than eighteen or nineteen.  He had fair hair, cropped short in the prevailing fashion, steady grey eyes, a smooth skin browned by a foreign sun, and a firm, though slightly rounded chin.  He was dressed neatly, if not expensively, in dark blue coat and pantaloons with a white cravat at his throat.  He wore no jewellery except for a signet ring on one slim hand.

      Peter on the other hand, saw a tall man of perhaps thirty with rather harsh features under his dark curly hair.  He was dressed, as he had noticed earlier, all in black which accentuated the thinness of his build though, as his swordplay had shown, it was the thinness of whipcord.  It was also apparent that his host belonged to a much higher level of society than himself.  His coat was exquisitely tailored and must have cost more than Peter had spent on clothes in his entire life.

      At the same moment, each became suddenly aware he was sizing up the other.  Peter's lips twitched and he laughed.  "I'm sorry, sir," he quickly apologised and after a second Carleton smiled back.

      "Claret?" he offered as Rawlings poured two glasses from the bottle and then set it down on the study table.

      "Thank you, sir" Peter took the claret and sipped it appreciatively.

      "Seeing as you saved my purse, if not my life tonight, I don't think you need to call me sir."

      "Thank you ... " Peter looked a little self conscious.

      Suddenly at a loss for conversation, Carleton asked, "What was your favourite place in Florence?"

      "The Duomo, of course," Peter mentioned the famous cathedral. "But to be honest, I really enjoyed the art collections.  There are so many masterpieces, the Uffizi alone is simply marvellous."  His guest's eyes had lit up with true enthusiasm.  His eyes went to the painting on the wall in front of him, surely it was a Canaletto?  "You are interested in Italian paintings yourself, I see?"

      Carleton confessed that he was, and also in Italian sculpture, and the two men talked for over an hour.  Carleton revealed at one stage that he had made the Grand Tour himself some years ago but that his companion was more interested in sport than art.  "Well I enjoy sport as well of course but ... in Italy!  My companion couldn't see any point at all in staring at a lot of dusty old portraits.  Nor could my father, which was why I was landed with someone so incompatible for my guide!"

      "What a shame!  Have you never thought of going back yourself then?" queried Peter.

      "Frequently, especially when I get fed up with the Season and its endless gossip!" 

      Peter laughed and took out his watch.  "I'm sure I must have been here for ages.  Good heavens!  It's after one o'clock, I hope I haven't outstayed my welcome."

      "By no means.  I haven't had such an interesting conversation for a long time."  Carleton rose to his feet reluctantly.  "Shall I see you at White's?"

      Peter shook his head, exclusive London clubs were above his touch.

      "I'd be happy to sponsor you if you'd care to join," Carleton offered.

      "That's too good of you!"  Peter looked up in surprise, Carleton knew next to nothing about him.  Then he realised that the offer had been made in part to repay him for the assistance he had given that evening.  "However, I don't think I'll be mixing in such circles this visit – I- I'm not particularly plump in the pocket at present,"  he explained further with a touch of embarrassment.

      "I see.  Well the offer still stands, there's no need to play the tables you know."

      Peter merely smiled and inclined his head.

      "In that case, I'll bid you good night," replied Carleton a little stiffly.  "Shall I get you a hackney?"

      "No thanks, it's just a short walk."

      "May I ask where you are staying?"

      Peter hesitated a moment then named the Pelican, a modest inn some couple of miles north.  "I'm sorry, I don't want to impose on you."

      Carleton made a noise which in a lesser man would have been called a snort and saw his guest to the door.  "Till later then".

      They shook hands and Peter strode off into the night – so much for lying low in London!  Still he'd had no choice but to help Carleton and he'd enjoyed his company very much.  If things had been different they might have been good friends.

      John would be waiting up for him – it was very late, perhaps he'd better take a cab after all.  He found one at the next corner, having just unloaded a passenger, and soon he was rattling over the cobblestones at a brisk pace.

      Carleton went thoughtfully up the stairs to his room.  There was an odd air of secrecy about Francis – apart from his taste in art, he knew nothing of him after their conversation other than his name.  What was his background?  Where did he come from?  Was he even English for that matter?  Despite the mystery he rather thought he liked him.