Cross of Fire by Mark Keating

captain. A little man who needed him. A thing to be protected.
    Devlin tipped his hat as he left. Repeated for the stage. ‘I’ll be back, if I has to. And you know what they say about dead men, Cracker.’
    Alone, Cracker limped up and to his counter; a pistol beneath the bar top of decking, unloaded should his concubine ever have found her nerve, but that would take seconds to correct. He picked it up as a voice yelled out from the path.
    ‘And I can hear lead, Cracker!’
    Cracker slung down the pistol to the bar and hoped Devlin could hear his curse.

Chapter Five

     
     
    ‘It is done, then?’ A gold mask muffled the voice at the round ebony table, round so no man could sit at its head. Yet surely some superiority was implied over the others who sat in the corners of the room above the Greyhound tavern, suitably situated in St James’s, close enough for any gentleman to travel thence discreetly from Westminster or Cornhill.
    ‘It is done,’ the white mask replied with a bow and sweep of black velvet cloak. ‘Coxon is on his way. All is set.’
    The gold mask nodded, sipped his black port. There was some shifting from the other figures in the room, similarly masked. Red and black, white and blue. One of an Apollo aspect with curled fringes of plaster hair, others distinctively feminine or bestial: almond eyes, red lips or whiskers and pointed noses.
    A figure rose to his feet, white gloves pushing back his cloak to reveal a gold and sapphire hilt. His was the Apollo mask, also of gold.
    ‘And our revenge? Is that promised?’
    The seated mask raised his hand dismissively. ‘All in good time, sir.’
    ‘My satisfaction is paramount. That must be stressed, sir. The pirate has hurt me more than just in estate and purse! I seek blood!’
    A hand went to the back of the neck of the seated mask to rub away some tension, his blond wig shifting. His other hand reached into his pocket. A brass token was tossed across the table to the white mask, bearer of news. A slow obeisance was displayed and then a gloved hand dragged the coin to the edge of the table, unable to pick it up with beaver-lap gloves. An intaglio of a bull’s head with a serpent’s body was on the coin’s face, and a papal cross on its reverse. White mask scraped it into his hand and then his waistcoat.
    ‘Privacy, gentlemen,’ the seat ordered. ‘I must discourse alone with our wounded fellow.’
    The room emptied so that only the two gold masks remained, a glass of port for each. Both stood now, removed and put their disguises to the table.
    ‘That is better,’ the one who had been seated perched on the table’s edge. ‘Can’t see the rim of yer damn glass with those things on! Now, George, explain your outburst. What riles?’
    Sir George Lee, Earl of Lichfield, also took a perch at the table.
    ‘Philip, you aspire to be a poet. I find it demoralising that you purport to not understand.’
    ‘I do understand, dear friend. Albany Holmes was close to us all. But such scenes do not favour our sentiments. The Hellfire club aspires—’ he lifted his hand above their heads and George’s eyes followed ‘—to debase such,’ the hand dropped to below the table. ‘Are we not beneath all men who think otherwise?’
    George conceded, drank his port and filled his goblet again. ‘That is the pretence, Philip. Walpole gives us no mind whilst he thinks us a rakes’ club for fools and scoundrels.’
    Philip, Duke of Wharton, opened his palms, declaring modesty and innocence. ‘Precisely, George. The Hellfire club is a child’s folly. Walpole knows me for a Jacobite but knows me more as feckless and libertine. What possible harm could we inflict?’
    ‘Your political notorieties matter less today, Philip. I need only your promise that my investment will ensure Devlin’s death.’ George drained his second glass. ‘You have lost only money.’
    George Lee and Albany Holmes had been young gentlemen on a grand tour, taking a repose on