The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith

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      Francis’ face paled with shock. ‘Sir Nicholas Childs? Then I am doubly forsaken. It was he who sent me, who told me where I might find you. He promised me five thousand pounds if I killed you.’

      ‘For five thousand pounds, even I might have considered it,’ said Dorian, turning it into a little joke, but Tom continued seriously.

      ‘You would never have seen the money. Childs is a spider, spinning webs that reach to the furthest corners of the globe. He sits in his lair, his office in Leadenhall Street, and devours any man who threatens so much as a penny of his fortune. I had helped earn him twenty thousand pounds in prize money, yet he ordered me killed because I refused him a share of a tiny sloop. He is a monster.’

      ‘I see that now.’

      ‘Wiser men than you have been snared by his schemes. Even your father Billy, I think, did not realize he was but a pawn in Childs’ machinations. Billy wanted to kill me, but it was Childs who gave him the means. No doubt, had Billy succeeded, Childs would have found ways to use his guilt against him.’

      Francis frowned. ‘Then what shall I do? Lord Childs gave me letters of introduction to my uncle Guy at the Company factory in Bombay, but—’ He broke off as he registered Tom’s reaction. ‘What is it?’

      ‘Guy is another story entirely.’

      ‘But Francis is a Courtney, and he should know the truth of our family,’ said Dorian gently. ‘It is these secrets and half-truths that drive us apart, and give men like Lord Childs the leverage to use us against each other.’

      Before Tom could answer, there was a knock at the door. Ana Duarte came in.

      ‘Am I interrupting? I thought we had agreed to meet this morning to discuss my proposal further.’ And then, taking in the presence of Francis, she asked, ‘Who is this?’

      A curious expression had come over her face. Her lips parted; she stared at Francis as if he were the only man in the room. Unconsciously, her hand moved to adjust the neckline of her dress.

      Tom gathered his thoughts, and introduced them. ‘This is our nephew, Francis. He arrived from England, er, somewhat unexpectedly last night. Francis, this is Ana Duarte. She is a business partner of ours, or perhaps I am being premature.’

      Francis nodded, as if in a dream – the most lucid dream he had ever experienced. Everything about Ana seemed to leap out at him with minute clarity. A lock of hair curling from behind her ear; the playful curve of her lips; the depths of her honey-brown eyes, locked on his.

      The silence stretched out. Everyone waited for him to say something, but he did not trust his voice.

      ‘Francis took a blow to the head last night. Perhaps he has not quite recovered,’ said Tom.

      Worry clouded Ana’s eyes. ‘Is he hurt? What happened?’

      ‘Tom had to knock him out to stop him trying to murder us,’ said Dorian.

      Ana looked between the two brothers. She took in the cuts and contusions on their faces and arms. She had been aware of the smell of burned gunpowder in the air and the spot of blood on the carpet that all Mrs Lai’s exertions had not managed to remove.

      ‘I trust you have persuaded him to reconsider?’

      Dorian peered at Francis. ‘I believe so. I think he was under a misapprehension.’

      Francis stood carefully, not sure his legs would oblige. His mouth had gone dry.‘I was poorly advised.’

      No, he realized, that was not right. He felt the others watching him, Ana most of all. It was time for him to take responsibility.

      ‘I listened to other men’s lies, and not to those I should have trusted. I am sorry for the danger I brought on your family, and if there is anything I can do to make amends I will do it gladly. I have learned my lesson.’

      Tom put his arm around his shoulders. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Before you arrived last night, Miss Duarte had just suggested we become partners in business. You left England to seek your fortune: perhaps we can help you find it.’

      Francis nodded, and followed the others to the dining room, holding the door for Ana.

      He had entirely forgotten the conversation that had been interrupted by her arrival. Only much later did he think to wonder: why had Tom acted so strangely when he mentioned his uncle Guy?

      In the brilliant sunshine the surface of the sea seemed so smooth and bright that it might have been carved from solid rock. Even where the wavelets met the land, they undulated but did not break. Just off the beach two East Indiamen swung lazily on their anchors.

      In the estuary, a ring of low-lying islets clustered around a marshy basin. Stone built forts crowned every hilltop. The tiered towers and multiple eaves of a great pagoda rose from a grove of ancient twisted Banyan trees. Across a narrow channel, barely wider than a musket shot, lay the shores of the great Indian subcontinent.

      Christopher Courtney heard the fort gun boom out the noon hour. He wiped his face, sweating in his best coat and heavy breeches. All the merchants in Bombay concluded their business in the early morning before retreating to the relative cool of their houses. At this hour, he was the only man abroad.

      ‘Two monsoons are the age of a man,’ said an old Bombay proverb – to reach it Christopher had only to survive two years. For some men, that was optimistic. The foetid air rising off the salt marsh, coupled with the noxious stink of the rotted fish the natives used to manure their coconut palms, claimed some arrivals even before they got off their ships. The rest stayed indoors as much as they could, counting their profits and the days until they could escape to England.

      Christopher had now survived fifteen monsoons – his whole life, leaving aside three years spent in Zanzibar. Indeed, while other men wilted and died, he had flourished: tall and lean, with a firm jaw and deep brown eyes – not a bit like his father, men said approvingly, though never in his father’s presence.

      Despite the heat, he was shivering. A slouching sentry let him through the gate, and across the courtyard to the Governor’s house. It was a relic from the time when the Portuguese had owned the islands: an imposing three-storey building with a Portuguese crest still carved above the door. It towered over the walls of the fort, which had been built around it when the English took over the island.

      Even though it was his home, Christopher’s breath quickened with anxiety as he entered. He climbed the stairs, and knocked timidly on the stout teak doors that guarded the Governor’s office.

      ‘Enter,’ barked the familiar voice.

      Guy Courtney sat at his desk, in front of three tall windows from which he could look down on every ship anchored in the harbour. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk: letter books and consultation books, manifests and loading bills, all the ink and paper that drove the Company’s trade no less than the winds that sped her ships. On the wall to his left, Guy’s father Hal looked down from an oil painting, his hand resting on the hilt of a great golden sword. A huge sapphire bulged from its pommel, painted with such lustre it seemed to glow off the canvas.

      A black servant stood beside Guy, wafting him with a silver-handled peacock feather. Guy didn’t look up.

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