'That need not concern you, Mr Redmayne.'
'Is there no chance that I might see it?'
'None at all, sir,' said the other with a sudden pomposity. 'The last will and testament of a client is the most confidential of all documents. I could not possibly divulge any of its contents.'
'I am only curious about one tiny provision.'
'Your curiosity must go unsatisfied.'
'Must it?' said Christopher with a smile, getting to his feet. 'You have given me so much help today. I am overcome with gratitude and I applaud your thoroughness. Mr Creech did not appreciate you.'
'That was my opinion, too,' confessed the other.
'You would have made a worthy partner to him.'
'Oh no, sir,' said the clerk piously. 'I could never have condoned some of the transactions which went on in this office.'
'With regard to the will...'
'It is a closed book to you, Mr Redmayne.'
Christopher nodded. 'So be it. Knowing the extent of
Sir Ambrose's interests and property, I am sure it is such a complicated document that even you could not remember all of its provisions. There is no point at all in my asking to whom the house was left.'
'Which house?'
'The one in Lincoln's Inn Fields,' said Christopher artlessly. 'Sir Ambrose would hardly leave it to his family or they would become aware of the nefarious activities which took place there. He would protect his wife from such a shocking discovery. On the other hand,' he added, watching the clerk's expression, 'he would be unlikely to bequeath the property to the lady to whom it is leased. Mrs Mandrake.'
Geoffrey Anger's lip twitched. Christopher had his answer.
Penelope Northcott sat on the edge of the bed and held the objects in her hands. She had not dared to show them to her mother. It had never even occured to her to share her discovery with George Strype. Whether from fear or consideration of another's feelings, she kept them hidden and lied to her mother about their existence. Found during her search of the Westminster house, they had caused her intense unease yet she could not bring herself to throw them away and forget that they ever existed. They were too important for that. As she laid them on the bed, she saw the objects as yet another part of a troublesome legacy. If she gave them to her mother, she suspected, they would only end up on a fire in her beloved garden.
Lady Northcott was quickly learning to live without her husband. It would be cruel to open yet another gaping wound in her past. Penelope elected to carry the revelation inside her until it could be divulged to the one person who might find it instructive. Sir Ambrose Northcott was a private man but even his daughter had not expected this level of secrecy. She wondered how long this particular deception had been sustained.
A tap on her door forced her to abandon her contemplation.
'Penelope!' called her mother. 'Are you there?'
'One moment!' she answered, hiding the objects under the pillow.
'May I come in?'
'Of course, Mother.'
Lady Northcott entered with a look of concern on her face.
'Why have you stayed in your room all afternoon?'
'I was tired.'
'Well, I expect some company this evening,' warned the other. 'I would like to continue the conversation we had in the garden yesterday.'
'Yesterday?'
'About George.'
'Indeed?'
'I think that you should consider postponing the wedding.'
Penelope nodded. 'It has been at the forefront of my mind.'
'Have you reached a decision?'
'No, Mother. It would be unfair to do that before I speak to George.'
'And when is that likely to be?'
'I am not sure.'
'You cannot tarry forever.'
Penelope nodded, moving to the window in thought. She looked into her future with trepidation then remembered the possessions of her father which she had just concealed beneath her pillow. When she came back to her mother, there was an apologetic note in her voice.
'Would you mind if I did not join you this evening?' she said. 'I will retire early so that I can leave at dawn tomorrow.'
'Where are you going, Penelope?'
'Back to London.'
Her mother stiffened. 'To see George Strype?'
'No,' said her daughter. 'Mr Christopher Redmayne.'
The request amused Henry Redmayne so much that he could not stop laughing. It was the last thing he expected to hear from his brother when the latter called on him in Bedford Street. Shaking with mirth, he almost dislodged his periwig.
'So!' he said. 'You have come to your senses at last. You want to acknowledge your manhood and enjoy the delights of the flesh.'
'No, Henry,' said Christopher. 'I merely wish to meet Mrs Mandrake and take a look inside her premises.'
His brother sniggered. 'Moll has the most commodious premises I have ever seen. Warm and welcoming to the few who can afford her. If you board her, dear brother, beware. Once you are inside, you will wish to stay there in perpetuity.'
'The lady has no appeal for me in that way.'
'Then you must choose one of her stable, Christopher, for they are fine fillies, each one of them. Damarosa is my favourite, an inventive wench, but you might prefer the gentler touch of Betty Hadlow. There is also a pretty Negress with a rump which could raise the Lazarus between the legs of a saint and two fresh-faced sisters called Poppy and Patience, who will share your bed together and take it in turns.' He gave a smirk. 'But you may not be ready for anything as demanding as that.'
'I am not ready for any of the things you imagine, Henry.'
He explained the purpose of his request. Henry was disappointed to hear that he would be there solely as an observer but agreed to help. He just hoped that the presence of his younger brother would not inhibit his own pleasure at the house. Christopher was given strict advice about what to wear and how to behave. Before he left, he tossed a name into Henry's ear. His brother's nose wrinkled with disgust.
'Jean-Paul Charentin!'
'Do you know the man?'
'Yes,' sneered Henry. 'A contemptible Frenchman. A sly, thin-faced, leering fellow with no breeding. Had not Sir Ambrose brought him to the house, I doubt that Molly would have admitted him. She maintains the highest standards, as you will see. Monsieur Charentin is some kind of merchant from Paris. Whatever he trades in, it is not grace and fashion.'
'How often have you met him there?'
'Once or twice. Three times at most.' Henry stared at him. 'What's your interest in the rogue?'
'His name has come to my attention.'
'Wait until Molly's paps come to your attention. Mountains of pure joy. You will have no interest in a scurvy foreigner when they are bobbing away before your eyes. I could watch them for hours.'
'Chacun à son gout, mon frère.'
'I'll wager that you are equally entranced by her.'
'We shall see,' said Christopher, heading for the door.
'Wait. You have not yet told me about your visit to Paris.'
'No, Henry. I have not and do not intend to.'
'Did you meet that dog, Charentin, while you were there?'
'Not in person,' said Christopher, 'but I am wondering if I encountered an acquaintance of his.'
Molly Mandrake was more than just a notorious whore. She was an excellent businesswoman who ran her establishment efficiently and profitably. Attention to detail was her guiding principle. Before any of her guests arrived that evening, she made a tour of the house to inspect every room and to issue instructions. None of the whores was allowed to meet any clients until Molly had scrutinised each woman and made slight adjustments to her hair or her attire. Cosmetics and perfume had to be used with great subtlety before she would approve.
When the first coach arrived, Molly Mandrake stood at the door to welcome the two gentlemen who sauntered in and to collect their fulsome compliments about her own appearance. She was a shapely woman of medium
height with a vitality which shone out of her like sunlight. Her silk gown was emerald green in colour, its close-fitting boned bodice dipping to a deep point in front to suggest a slimmer waist than she actually possessed. The neckline was low cut in a rounded shape which encircled the decolletage and bared her shoulders. Huge breasts all but escaped their moorings, the left one bearing a beauty spot which matched another high on her left cheek. The handsome face consisted of one big smile, the teeth white, the lips sensuous, the nose attractively upturned and the brown eyes awash with roguish delight. She favoured a coiffure a la ninon with hair pushed back from the face and bunched curls on each side of her head, falling in ringlets to her shoulders.
'Why, Mr Redmayne!' she said with a warm grin. 'How agreeable to see you once again, sir! And who have you brought along with you?'
'This is my brother, Molly.'
'Two Redmaynes in one night. We are honoured. Your name, sir?'
'Christopher,' he said with a polite smile. 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs Mandrake. Henry has told me much about you.'
'I wish that he had mentioned you before now,' she said, running a practised eye over him. 'You are a proper man, young sir. Do come in.'
She took Christopher's arm as he passed and gave it a meaningful squeeze. Dressed in his most fashionable apparel, he did his best to appear relaxed and sophisticated but there was an immediacy about Molly Mandrake's charms which was almost overwhelming. She took the two of them through into a large room with a round table at its centre. Set out on the table were decanters of wine and goblets made of Venetian glass. A selection of salted meats was carefully displayed on a series of oval dishes. A black manservant was in attendance, wearing dark blue livery with gold buttons. He bowed to the newcomers and handed them goblets of wine. Their hostess ushered them across to some upholstered chairs in a corner and chatted for a few minutes until the sound of the doorbell drew her away.
Christopher sipped his wine and looked around the room. A few other guests were present, seated against the far wall and vying for the attention of a tall, stately young woman with fair hair which brushed her alabaster shoulders. Henry identified her with an obscene comment which his brother chose to ignore. The room was elegant and well-appointed but what Christopher admired was the clever positioning of the candelabra. Subdued light created a feeling of intimacy. He watched the fair-haired woman opposite. Like trained actresses, both she and Molly Mandrake knew exactly where to stand in relation to the flames in order to show themselves off to best advantage.
The wine was rich and Henry's glass was soon empty. Without waiting for it to be refilled, he went off to intercept a buxom woman who had just sailed into the room wearing Egyptian costume. Christopher was not left alone for long. Having guided the newcomers to the table, Mrs Mandrake beckoned someone from the shadows then led her by the hand towards Christopher. He rose politely from his chair.
'I would like you to meet Sweet Ellen,' she said with a knowing smile. 'She is worth five guineas of any man's money.'
The doorbell rang again and she wafted out of the room. Sweet Ellen eased Christopher back into his seat and nestled beside him. Her manner was at once familiar and reserved. Christopher could see why she had been chosen for him. Sweet Ellen was younger and more slender than any of the women he had so far seen. There was nothing gross or threatening about her. Framed in auburn hair, her face had a kind of demure beauty. Christopher was fleetingly reminded of Marie Louise Oilier. While his companion interrogated him gently, Christopher saw the manservant pour more wine liberally into his goblet. Sweet Ellen probed on. When she learned Christopher's name, she giggled and cast an affectionate glance across at his brother.
'Why have we not seen you here before?' she asked.
'It was a terrible oversight on my part.'
'I hope that you will visit us again often.'
'I have every intention of doing so,' he lied.
'Are you enjoying our company?'
'Very much.'
'Do you work at the Navy Office with your brother?'
'No, Ellen.'
'What is your profession?'
'I am an architect.'
'Ah!' She was impressed. 'You design houses and churches?'
'Whatever I am commissioned to do.'
'Then you have an eye for fine buildings,' she said, putting a hand on his wrist. 'What do you think of this house, Mr Redmayne?'
'Most elegant. I would love to see more of it.'
'Then you shall, sir.'
With a little laugh, she got to her feet and led him across the room, collecting an approving nod from Molly Mandrake, who was arm in arm with the latest arrival. Sweet Ellen flitted along on her toes and showed Christopher all the rooms on the ground floor with the exception of the kitchen. She paused at the bottom of the staircase and simpered.
'Would you like to see where I sleep?'
'Very much.'
'Then I will show you.'
As she took him upstairs, she squeezed his hand and rubbed her naked shoulder softly against him. He took a long sip of his wine.
'How long have you been in the house, Ellen?'
'Long enough, sir.'
She simpered again and guided him along the landing. Some of the bedchambers were clearly occupied and telltale noises came through the doors. Raucous laughter from inside one was followed by urgent grunts from inside the next. Sweet Ellen turned down a corridor then opened the door at the end of it. Christopher was swept into a small, neat room which was dominated by a four-poster and lit by a candelabrum. A heady perfume invaded his nostrils. When the door was shut behind them, he heard the key turned in the lock.
'Do you like my little apartment, sir?' she asked coyly.
'It is perfect.'
'Are you glad that your brother brought you here tonight?'
'Yes,' he said, 'but it was a friend who recommended the house.'
'A friend?'
'Monsieur Charentin. Do you know Jean-Paul?'
'Oh, yes, of course. I always enjoy it when he visits us. Jean-Paul is a most generous man. But tell me more about yourself, Mr Redmayne,' she said, easing him down on a chair. 'You are an architect, you say. A house in London is always expensive to build. You must work for some very wealthy men.'
'When I have the opportunity.'
'Where do you meet them?'
'Chiefly in the coffee houses.'
'And at Court, perhaps?' she enquired.
'Naturally,' he said. 'Henry takes me there.'
Her face ignited. 'Have you ever met His Majesty?'
'Well, yes. In a manner of speaking.'
'Tell me about him.'
Sweet Ellen seemed inordinately interested in the King and his circle and her questions poured out. Christopher obliged her with ready answers, giving the impression that he was a seasoned courtier with access to the royal ear. He also took care to find out as much as he could about the running of the establishment. As they talked, Sweet Ellen slipped behind a screen in the corner of the room and spoke from behind it. Christopher was so caught up in their conversation that he did not realise what she was doing. When she reappeared wearing nothing but a petticoat, he almost choked on the wine he had just drunk.
She rushed forward solicitously to pat him on the back.
'Oh, you poor man!' she soothed. 'Are you all right, sir?'
'No,' he said, seeing the polite way to escape. 'I am unwell.'
'Let me nurse you. Come and lie on the bed.'
'Not now, Ellen. I fear I shall disgrace myself.'
He clutched his stomach with both hands and went off into such a frenzy of coughing that she backed away from him. Taking some coins from his purse, he tossed them on the bed, gestured his apologies then unlocked the door to leave. When he got downstairs, he made his way to the side door so that he could slip away unobtrusively. Christopher was glad that he had come on foot. A bracing walk would help to clear his head and allow him to assimilate all that he had learned fr
om Sweet Ellen. She had been a most helpful tutor but there was a critical point beyond which he could not allow her lesson to go. He tried to work out why she had reminded him of Marie Louise Oilier.
A busy mind and a long stride combined to get him back to Fetter Lane before he realised it and he was astonished when his house came into sight. He got no closer to it. Two figures suddenly emerged from the shadows to attack him with cudgels. Before he could defend himself, he was felled by a blow to the head then beaten and kicked by both men. Curling into a ball, he brought his arms up over his head to ward off the worst of the attack but it ceased as abruptly as it had started. Someone came running over the cobbles to hurl one man aside and to deprive the second of his cudgel. Before he could inflict injury on them, a peremptory voice came out of the darkness.
'Leave him be! We have taught him a lesson!'
The two attackers ran gratefully from the scene and their master went after them on his horse. Jonathan Bale watched them go then reached down to help Christopher up from the ground.
'Are you hurt badly, sir?'
'No,' said Christopher, still slightly dazed. 'But my pride is.'
'I warned you that you needed a bodyguard. It is just as well that I followed you from Lincoln's Inn Fields or you might be lying dead.'
'No, Mr Bale. They were not paid to kill me.'
'How do you know?'
'I recognised the voice which gave the order.'
'Who was it?'
'A man with a score to settle. George Strype.'
Chapter Fifteen
Jacob was alarmed to hear of the attack on his master and insisted on examining him for broken bones, removing Christopher's coat to feel his way over arms and ribs then gingerly testing both legs for signs of fracture. Christopher submitted unwillingly to the kindly intentions of his servant. When it was seen that he had suffered no more than severe bruising and a large bump on the head, he sent Jacob in search of the one bottle of brandy in the house. Even Jonathan Bale consented to drink a glass of it. Christopher took that as a hopeful sign. He could see that the constable was uncomfortable in strange surroundings. It was the first time he had visited Christopher's house and he compared its superior size and furnishings with his own more modest abode in Addle Hill. The first sip of brandy helped to smother his natural resentment but Christopher could still detect no sense of friendship.
The King's Evil Page 24
