‘I had better visit her,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than Lester.
Lester raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Are you thinking of taking up where Elliot and Cave left off? I would not recommend it. She might be pretty, but she is as unsavoury as her brother.’
‘I am married,’ said Chaloner shortly.
‘So was Elliot,’ Lester shot back.
Chaloner did not say that he knew this already, although it occurred to him that Elliot might have dallied with Brilliana because Ruth was feeble-minded.
‘Brilliana lives near the Feathers tavern in Piccadilly,’ Lester went on. ‘And it is rumoured that she engages in some very dubious business.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Elliot was one of Williamson’s spies. I do not suppose he was ordered to inveigle himself into Brilliana’s affections in order to monitor this “dubious business”, was he?’
Lester gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you know that? I had no idea what Elliot did in his spare time until he confided it to me on his deathbed.’
‘Why did he agree to work for a man like Williamson?’
Lester looked pained. ‘I invested the money we made from capturing Dutch prizes at sea, but his went to the gaming tables. He needed a way to pay his debts.’
‘Did Williamson recruit you, too?’
Lester was affronted. ‘No, he did not! I have no desire to meddle in the affairs of landsmen – they are always complex and sordid. Nothing like being on a ship.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘I have spent time at sea myself, and people are people whether they are afloat or on solid ground.’
‘Which vessels?’ asked Lester keenly. ‘Navy or merchantmen?’
Chaloner waved the question away. Instinctively, he liked Lester, but he was not in the habit of divulging his past to men he barely knew. ‘There was something odd about the fight between Cave and Elliot. Cave was not a man to challenge battle-hardened mariners to swordfights.’
Lester nodded. ‘Others have told me the same. Of course, Cave was in love with Brilliana, and men act oddly when in Cupid’s grip. But I must go. There is a meeting of sea-officers who object to transporting slaves today. Someone must make a stand against that foul business, and we hope that the trade will founder if we refuse to accept human cargo.’
Chaloner was heartened. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Four. But we aim to recruit more. I was on Henrietta Maria’s maiden voyage, and it was … Suffice to say that I believe God sank her because He was appalled by the venture.’
‘For every one of your four officers, there will be ten willing to take such commissions.’
‘More like a hundred,’ said Lester gloomily. ‘But it is a start, and I cannot stand by and do nothing while greedy villains profit from the misery of others. Call me naive if you will, but it is a matter of conscience.’
‘Then go,’ said Chaloner. ‘You should not be late.’
Chaloner was tired when he reached Tothill Street, and half hoped Hannah would be out. But as soon as he opened the door, he could tell by the acrid stench of burning that not only was she home, but that she was baking. He coughed as smoke seared the back of his throat, and approached the kitchen with caution, knowing that to do otherwise might result in bodily harm – she was not averse to hurling her creations across the room if they did not turn out as she expected. And as her loaves had the shape and consistency of cannonballs, being hit by one was no laughing matter.
She was at the table, peering at a smouldering tray. Joan was next to her, a bucket of water at the ready, while Nan and Susan were scrubbing a wall that looked as though something had exploded up it. All were uncharacteristically subdued. George, resplendent in new clothes of which any courtier would be envious, lounged by the fire, peeling an apple. He glanced up when Chaloner entered, but made no move to stand. Hands on hips, Hannah glared at her husband.
‘I hope you did not go to White Hall dressed like that, Thomas.’
Chaloner looked down at himself. He was perfectly respectable. ‘Why?’
‘Because no one is wearing green this year. And you should have donned a wig. We have been through this before. Dress is a gesture of class consciousness, and an inability to conform means either a slovenly display of bad taste, or a provocative demonstration of nonconformity.’
‘I am not a nonconformist,’ said Chaloner, obliquely referring to the fact that she, as a Catholic, was far more of one than he would ever be.
Hannah’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not take that tone with me. I have had a terrible day.’
‘Have you?’ Chaloner tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Then tell me about it.’
‘Just as long as you promise not to fall asleep, like you did last time. God only knows how long I was talking to myself.’ Finally, it dawned on Hannah that railing at him in front of the servants was unedifying. She grabbed his hand and hauled him towards the door. ‘Put my cakes on a plate, Joan,’ she ordered crisply. ‘And bring them to the drawing room. Tom would like one.’
Normally, Joan, Nan and Susan would have smirked at this notion, and Chaloner was surprised when there was no reaction. He was also aware of George settling himself more comfortably in his chair, at the same time tossing the apple core on to the floor. Nan swooped forward to pick it up.
‘He seems to have settled in,’ Chaloner observed, as he was bundled along the corridor.
When they reached the drawing room, Hannah closed the door and lowered her voice. ‘You made a mistake when you hired him. He is a bully, and our women are terrified of him.’
‘Perhaps they will resign, then,’ said Chaloner hopefully. ‘And I did not hire him, Hannah. You did, no matter what you have led Joan to believe.’
Hannah had the grace to look sheepish, but declined to apologise. ‘You must dismiss him. He will find another post if we give him decent testimonials. He is big, strong and intelligent. Rather alarmingly so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I caught him reading some of our papers today. They were only deeds about the lease of the house, but it made me uncomfortable even so. He was spying, Tom.’
‘So do Joan, Nan and Susan,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘All the time.’
‘Yes, but they have never worked for Fitzgerald the pirate, have they.’
Chaloner stared at her. ‘You think Fitzgerald ordered him to watch us?’
‘Yes – because I work for the Queen and have influential friends, while you are embroiled in God knows what unsavoury business for your horrible Earl. It is common knowledge that Fitzgerald is short of money, so he probably intends to blackmail us.’
‘Then he will be disappointed, because there is nothing to blackmail us about.’ Chaloner shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Is there?’
‘Not on my account. But even if George is not under Fitzgerald’s orders, I do not want him in my house. You must get rid of him.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘I am sorry, but he is not like the other servants. He is a stranger in our country, and it would not be right to turn him out. You wanted a fashionable household, so you must live with the consequences.’
He expected her to argue, but she only sighed, reminding him that under her sour temper was a decent woman. ‘Then the only way to be free of him is to find him another post. I will start making enquiries tomorrow. Perhaps the Duke will take him.’
She referred to Buckingham, with whom she had developed a rather unfathomable friendship. Chaloner failed to understand what she saw in the man, but she was fond of him and the affection was fully reciprocated. She knew Chaloner disapproved, but maintained that her acquaintances were her own affair, and not to be dictated by a mere husband.
‘Is George the only reason you have had a terrible day?’ he asked with polite concern.
‘No. We had hopes that the Queen might be with child, but it was another false alarm. She was bitterly disappointed, and cried all afternoon. Ah! Here is Joan with your cakes.’
‘They are sure to be d
elicious,’ said Joan, placing the platter of singed offerings on the table. She smiled maliciously. ‘You will certainly want several.’
As she knew he would not, Chaloner could only suppose it was yet another attempt to create friction between him and his wife. When he hesitated, Hannah slapped one in his hand. It was still hot, obliging him to juggle it, and a tentative gnaw made him wonder whether she wanted him toothless. He tried again, while she waited for a compliment.
‘Very nice,’ he lied, when he had eventually managed to bite a piece off. In truth, it tasted like all her efforts in the kitchen – of charcoal. Disappointed, Joan left, slamming the door behind her.
‘I omitted the sugar on principle,’ said Hannah, tellingly declining to eat one herself. ‘Have you ever been to a sugar plantation? You once mentioned visiting the Caribbean.’
Chaloner nodded, but did not elaborate. It had shocked him, and he was not sure how to begin describing the horrors he had witnessed.
Hannah sighed. ‘It is a good thing I usually have plenty to say, or we would spend all our time together in silence. Is it so much to ask that you tell me about your travels? Talk to me, Tom!’
‘Sugar is made by extracting syrup from a certain type of cane, which—’
‘No! I want your opinion of these places, not a lesson in botany. No wonder I sometimes feel as if we do not know each other at all. You are wholly incapable of communicating your feelings.’
Chaloner knew the accusation was true, because even thus berated, he struggled for the right words. Then, when he thought he had them, Hannah grew tired of waiting and changed the subject.
‘I am going out this evening. You are invited, too, but I imagine your Earl expects you to lurk under more tarpaulins. It is a pity, because there will be music.’
‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly.
Hannah nodded. ‘Henry and Kitty O’Brien are holding a soirée for select courtiers. Have you met them? They are great fun and extremely rich, so everyone wants to be in their company. Everyone except your Earl, that is. Apparently, he thinks they are upstarts.’
Somewhat disingenuously, Chaloner informed Hannah that it would be rude for him to ignore the O’Briens’ invitation, strenuously denying the accusation that he was only interested in the music. It would be better to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel later anyway, he told himself, when it would be busier and Fitzgerald was more likely to be there.
Hannah was pleased to have his company, although she made him change first. Once clad in their best clothes, they walked to the O’Briens’ mansion in Cannon Row, just south of White Hall. George preceded them, toting a pitch torch, although he held it for his own convenience, and Chaloner was obliged to tell him several times to adjust it so that Hannah could see where she was going.
‘Would you like me to carry her?’ asked George, the fourth time it was mentioned.
Chaloner peered at him in the darkness, not sure whether the man was serious or being insolent. ‘We will settle for you holding the torch properly,’ he replied curtly.
George must have heard the warning in his voice, because he did not need to be told again. But Hannah’s suspicions about his spying were still in Chaloner’s mind, and it seemed as good a time as any to question the man – better, in that Joan, Nan and Susan were not there to eavesdrop.
‘Why were you reading our papers this morning?’ he asked, opting for a blunt approach. He felt Hannah stiffen beside him, and supposed she had not wanted George to know that she had tattled.
‘I was looking for tobacco,’ replied the footman curtly. ‘I smoke.’
Even Chaloner was taken aback at the bald admission that George felt entitled to rummage among his employers’ possessions in search of a commodity that, if found, would effectively be stolen. Hannah gasped her disbelief.
‘Did you hunt for tobacco among Fitzgerald’s belongings, too?’ asked Chaloner coolly.
‘Of course,’ replied George, unruffled. ‘What else was I to do when I wanted a pipe?’
‘Even if we did smoke,’ said Hannah, ‘we would not keep tobacco among our legal documents.’
‘So I have learned. I shall not look there again.’
Chaloner gaped at the man’s unrepentant audacity, but when he stole a glance at Hannah, he saw she was laughing.
‘Lord!’ she whispered. ‘Perhaps we had better buy him some, or who knows where he might pry next. Unfortunately, Joan disapproves of smoking …’
‘I will bring him some tomorrow,’ said Chaloner, thinking it would kill two birds with one stone: relieve George’s cravings and annoy the housekeeper. Of course, he thought, as he watched George pause to see Hannah over a rutted section of road, the man still might be a spy.
The O’Briens had rented a pleasant house with attractive gardens, and their great wealth was reflected in the number of lights that blazed from their windows. As they entered, Hannah was immediately claimed by Buckingham, who whisked her away to meet some of his friends.
Chaloner loitered at the edge of the gathering, aware that it included a lot of very well-connected individuals, many of them Adventurers. There was, however, no one from the Piccadilly Company. He was not sure what it meant – perhaps just that the two groups were drawn from different sections of society, with the Adventurers comprising the uppermost echelons, and the Piccadilly Company admitting men like Fitzgerald the pirate and the Tangier scouts.
Secretary Leighton was by the fire, surrounded by fellow Adventurers. They included a man with an exceptionally large nose named Congett. Congett was a drunk, who had earned himself a certain notoriety by mistaking a French cabinet for the King at His Majesty’s birthday party, and informing it of his undying loyalty. Only the fact that he was immensely wealthy had saved him from being laughed out of Court.
‘Turner and Lucas promised to be here,’ Leighton was saying. He sounded annoyed, and Chaloner was under the impression that the pair would be in trouble when he next saw them. ‘I wanted them to work on O’Brien, and persuade him to join us.’
‘I hope no harm has befallen them,’ slurred Congett worriedly. ‘Especially after Proby …’
‘A vile business,’ said Leighton, with a marked lack of feeling. His button eyes glittered. ‘And now poor Grey is missing, too. He disappeared en route to a brothel.’
‘If I did not know better,’ whispered Congett, ‘I would say someone is targeting Adventurers.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’ Leighton’s face was impossible to read.
‘Well, I do not believe Proby threw himself off St Paul’s,’ replied Congett. ‘I think he was pushed – murdered. And I think there will be more deaths to come.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Leighton. ‘There is no evidence to suggest such a thing, and we all know he was upset when his wife died. But this is no subject for a fine evening. Let us talk of happier matters. Have you heard that the price of gold has risen again? It is good news for our company.’
Once the discussion turned fiscal, Chaloner wandered away. He went to where a quartet of musicians was playing. They invited him to join them, and he was soon lost in a complex piece by Lawes. He came back to Earth abruptly when he became aware that he was the subject of scrutiny.
‘I had no idea you were so talented,’ said Spymaster Williamson.
‘It is a pastime, no more,’ lied Chaloner, standing and nodding his thanks to the musicians. He was horrified to have exposed such a vulnerable part of himself to a man he did not like.
‘Personally, I have never cared for music,’ said Williamson. ‘I prefer collecting moths.’
‘Do you?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘There are plenty in the curtains. Shall I shake them out?’
Williamson smiled. ‘It is a kind offer, but I am more interested in the rarer varieties. You will not forget to visit me tomorrow, will you? There is something important we must discuss.’
‘There you are, Joseph!’ came a voice from behind them. It was Kitty, radiant in a bodice of blue wit
h skirts to match. Something sparkled in her auburn hair – a delicate net with tiny diamonds sewn into it. ‘We have been looking for you.’
She grabbed the Spymaster’s hand, and they exchanged a look of such smouldering passion that Chaloner was embarrassed. He was amazed, not only that a fine woman like Kitty should have such poor taste in men, but that Williamson should unbend enough to embark on a liaison. Or had it been Kitty who had done the seducing? Then O’Brien arrived, and she tugged her hand away.
‘I was just telling Chaloner about my moths,’ said Williamson smoothly. ‘He is very interested.’
‘Is he?’ O’Brien flung a comradely arm around the Spymaster’s shoulders, addressing Chaloner as he did so. ‘Williamson always enjoyed peculiar pastimes, even at Oxford. Now those were good days! It was just one invitation after another.’
‘It was,’ agreed Williamson, although with considerably less enthusiasm. ‘Of course, Chaloner was at Cambridge. Perhaps that explains his unaccountable liking for music.’
‘I adore music,’ said Kitty warmly. ‘Especially Locke. He is my favourite composer.’
He was one of Chaloner’s, too, and he felt himself losing his heart to Kitty. Then she and O’Brien began a lively debate about the best compositions for the viola da gamba, while Williamson listened with an indulgent smile. It was obvious that he was fond of both, and Chaloner wondered what would happen when O’Brien learned about their betrayal.
As the evening progressed, Kitty showed herself to be vivacious, intelligent and amusing, with a talent for making people feel at ease. It was clear that her servants worshipped her, while her guests positively fawned. O’Brien encouraged her to shine, and Chaloner soon understood why: the man wanted to be accepted into high society on the basis of their popularity, not because they were rich. It was pitiful, yet there was something charming about his eager naivety, and Chaloner hoped he would not be too badly savaged by the ruthless vultures of Court.
‘Thank you, Leighton,’ he was saying, clapping his hands in unbridled pleasure. ‘We should love to attend a reception on a ship next week. However, you must promise that you will not spend the entire evening trying to convince us to become Adventurers.’
The Piccadilly Plot: Chaloner's Seventh Exploit in Restoration London (The Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 14
