Although not classically pretty – her face was too round and her eyes far too mischievous – there was something captivating about Eaffrey. She was in her twenties, but possessed a cool self-assurance that made people assume she was older. Chaloner gestured to her clothes, which boasted a neckline that plunged indecently low and skirts that clung to her hips in a way that ensured everyone would know exactly what lay beneath.
‘Has Williamson set you to bewitch some hapless courtier and make him reveal all his secrets?’
Her eyebrows shot up in amusement. ‘Are you implying my costume makes me a whore?’
He shrugged. ‘They set you in Lady Castlemaine’s camp of loose women. My Lord Clarendon railed about them at length yesterday.’
She pulled a disapproving face. ‘All is sobriety and prudery with your earl – he is worse than the Puritans. Personally, I hope Bristol does manage to rid us of the tedious old bore! I like Lady Castlemaine’s light-hearted gaiety, though, and I am delighted that she has taken me under her wing. She has taught me a lot about the Court and its customs.’
Chaloner was not sure Lady Castlemaine’s advice would be the sort of knowledge most decent women would want to own, but he was deeply fond of Eaffrey, and was loath to offend her by revealing his conservatism where the Court was concerned. He looked to where the Lady was screeching abuse at a servant who had splashed her with milk from a pail as their paths had crossed. ‘She seems to have developed a powerful yearning for the King’s jewellery,’ he said instead.
‘His Christmas presents, to be precise. Surely you must have heard how she cajoled him into parting with them? Well, it is true, and the only thing he has managed to keep for himself is a diamond ring – but I do not fancy his chances of hanging on to it for much longer. Why are you dressed like a vagrant? Is it something to do with the coronation celebrations?’
‘Someone told Williamson that the King might be shot at today, and every available agent in London was detailed to protect him. I was working with our old friend Adrian May.’
She grimaced her disgust. ‘That toad! He is a dangerous fool, as we both saw in Ireland – the rebels would have succeeded in kidnapping the governor had you not stepped in and put an end to his stupid antics. And now he hates you for exposing his ignorance, so you should be wary of him.’
‘I know.’
‘Of course, the real reason for his dislike is that he knows you are a better spy than he – and that if you ever do work for Williamson, it will only be a matter of time before you displace him. He will do anything to avoid that, including wielding a sly dagger in a dark lane. Just yesterday, William heard him telling a courtier called Willys how he would dearly love to be rid of you.’
‘William?’ asked Chaloner, unconcerned with threats issued by the likes of Adrian May. ‘You mean Scot? I thought he had gone to Surinam.’
She grinned, showing small white teeth. ‘That is what everyone thinks, but he is here, in White Hall, busy with his latest assignment for Williamson. If you meet a bumbling Irish scholar called Peter Terrell, you will know he is a friend.’
‘Terrell?’ Chaloner had heard the name, but it was a moment before it snapped into place: the beggar had mentioned it – ‘Terrell is not what he says.’ He had obviously seen through the disguise.
Before he could ask her about it, Eaffrey laughed, the tinkling, sunny sound he remembered so well. ‘Speak of the Devil and he will appear. May I introduce you to this raker, Mr Terrell?’
Chaloner shook his head in mute admiration when a tall figure approached, knowing he would never have recognised his old friend had Eaffrey not given him away. He tried to remember when he had last seen Scot as himself, and decided it must have been fifteen years ago, during the wars. He could not say what colour his hair might be, because it was never the same shade twice, and his face had been so variously marked with scars, warts and freckles that Chaloner had no idea which were real and which were the result of pastes and plasters. Most of what Chaloner knew about disguises had been learned from Scot, who was ten years his senior.
That day Scot was dressed in a fashionable coat of deep red, which was enlivened with a sash of yellow satin, and there was an exotic flower pinned among the frothing lace at his throat. Under his arm, he carried a book entitled Musaeum Tradescantianum, a catalogue of the remarkable collection of artefacts and plants held in Oxford. His cheeks had been shadowed to make them appear sallow, and he had somehow lengthened his nose. The only familiar feature was his pale-blue eyes.
Scot peered at Chaloner, then laughed. ‘I trained you well – I did not recognise you at all! I saw a rough villain follow Eaffrey to this secluded alley, and I came to protect her virtue.’
Eaffrey showed him her knife. ‘Your chivalry was unnecessary, although appreciated.’
‘I hear you are posing as a scholar,’ said Chaloner, nodding at the book Scot held.
Scot nodded, eyes gleaming with a sudden and uncharacteristic passion – he was not usually an effusive man. ‘Williamson asked me to explore accusations of fraud in the Royal Society, but I quickly learned there is nothing amiss. However, I have neglected to tell him so, because the Society’s meetings are so damned fascinating – especially anything to do with botanicals. Would you believe I have actually read this book and enjoyed every word?’
It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner doubted such a dry subject would hold Scot’s bright mind for long. Scot sensed his scepticism.
‘I mean it, Chaloner. I am weary of espionage and its dangers, and the sooner I can take a ship for Surinam, where I shall spend my days studying its flora, the better.’
‘Why are you here, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You could be on your way now. Or is Williamson reluctant to release one of his most experienced and valued spies?’
Scot smiled. ‘I have not told him my decision to leave yet, although he will be peeved when I do. He has come to trust me, despite May’s constant whispers that former Parliamentarians should be banned from the intelligence services. However, the reason I am still here is my brother – I cannot leave as long as Thomas is a prisoner in the Tower.’
Chaloner was intrigued. ‘You intend to help him escape?’
‘Christ, no! We are talking about the Tower here, Chaloner, not some city gaol! I want him out, but I have no desire to be killed in the process. I shall rescue him by diplomatic means – by oiling the right palms, and by bringing pressure to bear on those with influence. I will prevail – hopefully soon – and then I shall leave England for good.’
‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ said Chaloner, meaning it.
Scot looked away. ‘And there is the rub. I will miss my friends – and you two most of all.’
A dank, dripping lane in the nether regions of White Hall was no place for friends to exchange news, so Chaloner, Scot and Eaffrey went to the Crown, a cookshop on nearby King Street. It was not a very salubrious establishment, and its owner, a man named Wilkinson, had a reputation for being rude to his customers. The Crown had once been a tavern, but had started to sell food when Wilkinson realised there was a palace full of hungry courtiers opposite. It was a large building, filled with the scent of baked pies, spilled ale and tobacco smoke. Eaffrey, Scot and Chaloner ordered beef pasties with onions, and something called a ‘green tansy’, which Wilkinson declined to define, but which transpired to be a mess of eggs, cream, spinach and sugar.