‘You take his side against me now?’ cried Clarendon in dismay. ‘I expected more from you! And it was not my decision to ban him – I was merely following the law. It is illegal for papists to hold political positions, and it would have been remiss of me to overlook the matter of his religion.’
Chaloner had never liked the notion of religious suppression, mainly because history showed such tactics tended to breed fanatics. ‘Such a rigid stance will bring you trouble, sir,’ he warned.
‘It has already brought me trouble. Bristol hates me, and is recruiting like-minded villains to stand with him. His latest ally is the Lady.’ Clarendon’s voice dropped to a disgusted whisper when he made reference to the King’s favourite mistress. So intense was his dislike of the Countess of Castlemaine that he could never bring himself to utter her name.
‘I am sorry, sir.’ Chaloner was sorry; he would not want Lady Castlemaine as an enemy, and thought the Earl was in deep water if she had thrown in her lot with Bristol.
‘Did you know that Bristol spends so much time with the King – playing cards – that I am obliged to make appointments days ahead when I need to see him on important affairs of state? And he reeks of onions!’
‘Onions?’ asked Chaloner, nonplussed.
‘He has a penchant for them, although I cannot imagine why – they are peasants’ food. Perhaps he likes them because he is a papist.’
Chaloner did not know what to say to such a distasteful remark.
‘I cannot forget that mocking laugh he just directed at me,’ Clarendon went on worriedly. ‘Do you think it means he knows something I don’t – he has instigated some plot that will see me harmed?’
Chaloner was sure of it – a clever, ambitious man like Bristol was not going to let himself be deprived of lucrative honours without recourse to some kind of revenge. ‘You might be wise to be ready for–’ he began.
‘You are right. Forget the beggar – or better yet, investigate him in your spare time – and concentrate on learning what Bristol intends instead. That is far more important now. You must adopt a disguise and infiltrate his lair.’
Chaloner’s pulse quickened. He liked disguises. ‘Do you have anything specific in mind, sir?’
The Earl was thinking fast. ‘My London home – Worcester House – is due to be redecorated, and I have asked several famous artists to submit plans. Bristol’s abode on Great Queen Street is also in need of refurbishment, which means he is sure to try one of two things: poach the man I hire in order to cause me inconvenience, or try to recruit him to spy on me.’
‘You want me to pose as a decorator and–’
‘We call them upholsterers, Heyden.’ Clarendon rubbed his plump hands together gleefully. ‘This is an excellent plan! Why did I not think of it sooner? A spy in his own house! What could be better?’
But Chaloner could see problems. ‘It is a good plan, sir, but there is one flaw: Bristol is notoriously short of funds, and cannot afford the services of an upholsterer – or be able to bribe one to spy on his enemies.’
The Earl was not listening, however. ‘And because you know nothing about interior design, you can make a mess of his house at the same time. You speak Dutch like a native, so you can be Kristiaan Vanders from The Hague. I wrote inviting him to visit, but he is indisposed.’
And there was another problem. ‘That would be inadvisable, sir,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘Vanders died three years ago. Can we choose someone else?’
‘No. This is a brilliant idea. My mind is made up, so do not argue with me.’
Chaloner fell silent, thinking it was a good thing that Williamson was in charge of the intelligence services, because the Earl would be a disaster. His skill in diplomacy and politics was legendary, yet Chaloner had seen him make some astoundingly idiotic decisions where spying was concerned. When he saw no further objections were forthcoming, the Earl continued, somewhat defensively.
‘I had not heard of Vanders’s demise, so the chances are that no one else will, either. It is a perfect disguise for you, with your knowledge of Dutch affairs. Find out all you can about Bristol, because if I lose my war against him, I will not be his only victim – who will employ you if I am in the Tower?’
Chapter 2
At first, Chaloner was unhappy about the task he had been allotted, because he was painfully aware of his lack of knowledge about the Court and its political alliances, and such places could be dangerous for the uninformed. Then he realised that disguising himself as a foreigner would explain his ignorance to anyone who might be suspicious of him. His concerns began to evaporate, and he saw the assignment might even be turned to his advantage – it would give him an opportunity to rectify his appalling unfamiliarity with English affairs. He took his leave of the Lord Chancellor in a thoughtful frame of mind, busily analysing ideas for the deception.
He could not walk directly to the main gate, because a street-sweeper so near the royal apartments would be sure to attract unwanted attention – the palace guards had been trained to shoot first and ask questions second where the King’s safety was concerned – so he followed a tortuous route through storerooms and servants’ quarters instead. He was crossing a yard occupied by the Queen’s laundresses and their steaming boiler houses when he saw a familiar face. He smiled, feeling his spirits lift even further. Eaffrey Johnson had been a Royalist spy in Holland, and although she and Chaloner had worked for rival factions, they had often shared information when they felt an alliance would better serve their country’s interests. For a while, they had been lovers, too, although the affair had floundered when she had followed the King to France and Chaloner’s duties had kept him in the Netherlands. More recently, she had been in Ireland, with a remit to seduce high-ranking rebels, but Chaloner had not known she was back in London.
She was talking to the Countess of Castlemaine, whose stomach bulged with the King’s next illegitimate child. ‘The Lady’ was generally acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman at Court, although Chaloner thought her face was too spiteful to be truly attractive, and her infamous temper was already scoring scowl marks around her eyes and mouth. She might well be lovely when she smiled, but he had only ever seen her angry.
‘And he still has that diamond ring from the French ambassador,’ she was saying when Chaloner edged closer, plying his broom and keeping his face hidden under his broad-brimmed hat. ‘I told him I wanted it, but he always makes excuses when I order him to hand it over.’
‘You order him?’ asked Eaffrey, in an awed voice. ‘You order the King?’
‘Of course I do. He had better not pass it to the Queen, not when he promised it to me.’
‘I doubt he would be so rash,’ said Eaffrey ambiguously. ‘I hear you are to move to new quarters.’
Lady Castlemaine laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘I am weary of dashing across the Privy Garden in my nightshift each time I feel like Charles’s company, and the new arrangement will be much more convenient for our nightly frolics. The rooms are better, too – nicer than the Queen’s.’
When she had gone, Chaloner shadowed Eaffrey until she reached a narrow lane sandwiched between the river and the series of ramshackle sheds known as the Small Beer Buttery, then darted forward to grab her arm. A knife immediately appeared in her hand, but her face broke into a grin of delight when she recognised her assailant. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.