Charles appeared at my shoulder, whispered in my ear. ‘Tom, for God’s sake, come away.’ He reached for the five pounds and began drawing it across the table. ‘You will need every last penny of this in gaol.’
I stopped his hand, slid the coins across the table. ‘One last turn. Five pounds for the queen. God bless her.’
The dealer smiled. Charles covered his face. ‘You’ll lose it all, he groaned.’
‘Or double it,’ I said. ‘Have faith, Mr Buckley.’
The other players placed their bets. The dealer touched a finger to the pile and slid two cards free. My heart hammered against my chest. My God, how I loved this – the thrilling sensation of hope and fear bound together in one single moment. Waiting for the revelation, good or ill. The dealer turned the first, losing card. The five of hearts. The gambler sitting next to me gave a low curse.
And now for the winning card. I held my breath.The dealer flipped the card over on the table.
The queen of diamonds.
I breathed out, then laughed in relief. I was saved.
Betty returned with our coffee and behind her came our good hostess Moll King herself, carrying a small bowl of punch. The sign carved above the door said this was Tom King’s coffeehouse, but it was Moll who ran the place. She supplied the girls, fenced the goods, sold the secrets and even – once in a while – poured the coffee.
She waved Betty away then settled herself close to me on the bench, kissing my cheek as her thief’s fingers slid up my thigh. Charles, sitting across the table, watched her open-mouthed. With her wide, square face, long nose and sallow complexion, Moll was not a great beauty, and at thirty her jawline had begun to soften and sag. But she had a sharp wit and clever, dark eyes that could read a man’s thoughts in a heartbeat. I loved her – when I could afford to.
‘I hear you won at cards tonight,’ she murmured. ‘Let me help you spend it…’
Another night I might have played along, but not tonight. I needed the money in that purse. I pulled away, with some reluctance. Moll’s hand was back above the bench in a flash. ‘And who’s this?’ she asked, tipping her chin across the table.
‘This,’ I said with a flourish, ‘is the Reverend Charles Buckley.’
‘Honoured,’ Moll said, taking in his well-tailored black coat and crisp white cravat. An empty pocket, though – I could have told her that. ‘Tom often speaks of you.’
Charles lowered his bowl of coffee in surprise. ‘Indeed?’ He smiled at me. ‘What does he say?’
Moll poured herself a glass of punch. ‘He says, “Thank God Charles isn’t here to see me doing this.”’ She raised her glass, chinking it with mine.
The coffeehouse was full tonight and boisterous with it. As it was every night. ‘Fights, fucking and fine coffee’ – that’s how Moll described it, like a proud merchant listing his wares. What happened in the darkest corners of most coffeehouses was on full display here: plots hatched, purses snatched and breeches unbuttoned. God knows what happened in the dark corners at Moll’s – what was left? In a little while the men would stagger home or head out across the piazza to a discreet bagnio if they wanted company. The girls would go back to work – in a rented room close by if they were lucky, or back to the dark, stinking passages off the Strand if they were not.
‘Tom,’ Charles said in a low voice as Moll pulled a pipe from her pocket. ‘We should leave.’
He was right. Sitting here with ten pounds in my purse was reckless. ‘We should finish the punch first.’ There was still half a bowl left and it was high time I learned not to waste my money.
Charles rose and took his hat down from its hook on the wall. ‘Well, I must go. Sir Philip locks the house at midnight.’
Moll flashed him a smile as she lit her pipe. ‘Oh, there’s men here can help you with locks, sir-’
‘Thank you, Charles,’ I interrupted hurriedly. I stood up and grasped his hand. ‘I will pay back the money I owe you. I swear it.’
He put a hand on my shoulder and looked deep into my eyes. ‘God has given you a sign, Tom. He saved you from gaol today. You have a chance to start your life afresh. Come to the house tomorrow morning. I will talk with Sir Philip, see if we can find you a position…’
‘Tomorrow.’
He beamed at me, then bowed to Moll and left. I watched him weave his way through the chairs and tables and had the sudden urge to leave with him as he’d asked. All my life Charles had given me good advice. For some reason I could not fathom, I never took it.
‘Tomorrow,’ Moll said.
I frowned at her absently.
‘Always tomorrow with you, Tom.’ She studied me closely, her chin propped in her hand. I was one of her favourites, I knew; I was handsome enough, I suppose, and a good customer when I had the funds. And when I didn’t, I could still pick up a wealth of information at the gaming tables, sitting between lords and thieves and politicians. Idle gossip in the main, but Moll knew how to sift it for gold. ‘I’m glad you’ve escaped gaol,’ she said. ‘The Marshalsea most of all. The warden’s a monster…’
There was a loud crash, then louder jeers from the next bench as a large bowl was sent flying, smashing into a hundred pieces and spilling punch across the floor in a red, sticky pool. A gang of apprentices, stockings splattered and ruined, shouted at one of the girls for knocking it over. ‘You silly slut, you’ll pay for that,’ one of them sneered, grabbing her by the hair.
‘Gentlemen.’ Moll rose from her seat. There were fights here most nights, but they never lasted long; Moll had men she could call and a vicious long blade tucked under her skirts. I’d cut my hand upon it once, reaching for something softer. The apprentices bowed their apologies and ordered another bowl.
‘You can’t work for a nob like Sir Philip,’ Moll declared, settling back down. She took a long pull on her pipe. ‘Come and see me tomorrow. I’ll find you an occupation.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
Moll had plenty of suggestions, most of which could get me transported or hanged. Still, I had to admit that I had been drifting for too long, relying on charm and luck in the main. Perhaps I should work for Moll. For all the day’s troubles, I had enjoyed having a purpose for once. Life or death, on the turn of a card; irresistible stakes for a gambling man.
‘I’ll think on it tomorrow,’ I said. ‘With the new king there will be new opportunities, new patrons… I thought I might try my hand at writing.’
She stared at me, alarmed. ‘There’s no need to panic, sweetheart.’
I finished my punch and rose to leave. Moll came with me, flinging her spent pipe on to the table. It bounced and clattered to the floor. ‘I need a lungful of clean air,’ she said, and we both laughed. There was nothing clean about Covent Garden, especially at this late hour.
At the door, she leaned her back against the frame and gazed out across the piazza; a queen surveying her hunting grounds. There was a kind of alchemy to Moll, I thought, watching her. Her coffeehouse was not much more than a tumbledown shack. But when you were inside, and Moll was holding court, it felt like the centre of the world.
She tilted her face up to the sky. ‘Black as the devil’s arsehole. You’ll need a link boy.’ She gave a sharp whistle and a lean, ragged creature raced from the shadows, dark locks spilling out from beneath a battered little tricorn. He skidded to a halt in front of us, holding an unlit torch in his hand.
‘All on your own, mischief?’ Moll asked. She grabbed his chin to get a better look at him. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’
Some boys would have stuttered out their life story under that formidable gaze. This one stared straight back, undaunted. ‘They’re waiting on Drury Lane. Play’s almost finished. Where to?’