Chaloner woke before it was light the next morning, aware that he had a great deal to do. He lay still for a moment, working out a plan of action, and decided that he would begin by hunting down Harley, Newell and Reyner, on the grounds that the deaths of so many soldiers was a rather more serious matter than missing planks and the lunatic letter about Pratt.
He was not sure what time Hannah had returned from her duties with the Queen the previous night, but she did not stir as he slipped out of bed and dressed in the dim light of the candle she had forgotten to extinguish before she had retired. He bent to kiss her as he left, but she chose that moment to fling out an arm, catching him on the shoulder. With a squawk of pain, her eyes flew open.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, wringing her knuckles and eyeing him accusingly.
She was a small, fair-haired lady with a pert figure and an impish grin. She was not pretty, but she possessed a strength of character and an independence of thought that he had found attractive. They had married before they really knew each other, but it had not taken them long to learn that each possessed habits the other did not like. Chaloner disapproved of the company Hannah kept at Court and was appalled by her surly morning temper; Hannah deplored Chaloner’s inability to express his feelings and hated the sound of his bass viol.
Music was important to Chaloner. It soothed him when he was agitated, cleared his mind when he was dealing with complex cases, and there was little that delighted him more than a well-played recital. He could not imagine a world without it, and felt incomplete when deprived of it for any length of time. Unfortunately, Hannah did not like him playing in the house, and ignoring her and doing it anyway negated any enjoyment he might have gained from the exercise. As far as he was concerned, it was a serious impediment to their future happiness together.
His frustration with the situation had led him to rent a garret in Long Acre the previous week. All spies kept boltholes for those occasions when returning home was inadvisable, but Chaloner needed one for the sake of his sanity, too. He had taken his best viol, or viola da gamba, there immediately, along with the clothes Hannah had parcelled up for the rag-pickers — she also hated the fact that his work meant he was sometimes obliged to dress in something other than courtly finery. His second-best viol was stored in a cupboard under the stairs, and was only played when she was out.
‘I am just leaving,’ he whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Leaving?’ Hannah cast a bleary eye towards the window. ‘In the middle of the night?’
‘It is nearly dawn.’
‘Exactly! Dawn is the middle of the night. Come back to bed, or you will wake the servants.’
The servants were yet another bone of contention. Chaloner accepted that his post as gentleman usher and Hannah’s as lady-in-waiting demanded that they keep one, but he had returned from Tangier to find she had hired three. None were women he would have chosen, because they were brazenly curious about their employers, and watched them constantly. Even if he had not been a spy, obliged to keep a certain number of secrets, being under constant surveillance in his own home would have been an unwelcome development.
‘I will not wake them,’ he said, wishing he had abstained from reckless displays of affection and that she was still asleep. ‘But you might, if you continue to bawl.’
‘Do not tell me when I can and cannot speak,’ snapped Hannah, displaying the sour temper that invariably afflicted her when she first awoke. It was so unlike her personality during the rest of the day that he wondered whether he should take her to a physician. ‘I shall shout if I want to.’
He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand in his, speaking softly in the hope that it would soothe her back to sleep. ‘I am sorry I disturbed you.’
‘You are improperly dressed again,’ said Hannah, wrenching her hand free and struggling into a sitting position. ‘That old long-coat is not fit for a beggar, while your shirt does not have enough lace. People will think I married a ruffian if you go to White Hall looking like that.’
‘You did marry a ruffian. The Earl said so only yesterday.’
That coaxed a reluctant smile. ‘Then I retract my words, because I refuse to agree with anything that pompous old relic says.’
Although the Earl was fond of Hannah, the affection was not reciprocated, partly because he disapproved of most of her friends, and partly because she disliked the fact that he kept sending her husband into dangerous situations. She also objected to the fact that Chaloner spent more time away from London than in it — since being employed by the Earl, he had been sent to Ireland, Spain and Portugal, Oxford, Wimbledon, Holland and most recently Tangier.
‘Did you catch whoever is stealing his bricks?’ she asked, grinning suddenly. ‘Everyone at Court is laughing about it, and I cannot help but wonder whether they are being removed as a prank.’
‘It is possible. Do you have any idea who the culprit might be?’
‘Of course! Do you have three hours to spare while I write you a list? His overbearing manners and priggishness have alienated virtually everyone at White Hall, and his only cronies are bigoted old churchmen who share his prudish views.’
Chaloner nodded unhappily, perfectly aware that the Earl would have been more popular had he been of a more tolerant disposition.
‘Wait,’ instructed Hannah, as he stood to leave. ‘I have hired another servant, and you should speak to him before you go out.’
Chaloner was horrified. ‘Another? But we already have two maids and a housekeeper.’
‘We have our status to consider,’ said Hannah coolly. ‘And I do not want to live like a pauper, even if it suits you. Besides, we need these people. Susan is my waiting-woman, Nan is the cook-maid, and we would be lost without Joan as housekeeper.’
Chaloner said nothing, but thought they ‘needed’ nothing of the kind. He considered the trio who now occupied the back half of the house. Joan was an old friend of Hannah’s family, which afforded her considerable leeway in dealing with the household, and also prevented Chaloner from sending her packing for her dour manners. Meanwhile, Susan and Nan were sly girls who never missed an opportunity to side with Joan against him. He supposed he would be spending more time in Long Acre if a fourth member were added to their ranks, because he already felt outnumbered.
‘His name is George, and he will be your footman,’ Hannah continued.
‘But I do not want a footman!’ cried Chaloner in alarm, imagining the fellow dogging his every step, obliging him to take increasingly inventive measures to avoid being monitored.
Hannah grew petulant. ‘I do not understand this peculiar objection towards hired help. Your family had dozens of retainers to help run their huge estates in Buckinghamshire, so you must be used to them. Of course, that was before the Royalists returned to power and confiscated everything of value from Roundheads. I suppose your brothers do not engage many servants now?’
The Royalists had indeed avenged themselves on anyone who had supported Cromwell, and unlike many, Chaloner’s family had declined to pretend that they had really been on the King’s side all along. As a consequence, great tracts of their land, items of furniture and even cutlery had been seized in lieu of crippling taxes they could not pay. He made no reply to her remark.
‘Talk to George before you leave,’ she ordered. ‘He is a Black Moor, and it is currently in vogue to have one. Do not look so dismayed! He is quite respectable, or I would not have taken him.’
‘It is not his respectability I am worried about.’ Chaloner was dismayed, and made no effort to hide it. ‘It is him. It is not right to snatch people from their homes and sell them to-’
‘What odd notions you have! I did not snatch him from his home, and nor was he sold to me.’
Chaloner struggled for patience. ‘You may not have done, but someone else-’