‘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 with 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.’