‘Is he?’ O’Brien flung a comradely arm around the Spymaster’s shoulders, addressing Chaloner as he did so. ‘Williamson always enjoyed peculiar pastimes, even at Oxford. Now those were good days! It was just one invitation after another.’
‘It was,’ agreed Williamson, although with considerably less enthusiasm. ‘Of course, Chaloner was at Cambridge. Perhaps that explains his unaccountable liking for music.’
‘I adore music,’ said Kitty warmly. ‘Especially Locke. He is my favourite composer.’
He was one of Chaloner’s, too, and he felt himself losing his heart to Kitty. Then she and O’Brien began a lively debate about the best compositions for the viola da gamba, while Williamson listened with an indulgent smile. It was obvious that he was fond of both, and Chaloner wondered what would happen when O’Brien learned about their betrayal.
As the evening progressed, Kitty showed herself to be vivacious, intelligent and amusing, with a talent for making people feel at ease. It was clear that her servants worshipped her, while her guests positively fawned. O’Brien encouraged her to shine, and Chaloner soon understood why: the man wanted to be accepted into high society on the basis of their popularity, not because they were rich. It was pitiful, yet there was something charming about his eager naivety, and Chaloner hoped he would not be too badly savaged by the ruthless vultures of Court.
‘Thank you, Leighton,’ he was saying, clapping his hands in unbridled pleasure. ‘We should love to attend a reception on a ship next week. However, you must promise that you will not spend the entire evening trying to convince us to become Adventurers.’
‘It would be to your advantage,’ said Leighton immediately. ‘You could double your money.’
‘And what good would that do?’ asked O’Brien, laughing. ‘We already have more than we can spend. Besides, the Adventurers deal in slaves, and we do not approve of that.’
‘No,’ agreed Kitty vehemently. ‘It is a wicked business. But I firmly believe that the trade will founder eventually, and then anyone who participated in it will live in shame.’
Chaloner, listening in the shadows, felt himself warm to her more than ever.
‘It is a very small part of our operation,’ said Leighton coaxingly. ‘We also trade in gold, ivory, nuts, gum and feathers. Africa is dripping with riches just for the taking. You should let me show you our accounts. I promise you will be impressed.’
‘Oh, probably,’ said O’Brien, with careless indifference. ‘But we should not talk about commerce when we are supposed to be enjoying ourselves. Who would like to dance?’
Williamson and Kitty were the first couple to take the floor, encouraged by a delighted O’Brien. Chaloner felt sorry for him — a man prepared to challenge the likes of Leighton on a question of ethics deserved better. But it was getting late, and time for him to leave the merry comfort of O’Brien’s home to be about his work for the Earl.
Temperance North had once been a prim Puritan maid, but the death of her parents two years before had prompted a change in her outlook on life. She had used her inheritance to found a ‘gentleman’s club’, an establishment that catered to the needs of very wealthy clients. It earned her a fortune, and was frequented by royalty and other influential people. It was located in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a lane named for a nearby tavern, and the hours between ten and dawn tended to be its busiest time.
Because it was popular and fashionable, it had been necessary to hire a doorman to exclude undesirable elements. A nonconformist fanatic called Preacher Hill had been hired for the job, a post he loved, because it left his days free to deliver public sermons on the dangers of licentious behaviour. He did not like Chaloner, and as getting past him was invariably a trial, the spy climbed over a wall and entered the brothel via the back door. He was greeted by bedlam.
The temperamental French cook was standing in the middle of his domain, shrieking orders in an eclectic array of languages, none of which were English. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat vied with the less appealing aroma of burning, where things had not gone according to plan.
‘You used too much oil,’ translated Chaloner, as he weaved his way through the chaos.
There was a collective sigh of understanding, and the assistants hurried to rectify the matter. Chaloner walked along a hall to the club itself, where a different frenetic activity was in progress.
The club comprised an enormous parlour on the ground floor, where its patrons could enjoy fine wine, good food and popular melodies played by members of the King’s Private Musick. If a gentleman wanted a lady, he would inform one of the scantily clad girls who flounced around the place, and his request would be passed to Maude, the formidable matron who guarded the foot of the stairs. When the woman of his choice was ready, he was escorted discreetly to an upstairs chamber.
When the club’s doors first opened, the conversation was genteel and the violists played to an appreciative audience, but it was nearing midnight by the time Chaloner arrived, and any pretensions of civility had long since been abandoned. The atmosphere was debauched, and the place reeked of spilled wine and vomit. The musicians had been provided with far too much free claret, and only two of the quartet were still conscious — and it was probably fortunate that cheers and raucous laughter drowned out their efforts.
As Chaloner stepped into the parlour, he was obliged to duck smartly when a decanter sailed through the air to smash against the wall behind him. It was closely followed by a jelly, which slid gracefully down the plaster leaving a trail behind it, like a slug. He was barely upright again before coming under assault from a battery of fruit tarts, forcing him to take refuge behind a statue.
He looked for Fitzgerald, recognising as he did so several members of the Privy Council, two admirals and three prominent clerics. Then there were the Court debauchees, men who had nothing better to do than amuse themselves in increasingly wild ways.
He was astonished to see Dugdale and Edgeman there, though, given that they had so vigorously denounced such places earlier that day. The Chief Usher’s eyes were glazed, while the secretary was singing at the top of his voice. They seemed at home, suggesting they were regular visitors. Chaloner wondered where they got their money, because the club was expensive and the Earl was not exactly generous with his retainers’ salaries.
They formed a distinct party with several other men who looked prosperous and important. Chaloner surmised that they were Adventurers when he recognised one as the missing Grey — the man who had ‘disappeared’ en route to the brothel the previous night.
The group also included Swaddell the assassin, who despite the gaiety of the occasion was clad in his trademark black. His restless eyes were everywhere, and it was not long before they spotted Chaloner. He left his companions and sidled towards him.
‘I was relieved to discover Grey alive and well,’ he said in a pleasantly conversational voice that belied his true nature as a vicious, dispassionate killer. ‘People were beginning to fear that he had met an unpleasant end. Like Proby.’
‘Where has he been?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did he say?’
Swaddell smirked. ‘With a woman. Where else?’
‘It was not you who pushed Proby off the cathedral, was it?’
A pained expression crossed Swaddell’s face. ‘No, and I am getting tired of people asking me that. Just because I have dispatched one or two worthless individuals in the past does not mean I am responsible for every death in London. Proby committed suicide — he was an unhappy man.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, supposing he was telling the truth. Besides, Swaddell’s preferred method of execution was throat slitting. He recalled what had happened to Reyner and his mother.
‘Were you anywhere near Piccadilly last night?’
‘I was with Congett and Leighton from six until midnight, standing guard while they went over the Adventurer account books. Why? Did someone die there, too, and you think to blame me?’