He was somewhat disconcerted when she waved back, and a beaming smile transformed her into something quite lovely — he had expected her to duck away in alarm. Bemused, he went on his way.
He was almost at Charing Cross when he heard someone calling his name. The Earl’s Chief Usher was hurrying towards him, waving frantically. Chaloner struggled to keep a straight face. John Dugdale was not built for moving at speed: his arms flapped as though he were trying to fly, and his long legs flailed comically. He was not an attractive specimen, despite the care he took with his appearance. His skeletal frame and round shoulders made even the finest clothes hang badly, and his beautiful full-cut breeches only accentuated the ridiculous skinniness of his calves.
‘You heard me shouting,’ he gasped accusingly when he caught up. ‘But you ignored me so I would have farther to run.’
Chaloner had done nothing of the kind, but there was no point in saying so. Dugdale disliked him for a variety of reasons, the two most important being that he did not consider it right for ex-Parliamentarians to be made ushers, no matter how high the Earl’s regard for their wives; and that Chaloner’s clandestine activities on the Earl’s behalf meant that Dugdale could not control him as he did the other gentlemen under his command.
‘Nothing was stolen last night,’ said Chaloner, supposing Dugdale had come for a report on their employer’s bricks. ‘I am not sure Pratt is right to claim they go missing at-’
‘I do not want to know,’ snapped Dugdale. ‘Lying in wait for thieves is hardly a suitable pastime for a courtier, and I condemn it most soundly.’
‘Shall I tell the Earl that I cannot oblige him tonight because you disapprove, then?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting that if he did, the resulting fireworks would be apocalyptic.
Dugdale did not deign to acknowledge the remark. Instead, he looked Chaloner up and down with open disdain. ‘Decency dictates that you should change before setting foot in his presence, but he says he needs you urgently, so there is no time. He will have to endure you as you are. Just make sure you do not put your filthy feet on his new Turkey carpets.’
The church bells were chiming eight o’clock as Chaloner and Dugdale reached Charing Cross. The square was a chaos of carts and carriages, most containing goods that were to be sold in the city’s markets or ferrying merchants to their places of business, but others held bleary-eyed revellers, making their way home after a riotous night out.
The noise was deafening, with iron-clad cartwheels rattling across cobblestones, animals lowing, bleating and honking as they were driven to the slaughterhouses, and street vendors advertising wares at the tops of their voices. The smell was breathtaking, too, a nose-searing combination of sewage, fish and unwashed bodies, all overlain with the acrid stench of coal fires. Chaloner coughed. He rarely noticed London’s noxious atmosphere when he was in it, but a spell in the cleaner air around Piccadilly always reminded him that his country’s capital was a foul place to be.
He started to turn towards White Hall, where the Earl had been provided with a suite of offices overlooking the Privy Gardens — Clarendon worked hard, and was at his desk hours before most other courtiers were astir — but Dugdale steered him towards The Strand instead.
‘He is at home today,’ he explained shortly. ‘Gout.’
Chaloner groaned. The Earl was not pleasant when he was well, but when he was ill he became an implacable tyrant, and the fact that Chaloner had been summoned to his presence did not augur well. He racked his brains for something he had done wrong, but nothing came to mind — he had spent the past week investigating the stolen bricks, so had had scant opportunity to err. Unfortunately, the Earl was easily annoyed, so any small thing might have upset him.
‘I imagine he wants you to tell him about Tangier,’ predicted Dugdale. ‘You have barely spoken to him since you returned, so you cannot blame him for becoming impatient.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. He had written a lengthy report about his findings, and had offered a verbal account on several occasions, but had been given short shrift each time, leading him to assume that the Earl was no longer interested in knowing why Tangier was costing the government so much money. It would not be prudent to say so to Dugdale, though, who would almost certainly repeat it out of context, so he held his tongue.
‘You have not told me, either,’ said Dugdale coldly. ‘And I am your superior.’
Manfully, Chaloner suppressed the urge to argue, heartily wishing that Dugdale’s kindly, genial predecessor had not retired. It had been a shock to find a new chief usher in place on his return, especially one who was determined to subdue the people under his command by bullying. Dugdale sensed his resentment, and his expression hardened.
‘It is my duty to keep our master’s household respectable, so there will be no more of this running about on your own. You will keep me appraised of your every move.’
‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, with no intention of complying. He had worked alone for years, confiding in no one, and was not about to change the habits that had kept him alive for so long.
‘Then tell me about Tangier,’ instructed Dugdale. ‘Why is it costing us so much in taxes?’
Chaloner might have replied that he had never seen a place so steeped in corruption, and that for every penny spent on the new defences, another ten were siphoned off by dishonest officials — from the governor down to the lowliest clerk. But Dugdale gossiped, and Chaloner did not want to be responsible for a rumour that said the King made mistakes in his choice of bureaucrats.
‘It is under constant attack from Barbary pirates,’ he said instead. ‘In order to repel them, the settlement needs a sea wall and a fortress. Naturally, these are expensive to build.’
Dugdale narrowed his eyes. ‘The Earl said you were involved in several skirmishes there. Such activities are beneath a gentleman usher, and I forbid you to engage in them again.’
‘There is nothing I would like more,’ said Chaloner fervently. The civil wars that had erupted when he was a child, followed by twelve years in espionage when they were over, made him feel as though he had been fighting all his life, and he was tired of it. ‘However, it is not always practical to-’
‘Then make it practical. You are said to be blessed with sharp wits, so use them instead of a sword. But tell me more about Tangier. Who is to blame for these escalating costs? The new governor, Sir Tobias Bridge? His was not a sensible appointment.’
Bridge had taken over the running of the desolate little outpost after Lord Teviot’s brutal death.
‘No?’ Chaloner seized the opportunity to sidetrack the discussion. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he fought for Parliament during the wars, so he is by definition devious and wicked. No one who supported Cromwell can be considered as anything else.’
It was Dugdale’s way of telling Chaloner — yet again — what he thought of his former allegiances. Fortunately, there was a flurry of excited yells from the opposite side of the street at that moment, and Chaloner’s dubious history was promptly forgotten.
‘A swordfight,’ said Dugdale, with rank disapproval. ‘I see one of the combatants is James Elliot. He works for Spymaster Williamson.’
Williamson ran the country’s intelligence network, and Chaloner had expected to continue serving overseas under him when the Royalists had been returned to power — the King needed information on foreign enemies just as much as Cromwell had. But all the old spies had been dismissed, and long-term Royalists appointed in their place. Even so, Chaloner harboured a faint hope that Williamson would see sense one day, and send him to Holland, France or Spain.