The Piccadilly Plot (18 page)

Short of an outright refusal, Chaloner had no choice. He nodded reluctantly.

Recalling that Mrs Reyner had mentioned Fitzgerald’s liking for the brothel on Hercules’ Pillars Alley, Chaloner decided
to visit it that evening. Unfortunately, it was still too early, so he started to walk towards Tothill Street, thinking it
was a good opportunity to spend an hour or two working on the cipher. He was just passing the Westminster Gatehouse when he
saw Lester.

Chaloner had not paid him much attention during the spat between Cave and Elliot, but he studied him now as their paths converged.
Lester was a burly fellow, with a ruddy face and the slightly rolling gait of a sailor. His clothes were fine but practical,
with enough lace to say he was a gentleman, but not enough to interfere with his comfort or movement.

‘Elliot died,’ Lester stated bluntly. ‘I took him to a surgeon, but the wound was too severe.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner. ‘You were friends?’

Lester’s face clouded. ‘We served on several ships together, when I was master and he was my first officer. He had his faults,
but there was no better man in a battle.’

‘Do you know what started the argument between
him and Cave?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he may as well begin Lady Clarendon’s investigation, given that a witness was before
him.

‘Brilliana Stanley,’ replied Lester bitterly. ‘She was Cave’s mistress before he went to Tangier, and Elliot took her on while
Cave was away. I told Elliot no good would come of such a dalliance, but he would not listen. And then Cave returned …’

Chaloner supposed that jealousy might have led to a quarrel. He frowned as he recalled where he had heard the unusual name
before. ‘Colonel Harley has a sister called Brilliana.’

Lester nodded. ‘Harley is a malevolent brute, and it would not surprise me to learn that
he
told Cave his sister’s affections had gone to another man.’

‘I had better visit her,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than Lester.

Lester raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Are you thinking of taking up where Elliot and Cave left off? I would not recommend it.
She might be pretty, but she is as unsavoury as her brother.’

‘I am married,’ said Chaloner shortly.

‘So was Elliot,’ Lester shot back.

Chaloner did not say that he knew this already, although it occurred to him that Elliot might have dallied with Brilliana
because Ruth was feeble-minded.

‘Brilliana lives near the Feathers tavern in Piccadilly,’ Lester went on. ‘And it is rumoured that she engages in some very
dubious business.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Elliot was one of Williamson’s spies. I do not suppose he was ordered to inveigle himself into Brilliana’s
affections in order to monitor this “dubious business”, was he?’

Lester gaped at him. ‘How in God’s name did you know that?
I
had no idea what Elliot did in his spare time until he confided it to me on his deathbed.’

‘Why did he agree to work for a man like Williamson?’

Lester looked pained. ‘I invested the money we made from capturing Dutch prizes at sea, but his went to the gaming tables.
He needed a way to pay his debts.’

‘Did Williamson recruit you, too?’

Lester was affronted. ‘No, he did not! I have no desire to meddle in the affairs of landsmen – they are always complex and
sordid. Nothing like being on a ship.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘I have spent time at sea myself, and people are people whether they are afloat or on solid ground.’

‘Which vessels?’ asked Lester keenly. ‘Navy or merchantmen?’

Chaloner waved the question away. Instinctively, he liked Lester, but he was not in the habit of divulging his past to men
he barely knew. ‘There was something odd about the fight between Cave and Elliot. Cave was not a man to challenge battle-hardened
mariners to swordfights.’

Lester nodded. ‘Others have told me the same. Of course, Cave was in love with Brilliana, and men act oddly when in Cupid’s
grip. But I must go. There is a meeting of sea-officers who object to transporting slaves today. Someone must make a stand
against that foul business, and we hope that the trade will founder if we refuse to accept human cargo.’

Chaloner was heartened. ‘How many of you are there?’

‘Four. But we aim to recruit more. I was on
Henrietta Maria
’s maiden voyage, and it was … Suffice to say that
I believe God sank her because He was appalled by the venture.’

‘For every one of your four officers, there will be ten willing to take such commissions.’

‘More like a hundred,’ said Lester gloomily. ‘But it is a start, and I cannot stand by and do nothing while greedy villains
profit from the misery of others. Call me naive if you will, but it is a matter of conscience.’

‘Then go,’ said Chaloner. ‘You should not be late.’

Chaloner was tired when he reached Tothill Street, and half hoped Hannah would be out. But as soon as he opened the door,
he could tell by the acrid stench of burning that not only was she home, but that she was baking. He coughed as smoke seared
the back of his throat, and approached the kitchen with caution, knowing that to do otherwise might result in bodily harm
– she was not averse to hurling her creations across the room if they did not turn out as she expected. And as her loaves
had the shape and consistency of cannonballs, being hit by one was no laughing matter.

She was at the table, peering at a smouldering tray. Joan was next to her, a bucket of water at the ready, while Nan and Susan
were scrubbing a wall that looked as though something had exploded up it. All were uncharacteristically subdued. George, resplendent
in new clothes of which any courtier would be envious, lounged by the fire, peeling an apple. He glanced up when Chaloner
entered, but made no move to stand. Hands on hips, Hannah glared at her husband.

‘I hope you did not go to White Hall dressed like that, Thomas.’

Chaloner looked down at himself. He was perfectly respectable. ‘Why?’

‘Because no one is wearing green this year. And you should have donned a wig. We have been through this before. Dress is a
gesture of class consciousness, and an inability to conform means either a slovenly display of bad taste, or a provocative
demonstration of nonconformity.’

‘I am not a nonconformist,’ said Chaloner, obliquely referring to the fact that she, as a Catholic, was far more of one than
he would ever be.

Hannah’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not take that tone with me. I have had a terrible day.’

‘Have you?’ Chaloner tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Then tell me about it.’

‘Just as long as you promise not to fall asleep, like you did last time. God only knows how long I was talking to myself.’
Finally, it dawned on Hannah that railing at him in front of the servants was unedifying. She grabbed his hand and hauled
him towards the door. ‘Put my cakes on a plate, Joan,’ she ordered crisply. ‘And bring them to the drawing room. Tom would
like one.’

Normally, Joan, Nan and Susan would have smirked at this notion, and Chaloner was surprised when there was no reaction. He
was also aware of George settling himself more comfortably in his chair, at the same time tossing the apple core on to the
floor. Nan swooped forward to pick it up.

‘He seems to have settled in,’ Chaloner observed, as he was bundled along the corridor.

When they reached the drawing room, Hannah closed the door and lowered her voice. ‘You made a mistake when you hired him.
He is a bully, and our women are terrified of him.’

‘Perhaps they will resign, then,’ said Chaloner hopefully. ‘And I did
not
hire him, Hannah. You did, no matter what you have led Joan to believe.’

Hannah had the grace to look sheepish, but declined to apologise. ‘You must dismiss him. He will find another post if we give
him decent testimonials. He is big, strong and intelligent. Rather alarmingly so.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I caught him reading some of our papers today. They were only deeds about the lease of the house, but it made me uncomfortable
even so. He was
spying
, Tom.’

‘So do Joan, Nan and Susan,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘All the time.’

‘Yes, but they have never worked for Fitzgerald the pirate, have they.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘You think Fitzgerald ordered him to watch us?’

‘Yes – because I work for the Queen and have influential friends, while you are embroiled in God knows what unsavoury business
for your horrible Earl. It is common knowledge that Fitzgerald is short of money, so he probably intends to blackmail us.’

‘Then he will be disappointed, because there is nothing to blackmail us about.’ Chaloner shot her an uneasy glance. ‘Is there?’

‘Not on my account. But even if George is not under Fitzgerald’s orders, I do not want him in my house. You must get rid of
him.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘I am sorry, but he is not like the other servants. He is a stranger in our country, and it would
not be right to turn him out. You wanted a fashionable household, so you must live with the consequences.’

He expected her to argue, but she only sighed, reminding him that under her sour temper was a decent woman. ‘Then the only
way to be free of him is to find him another post. I will start making enquiries tomorrow. Perhaps the Duke will take him.’

She referred to Buckingham, with whom she had developed a rather unfathomable friendship. Chaloner failed to understand what
she saw in the man, but she was fond of him and the affection was fully reciprocated. She knew Chaloner disapproved, but maintained
that her acquaintances were her own affair, and not to be dictated by a mere husband.

‘Is George the only reason you have had a terrible day?’ he asked with polite concern.

‘No. We had hopes that the Queen might be with child, but it was another false alarm. She was bitterly disappointed, and cried
all afternoon. Ah! Here is Joan with your cakes.’

‘They are sure to be delicious,’ said Joan, placing the platter of singed offerings on the table. She smiled maliciously.
‘You will certainly want several.’

As she knew he would not, Chaloner could only suppose it was yet another attempt to create friction between him and his wife.
When he hesitated, Hannah slapped one in his hand. It was still hot, obliging him to juggle it, and a tentative gnaw made
him wonder whether she wanted him toothless. He tried again, while she waited for a compliment.

‘Very nice,’ he lied, when he had eventually managed to bite a piece off. In truth, it tasted like all her efforts in the
kitchen – of charcoal. Disappointed, Joan left, slamming the door behind her.

‘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?’