The Piccadilly Plot (9 page)

‘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—’

‘George is not a slave, Thomas,’ interrupted Hannah sharply. ‘He is a sailor who has decided he would rather have a life ashore.’

‘And what happens when it is not “in vogue” to employ a black footman?’ Chaloner was unappeased by her reply. ‘Shall we exchange
him for one of a different colour?’

‘You know we will do nothing of the kind – I abhor the traffic in human beings as much as you do. However, George is
not
a slave.’

‘But by following this repellent fashion of hiring black retainers, we are encouraging the trade. I want no part of it, Hannah.’

Hannah was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I see your point, and you are right. But what can we do about it
now? We cannot turn him out – he needs employment.’

Chaloner could see no answer, and left the bedroom wishing Hannah had thought through the consequences of her actions before
following such an objectionable fad.

Another change that had taken place when Chaloner had been in Tangier was Hannah renting a larger house. He would have dissuaded
her had he been home, because it and the servants took too much of their income. However, by the time he returned she had
been in residence for weeks, and her move from the pretty little cottage three doors down was a fait accompli. The two maids
slept in the attic, while the kitchen and its adjoining parlour, sculleries and pantries were the domain of the formidable
Joan. That left Chaloner and Hannah with a bedchamber, a drawing room and a hall-like space for eating. All three were large,
chilly places with a marked paucity of furniture – they had not owned much when they had lived in the cottage, and there was
certainly not enough to fill the cavernous rooms of a much larger house.

Although it was early, the servants were up. Joan was
a stooped, pinched woman with a large nose and a penchant for loosely fitting black clothes. She had reminded Chaloner of
a crow when he had first met her, and her grim visage and sharp little eyes had done nothing to dispel the illusion since.

Susan was sitting in a corner, darning a stocking, while Nan was stirring something in a pot over the fire. Chaloner had trouble
telling them apart, because they were both disagreeable young women with bad complexions, whom Joan dressed in identical uniforms.
They stood as he entered, and he nodded to indicate that they should return to their duties.

‘May I help you?’ asked Joan coolly. ‘If so, perhaps you would wait in the drawing room.’

It was her way of informing him that he should confine himself to those parts of the house that she considered his. He was
tempted to retort that he would go where he pleased in his own home, but he had already learned that arguing with her was
more trouble than it was worth. He forced himself to smile as he explained.

‘Hannah asked me to speak to George.’

Nan and Susan exchanged a glance that Chaloner found difficult to interpret.

‘He is in the scullery,’ said Joan. She scowled. ‘You should have told me you wanted a footman. It was thoughtless to have
gone out and hired one yourself without consulting me or the mistress.’

So there it was, thought Chaloner. Hannah had sensed Joan’s disapproval, and rather than admit that it was her idea, she had
decided to let Joan assume it was his. He was tempted to tell her the truth, but suspected it would not be believed: Joan
was nothing if not loyal to the family she had served all her life.

‘You have created a very welcoming atmosphere here,’ he said, unable to resist toying with her. ‘I am sure he will soon feel
at home.’

‘Have I?’ asked Joan, clearly thinking something would have to be done about it. She eyed him beadily. ‘Will you be wanting
something to eat? You do not usually bother us with demands, but Nan can whisk you up a raw egg. Or there are cold kidneys
left over from last night’s dinner.’

‘It is a tempting offer,’ said Chaloner, perfectly aware that
she
would not be starting her day with raw eggs and cold kidneys. ‘But I shall speak to George instead.’

All three women watched him leave. Joan’s expression was openly hostile, while Nan and Susan exchanged a smirk. They had understood
his sarcasm, even if Joan had not.

He walked along the tiled corridor to the scullery, and pushed open the door. A man sat there, polishing boots. He stood abruptly,
making Chaloner take an involuntary step backwards. He was huge, with muscular arms and powerful legs. His face was smooth
and chestnut brown, and his hair so dark as to be almost blue. His eyes were black, and carefully devoid of expression.

Chaloner closed the door behind him, not because he planned to say anything that should not be overheard, but to deprive Joan
of a chance to eavesdrop. He heard her sigh of annoyance just before it clicked shut, which gave him no small sense of satisfaction.

‘Good morning.’ George spoke in a sour, resentful way that said servitude did not come readily to him.

Chaloner nodded acknowledgement of the greeting, for the first time wondering what Hannah expected him to say. He was not
going to give George a list of duties
for three reasons. First, because there was nothing he wanted done; second because it would imply that she had been right
to hire a footman; and third because any instructions he gave would be circumvented by Joan anyway, and then George would
be in the unenviable position of choosing which of them to obey.

‘Where were you before you came here, George?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘I spent the last ten years with Colonel Fitzgerald. At sea, mostly.’

‘Ten years is a long time. Why did you leave?’

‘Because he was obliged to reduce the size of his staff, to save money,’ replied George tightly, giving the impression that
he resented finding himself unemployed in a city so far from home. ‘My testimonials are excellent, though, if you would care
to see them.’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I do not know Colonel Fitzgerald.’

George raised his eyebrows. ‘But you have heard of him?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly, piqued by the fact that now even foreigners showed themselves to be unimpressed by his knowledge
of London and its inhabitants.

George did not seem discomfited by the curt tone. He met his new master’s gaze with a steadiness that bordered on insolence.
‘He is a pirate.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You think I will be impressed by testimonials from a pirate?’

‘Perhaps
privateer
would be a better word. He made his fortune by attacking Parliament-owned ships during the Commonwealth. I was his steward.’

‘I assume he lost this fortune, or he would not have been obliged to reduce the size of his household,’ said
Chaloner, supposing that the maids had not yet had a chance to gossip to George about their employer’s past allegiances,
or the footman would have found another way to describe how he had spent the past decade.

George nodded. ‘His biggest and best ship sank, which bankrupted him. It was fortunate that he and I were ashore at the time,
or we would have drowned.’

‘So you are actually a sailor,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not a footman.’

George shrugged. ‘A steward’s duties at sea are not so different from a footman’s on land.’

‘Where is your home?’ asked Chaloner, not sure he agreed.

The ghost of a smile crossed George’s face. ‘Somewhere you have been – Tangier. A fine place, do you not agree?’

‘It has its advantages,’ hedged Chaloner, struggling to think of one. His abiding memories of the place were of uncomfortable
heat, dust, flies and a locust jumping on his dinner plate one night.

‘Indeed it does,’ said George softly.

Chaloner’s most pressing duty that day was to begin his investigation into the Tangier massacre by questioning the three
scouts. He did not know where they lived, but the Crown in Piccadilly was as good a place as any to start making enquiries,
given that he had seen them leaving it the previous morning. But the tavern was closed, and rather than waste time waiting
for it to open, he decided to visit Clarendon House first, to see whether any more bricks had been stolen.

He approached with his usual stealth, and was unimpressed when Sergeant Wright and his White Hall soldiers did not notice
him until he was standing next to them. Several were rubbing sleep from their eyes, while others reeked of ale. He doubted
they had done much in the way of surveillance, and the best the Earl could hope was that their presence had been a deterrent
to thieves.

Wright was regaling them with a story of his courage during the civil wars, when he had single-handedly defeated an entire
regiment of Parliamentarians and had come close to dispatching Cromwell in the process. They looked bored and disbelieving
in equal measure as
they huddled around a brazier, waiting for a pot of ale to warm through.

‘Did anything happen last night?’ asked Chaloner, cutting into the tale. He was normally tolerant of men who embellished the
truth about what they had done during those uncertain times, when both sides had had their flaws and no one wanted to admit
to backing the loser. But there was a difference between exaggeration and brazen lies.

The dough-faced sergeant regarded him frostily, disliking the interruption. ‘No.’

‘You saw and heard nothing?’

‘I said no,’ snapped Wright. ‘Obviously, the villains knew we were here and dared not strike.
We
are not foppish Roundheads, who would not know what to do if a robber came up and bit him.’

His men sniggered obligingly, and Wright preened, revelling in the role of wit.

‘So the Earl’s supplies are all present and correct?’ pressed Chaloner, rather flattered to hear himself described as foppish.
He would have to tell Hannah.

‘Of course,’ replied Wright, with calculated insolence. ‘Where else would they be?’

Chaloner grabbed his arm in a grip that was not only painful, but was difficult to break, and marched him to where the materials
were piled. The soldiers watched uneasily, but made no effort to intervene.

‘Count the bricks,’ Chaloner ordered, releasing Wright so abruptly that he stumbled.

Wright’s small eyes took on a vicious cant, and he reached for his knife. Chaloner smiled lazily as he did likewise, and Wright
promptly turned to do as he was told, unnerved by the spy’s calm confidence. He was soldier enough to know who would win that
confrontation.

The sergeant finished his inventory with some consternation, then started reckoning again. Chaloner waited patiently for
him to finish.
He
had not needed to count to know the pile was lopsided in a way that it had not been the previous day.

‘Some are gone,’ Wright breathed, appalled. Then his expression hardened. ‘
You
took them when we were in the tav— when we were patrolling the back of the house. To get us into trouble!’

‘I assure you, I have better things to do.’

‘We could not be everywhere,’ another man bleated. ‘It is a huge site, with gardens as well as a massive house. That makes
it easy for thieves. It is not our fault!’

‘How long were you here before you went to the Crown?’ asked Chaloner, not bothering to point out that he had done it for
a week on his own.

‘Of course we visited the Crown!’ snarled Wright. ‘That is where Mr Pratt the architect lodges, and we are hired to protect
him. We did both duties.’

Chaloner tried another tack. ‘Then how many men guarded Pratt, and how many stayed here?’

‘It varied,’ replied Wright tightly, leaving Chaloner to suspect that most if not all had elected to sit in the tavern. No
one was wet and cold, as he had been the previous morning, indicating none had been outdoors for very long.