She continued to stare. ‘Is it dangerous?’
He shrugged, then nodded. ‘My family sided with Cromwell during the wars, and my regicide uncle was passionate about the cause, so most Royalists would be extremely suspicious of a Chaloner once employed by Thurloe. One day, there will have been enough bloodletting, but now there are still too many people who would like to punish me for what my uncle did.’
She sighed. ‘Is that all? I thought it was something terrible – you had another wife or were an escaped felon. But you are just a spy and the nephew of a king-killer?’
He wondered whether she was being facetious. ‘You do not mind?’
‘I mind you not trusting me sooner. But I must go, and we shall talk about this later. Kiss me, then go to see Dalton – or demand more work from Thurloe.’
‘I cannot work for Thurloe. It is unreasonable for him to assign me an investigation and then only give me half the facts. It might see me killed, and I want to see Meg born.’
She regarded him soberly. ‘If Thurloe offers you the best opportunity, you should take it. If it proves to be risky, then you will just have to be careful.’
He was startled. ‘That is rather callous advice.’
‘I shall be making sacrifices, too – such as giving up a life I love. Faith believes a wife’s place is in her own home, and will never condone me leaving mine to sit with Temperance.’
To Chaloner, such considerations paled into insignificance when he considered what they would gain. He kissed her with a wild, happy passion that left her breathless, then laughed as he released her, grateful to have shed his burden at last and pleasantly surprised she was not angry about it. He would not have been so sanguine, had she announced that she had been spying on his country.
The door clanked, and Metje flew away from him. North stood there, Faith and Temperance behind him. Temperance beamed at Chaloner, and did not seem to think there was anything odd in him being in a dark porch at such an hour. Faith did, though, and Chaloner watched her face crease with concern when it occurred to her that he might have been lying in wait for her daughter.
‘God’s blessings, Thomas,’ she said in a voice that was far from benedictory. ‘You are up early.’
Chaloner was tempted to announce that he was on his way to fight a duel in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and that, assuming he survived, he and Metje would marry. He also experienced a strong desire to describe how he intended to tell Thurloe to find another fool to investigate Clarke’s death, but that he still planned to locate some treasure for the Lord Chancellor, in the hope that it would eventually see him sent to The Hague. Holland would be a safer place for his new family, and Metje would not spend her life in fear of an attack by people who detested Dutch Puritans. But he was not in the habit of acting on reckless whims, and settled for nodding agreement.
‘Why are you here?’ demanded Faith suspiciously. ‘To see Temperance?’
‘Are you?’ asked Temperance, eyes shining with pleasure.
Before he could think of a reply that would mollify one and not hurt the other, the door clanked a second time, and Preacher Hill entered, resplendent in a large white collar and a new hat.
‘God’s greetings,’ he boomed. ‘Killed the turkey yet? They need a lot of roasting, so if you plan to eat it today, it should be in the oven already. I am something of an expert on turkey meat, and–’
‘Well?’ demanded Faith, cutting across him and glaring at Chaloner.
‘Mr Heyden has been very kind,’ said Metje, stepping forward to smile at Faith. ‘He was worried about me walking from Mrs Partridge’s house in the dark this morning, and came to accompany me. Then he refused to leave until you arrived, and he knew I was safe from bomb-throwers and window-breakers.’
North nodded his thanks, then pointed upwards. ‘Another pane was smashed last night, and it is only a matter of time before a person is hurt. It is good of you to be solicitous, Heyden.’
‘It is a pity you were not as determined with that burglar,’ remarked Faith unpleasantly. ‘You should have dragged him back to face the justice of my gun.’
‘He is so brave with the ladies, but a rank coward with felons,’ sneered Hill. ‘He has designs on their virtue, no doubt. Gentle Puritan women are considered fair game these days, among his kind.’
‘His kind?’ asked Faith in alarm. She clenched her fists, and Chaloner took a step away from her.
‘Catholics,’ said Hill in a low, vicious whisper that hissed around the chapel.
‘I thought you were Anglican,’ said North, regarding Chaloner uneasily. ‘Perhaps you should join us for our morning service, and we shall pray for your release from the tyranny of Rome.’
‘He has an appointment with his Anglican priest,’ said Metje. ‘He is going to ring the bells.’
North wrung his hands unhappily. ‘Bells are Roman fripperies. But we must be about our business, or the congregation will arrive and we shall be all confusion. Good day, Heyden.’
Chaloner left, disconcerted by Faith’s simmering hostility, and took a series of shortcuts to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Despite the fact that he was slowly losing the favour of the family that paid him a regular income, there was a spring in his step and he sang to himself. His daughter would be born in the summer, when the sun shone and the days were hot and sultry, and each year they would celebrate her birth with a feast under a shady tree.
Lincoln’s Inn Fields comprised a substantial expanse of land, some laid down to agriculture, but most left wild or as grazing for cattle. It was the haunt of robbers during the hours of darkness, and was used by turbulent men to gain satisfaction at daybreak. Thurloe once wrote in a letter to Chaloner that he often heard firearms discharged or the clang of steel as the first tendrils of dawn appeared.
Chaloner reached the place where Robert Leybourn had suggested they meet, and set himself to wait – dawn was still some way off. The trees were winter-bare and dusted with frost, and although the snow had not settled on the streets, it had done better on the grass, and lay in gauzy sheets. It made the ground slippery, and Chaloner knew he would have to watch his footing when he fought. Eventually, he saw a shadow moving towards him, so he stepped into deeper shadows. It was William Leybourn, looking terrified. When Chaloner emerged from his hiding place, the bookseller jumped in alarm.
‘Where is your brother?’ asked Chaloner, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, and ready to react immediately if Leybourn informed him he was taking his sibling’s place.
Leybourn gave a sheepish grin. ‘I slipped a dose of something in his wine last night, and he is now sleeping so soundly that his wife is alarmed. But better the sleep of Lethe than the sleep of death, which is what he would be doing if he crossed blades with you.’
‘You said he was a good swordsman. He may have won.’
‘He would not, and you know it. He has a hot temper and regrets challenging you, but he is not a coward. He was determined to see the matter through. But his boy is not yet a year old, and I refuse to see him grow up without a father, not over such a petty quarrel.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, thinking of his own circumstances. ‘That would be a pity.’
Leybourn swallowed uneasily, and took a deep breath. ‘Are you going to insist honour is satisfied with me, or can we agree to forget the matter like civilised men?’
‘That depends. Will you answer some questions?’