‘He is all right,’ said Chaloner, taking an instant dislike to the bulky Adonis. The physical attraction he had developed for Eaffrey during their passionate interlude in Holland had never completely left him, and he was disgusted when it occurred to him that he might be jealous. Then he recalled what Thurloe had told him – that Behn owned a sugar plantation that used slaves – and felt that alone was reason enough for the man to be the recipient of his antipathy.
She grimaced at his lack of enthusiasm, but did not press the matter. ‘Have you come to gather intelligence at the Court ball? If so, then you have badly miscalculated, because you will not be allowed in looking like that. You are far too shabby for such an august occasion.’
‘I am supposed to be Kristiaan Vanders, here to spy on Bristol.’
‘Vanders died three years ago, of syphilis.’ Chaloner started to laugh – he had not known the cause of the old man’s demise – but Eaffrey did not join in. ‘It is not funny, Tom! You do not need me to tell you that this sort of reckless prank might see you killed. And I doubt you know enough about upholstery to fool all but the totally ignorant.’
‘There is nothing I can do about it – Clarendon issued a direct order.’
She gritted her teeth, furious on his behalf. ‘That arrogant old fool! Do you need help? I can pass you a little gossip I heard today. A politician called Sir Richard Temple – not the brightest star in the sky, but someone who has declared an allegiance to Bristol – is going to give Clarendon a parrot as a peacemaking gesture. Parrots talk, and the hope is that the bird will repeat something incriminating.’
Chaloner laughed again. ‘Truly? Or are you jesting with me?’
‘I am perfectly serious: the feathered spy will be presented this afternoon. I heard Temple telling Johan all about it just a few minutes ago. Did I tell you I intend to marry Johan, by the way?’
Chaloner regarded the burly merchant doubtfully, wondering what it was about Behn that had captured her heart. ‘Are you sure about this, Eaffrey? I heard he owns a plantation that uses slaves.’
‘Yes, but he has promised to do away with it, because he knows how much I disapprove. I would like you two to be friends. Let me introduce you.’
‘Wait, I–’
But it was too late to point out that he would be wise to maintain a low profile until he was sure no one at Court had ever met Vanders, because she was already summoning the fair beau idéal with a crooked finger. ‘Johan, I would like you to meet Mr Vanders, from Holland. He is an upholsterer.’
Chaloner would have had to be blind not to notice the adoring expression on her face when she addressed the merchant, and he supposed she really was in love with the fellow.
‘Kristiaan Vanders?’ asked Behn suspiciously. ‘I thought he was dead.’
‘There was a rumour to that effect,’ replied Eaffrey smoothly. ‘But it was premature, and he recovered from his French pox, as you can see. Some men do, if they are touched by God.’
‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Behn in German, a language Chaloner understood, but spoke only poorly. He wondered if Behn knew Vanders was fluent, and was testing him. ‘Although I confess I have never been very impressed by your turkeywork sofas – too ornate by half.’
‘Each to his own,’ replied Chaloner in English. ‘We should not use German here, though – people might think we are spies.’ Behn opened his mouth to pursue the matter, so Chaloner changed the subject, saying the first thing that came into his head. ‘Have you ever had syphilis, Mr Behn?’
Eaffrey shot him an irritable look, and he supposed it was not the sort of conversation she had envisioned for his first meeting with the man of her dreams.
‘No,’ said Behn, sufficiently startled by the bald query to abandon his interrogation.
‘Good,’ said Chaloner, before he could resume. ‘It is an extremely uncomfortable condition.’
‘That was rude,’ hissed Eaffrey, when Behn’s attention was caught by a flurry of trumpets that heralded the arrival of the Duke of Buckingham. ‘Johan is important to me – and you should know how I feel, because you have been in love yourself. With Metje,’ she added, lest he needed reminding of the woman he had once intended to marry, but who was now dead.
Chaloner relented, and tried to make himself more amenable when Behn turned to face him again. ‘I hear you own a sugar plantation,’ he said, determined, however, that the conversation would not be in German or about sofas, either. ‘How interesting.’
‘There is money to be had in sugar,’ said Behn. ‘Especially if you use slaves to work your fields.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback by the blunt admission. Eaffrey seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation of fireworks, but Chaloner could not afford to draw attention to himself with a quarrel. He swallowed his growing dislike for the merchant and smiled in what he hoped was a benign manner.
‘Of course, there are those who disapprove,’ Behn went on, ‘but they usually concede my point when I challenge them to settle the matter with swords. I am no weakling, afraid to shed a bit of blood for what I believe – especially if it is someone else’s.’ He fingered the hilt of his blade meaningfully.
‘Johan is a member of the Guinea Company,’ gabbled Eaffrey, desperately scrabbling about for a non-contentious topic. ‘He expects to be elected Master soon.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped that an august body like the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa – the Guinea Company, for short – would have more decency than to vote for someone who held such reprehensible convictions. ‘They must think very highly of you,’ was all he said, although Behn seemed to sense his distaste, even so.
‘They do.’ The merchant scowled at Chaloner, who supposed the disdain he felt was being reciprocated in full. ‘However, their feasts can be dangerous. A member called Webb was stabbed on his way home from one just three weeks ago. Have you noticed how many unnatural deaths there are in London, Vanders?’ Behn drew his dagger and inspected it, testing the blade with his thumb.
Chaloner shook his head artlessly, although his thoughts were racing. Eaffrey had mentioned a merchant stabbed after a Guinea Company dinner, although he had not realised then that the victim was Webb – the man Dillon was accused of killing. Scot said he had been there, spying on the man who wanted to marry his sister, and Chaloner was suddenly hopeful that a good and reliable witness might help him unravel what had happened. Meanwhile, Behn was glowering, underlining his threat by wielding his knife in a way that was distinctly provocative.
‘I heard three felons are awaiting execution for that crime,’ said Chaloner, patting his arm paternally, just hard enough to make him fumble the blade and drop it. Eaffrey shot him an anguished look, which he felt was unjustified – after all, he was not the one brandishing weapons. ‘So, I doubt there will be any more murders of men walking home from dinner. You need not be frightened.’
Furious, Behn retrieved his dagger. ‘It is not my safety I am concerned about. I am young and fit, and know how to look after myself. It is the elderly who should be worried.’
‘Did you see Webb the night he was killed?’ asked Chaloner, treating the threats with the contempt they deserved by pretending he did not understand them. He glanced at Eaffrey and saw her regarding Behn unhappily. It occurred to him that she was seeing her lover in a new and unattractive light, and sincerely hoped she would think very carefully about a future with him.