‘Whoever you pay the most, I imagine.’
Turner gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Pay? I have never paid for a woman in my life.’
‘Perhaps so, but this is a brothel. These women are not here for their health.’
Turner waved a dismissive hand. ‘You underestimate my charms. Oh, I shall hand a few coins to that fierce matron in the hall, but the ladies I choose to accompany me upstairs will give me keepsakes that will be worth ten times that amount. Did you notice that locket around Belle’s throat? Ten shillings says that will be mine tomorrow.’
‘How will I know you have not stolen it?’
Turner was shocked. ‘I am no thief! Besides, you will be able to ask her whether she parted with it willingly. Well, what do you say? Will you accept my wager?’
Chaloner nodded. He had known Belle for some time, and she was not the kind of woman to hand hard-earned wealth to a customer, no matter how pretty he thought himself. Turner, he thought, was not a good judge of character.
Temperance was still engrossed in her game of cards, and the stakes were now more than Chaloner earned in a year. He was staggered by the amount of silver and jewellery that was being tossed on the table as bets were made, and was reminded that she now inhabited a very different world from his own. Eventually, she stood, offering her seat to Chiffinch. Brodrick objected to losing her company, but she ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on the top of his head to appease him.
‘Chaloner!’ he shouted, as she went to join the spy. ‘Have you come to play the viol? I wish you would. Greeting is drunk and keeps bowing sharp. It hurts the ears, and you have such a lovely touch.’
‘I have heard the same,’ drawled Chiffinch. ‘My wife says he has exquisite fingerwork.’
There was a gust of manly laugher, accompanied by nudges and winks, so those of slower wits would appreciate that a lewd joke had been made.
‘She would say no such thing,’ said Chaloner coolly, disliking the notion that Barbara should be the subject of conversation among such depraved company. ‘She has too much decency.’
Chiffinch’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair. ‘You accuse me of being indecent? I should call you out, and teach you a lesson with my sword.’
Chaloner wished he would, so he might rid Barbara of the man who had brought her nothing but trouble and unhappiness for the last forty years, but Temperance stepped in before he could reply.
‘You are very indecent, Mr Chiffinch,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Which is just how we like you.’
There was another manly cheer, and Chaloner allowed her to bundle him out of the room while the laughter lasted. She ushered him down the corridor and into the kitchen. This had always been a warm, quiet place, but since his last visit it had become the domain of a shrieking Frenchman, who screamed orders at his bewildered assistants in an anarchic mixture of Latin and Spanish. There was a lot of confusion, and Chaloner was not surprised his soufflés had collapsed.
‘He is telling you to use butter,’ he said to the cooks as he passed. ‘You used lard, apparently. He wants you to start again.’
There was an immediate sigh of understanding and work resumed, although the Frenchman’s squawks remained just as frenzied. Temperance led Chaloner to the little office where she and Maude counted their nightly takings. As usual, there was coffee simmering in a pan over the hearth, while a pair of cushion-loaded chairs provided somewhere the two ladies could rest, should the carousing in the parlour become too much for them. The room stank of pipe smoke and expensive perfume.
‘You once said you would teach me French,’ said Temperance, flopping into one of the seats and indicating he was to perch opposite. ‘The language of love.’
‘There is not much love in what your cook is screeching.’
Temperance smiled dreamily. ‘I was not thinking of using it on him.’
As Temperance rarely went out, Chaloner could only assume she had fallen for one of her patrons. ‘You have a …’ He was not quite sure how to phrase the question, given that ‘liking for a client’ was unlikely to be very well received. ‘… a friend?’ he finished lamely.
‘A certain person has become rather special during the last few weeks. I did not think I would ever be smitten by a man, but this one is different — worthy of my affection. I think I shall marry him.’
‘Really?’ Chaloner was amazed: Temperance had always been of the firm opinion that matrimony was a condition to be avoided at all costs. ‘Who is he?’
‘Someone you will like. He is not here tonight, though, or I would introduce you. But you should meet him. Come to dine with us on Twelfth Night, although you must promise to behave — no turning taciturn if he asks you questions, and no caustic remarks about the morality of the Court, either. He is a gay sort, and will think you a prude.’
‘I cannot,’ replied Chaloner, a little dismayed that she did not trust him to be amiable. ‘Bulteel has asked me to go to his house on Twelfth Night — he wants me to be godfather to his son.’
‘Bulteel? Ugh! It will be like dining with a Puritan, and you are sure to come away hungry. And you should not agree to be the godfather, either. The poor brat deserves better.’
‘You think I am not good enough?’ It was one thing to believe himself unequal to the task, but quite another to hear it so baldly stated from someone who was supposed to be his friend.
‘I mean better in terms of fun,’ elaborated Temperance. ‘You seldom have any, and he will need someone to show him the ways of the world. And I do not mean how to kill people in dark alleys, speak peculiar languages, or pick locks, either. I refer to dancing and cards.’
‘The important things in life.’
Temperance shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘Quite. However, these two invitations will not conflict — Bulteel’s soirée will be during the day, while mine will be the night before — so you can attend both. Come at midnight. I will make sure you are with your dull little colleague by the following noon.’
Chaloner should have known she was unlikely to do anything in daylight. She was seldom up before three, by which time the winter sun was already setting. ‘That is a singular time for dinner.’
She shrugged. ‘You let yourself be too constrained by tradition, Tom, and it is turning you into a bore. You should adopt my motto: carpe notarium.’
‘Seize the secretary?’ translated Chaloner, bemused.
‘Seize the night. I thought you knew Latin. Brodrick taught me that phrase, and I rather like it.’
Chaloner found he did not want to join her tradition-flaunting party, and tried to think of an excuse that would allow him to miss it. ‘Actually, I have also been asked to Sir Nicholas Gold’s-’
Temperance arched her eyebrows. ‘You are a social creature these days! But Gold’s invitation will not clash with mine, either. His soirée will start at dusk and be over by ten, when he will retire to bed with a cup of warm milk. Do not look so dubious — you will enjoy being with me and James. We shall dine on mince-pies, venison sausages and a Double Codlin Tart. And I have ordered a pelican.’
Chaloner blinked. ‘Have you? Whatever for?’
Temperance’s expression was defiant, which told him she had probably never seen one. ‘Brodrick said it is what the King is having, so I told my butcher to get us one, too. What is good enough for His Majesty is good enough for me, and I am not having another turkey. Did you know the beast we were going to eat last year has taken up residence on Hampstead Heath, and no one dares go near it?’
Chaloner was pleased. He liked birds, and had not relished the notion of such a fine specimen having its neck wrung. ‘What is your friend’s name?’ he asked, suspecting she would not feel the same way, so changing the subject before they could argue about it.