The King’s Evil. Andrew Taylor

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      ‘It appears you were wrong,’ he said. ‘Lady Quincy believed him, and she wanted to warn you, from the goodness of her heart.’

      ‘Goodness? From my Aunt Quincy?’

      ‘You should leave Henrietta Street. At least for a time. It’s not safe.’

      She flared up: ‘Why should I run away from Edward? I’ve had enough running.’

      Marwood glanced at the nearest apprentice, who had heard this. He moved nearer to Cat, turning and shielding her. ‘For your safety.’

      ‘I’ll tell you something.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Do you know what my cousin did to me?’

      ‘Yes, of course – he helped his father cheat you of your fortune, and he attacked you and—’

      ‘He raped me.’

      ‘What?’ Marwood stared aghast at her. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘What’s there to understand? In his father’s house, he came to my bedchamber by night. He took me by force. Is that plain enough for you, sir?’ She lowered her voice. ‘That’s why I took out his eye and ran away from Barnabas Place. I thought I had killed him when I stabbed him. I wish to God I had.’

      The apprentice advanced and gave a little cough. ‘Sir – mistress – may I show you some more pieces? We have some particularly delicate work newly brought from Antwerp.’

      ‘Not now,’ Marwood said.

      ‘Sir, I can promise you—’

      ‘Leave us,’ Cat said, raising her voice. ‘Go.’

      The sounds of the shop died away. Half the customers were staring openly at them. So was the shopkeeper’s pretty wife.

      ‘Later,’ Marwood said to the apprentice.

      He took Cat’s arm and marched her out of the shop. So much for their attempts to be inconspicuous, Cat thought. She said nothing as he led her to the stairs and down to the ground floor. The movement made the curls of his periwig swing away from his face. For an instant she glimpsed what remained of his left ear.

      When they reached the street, Marwood turned abruptly towards her.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me what that damned knave did to you?’ he said.

      ‘Why should I have done? What’s it to you?’

      He tightened his lips but said nothing. The last of the sun had gone. Grey clouds blanketed the city.

      ‘One day,’ Cat went on, in a dull voice as if mentioning a future event of no importance to her, ‘one day, I shall kill my cousin.’

      ‘Don’t be foolish. What would that achieve except bring you to the gallows, which is exactly what he wants?’

      ‘You forget yourself. You have no right to tell me what I may or may not do.’

      Marwood looked away from her. ‘In any event, we must assume, for your own safety, that Alderley has found you again. That means you must leave Mr Hakesby, leave Henrietta Street. Even better, leave London for a while.’

      ‘I can’t.’

      ‘You must.’

      She shook her head. ‘There’s too much work to do. Mr Hakesby depends on me. I have a meeting with one of our clients in less than an hour. I must go. Besides—’

      ‘If it’s a question of money, I can help. I’ve brought five pounds with me.’

      That was generous, and the offer touched her.

      ‘You don’t understand, sir,’ she said, in a gentler voice. ‘If I need money, I shall ask Mr Hakesby. I’m betrothed to him. He will soon be my husband.’

      After a good week at the Drawing Office, measured by the entries that Cat made into Mr Hakesby’s accounts, they had fallen into the habit of supping together on Saturday evening. Hakesby was careful with money but not ungenerous. There was plenty of work at present, as half of London had turned into a building site after the Fire.

      Hakesby was a creature of habit, which was why he always entertained Cat and Brennan in a private room at the Lamb in Wych Street. The tavern was a shabby place, but the people of the house knew him: they valued his custom and treated his habitual ague, however bad it was, as nothing out of the way. Usually these were cheerful occasions when even Mr Hakesby allowed himself to take a glass or two of wine, though it tended to make his symptoms worse.

      A few months ago, Cat would not have believed it possible that she would spend an evening in Brennan’s company. At the start of their acquaintance, she had disliked intensely both the fact that Brennan had dared to court her affections and the manner in which he had approached this impossible task. But she had dealt with that, and so had he, and she had come to respect his skill as a draughtsman, his reliability and his kindness to Mr Hakesby.

      Brennan had come to Henrietta Street armed with a glowing letter of recommendation from Dr Wren, and time had justified the praise. Hakesby paid him a regular wage now, rather than using him as a piece worker. Someone, she suspected, was looking after him, perhaps the motherly young woman who worked in the pastry cook’s in Bedford Street.

      On this evening, they supped later than usual, at nearer nine o’clock than eight. It was not a cold evening, but Cat was chilled to the bone. It was hard to concentrate on what the men were saying. The thought of her cousin Edward kept forcing itself into her mind. She wondered if she could ever be happy again.

      At first, Hakesby and Brennan failed to notice her silence. Both of them were elated, partly from wine and partly because Hakesby had received an unexpected stage payment for the Clarendon House commission, which had allowed him to pay Brennan a bonus. Despite his political troubles, Lord Clarendon remained an influential client, the sort who led where others followed. Hakesby had been concerned about the work on the pavilion, as her ladyship, who had taken such a particular interest in it, had recently died. There was also the fact that his lordship was not only in disgrace at court but rumoured to be short of money. Nevertheless, the payment had been made. They probably had Mr Milcote to thank for that.

      As the meal went on, however, Cat noticed that Hakesby was shooting worried glances at her. He was growing more and more dependent on her, she knew, and that could only increase as his ague worsened. Their marriage was fixed for the end of October; next month, they would start to call the bans. The marriage was to be a private affair in the new-built church in Covent Garden.

      ‘The building is a pure Inigo Jones design,’ Hakesby had said with satisfaction. ‘Not one of those crumbling medieval hotchpotches the Papists built.’

      After supper, as they were going downstairs to the street, he touched Cat’s arm and said quietly, ‘Are you well? Are you sickening?’

      ‘No, sir. It is nothing, a woman’s matter.’

      Hakesby shied away from her, turning to take Brennan’s arm. In the street, he said he would not take a chair back to his lodgings; he felt perfectly capable of walking. Brennan and Cat exchanged СКАЧАТЬ