The King’s Evil. Andrew Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 glances, silently accepting the necessity of accompanying him. The three of them walked slowly towards Three Cocks Yard off the Strand, where Hakesby lodged on the first floor of one of the new houses. Brennan took him into the yard and up to the house, while Cat herself lingered in the Strand.

      Brennan was only gone for a moment or two. When he returned they walked back the way they had come. She would have been content to go by herself – in the past year, she had learned to cope with the streets. She always carried a knife, and was not afraid to show it. But it would make Hakesby unhappy if she walked alone after dark, so she accepted Brennan’s company. Walking back with her to Henrietta Street did not take him far out of his way.

      ‘What’s amiss?’ he said as they passed St Clement Danes. ‘You hardly said a word during supper.’

      ‘Nothing,’ she said automatically. Then she came to a sudden decision and changed her mind. ‘No. That’s not true. I – I have a difficulty. I need to go away for a while. And no one must know where I am. Even Mr Hakesby.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I can’t tell you.’

      ‘Where will you go?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘You can’t be so foolish,’ he said. ‘Is it something to do with that letter you had?’

      She nodded. ‘It’s urgent. I must go, and the sooner the better.’

      They walked past Somerset House. The Savoy, where Marwood lived, was not far away to the west and she pulled up her cloak to shield her face.

      Brennan misinterpreted the action. ‘Do you think someone might be following you?’

      ‘Perhaps.’

      A solitary woman always attracted attention, she thought, usually the wrong kind.

      ‘Would you – would you need comfort?’ Brennan said.

      She stared at him, her anger flaring up. ‘What?’

      ‘If there were somewhere you could hide, I mean,’ he said hastily. ‘But somewhere the conditions were mean and poor, where they weren’t suitable for … you.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I know somewhere you could go for a week or two, longer maybe. It wouldn’t cost much.’

      ‘As long as I was safe, I wouldn’t need a featherbed. Or a maid to wait on me. If that’s what you mean.’

      ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I have a notion that might help.’ He hesitated. ‘Though what I have in mind would hardly be fitting for one such as you. But no one would find you there. No one would even think to look there.’

      ‘Where is this?’

      ‘A few miles outside London. It’s a refugee camp, and it’s on my uncle’s land. He used to farm it, but everything’s gone to wrack and ruin since his son died.’

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