Fallen Angels. Bernard Cornwell
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her, laughing loudly as she tried to drag herself out of the way.
Valentine Larke moved silently behind them and climbed the steps into the house. The young lordlings were at play and that was never a good time to disturb them. There were few things in life more dangerous than the idle, bored young men of London society.
Larke went into the house, through an antechamber, and then into the great, well-lit hallway into which the front-door of the house opened. A footman, hugely muscled beneath his elaborate uniform, started as Larke silently appeared from the back of the house, but then recognized him and relaxed. ‘Mr Larke, sir.’
While Larke was giving the man his cloak, hat and cane, a door to the left of the hall opened and a huge woman, middle aged and grotesque, came into sight.
She was dressed in lurid purple silk, her piled hair surmounted by a feather dyed the same colour. At her huge breasts hung a pendant of gold. She stopped when she saw Larke, sniffed, then nodded coldly. The feather quivered above her head. ‘Mr Larke, I see.’
He bowed to her. ‘Your servant, Ma’am.’
‘You’ll want food, I suppose,’ she said ungraciously.
‘Indeed, Ma’am.’
‘And no doubt you’ll settle the bill, Mr Larke?’ Her small eyes glared at him from the shapeless, pudgy face that seemed like a lump of dough piled haphazardly at the top of her massive cleavage. She seemed to have no neck at all. She jerked her monstrous head, making the pearls shake where they hung in her piled hair. ‘I am not a charity, Mr Larke.’
He smiled. ‘Indeed you are not, Mrs Pail.’
She sniffed and swept on, attended by two small footmen who fussed behind her like pageboys.
Her name was Abigail Pail, and these were her Rooms. Mrs Pail’s Rooms were famous in London, not just for the food, which was superb, or for the gaming, which was fast, but most of all for the girls, who were superb and fast. The ugliest woman in London ran the best whorehouse. It was here that the rich and the titled came to play, where their fortunes were lost, where their every need was attended to at a price that was extortionate.
The three men who had relieved themselves in the kitchen yard came noisily back into the hall. The pugnacious one, whose wigless black hair was cut short as a curry-brush, had vomit stains on his red silk coat. He saw Valentine Larke and laughed. ‘Christ! They let you come here?’
Larke smiled and bowed. Sir Julius Lazender, he thought, had one merit; consistency. He was offensive all of the time.
Sir Julius brushed rain off his coat. ‘Abigail lets you paw her girls, Larke?’
The Honourable Robin Ickfield snickered in a high voice. ‘I thought politicians preferred boys.’
‘You should bloody know, Robin,’ Sir Julius laughed. He belched drunkenly. ‘Christ! I could tup a bloody horse tonight.’ He pulled himself up the stairway, then turned with a malicious grin on his face. ‘You’ve come for the Countess, Larke?’ He said it accusingly.
‘The Countess, Sir Julius?’ Larke’s voice was unctuous.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know!’ Sir Julius’s breeches flap was only half buttoned. ‘The old faggot’s got a French Countess here, Larke, but then I don’t suppose you can afford her, eh?’
‘She’s expensive, Sir Julius?’
Sir Julius laughed. ‘Five years ago the sniffy bitch wouldn’t look at you! Now her Ladyship will rub her tits on your arse for a shilling.’ He leered at Larke. ‘But only if you’re a gentleman.’ He turned away, pleased with his insult, followed by his companions.
Valentine Larke watched the three climb the stairs, his hard eyes showing no offence. Valentine Larke had not been born into the gentry, but if Sir Julius Lazender was a measure of gentility then Larke was glad he was no gentleman. Sir Julius, nephew to the Earl of Lazen, was a belligerent, drunken, pugnacious, rude wastrel. Larke smiled. Sir Julius would live to regret every sneer and every insult.
He turned towards the gaming room. The footman, who knew that Larke was neither a lord nor conspicuously rich, only opened one of the two leaves of the door.
He walked slowly through the lavishly appointed room, acknowledging the silent greetings of three of the players, and then climbed the far stairs that led to the dining room.
It was almost empty at this time of night. The waiters stood solemnly at the sides of the room watching the few patrons who remained. The food at Abigail’s was famous. Within an hour, Larke knew, the tables would be crowded with men from Parliament who saw no disgrace in eating their chops beneath Abigail’s bedrooms. One of the waiters hurried forward to usher Larke to a table, but Larke dismissed him. He walked the length of the room and through a door that would, by a short passage, bring him back to the main stairway which led to Abigail’s girls.
Another door, marked ‘Private’, led from the short passage. Larke paused, looked left and right, saw that no one was watching, and took from his waistcoat pocket a key. He fitted it into the keyhole, grunted as it turned reluctantly, and then, with a last look left and right, went into the room. He locked the door behind him.
He sat. On a table beside him was a tray with glasses. He poured himself some wine. A great book, bound in morocco leather, was beside the tray and, pulling the candelabra nearer to his chair, he opened the book on his lap.
‘Recorded. That Lady Delavele will drop Twins by Easter Day, between Mr Tyndall and Ld. Parrish. 200L.’
‘Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Tomcat, prepared in Mrs Pail’s Kitchens, Entire. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 150L.’ Beside it was written. ‘Ld. Saltash the winner.’
‘Recorded. That Mr Calltire’s Bucentaurus will beat Sir Simon Stepney’s Ringneck, the owners up, between Tyburn and St Paul’s. The race to Commence at Midnight, Christmas Eve. Between the Owners. 2000L.’
‘Recorded. That Ld. Saltash will Consume Bishop Wright’s Marmalade Cat, Without Benefit of Onion Sauce, entire, prepared without Any Sauces or Gravies, in Mrs Pail’s Kitchens. Between Ld. Saltash and Bishop Wright. 300L.’
Valentine Larke smiled. The commission on wagers recorded in Mrs Pail’s book was twenty per cent. A key sounded in the lock of the door.
He looked up, his bland, flat eyes wary in the candlelight.
Mrs Pail herself stood in the doorway, her white, podgy face grim.
Larke stood. ‘Dear Mrs Pail.’
‘Mr Larke.’ She shut and locked the door, then turned and gave him a clumsy curtsey.
He smiled. ‘I find you well?’
‘Indeed, sir. Yourself?’
‘Never better, Mrs Pail.’ He put the book on the table. ‘Things seem to be flourishing?’
‘Flourishing they are, flourish they had better.’ She said it grimly, then smiled and bobbed her head as Larke poured her a glass of wine.
He raised his glass to her. ‘What’s this I hear about a French Countess in the house?’
‘Dear me!’ Mrs Pail gave a coy laugh. ‘A spinet maker’s daughter from Birmingham! Father was a rich man, raised her to speak French, but he’s bankrupt now.’ Mrs Pail shook her white, shapeless face. ‘Not the most beautiful of my girls, but I took her as a favour. She does well. She jabbers in French while they work. You’d like to see her?’
Larke smiled. ‘No. But a splendid idea to call her a Countess. I do congratulate you.’
Mrs Pail blushed with pleasure. ‘You’re too kind, sir, entirely too kind.’
‘Please sit, Mrs Pail.’
Valentine Larke was the sole owner of Mrs Pail’s Rooms, though only she, he, and a select few others knew