Fallen Angels. Bernard Cornwell
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customers, such was his passion, his need for secrecy. He waited till she was seated, then sat himself. ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your evening with business, Mrs Pail.’
The doughy, powdered face screwed itself into a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s always a pleasure, Mr Larke.’
He smiled. ‘I won’t detain you long. I merely wish to know how much Sir Julius Lazender is in your debt.’
She thought for two seconds. ‘Not counting tonight, Mr Larke, nine thousand four hundred and twenty-two guineas.’
He raised his eyebrows. It was a huge sum, yet he did not look displeased. ‘You still lend him money?’
‘Of course, sir. You told me to.’
Larke nodded and sipped his wine.
Abigail Pail watched him without speaking. She did not know why her employer had instructed her to let Sir Julius Lazender run up such a vast debt. Sir Julius did it without difficulty. To Abigail Pail’s knowing mind Sir Julius Lazender was a brute, a brute with an appetite that drew him back night after night. He lost at the tables, he became drunk, and he went upstairs to the lavish, soft rooms and never was asked to pay a penny. Even his gambling debts were settled by the house. Sir Julius Lazender, on Valentine Larke’s specific instructions, had been given the freedom of London’s most exclusive and expensive whorehouse.
Larke knew that freedom should not end yet. His timing in this matter of Sir Julius had to be exquisitely right. He put his glass down, steepled his fingers, and smiled at the woman. ‘You will see Mr d’Arblay and instruct him, upon my authority, to prepare a summons for ten thousand guineas. But it is not to be served, you understand?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Nor is Sir Julius to know that the summons exists. He may continue to come here and you will continue to welcome him. If you need money then my bankers will, of course, oblige.’
‘You’re very kind, Mr Larke.’ The white, blubber face sniffed in disapproval.
Valentine Larke saw it and smiled. ‘Something troubles you, dear Mrs Pail?’
‘Not my position to be troubled, sir,’ she said in a tone that contradicted her words. ‘But he’s going to be the ruin of us!’
‘I assure you he is not.’ Larke smiled.
She chose to ignore his assurance. ‘Only this week, Mr Larke! He bit a girl! Horribly, Mr Larke! I can’t work a scarred girl!’
‘You put it on his bill?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the girl?’
Mrs Pail frowned. ‘I can’t put a girl on the streets just before Christmas, Mr Larke! It’s not Christian!’
‘Indeed not.’ He stood, to show that the interview was over. ‘Indeed you may keep her in the house, Mrs Pail, so long as you wish.’ He knew the loyalty that Abigail had to her girls. She educated those that could not read and always ensured that those who were not communicants in the Church of England learned their catechism and were confirmed by a bishop who was one of the house’s steadier patrons. By day the bishop conducted the girls towards heaven, and at night they returned the favour.
Larke bowed over her fat, ring-bright fingers. ‘I will stay a few moments.’
‘Of course, Mr Larke.’ She smiled archly. ‘You’d like company?’
He shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’
When she had gone, and when the door was locked, he took from his waistcoat pocket a message that had come to him at the House of Commons. He opened it, read it for the third time, then tossed it onto the grate that was piled with glowing coals. He watched the letter curl, burn, and break into wavering scraps of black ash.
Chemosh had not done what he had said he would do.
Larke stared into the fire.
Chemosh had promised that the girl would never marry because no man would marry her. She would be poxed and scarred, yet she was neither. She lived still with her beauty and her virginity. Chemosh had not done what he had promised he would do.
He put his head back, the corrugated black ridges of his hair crushed on Mrs Pail’s chairback, and he wondered when the Gypsy would next come. The Gypsy was the messenger who connected Larke and Marchenoir, carrying the coded letters that none but those two politicians could read. Larke hoped the Gypsy would come soon for he needed to pass on to Lucifer, by way of Marchenoir, the news of Chemosh. Lucifer would have to decide what was to be done. The timing of this thing was like the workings of a chronometer; gleaming, valuable, and exact. Chemosh was threatening to fail.
They dared not fail. Valentine Larke, staring into the fire, thought that they could not fail. Lord Werlatton was hunted by Moloch, Sir Julius by Belial, and the Lady Campion by Chemosh, and the joy of it was that not one of the victims knew of the hunters. He sipped his brandy and thought of Chemosh. The man had not done what he had promised, but he had not yet necessarily failed. Nor, Larke reflected grimly, would he fail. They were the Fallen Ones, and they did not fail.
Nor would he fail with Sir Julius. He smiled and took another sip of the wine. Sir Julius was baited and hooked, and Larke could reel him in whenever he wished. It could wait, he decided, till after Christmas, and then Belial would strike and the Fallen Ones would tighten the invisible ring that would choke the life from Lazen Castle. He smiled. He drank to the victory that would follow Christmas, to the victory that would lead the Fallen Ones to the Day of Lucifer and the fall of Lazen.
Uncle Achilles ran the blue ribbons through his fingers. ‘You’re going to wear these?’ His tone suggested that perhaps she should burn them instead.
‘I won’t wear anything if you stay here.’
‘My dear Campion, I am far too old to be excited by a woman getting dressed, let alone undressed. Besides, you forget that I’m still a priest. They never unfrocked me.’
‘And I’m not unfrocking while you’re here. Go away.’ She smiled at him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I’m glad you came.’
He smiled. ‘And glad that my mother didn’t?’
‘She would have been welcome.’
He laughed. ‘I like your Lord Culloden.’
‘He’s not mine.’
Mrs Hutchinson was laying out a dress of white crepe with Brussels lace at the neck and cuffs. Uncle Achilles looked at it where it lay on her bed and smiled. ‘A wedding dress?’
‘Go away.’
‘But I do like him, truly!’ Uncle Achilles took a pinch of snuff, crossed to her dressing table, and sat down. He opened a pot of rouge, dabbed a finger in it, and rubbed it experimentally on the back of his hand. ‘Not my colour.’
She crossed her arms. ‘I’m going to be late, uncle.’
It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, yet already Campion had ordered candles lit in her bedroom. It was gloomy outside, the sky grey and darkening over the Lazen valley. Uncle Achilles twisted on his chair and stared down at the townspeople who walked in excited groups towards the Castle’s entrance. ‘You English make a great fuss about Christmas.’
‘We don’t make any fuss at all. We simply have a good time. Those of us, that is, who are allowed to dress.’
He grinned at her. He was clothed, Campion thought, lasciviously; there was no other word. He had a suit of gold cloth, a new wig with silk tails, gold-buckled shoes of satin, stockings of white silk, and the faintest touch of cosmetics on his face. He saw her looking him up and down. His voice was teasingly anxious. ‘You think I’m presentable?’
‘You look wonderful. Just like a bishop.’
He laughed. He dipped her powder puff into the china bowl and brushed it