The King's Evil

inside the building and the one glorious moment when she had been held in his arms. That memory prompted her to pay yet another visit to Fetter Lane.

It was late morning when she and Nan arrived. Simply being back in his street was exciting enough. When she saw his house again, Margaret Littlejohn flushed with joy. She envisaged him coming out to welcome her then escorting her inside. Her companion was supportive but cautious. Nan advised against getting too close to the house, lest they be seen by the manservant. Accordingly, the two of them lingered a small distance away, diagonally opposite the building.

They waited there for half an hour before they noticed the man. Like them, his interest was in Christopher Redmayne's house. Walking past on the opposite side of the road, he stopped and looked back at it with intense curiosity. He was thirty yards away from the two women and they could only see him from the rear but they thought there was something familiar about him. When they realised what it was, they exchanged a look of fear. Tall, slim and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, the man was carrying a walking stick. They recalled the figure they had seen emerging from the cellars at the building site.

When the man came towards them, they held their ground and pretended to converse. Taking no notice of him at first, Margaret waited until he was level with her before shooting him a glance. She gulped with horror as malevolent eyes glared at her through two slits. The man's whole face was covered by a white mask. When he vanished around the corner, she needed a few moments to collect her thoughts. Sensing that the man she loved might be in danger, she was desperate to warn him somehow. She decided to tell his manservant that the house had been watched by a sinister man whom she believed she might have seen before. If nothing else, her concern would endear her to Christopher Redmayne.

But she was not able to express it. Before she could move, a coach came rumbling up the lane from Fleet Street and stopped outside his house. Margaret watched in despair as the man whom she thought was in France came eagerly out of his front door to offer his hand to the young lady as she alighted from the coach. Even at that distance, she could see the studied affection in his manner. Margaret felt utterly betrayed. Not only had Christopher told his manservant to lie to her, he was paying court to someone else. The impulse to warn him disappeared beneath a welter of emotions. Supported by Nan, she went off in tears.

'But what happened to you, Mr Redmayne?' she said. 'Were you hurt?'

'Not really, Miss Northcott.'

'George boasted to me that you had been assaulted.'

'I was,' said Christopher, fingering the back of his skull, 'and I still have a lump on my head to prove it. Beyond that, the only injuries I suffered were a few bruises. The aches and pains will soon wear off.'

'How can you dismiss it so lightly?'

'Oh, I am not doing that, I assure you.'

'George could be arrested for attacking you like that.'

'Mr Strype did not actually touch me,' he explained. 'He paid two ruffians to do so. Fortunately, I had help nearby. Mr Bale frightened them off before they could inflict any real damage.'

'I am so sorry, Mr Redmayne,' she said, tormented with guilt.

'It was not your fault.'

'But it was, indirectly. If I had not come here with those letters and then spent the night under your roof, this would never have happened.'

'I would take any beating for the pleasure of seeing you again.'

Christopher's declaration came out so easily that it took them both by surprise. She smiled uncertainly and he became self-conscious. Waving her to a chair, he sat opposite her and offered up a prayer of thanks that he had been at home when she called. Penelope searched his face for signs of injury and felt glad that she had broken off her engagement to George Strype. He had deliberately given her the impression that he had fought with Christopher himself but, she now learned, he had taken the more cowardly option of hiring bullies to do his work for him. Having removed one man from her life, Penelope was now able to appreciate the depth of her feeling for another.

'When did you return from France?' she asked.

'Some days ago.'

'Did you find anything out?'

'A great deal, Miss Northcott,' he said with enthusiasm. 'In spite of everything, the journey was very worthwhile.'

'In spite of everything?'

'The trip was not without incident.'

Christopher gave her the salient facts about his visit to Paris. His face was taut as he talked about Marie Louise Oilier but it creased into dismay when he described the attempt on his life at the inn. Penelope sat forward on the edge of her chair.

'Why did they try to kill you, Mr Redmayne?'

'Because I stumbled on the truth,' he said. 'Or part of it, anyway. I knew too much. Solomon Creech was murdered for the same reason. He was your father's confidante, the one person in London who knew the full details of your father's liaison with Mademoiselle Oilier.' He checked himself. 'I take it that you have heard about Mr Creech?'

'Belatedly. It came as a hideous shock.'

'One advantage has followed. His clerk has been able to release information to me which Mr Creech refused to divulge. I now know a great deal about Sir Ambrose's commercial transactions with France.'

'George could have told you about those,' she began then her voice faded away. She shook her head. 'Perhaps not. He might not have proved very forthcoming.' A thought pricked her. 'You do not think that he is involved in all this, do you?'

'No, Miss Northcott. I do not have the highest opinion of Mr Strype but I can absolve him of any involvement here. Sir Ambrose kept him ignorant of too many things. Besides, he would hardly collude in the death of his partner and future father-in-law.' He noticed the glint in her eye. 'Have I said something out of turn?'

'Our engagement has been terminated,' she said quietly.

He smiled inwardly. 'This is a surprising development.'

'I prefer not to talk about it, Mr Redmayne. There are more important topics to discuss. Tell me more about her.'

'Marie Louise Oilier?'

'Was she very beautiful?'

'Some might think so,' he said tactfully.

'How old was she?'

'Not as young as you thought.'

'Describe her to me.'

Choosing his words with care, Christopher drew his own sketch of the striking young woman whom he had met in Paris, astonished at how much it varied from his first impression of her. He no longer saw Marie Louise Oilier as the complete innocent who had sat before him in Arnaud Bastiat's house. His visit to Lincoln's Inn Fields had helped to revise that assessment. Sweet Ellen had shown him how easy it was to feign childlike purity.

It distressed him to talk about someone whose existence gave Penelope such obvious pain. Though she pressed him relentlessly for details, she winced when she heard them and her cheeks coloured at the mention of the claim made by Mademoiselle Oilier.

'She intended to many my father?'

'That is what she told me.'

'But how? He already had a wife.'

'Sir Ambrose led her to believe that your mother had died.'

'He would never do that!' she protested.

'I am only reporting what I heard.'

'Did you believe her?'

'At the time.'