4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm

the passageway he sighed wistfully, feeling that it was very unfair that he had to watch the Careys, father and son, being happily seduced by beautiful women at every turn. Was it wealth or looks, he wondered, and decided that it must be both. That Bassano woman was a peach, by God, and the scandalous way she had her smock pulled down meant that every time you looked at her there was the mesmerising possibility that one of her breasts would pop out of its prison and you would be able to see her nipple…Dodd liked breasts, he liked nipples, particularly pink and pointed ones, he liked the creamy softness of Mistress Bassano’s skin, he liked…Of course, he also liked counting his wife’s freckles. She would hardly ever let him do it because she hated them. Unaccountably she bleached the ones on her face with lemon juice. There were squeaks and deep-voiced chuckles coming through the door now, and an instantly recognisable rhythmic sound.
    Dodd scowled. And none of the blasted courtiers had any shame either.
    As he hurried off to find Sir Robert, he wondered what the famous London bawdyhouses might be like and how much they might cost. Janet would never hear of it if he paid one a visit, he was sure, there were hundreds of miles between him and her. And dear God, it would be worth it.
    ***
    In the casual way of a man with a large staff, Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon decided to give a little supper party that night for his son’s benefit. Servants were sent running with invitations, the steward hurried fretfully through the house carrying a sheaf of papers and the kitchens seemed to explode into activity.
    Dodd took cover in the room he had been given, where Carey ran him to earth a little later, followed by a manservant carrying a bag containing a fine doublet and hose, a cramoisie marvel of fine wool trimmed with black velvet, padded doublet, padded sleeves and a pair of paned trunk hose. These he laid out on the bed.
    ‘Och,’ Dodd said, putting down the book he had been lent by the falconer and coming to his feet. ‘What’s that, sir? Are ye wearing it the night?’
    ‘No,’ said Carey, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘You are.’
    ‘What? Ah’m no’ a courtier, sir. I cannae wear fancy gear like that; forbye I’m wearin’ ma best suit the day an’ there’s nae reason tae…’
    ‘Dodd, shut up and listen to me. Nobody is impugning your wife’s honour or her skills at weaving and tailoring. Janet is a gem of a woman and your best suit is the dernier cri in Carlisle, I’m sure, but I cannot and will not have you sitting at my father’s supper table wearing homespun.’
    ‘That’s nae bother, sir. I’m not invited.’
    ‘Yes, you are.’
    ‘Och, sir, but I dinnae want…’
    ‘Who asked you what you wanted, Dodd? Not me. Now this is Anthony who is my father’s valet de chambre , and who has very kindly agreed to help you dress properly.’
    ‘Nay sir, I willna. It’s no’ fit.’
    ‘You will, Dodd,’ snapped Carey. ‘With or without a fight.’
    Dodd started to lose his temper. ‘I dinna think ye mean that, sir,’ he said, trying to give the Courtier a chance to back out.
    Carey drew a wound and loaded dag from under his arm and pointed it at Dodd.
    ‘I do. Now go quietly, will you, there’s a good fellow?’
    Surely to God, Carey wouldn’t shoot him over clothes? Surely? Was it worth the risk? Dodd shut his mouth firmly and glared at Anthony who was looking down at the rushes.
    After an awkward silence in which Carey sat down on the window seat, put his legs up onto a stool and cradled the gun on his arm so it could point at Dodd with the minimum of effort, the door opened and two more servants appeared carrying a large wooden bath tub. Dodd’s mouth dropped open again.
    ‘Get your clothes off, Sergeant. I’m afraid we haven’t time to go down to the stews and do the job properly, so this will have to suffice.’
    The servants opened out a sheet and lined the bath with it. Then they