Fallen Angels by Bernard Cornwell Page A

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