Fallen Angels by Bernard Cornwell Page B
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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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 it. He owned a dozen other such establishments in London, places where the gentry went to lose their money at cockfighting, cards, women, or prizefighting. He was insistent that, in public, she treated him as one of her less valued 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
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 it. He owned a dozen other such establishments in London, places where the gentry went to lose their money at cockfighting, cards, women, or prizefighting. He was insistent that, in public, she treated him as one of her less valued 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
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