“Oho,” she said. “Spoken from the heart, I would say. Is this why you are in London?”

I had forgotten I had told her of my quest, and nodded. “I was here to enquire after a man called Sir Samuel Mor-land. Have you ever heard of him?”

“I believe I have. Is he not a man who concerns himself with mechanical devices? He often approaches people at court trying to beg influence for some scheme.”

“Does he have any strong patrons?” I asked. It is always well to know what you are dealing with; it would be alarming to discover that the man you wish to attack is defended by someone far more powerful.

“Not that I know of. I believe he is associated in some way with schemes for draining fenland, so he may know the Duke of Bedford, but more than that I could not say. Do you want me to find out? It would be easy enough to do, and a pleasure to oblige.”

“I would be deeply grateful.”

“Then that is all the encouragement I need. It shall be done. Would you care to come to my lodging this evening? I attend my Lady Castlemaine in the morning, and my lord in the afternoon, but the evenings are my own, and I am free to receive whomever I like. That is our understanding, and I must invite people, if only to show that I am keeping him to our agreement.”

“It would be a pleasure.”

“And now, I hope you are refreshed and prepared, as I must leave you.”

I stood up and bowed deeply to thank her for her kindness, and was bold enough to kiss her hand. She laughed with merriment. “Stop, sir,” she said. “You are being deceived by appearances.”

“Not at all,” I said. “You are more a lady than many I have met.”

She blushed and made fun of me to cover her pleasure at the compliment. Then she swept out of the room, accompanied by the little black servant given to her as a present and who had been there throughout our interview. Her lord was easygoing and gracious, she said, but there was no need to risk his displeasure unnecessarily.

Itwas already darkening, and cold, so I passed the hours in a coffee shop near St. Paul’s, reading the journals and listening to the conversation of others, which filled me anew with disgust for the city and its inhabitants. So much bravado, so much bragging, so much time wasted in idle, foolish talk designed for nothing but to impress their fellows and impose on their betters by pretense. Gossip in the town is a commodity, to be bought and sold; if it is not possessed, then it is fabricated, like coiners make specie out of dross. I was at least undisturbed, for no man there sought my company and I was truly glad it was so; while others now habitually frequent these shops, and lower themselves in what they call good company, I shun the vulgar and public places.

The time passed, if only slowly, and eventually the hour of my appointment came. I was apprehensive of the meeting, despite our differing stations in life which should have ensured my comfortable superiority. But London is corrosive to deference. Who you are is less important than what you seem; a fraudster of no family can impose himself on a gentleman from an ancient line simply by being better dressed and having a winning manner. For my part, I would reestablish the rules the great Queen insisted upon; no merchant should be allowed to dress as a gentleman, and should pay the price for any impudent imitation, for it is fraud and should be punished as such, just as it is fraud for whores to disguise their nature.

Vice had brought great rewards in Kitty’s case and, though I was loath to admit that good can come from bad, she lived in a fashion which showed a great deal of what we are now taught to call gout. I am glad, I must say, that we English are still robust enough to need to borrow words from the French for such nonsense. While many of her fellow laborers for Venus would have flaunted the spoils of conquest, she lived simply, with solid oak furniture, rather than the gilded stuff of the foreigner; simple arras on the walls to keep in the warmth, not some gaudy tapestry. The only piece of gross vanity was a portrait of herself on one wall, impudently matched to one of her lord on the opposite, as though they were husband and wife. That, I felt, was insulting, but she assured me when she saw my disapproval, that it was a gift and she could do no other.

“Jack,” she said when we had greeted each other and sat down, “I must talk to you seriously for a moment.”

“By all means.”

“I must ask you for a great courtesy, if you please, in return for giving you the information you require.”

“A courtesy is yours for the asking,” I said, slightly ruffled, “without the need to bargain for it.”

“Thank you. I wish you to promise never to reveal where we met.”

“Of course,” I said.

“It never happened. You may have met a young whore on the road in Kent, but that was not me. I now come from a good, but poor family in Herefordshire, and was brought to London by my lord as a distant relative of his wife’s family. Who I was, and what I was, is unknown, and must remain so.”

“It does not seem to have done you a great deal of harm.”

“No. But it would, when his protection is withdrawn.”

“You think of him so?”

“Of course. He will not be cruel, I think. He will settle an annuity on me and already I have saved a good amount of money. By the time I am too old, I will have the means to support myself. But what then? I must marry, I suppose; but I will not get a good bargain if my past is known.”

I frowned at this. “You propose to marry? Do you have a suitor?”

“Oh, plenty,” she said with a pretty laugh. “Although none has dared to come forward; that would be far too audacious. But a woman of some property, as I will be, who can offer a connection to one of the most influential men in the kingdom? I am a prize, unless someone destroys my chances through careless talk. I cannot say marriage appeals, however.”

“For most women it is a dream.”

“To hand over my hard-earned fortune to my husband? Be unable to do anything without his permission? Risk being disinherited of my own money when he dies? Oh, yes. A wonderful dream.”

“You are making fun of me,” I said gravely.

She laughed again. “I suppose. But my position in my future husband’s household will be stronger if I am Katherine Hannay, daughter of John Hannay, esquire of Hereford, than formerly Kitty the whore.”

I must have looked despondent, for it was not easy to comply. Suppose I heard that she was to marry a gentleman, even if not of my acquaintance? Was it not my duty to warn him? Could I stand by as a man put his name at risk, and lived forever under the threat of exposure?

“I do not ask your approbation, nor your patronage. Merely your silence,” she said softly.

“Well,” I said, “it seems we live in an age where whores become ladies, and ladies play the whore. Family counts for nothing, and appearance is all. I cannot say you would not make as good a wife as many a real lady. And so I give you my word, Miss Hannay of Hereford,”

I gave her a lot with those words, and she appreciated it, and it was with a heavy heart indeed that I felt obliged to go back on them in later years, when I heard that she was to marry Sir John Marshall, a gentleman of some fortune in Hampstead. I anguished greatly over what to do, and with the very greatest of reluctance concluded that my duty could not avoid the necessity of writing to the man and telling him what I knew of the woman who threatened to impose herself on his name.

That, fortunately, was all in the future; for then she was deeply grateful to me, and would not have assisted me otherwise.

“I hope my little discoveries can repay this second kindness you have given me. I doubt it very much, but I will tell you what I have found out, and later I will introduce you to Mr. George Collop, who has agreed to come and take some refreshment.”