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service, but he nodded acquiescence.

Chapter 2
    Chaloner entered Clarendon House through the back door, although his position as a gentleman usher meant he could have used the front one had he wanted. He aimed for the poky chamber that served as an informal common room for the Earl’s senior staff, where the first person he met was Thomas Kipps, the Lord Chancellor’s Seal Bearer. Kipps was an amiable, friendly fellow, who was never less than perfectly attired. He winced when he saw Chaloner’s coat, and advanced purposefully with a damp cloth.
    ‘How was Russia?’ he asked as he set about the mess with determined vigour.
    Before Chaloner could reply, they were joined by Humphrey Leigh, the Earl’s Sergeant at Arms, a small, truculent martinet with a massive moustache.
    ‘I have heard it is nothing but windswept plains and bogs,’ Leigh said. ‘And its people are brutish and stupid.’
    ‘Worse, there is not a single inn in the entire country.’ Kipps spoke in a shocked whisper. ‘I cannot imagine life without ale. Indeed, I am surprised it is possible.’
    ‘Were you right about Archangel, Chaloner?’ asked Leigh. ‘I recall you saying before you left that the port would be closed by ice, and that no ship would be able to get through.’
    ‘Like the Thames,’ mused Kipps, pausing in his scrubbing. ‘It froze clean over this winter. Indeed, I have never known a more bitter few months.’
    They chatted on, neither giving Chaloner the opportunity to answer the questions they asked, which bothered him not a jot. Eventually, damp from Kipps’ ministrations, he escaped and made his way to the cavernous vestibule known as My Lord’s Lobby, where the Earl conducted business when not at White Hall. He was glad to discover that Williamson had gone – he had no wish to encounter the Spymaster a second time that day. He opened the door and entered.
    The Earl of Clarendon had lived in some dismal places when he had followed the King into exile during the Commonwealth, and was busily making up for his years of privation by stuffing his home to the gills with works of art. Personally, Chaloner thought such extravagance was vulgar, and wrinkled his nose in distaste when he saw four Rembrandts and three Brueghels crammed together without regard to subject or size.
    The Earl, short, fat and fussy, was sitting at a massive Venetian desk with his gouty foot propped on a stool in front of him. He was wearing a casual gown called a mantua, which was so richly embroidered that it was twice as thick as anyone else’s, further accentuating his princely girth. His wig rested on a specially made stand nearby, ready for donning, but in the meantime a quilted nightcap protected his shaven pate from the chill of the great marble room.
    ‘There you are, Chaloner,’ he said crossly. ‘I thought I told you to be here at eight.’
    Chaloner glanced towards the window, to gauge the hour. There was no point in relying on the many clocks that graced the room, as they had been purchased for their fine cases, not their mechanics, and none were good at telling the time. Even so, he was fairly sure the hour had not yet officially struck, and that he was early rather than late.
    ‘I asked you to come because I have a task for you,’ the Earl went on. ‘There will be another rebellion in the next two weeks, so you must infiltrate the plotters’ inner circle and thwart it.’
    Not everyone had been pleased to see King Charles II restored to his throne four years earlier, and there had been a number of uprisings since. A few had been serious, but most comprised small bands of badly organised fanatics who were more nuisance than menace. Chaloner was not surprised to hear there was yet another in the offing. However, he would not foil it by following the Earl’s instructions, and started to explain why.
    ‘If these insurgents are within days of their objective, they are unlikely to trust anyone new now, sir. It would be better to—’
    The