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than her husband, and her lively
     blue eyes and aristocratic posture suggested the gorget would be whipped off as soon as she was away from the company of prim
     men.
    ‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe, as Chaloner entered. ‘You were gone so long I thought you had decided not to come back. What happened?
     Are you limping?’
    ‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner, aware that Downing was regarding him with open disdain. He glanced down and realised his clothes
     were dishevelled and stained, and was annoyed the man should see him looking quite so disrepu-table.He did not want him to have the satisfaction of knowing his refusal to provide a reference had reduced a former ‘employee’
     to near destitution.
    ‘You cannot hide it for ever,’ said Downing spitefully. ‘Being lame cannot make it easy to find profitable work. No one hires
     cripples, when there are whole men to be had.’
    Before Chaloner could think of a suitable reply – the ones that sprung immediately to mind were far too vulgar to be uttered
     in Thurloe’s genteel presence – the ex-Spymaster went to a jug on the table, gesturing towards the hearth as he did so. ‘Sit,
     while I pour you a tonic, Tom. My physician recommended this potion of strengthening herbs, and it does help of a morning.
     Take that stool.’
    Chaloner declined, knowing perfectly well that he would struggle to rise once he was down, and when Thurloe gave one of his
     small, secret smiles he inwardly cursed his stiff knee – the seat had been offered to test his fitness, and Chaloner’s refusal
     had told the clever lawyer exactly what he had wanted to know. Thurloe handed him something brown in a silver goblet, which
     he accepted cautiously: as a man often in poor health, Thurloe tended to swallow a good many draughts that promised vitality
     and well-being. Most tasted foul and all were probably worthless.
    ‘Have we met before?’ asked the stranger, studying him. ‘There is something familiar about you.’
    ‘Your paths have never crossed,’ replied Thurloe with considerable conviction. He held out his hand for the satchel. ‘Did
     you buy my cinnamon, Tom? It is difficult to come by these days, and there is nothing like spice in hot milk on a cold winter’s
     evening.’
    ‘You have gone from diplomatic envoy to housemaid, have you, Heyden?’ asked Downing with a sneer. ‘Could you not find a better
     use for your talents after we parted company? You must have fallen on very hard times if that wig is anything to go by.’
    ‘That is hardly his fault,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘Clerks flocked to London in their thousands after the Restoration, and
     there is little hope for a man without proper testimonials, as you know very well – just as you also know that one from
me
would do him scant good, either. No household professing to be Royalist would employ a man recommended by a former Parliamentarian
     minister.’
    Chaloner sincerely hoped he was mistaken.
    Downing waved a plump hand, to indicate he did not consider Chaloner’s predicament important. ‘I dismissed nearly all my retainers
     last spring, because I want everyone to know that
I
only hire Cavaliers. Obviously, that description does not apply to the men who were pressed on me by
you
, John. We are friends, but I am sure you appreciate my point.’ He shot Thurloe a meaningful glance.
    Thurloe grimaced, and it was clear to Chaloner that he did not consider Downing a friend, and nor was he happy about the indiscreet
     references to matters of intelligence.
    ‘You dismissed anyone you suspected of remaining loyal to Cromwell, Sir George?’ asked the woman, regarding the diplomat with
     some amusement. ‘How can you be sure you eliminated the right ones?’
    ‘By ridding myself of the lot, except for some maids, women who …’ Downing flapped his hand expansively.
    ‘Come to your bedchamber when your wife is away?’ suggested Chaloner.
    ‘Whom I know to be firm Royalists,’ finished Downing with a