Was it my imagination or did all of Billy’s household look like barmaids and cracksmen playing at dressing up? Having known a properly managed staff at Grosvenor Square, I couldn’t help but notice that the maids’ skirts were too flouncy and the stripes of the butler’s breeches too broad.
I was brought up short when we reached the first floor landing. The neutral entrance hall had lulled me into a false impression; up here Billy had got to work, stripping out the previous tenant’s decorations and bringing in his own objets d’art. It was as if King Midas had been invited to run riot. Everything – and I mean everything, Reader – was gold. A figurine of a crude-looking satyr leered at a shepherdess on the other side of the doorway. Fleshy goddesses lolled about on clouds in heavy gilt-framed pictures. The chairs were painted gold, the drapes made from golden silk. I had the impression if I stood still any longer I would find myself gilded to the spot. It was the most ostentatious display of wealth and poor taste I’d ever had the misfortune to see.
The butler opened the door in front of us with a flourish.
‘Your guest has arrived, sir,’ he said in sepulchral tones.
If the first floor landing was a study in gold, this drawing room was an exercise in white and glass by some unhinged set designer for the pantomime. It was like standing inside an ice sculpture. A huge cut-glass chandelier dripped from the ceiling; mirrors glittered from the walls, snowy painted floorboards stretched at my feet. Impractical white-covered furniture floated like icebergs on an Arctic sea.
‘I’ll disappear if I set foot in here,’ I joked to the butler, looking down at my dress. ‘All you’ll see is a ginger head bobbing about.’
His face refused to crack. He ushered me forward.
‘Suit yourself, shipmate,’ I muttered as I launched myself into the room. I shouldn’t have expected Shepherd’s employee to be friendly – or to have a sense of humour.
I didn’t see Billy at first. That was because he was lounging on the chaise longue at the far end of the room in his shirt sleeves and white silk breeches, his dark hair caught back with a black ribbon. I snorted with ill-timed laughter. He’d obviously planned this white-thing to impress me.
‘Cat!’ Billy exclaimed, rising on his elbow as he helped himself to a fistful of cherries. ‘A pleasure to see you as always.’ His grey eyes sparkled with mischief – he must have something unpleasant planned for me then.
‘The pleasure is all yours, Billy,’ I said briskly. ‘What’s all this about? I haven’t got time to waste playing games with you.’
He spat a cherry stone into a silver bucket. It rang like a bell and I could see he was pleased with the effect.
‘Take a seat, make yourself at home,’ he continued, waving me towards a chair opposite him.
‘A gentleman would’ve risen when a lady entered the room.’ I paused by the seat but did not sit down.
‘Well, when one comes in I’ll make sure I stir myself.’
Ouch! I walked into that one. A point to him.
‘Sit down, sit down, Moggy. Our business might take some time. No need to stand on ceremony.’
True. Remaining standing in his presence was a bit too much like a courtier before a king. I sat down.
‘Cherry?’
I shook my head. ‘Very nice, Billy,’ I commented, looking around the room. ‘Very . . . er . . . tasteful.’
He missed the irony. ‘Glad you like it. I’m havin’ the place done over by London’s top craftsmen. Every room has a theme.’
I noticed that he over-pronounced his haitches. So, he was taking elocution lessons too, was he?
‘What’s the subject of this one then? Bedlam? All you need are a few lunatics in white gowns and the picture would be complete.’
He grinned. His teeth were as bad as ever. ‘Nah, I’ve got you for that, Cat, ain’t I?’ he quipped, slipping back into his old manner of speaking.
‘You’re right, Billy. I was mad to come.’
‘You ’ad no choice.’ His manner stiffened; he sat up, scattering cherry stones on the white rug at his feet. We were getting down to business at last.
‘What was it to be if I hadn’t come? A knife in the ribs or a trip down the Thames?’
‘Would I do that to you, Cat?’ he asked with feigned innocence, hands spread wide. ‘Me, a respectable man of property?’
‘Respectable, my a**e. You’re about as honest as Molly Everymans from the Jolly Boatman.’
‘Watch it, Cat. My patience with you ’as its limits.’
He was riled: a point to me then.
I put the black silk bag containing my lock of hair on the table. ‘As I infuriate you so badly, Billy, why not finish it between us? Tell me what you want. I’ll do it if I can, then we’ll call it quits. You leave me alone and I promise never to lay my eyes on your ugly mug again.’
‘I’m glad to see you’re a girl that keeps ’er word, Cat. I ’alf expected you to make some excuse about promises extorted unfairly. I ’ad you in a bind that night, didn’t I?’ He chuckled at the memory.
‘When you’ve stopped congratulating yourself on your low cunning, Billy, perhaps you’ll get to the point?’ I scratched at the upholstery, feeling the stuff split under my nails. He’d been cheated by his supplier if he thought he was getting the finest.
‘All right, Kitten –’
‘Don’t call me Kitten.’
‘Kitten, I want you to get me something.’
‘What exactly?’ I didn’t like this – I didn’t like this at all.
‘I’ve got everything a man could want, but I’ve found that recently I’ve developed the tastes of a con-a-sewer.’
How appropriate. He meant connoisseur, of course.
He rose from the couch and beckoned me to follow him. ‘Come and see my collection.’ Seeing him on his feet for the first time, I noticed that he loomed over me these days. Leading me to a door in the wall beside the over-large mantelpiece, he took out a key and unlocked it. I hesitated: the room he had revealed was dark; I suspected a trap.
‘Don’t worry, Cat, it’s not what you think,’ he laughed.