James Bancroft leaned back in his chair, sipped at the Geneva, and smiled at Bess. “By God, Mrs Smith, you know how to feed a man.”
“You’re always welcome here, James,” Bess said.
“I always feel welcome,” Bancroft told her. He looked around the room, with the tall windows overlooking Leicester Square, the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling and the long table laden with food and drink. The other guests were busy eating or drinking, with Anthony Jackson smiling drunkenly, Captain Mungo Campbell speaking in his Nova Scotian drawl and Israel Burgess looking ill at ease. Sir Humphrey Waterson sat opposite Bess, listening to everything and speaking quietly to Lord George Gordon.
Smith knew little about Gordon except he was the Whig Member of Parliament for the pocket borough of Ludgershall, su
