Margaret Moore (18 page)

Arabella felt her heart sink as she followed the lady’s gaze, but fortunately, one of the two was not Croesus Belmaris.

Sir Richard Blythe, looking more sardonic than ever, stood watching the game, and beside him was Lord Cheddersby, rather oddly dressed. Although he was still bewigged and his broad-brimmed hat beplumed, his dark purple jacket and breeches actually seemed subdued.

“We must speak with the charming Lord Cheddersby! He would do very well for you, Arabella. He’s from a fine old family. Their estate is somewhere in Sussex, I believe. Or Essex. Wessex, perhaps.” Lady Lippet adjusted her necklace with a coy gesture better suited to
one half her age. “Who is that dashingly handsome fellow with him?”

“Do you not recall him from the theater? That is Sir Richard Blythe.”

“Oh, yes, of course!” Lady Lippet lowered her voice. “He is not married, either, but the earl would never approve.” She glanced around, then whispered conspiratorially in Arabella’s ear, “They say he keeps at least three mistresses at once, all actresses. And one of his former lovers tried to kill herself when their liaison was at an end, or so she claimed. I saw her shortly after, and if she really tried to do it, I am the Empress of Austria. No scar at all!”

A cry went up from the crowd as the king sent the ball sailing back over the rope with a broad stroke. Neville returned it again, this time to the far left of the king.

Charles deftly intercepted it from close to the rope and struck it hard, sending it to the right corner of Neville’s part of the floor. With a speed she would have thought impossible, and twisting like a snake, Neville hit the ball and sent it back over the rope.

The king must miss—but no! He ran back and caught the ball with his paddle before it touched the ground. It didn’t fly over the rope, but struck the outer wall of the court and ricocheted.

Arabella swiftly looked at Neville—who was
not watching the ball at all. He was staring at her.

The ball was going to strike his face if he didn’t move.

“Look out!” she cried.

Neville suddenly came to life and moved out of the way of the king’s missile, while at the same time, all the spectators fell silent. Even the spaniels stopped yapping.

Arabella blushed with mortification.

“Arabella!” Lady Lippet chided softly and quite unnecessarily.

“I was … I was carried away by the excitement of the game,” she explained feebly, keeping her eyes lowered, quite aware that everyone was staring at her, including the king.

“Odd’s fish, we believe a penalty might be called for!” the king declared. “What shall it be? A kiss, perhaps?”

Arabella blushed even more.

“Perhaps not,” the king said. “Perhaps we shall forfeit a penalty and decree this a tie game, Farrington.”

“That would be most generous of you, Majesty, for I did miss the ball.”

Although she kept her gaze firmly on the low dividing wall, it was obvious that the players were coming closer.

“But you were beating us before,” the king remarked. “Indeed, if we did not think you an
honest fellow, we would be tempted to think you were allowing us to win.”

“I assure you, Majesty, I always play to win.”

Charles laughed, a great, booming, roar of delight. “We appreciate a man who admits it,” he declared. Then he lowered his voice and said in a teasing and significant tone, “Although there are some games in which we shall insist upon the royal prerogative.”

As Arabella curtsied, she glanced up at Neville and thought his cheerful expression seemed rather strained.

Because he didn’t like to lose a tennis game? Or was the significance in the king’s tone related to some other kind of sport?

“Ah, Lady Arabella, we are so pleased to see you this morning,” King Charles declared.

The genuine pleasure in his voice gave a sort of horrible credence to the duke’s remarks last night—and yet he had sounded similarly pleased when he spoke to Neville.

Perhaps everyone was jumping to a conclusion based only upon the king’s naturally easy manner.

She would think that, for to believe otherwise was surely vain and foolish, as well as extremely disturbing.

Again she glanced at Neville; she realized he was watching her and quickly looked away.

Before she could speak, Lady Lippet forcefully
pushed her aside. “Good day, Your Majesty! Such fine exercise, I’m sure, although you hardly need it.”

“You flatter us, Lady Lippet,” he graciously replied. “But where is the earl? We understand he had matters of great import he wished to discuss with us.”

Here was welcome proof that the king was merely being his gracious self when he spoke to her.

“He is speaking to Mr. Pepys, Your Majesty,” Arabella replied with a nod in their direction.

“Ah, yes,” he replied, glancing at the two men.

The earl was red in the face, while Mr. Pepys looked rather pale.

“We hope you will again grace us with your presence at Whitehall this evening, ladies.”

“Oh, Your Majesty! Nothing would be more delightful, I assure you!” Lady Lippet gasped as she curtsied even lower—so low, in fact, that Arabella feared she might never be able to get up.

“Excellent!” the king replied. “Do you play cribbage, Lady Arabella?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“It is a simple enough game. We shall instruct you ourselves.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You have never wagered before?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

The king glanced at Neville. “Stay clear of this fellow, then, for he is a very clever player, who tells us that he always plays to win.”

“I shall proceed with care, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent! Now if you ladies will excuse your sovereign, we should see what wisdom the earl wishes to impart to us. Will you join us, Farrington?”

“I think not, Your Majesty. My presence would not be conducive to civility on my father’s part.”

The king’s brow furrowed slightly, but that was the only reaction he gave before snapping his fingers at the keeper of his dogs, who led the boisterous animals to their master.

“Until this evening, Lady Lippet, Lady Arabella,” the king said.

And then, shockingly, he winked, and not at the still-bent Lady Lippet, either.

Arabella could scarce believe it. The King of England
winked
at her before leaving them.

Oh, surely, surely, this was only more evidence of his easygoing manner or a merry sort of compliment. The king could not mean anything significant by that simple action.

She became aware that Lady Lippet’s arm was flailing, indicative of distress. “Arabella, your assistance, if you please!”

Arabella quickly hurried to help. Her ladyship slowly became upright.

“My dear, another invitation from the king!” she cried happily when she was standing, her delighted smile causing the powder on her face to crack.

Arabella suddenly had the impression that Lady Lippet was like a piece of porcelain, liable to shatter at any moment, this time from sheer happiness.

“The king’s notice will certainly not go unremarked! I dare say several young men will be wanting to meet you now!”

“I am quite certain of that, too,” Neville seconded. “You will be getting famous, although not, perhaps, in a way you would like.”

So he believed that the king’s attention was of a lascivious nature.

Right now, she wished she could go home to Grantham!

Except that Neville would not be there.

Lady Lippet frowned, more cracks appearing. “I don’t understand you at all, Neville. Of course she will be heard of and talked about. That is what we want, if she is to find a proper husband.” Suddenly, an expression of alarm came to Lady Lippet’s face. “Oh, dear me! Is Lord Cheddersby leaving?”

She abruptly pushed past Arabella and hurried to intercept Lord Cheddersby at the entrance to the court before he could escape.

“I suppose Lady Lippet would consider dear old Foz a suitable marriage candidate.”

With a sinking feeling, Arabella mentally agreed.

“What do
you
think of him?”

“I haven’t met a nicer man in all of London,” she answered honestly.

Neville told himself that he did not particularly want to be considered nice. “Nice” was for old women or elderly gentlemen or little girls. “Nice” was no word to describe a virile, passionate man.

“He is not as rich as Croesus Belmaris, surely another of the many candidates for your hand,” he remarked. “You must be very flattered. Is it not every maiden’s dream to be surrounded by a bevy of admiring swains—and to count the king among them?”

“You believe the king finds me fascinating?”

Surely she could not be so naive, Neville thought as he struggled not to betray any hint of his jealousy. “I assure you, he would not trouble himself to invite you anywhere if he did not find you very appealing.”

She frowned, then gave Neville a look that set his heart beating as it had when he was dashing about the tennis court. “It is not my dream to be chased after and captured like some sort of beast. I dream of finding a man I can love for my husband.”

“I am sure my father and Lady Lippet do not subscribe to that particular dream. Unfortunately, the king himself is already married.”

She nodded slowly, and he was sure she was being sincere when she seemed displeased by the mention of the king’s obvious interest.

“What did you assume the king meant by his invitations?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“I thought he was just being gracious.”

He remembered that for all her intelligence and seeming adaptation to London, she was still a Puritan-raised young woman from a sleepy little country village.

A lamb among the wolves.

And he was supposed to be one of the wolves.

“Arabella! Here is Lord Cheddersby!” Lady Lippet called out as she bore down upon them, a red-faced Foz in tow.

Richard, with a damnably smug smile, sauntered along behind them, the look in his eyes telling Neville as clearly as words that he was anticipating being vastly amused, and at somebody else’s expense.

“Well played, Neville,” Richard remarked, “although I thought you were planning to sacrifice your head to let the king win. Half the female population of London would have gone into mourning at your martyrdom.”

“I was just telling Sir Richard Blythe that I have been to every one of his plays,” Lady Lippet gushed. “Where do you get such clever ideas for your plots?”

Richard looked around secretively. “When I
was in exile with the king in Europe, a peddler sold me an ancient manuscript full of stories, plays and poems. I confess I simply copy them in my own writing.”

Lady Lippet gasped, and Foz gazed, wide-eyed.

“He jests with us, Lady Lippet,” Arabella said, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she looked at Richard.

At Richard.

“Of course he writes them himself,” she continued. “I’m sure anyone who saw his latest play could have little doubt that it would take a man of his particular talent and temperament to pen such a work.”

Richard frowned. “What would you say are my particular talent and temperament, Lady Arabella?”

She shook her head. “If you do not know, I shall not attempt to enlighten you.”

“Oh, please do,” Neville insisted.

“Yes, do!” Foz cried.

Richard darted a look at both of them. “Really, gentlemen,” he protested half-heartedly.

“I am only a girl from the country, sir, as was so kindly noted the first time we met. I can hardly be expected to voice my opinion in such company. You would all ridicule me.”

“Not I!” Foz cried immediately, while Richard bowed with a surprisingly elegant flourish. “You must forgive my behavior that night,
Lady Arabella. I fear, like many men, I do not respond well to criticism.”

“I recall she thought your play immoral,” Neville reminded him.

“I write only what the audience prefers,” Richard said, his voice intimately low as he slyly insinuated himself next to Arabella. “Tell me, now that you have been longer in London, do you still think it so very bad?”

Neville knew that tone of voice, and if Richard knew what was good for him, he would cease to use it, or by God, Neville would challenge him to a duel, friend or not.

“Oh, yes,” she replied brightly. “It was terrible.”

Neville nearly choked as he fought not to laugh at Richard’s stunned expression. Foz looked scandalized, while Lady Lippet clearly did not know whether to smile or frown.

“At least the lack of honor and loyalty in the characters was terrible—and that is the pity of it,” Arabella explained. “You waste your talents on such frippery. I think, if you were to put your mind to it, you could write something truly splendid and immortal.”

“Splendid and immortal?” Neville scoffed. “What, is he Jonson? Or Shakespeare?”

“I said you would ridicule me.”

“Zounds, she did, too!” Foz cried. “For shame, Neville!”

Richard Blythe said nothing; he simply
turned on his heel and strode away.

“You’ve insulted him,” Neville observed.

Arabella was not extremely sorry. She was, in fact, rather glad to see him go, for she did not doubt that friends like Richard Blythe had contributed to the change in Neville. If Neville had met other men in London, might he not be different? Might he not have remained as he was?

“You would have done better to keep your Puritan opinions to yourself,” Neville said.

“What would you know of Puritans?” she said, challenging him. “He asked for my opinion, and against my better judgement, I gave it.”

“Puritans would have us spend the days on our knees in prayerful contemplation of our many sins,” Neville countered, “although how they can find the time to sin, I do not know.”

“I suppose a person of your vast sophistication would not deign to speak with one and ask.”

“She has you there, Neville!” Lord Cheddersby chuckled with evident delight. “You, speak with a Puritan!”

Lady Lippet giggled, too. In a woman of her years, that was not a pleasant sight.

Neville glanced over his shoulder. She followed his gaze and saw his father talking to the king, who petted his dogs and nodded. “The time has come to rescue His Majesty. If
Lady Arabella will be so good as to accompany me, I’m sure she will find a gentle way to disengage my father.”