The Bellerose Bargain (28 page)

It was first the feeling of a cooling rag on his forehead that Geoffrey Seavers noticed, and then slowly and with great care, he opened his eyes. He lay on a soft bed in a darkened room. He did not recognize the canopy above him nor did the draperies or tapestries look familiar, but it was clearly a rich place.

He sat up very cautiously and looked around. His shirt had been stripped from him and his wound was dressed. He touched the spot tentatively. It had been little more than a cut, but the lack of attention and the dirt and sweat had chafed it and caused it to become infected. He’d learned that lesson quite a few times and always swore the next time he sustained an injury he would take the time to have it tended. He laughed to himself, for it was likely he never would change his ways. He was impatient and too involved with whatever problem or battle was at hand to see to his own needs.

With that thought, the memory drifted back to him; he had plunged into blackness from the weakness caused by battle combined with the news that his wife had been buried. He lifted the coverlet to ease himself out of the bed, noticing that not only his shirt had been removed but his breeches and stockings as well. He did not see his clothing anywhere about the room.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed as the door opened. A young maid spied him and, with a gasp of surprise, flew across the room. "Into bed with you, milord, and I’ll tell her ladyship you’re awake."

"Her ladyship?" he questioned, obediently lying back into the rich pillows and allowing the maid to cover him.

"Aye, she asked to be informed. She’ll be here soon as I fetch her."

With a flurry of cotton skirts and the hard click of her shoes, she was gone, and Geoffrey lay there in confusion. Her ladyship? he wondered. Frances Stewart? Had she seen to his care?

But it was not that fair lass who entered the chamber moments later, but Barbara Palmer. Smiling and carrying a tray with an herbed wine for him, she drew near his bed.

"Haven’t been taking very good care of yourself, have you, my lord," she purred. "Here’s something to pick you up a bit."

"My lady, how—" He found he didn’t even know what question to ask.

"You’d have likely been taken out on a dead cart if left in Madame Stewart’s care. That witless twit’s scared green of plague, and every headache she gets she thinks is going to be her death. And does she get headaches! She gets them every time His Majesty steals a kiss."

Geoffrey’s eyes grew wider as she talked. There was definitely some serious competition between the two women, but Castlemaine usually held her tongue and spoke cautiously, as if Frances were her dearest friend. Rumor had it that was by order of the man in the middle: Charles.

"The moment you fell, Madame Stewart started to shriek, certain you were another plague victim. Had I not heard the commotion, you’d have been in the street." She paused a moment and smiled at him. "I’ve sent someone in search of your man, what’s his name. ‘Haps he can tell you something of your household."

"Madame Stewart said—"

"I know what she said: she said Lady Seavers is dead. Truth is that no one saw her dead and the rest of your household left the city, including your man, as far as we’ve heard. And the other rumors are flying about, but you’ve nothing to worry over till you see your man. He’ll know."

"Other rumors?" Geoffrey asked.

"Surely you’ve heard them. Lady Seavers is an impostor, her death a hoax—"

Geoffrey began to cough and choke on his drink, spitting and dripping as his face reddened. It was some time before he was able to control his fit, but the red in his face would not dissipate. He faced her with question in his watering eyes, but Castlemaine laughed at him.

"You’re wise to the gossip, my lord. I won’t ask you the truth of it, ease your mind. I’ll get my duchy another way, so I have no need for your fortune. His Majesty gets impatient with me from time to time, but he’s had no success in throwing me over for another in these many years, so I doubt he ever will. This tiff won’t last any longer than the last."

Geoffrey blinked. He tried another sip of wine to take the tickle out of his throat. "You’ve had a falling out?" he ventured.

"I’ve heard the court’s getting ready to leave for Windsor. I’m going elsewhere. Let him have his witless virgin for a while and see how he likes it."

Geoffrey smiled at Barbara. There was anger in her green eyes, but he could sense her control of the situation. He disagreed; he did not think she could hold the king forever by having child after child, but Barbara would never give up. And she’d play him carefully, besides.

"He’ll be coming here to see you when he has the time, so you’re to stay and begin to recover."

"I’ll report to His Majesty but I’ve got to—"

Barbara was shaking her head. "You misunderstand me, my lord. You’re not allowed to leave. The king has business with you. Your rumors, you know."

A creeping sludge filled Geoffrey’s gut and his face lost its flush.

"And I imagine he wants every detail of your part in the battle. I doubt you have much to worry about, but just the same, leaving now would not be wise. Let’s not make him any angrier than he already is."

Lord Seavers gulped hard and set the wine on the tray.

"Well, I admit," she went on casually, "he’s more angry with me than just about anyone, but when he’s angry with me it’s already got a good start, you see. You’ll want to handle him gently for now. He’s lost friends in the battle, you know. And he doesn’t have a farthing to pay his navy."

"The rumors, lady. What rumors have found Whitehall?"

"Perry, the jackass, is in a fit over Lady Seavers’s departure, shall we say. Seems he has the worst possible timing as ever I saw. While Charles refused to eat, sleep, or speak to anyone, Perry insisted on seeing him and telling his story, the most ridiculous story about Lady Seavers being a country wench trumped up to get the inheritance. Charles was closer to sending a man to Bedlam than ever before."

"Then he does not believe...?"

Barbara rose from his bedside, brushing down her skirts and looking bored as she could be. "I think he doesn’t care, my lord. And I think if anyone is going to get stuck with the problem, it’s bound to be you."

She chewed her finger as if deep in thought. "Well, I’ve a hundred things to do if I’m moving this household before they’re all rotting of the plague. There’s none in the palace yet, from what I hear, and I’ve set my own spies to that bit of news. If there’s plague here," she said, shaking her finger at him, "I’ll be the first to know it."

"You weren’t afraid I was sick with plague?" he asked.

"Only a bit." She shrugged.

"But you took a grave chance."

"A small chance, my lord. His Majesty would not likely come to my apartments for a while since I told Mistress Stewart I’d like to have her nose slit. I told you, he’s angry with me. But your name’s gotten some attention around here the last few days and I knew if I had you here he’d want to see you."

Geoffrey reclined with a smirk on his lips. "You’ve got something going all the time, haven’t you Barbara."

"There’s a thousand people in this town who’d see me burned in a trice. I’ll warrant you I can take care of myself well enough, but I’ve got to keep my wits sharp."

And, Geoffrey thought, you’ve got to keep your lover in check. He smiled slightly with the thought and, as if she’d heard it, Barbara responded with her own smile.

"How do you suggest I handle these rumors, lady?" he asked slyly.

Barbara laughed and turned toward the door. "If there’s any truth to them, my lord, I suggest you do a damn good job of lying.

Lord Seavers sent word to his mate that he’d taken up residence at Whitehall in the hospitality of Lady Castlemaine and all messages for him should be forwarded to the palace. It was only one full night’s sleep and a day later that saw him feeling fit and restless, but still he was cautioned by Castlemaine that leaving would be a huge mistake.

In another part of the palace there was much more excitement than that caused by Geoffrey Seavers’s problems, for the king had gone through about as much as a king could without cracking. The plague was on a vicious rampage through London: crosses marked more doors every day, while graves were being left unmarked and often were filled with more than one body. Sailors rioted in the streets in fear and anger, for none had been paid and all had earned bonuses; and, while the war had been a victory for England, her ships were suffering the wounds of battle and would need heavy repairs.

It was not strange that in all this fervor Charles paid little attention to the problem of Lord Seavers’s wife and the legitimacy of her inheritance. He might have been particularly interested had he been grotesquely bored.

He received several requests from the young lord for an audience and ignored every one. The end of June was drawing near and he was concerned with moving the court, placating the sailors, and perhaps getting out of London with his health. He was fiddling in his closet with medicines that a visiting Jew had given him the formula for, when George Villiers, the duke of Buckingham, entered and caused a slight frown to cross the king’s face.

"It had better be urgent," Charles said without looking at him.

"I confess it’s not the least bit urgent. It’s my cousin again. Lady Castlemaine."

"How is it she can creep up on me when I least expect it? And not even in the flesh."

"In the flesh would please her best," George said.

Charles sighed and mixed his potion. "Only because she thinks it’s likely to make a difference in how I’m feeling." He turned toward the duke with his noxious mixture in front of him. "I promise you it won’t."

"I know that and you know that, but Barbara’s probably going to drive us both crazy if we don’t do something about her condition."

"Another condition, is it? Well it’s not mine."

"Not pregnancy, Your Majesty."

"Try this, George. Guaranteed to relieve anything, and with any luck at all, it’ll take care of your pox as well as my fear of plague." Villiers wrinkled his nose in stark refusal, and Charles shrugged and downed the brew. It could’ve tasted like a cesspool and he still would have smiled. The man liked nothing so well as his own medicines, except perhaps chasing women.

"I think, George, that perhaps we ought to move to Hampton Court tomorrow. What do you think?"

"Sire, I beg your indulgence this once but—"

Charles scowled and moved out of his closet and away from his toys. Whenever George begged his indulgence it was sure to be something distasteful.

"Give it to me quickly, it’s got to be worse than that concoction I just swallowed. The plague might be better, for that matter." He sighed. "What does she want this time?"

"She’d like you to give her guest permission to leave so she can have back her apartments with some privacy."

"Aha," Charles brooded.

"I think he is afraid to touch her and she can’t get about as she likes with him there. Sire, you instructed her to keep him until you could see him."

"I know," Charles said, moving toward his fruit bowl and picking up an apple that had spoiled. The sickness in the city not only carried the constant fear of contamination, but servants in the castle were afraid to go out to purchase food, and many of the merchants had closed down their stands and shops to flee. And when food could be found and bought without fear, it was of a quality far inferior to that of healthier days. "Damn me, it’ll be a long time before we can enjoy decent nourishment again, I vow," Charles pouted, dropping the rotten apple back into the bowl and shaking his head in frustration. "To be a common man and helpless is one thing," he told George. "But you can’t imagine the pain of being a helpless king."

George got a bit bored with following his king and finally took himself across the room to look out the window. There he stood quietly, knowing better than to push Charles for a response. They had been good friends for many years, alternately fighting and playing together. This happened to be a good period for their friendship; but Charles was always the king and George the faithful servant.

"Well?" Charles finally said.

"Well, I’m curious as hell and could care less about Barbara’s predicament."

Charles laughed in good humor, for he liked George best when there were no protocol barriers between them and they were simply friends. Charles was cautious, however, because no one was to be trusted. Especially George. Charles never did blame a man for trying to get the best he could. He tried not to tempt George into betrayal by giving him too much inside information.

"Tell me what’s got you by the tail, George."

"This business Perry carries on about; that Charlotte Bellamy is not Charlotte Bellamy and that she’s not dead but run off and that the real Charlotte—"

"I’ve never heard such a lot of garbage in my life," Charles said, pouring himself and George some wine from a decanter that sat on a nearby table.

"Then you think there’s no truth to it at all?" George asked.

"I imagine it’s all entirely true."

George rose and accepted the preferred glass, a look of complete perplexity crossing his face.