The Perfect Royal Mistress (17 page)

“That and a few other interesting things.”

“Is Clarendon entirely out of London, then?” he asked uncomfortably, forced to think of the old man’s downfall.

“Lord Clarendon is on his way to his country home as we speak. And, may I say, Charles, good riddance to him for what he has cost England.”

He looked at his old friend, a man he did not believe he would like if he met him now. But for the rich and long history they shared, Buckingham would seem a persistent fly in need of swatting. “We all made our decision with regard to the Dutch. I daresay there’s none of us without blood on our hands,” he said.

“Goodness. You really are in need of a bit of revelry.”

Charles turned and watched the ramp being fitted for his disembarking. “Perhaps you’re right. The queen is despondent, and it is a relief to be away from her when she is like that. She had led me to believe once again this month that she was—”

“Not again.” Buckingham groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Your wife is lovely, but as barren as a Devon hag, and after this long that is not likely to change.”

“For the good of England, I have got to keep hoping though, do I not?” He gripped the polished ebony handrail. “My brother is again pressing hard to divorce Anne, using her father’s banishment now as impetus. And my spies have told me that he wishes to replace her with a staunchly Catholic bride.”

“There
is
always Monmouth to be named your heir if the Duke of York proves unfit.”

“My brother is my only heir. The rightful succession of this monarchy is in large part what my father died trying to preserve.”

They began to walk down the little carpeted gangway followed by Thomas Clifford, John Maitland, and Henry Bennet, and their wives, the warm breeze ruffling the edges of their elegant capes, skirts, and the plumes of their hats, and then an unending line of servants.

“Some ghosts speak too loudly for their own good,” Buckingham carefully offered as they climbed together into the same coach, and the door was closed.

Charles settled against the seat across from him, his mouth a firm line. “I will
always
do what he would have done.”

“Even if your brother succeeds you and turns England Catholic?”

“I cannot consider that. And I will thank you, my old friend, not to darken those prayers with your own dissonant cloud.”

Buckingham shrugged. “In the meantime, I would say the return of our jolly old blade is well in order, here in Newmarket at least.”

“I don’t know how jolly I am, considering the events of the past month. But I find I
am
in the mood for a bit of revelry.”

“Ha! Splendid!” Buckingham smiled as the coach lurched forward, the sound of horses’ hooves heavy around them. “Now let us find Your Majesty a girl in town with whom you can quite properly revel!”

“I am not in the market for another mistress, George.”

“Who said anything about a mistress? Let us just both settle for a rousing good whore!”

Chapter 12

’T
IS NOT THE DRINKING THAT IS TO BE BLAMED, BUT THE EXCESS.

—John Selden

T
HEY
walked, hand in hand, through a field of bluebells behind Buckhurst’s country house. Charles Sackville also held a full silver goblet of French wine. They had been in Newmarket nearly a month, and to her surprise Nell found that intimacy with Lord Buckhurst was a fleeting thing built on vain attempts and then endless apologies. She had concluded that Buckhurst’s attachment to drink was stronger than anything he felt for her. Still, he wished her to remain, and so still she hoped for the security a miracle match like this one could give her.

“Here now.” He reached across to touch her chin. “Why look so sad? Do tell me you are enjoying Newmarket as much as I am.”

“The countryside is lovely.”

“And my friends adore you.”

Sir Thomas Ogle and Sir Charles Sedley, the two wealthy libertines, were Buckhurst’s shadows. They stayed at Lord Buckhurst’s house, and spent most of their time drinking, playing cards, or going out with him. Where they went, or what they did when they were gone, she never knew.

Beneath a sky pillowed with white clouds, Buckhurst looked at Nell. Studying her for a moment first, he pressed an absent, feathery kiss onto the tip of her nose.

“How would you like to attend a banquet with me this evening Nell?”

“What sort of banquet?”

“It is an evening’s entertainment given by the king himself. Lots of dressing expensively, dancing, and drinking, of course.”

Nell felt a shiver at the unexpected thought of the king. She sank into a patch of flowers so thick that it swallowed her up. “’Is Majesty is here?”

“He is. And it is his custom to host them as often as twice a fortnight when he is in town,” Buckhurst said, as he drained his goblet in a single, long swallow, then sat down beside her. “I am rather well connected, you could say. My father was a great favorite at court when His Majesty was a boy, and, fortunately for me, this king is given to strong bouts of nostalgia.”

“Is that so?” She leaned back on her elbows. “’E seemed different when I met ’im.”

“Royal persona. Important for things like war and asking Parliament for more money. Both full-time occupations, the way I hear it,” Buckhurst said blithely. “Once you come to know him here at Newmarket though, he is a different sort altogether. You will see he is really quite tolerably human, full of all the same warts as the rest of us.”

“Speakin’ of warts, is ’e likely to bring Mrs. Davies?”

Buckhurst laughed. “I rather doubt it. The king is not known for his consistency with the fair sex. Especially not here in Newmarket, where there is an abundance of beauty and options. And speaking of being human, Nell, I know I haven’t been the best host, or the best paramour, so far, but I promise you, I’ve turned over a new leaf.” He brushed a hair back from her face and then kissed her passionately.

“I’ll keep you to that,” she said, but all she could think was what a girl like her should wear when being entertained by the king of England, and what clever thing she would say to charm His Majesty if she were given the chance.

The rolling green Newmarket Heath had been transformed into an exotic sheik’s harem. Lights twinkled over a canopy of red silk like stars in a summer night sky. Servants, dressed as slaves, strolled up and down bearing silver trays filled with figs and nuts and jeweled goblets of wine. As the royal musicians played just beyond the tent so that he could hear them from the house, Charles sat in his small presence chamber with his head in his hand.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

Charles shook his head. “Is the queen all right then?”

“She is, sire. She knows now it never was a true pregnancy.”

He washed a hand over his face. “God, Catherine.”

“There shall be others, of course,” said William Chiffinch encouragingly.

“Of course,” Charles blandly agreed. “Is she resting then?”

“Yes, sire. Resting comfortably at Hampton Court with her ladies.”

At last he stood and allowed his dresser to drape him in the flowing purple robes of a sheik. He turned, and a flash of gold braid at his broad shoulders caught the light. “Very well, then. Enough of this melancholia. The Dutch…Moll…
my wife
…We are at Newmarket!” He lifted a hand jeweled now with two large rubies. “Let us away to some revelry at last!”
And to forgetting,
he thought. But he did not say that.

He walked outside, encircled by a coterie of self-important men in costumed robes of their own. As they laughed and talked, he thought suddenly again of Lord Clarendon, the old man he had been made to turn against to save England’s place in the world. Clarendon had been with them last time here, in autumn, coming out of this same door with all of them, laughing about something trivial. Now his laughter was forever silent at court. Chancellor of England once. Exiled forevermore.

Charles had not allowed himself to miss him, until now.

The politics against him had been too great, the force for change too insistent. Chiffinch walked beside the king now, down into the gardens, but they did not speak. Charles knew Clarendon had been a potent political liability. But surrounded by men who fed continually at the trough of his generosity, the king missed his deeper friendship. Buckingham was a friend, but he was also dangerously motivated by self-preservation. Charles loved him, and the camaraderie between them, but he was not a fool. He saw his friend’s strengths and weaknesses for what they were. He sank into a throne set up for him at the back of the tent, garlanded in vines and grape leaves. The music was exotic, the costumes of his servants creative enough to set a mood. Yet still there was a mounting sense of boredom. Chiffinch’s efficiency led him to the same result, night after endless night. As it would again this night. It was a compulsion he had almost begun to dread. Then, she was there.
Nell
…

The thoughts in his mind stilled, and he was caught entirely off-guard.

She did not see him, so he was free to watch her. She came forward into the tent through an arched opening, dressed in layers of violet silk, edged in gold thread. Her extraordinary hair, the long copper curls, were loose and full on her shoulders. The many candles and lamps created a golden halo of light around her as she paused. It did not surprise him that her smile was wide, and she was softly laughing. What he did not anticipate was that she would be on the arm of Lord Buckhurst, and that she was laughing with
him
.

How could she have thought to give up the theater for a reprobate like that? Lord, but she was a deliciously complex creature, always saying and doing the precise opposite of what was expected. His pulse sped, and though noise swirled around him, he heard no other sound. “Is that not Nell Gwynne?” he asked Chiffinch, knowing exactly who she was.

“The very same, sire.”

“Tell her I would speak with her.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The king watched Chiffinch walk over to her as he had wished to do himself. But he would not battle with Buckhurst like a commoner. He watched Chiffinch speak.

Nell turned to the king then with an unexpected little frown. He sat absolutely still, music and guests swirling around him. He was glad suddenly that she did not know what Chiffinch’s customary role was in his life. The moment of her indecision lingered for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, she tipped up her face, never breaking her gaze from his, and came away from Buckhurst with Chiffinch.

“I had no idea you would be here, Mrs. Gwynne,” he said, feeling instantly foolish for how ordinary that had sounded.

“And I ’ad no idea Your Majesty’d remember me.”