The Perfect Royal Mistress (33 page)

“Ah, beware of a deal like that!” Savile laughed. “Lord Rochester’s verses are hardly for polite company!”

“Even ones about me?” Nell asked with a devilish smile.

“Particularly ones involving beautiful women,” Rochester chimed. “I’m quite incorrigible.”

“Then we’ll consider ourselves warned!” said Nell with a seductive laugh.

Nell and Beck passed through the front gate of her home, along with Richard, who had come along with them under protest. Lord Rochester and Henry Savile lingered a moment outside with the coach, giving their driver and groomsmen instruction as Nell and the others went inside.

As they passed across the threshold, and into the black marble foyer, a young man with tawny hair and gray-green eyes was just coming down the wide staircase, buttoning his vest. Rose lingered a few steps above him. Seeing Nell, his face blanched, and he paused. The tall clock in the hallway beyond struck the hour then with its tinny chime.

“Who might you be?” Nell asked in surprise.

There was a silence. The young man scanned all three of their shocked expressions before he bowed deeply and said, “Captain John Cassells, guardsman to the Duke of Monmouth, madam, at your service.” And then, without another word, he went past them and out into the warm afternoon sunlight. Near the wrought-iron gate, he tripped on a little shrub, and then was gone.

Richard, Beck, and Nell all exchanged a glance before they burst into laughter. “Yet another suitor, Nelly? How
do
you keep them all straight?” Beck asked on a chuckle.

“Oh, no! But with any luck, ’e was ’ere for my sister!”

They sat together in her most formal room to the left of the entrance foyer. A grand marble fireplace dominated; the room was decorated expensively with richly upholstered furniture and paintings on the walls framed in heavy gold. There were little objects placed on tables, none of them of her own choosing: a plaster bust of someone in military dress, a rosewood box inlaid with ivory in the shape of a heart, and a stack of classic books, which Nell herself knew she could never read.

“And
that
is your sister?” Henry Savile asked, crossing his legs as Rose went out of the room. “She’s not nearly so ravishing as you.”

“I’m younger. Life ’as ’ad decidedly more time to scar her,” Nell said simply, looking at the empty doorway through which Rose had only just passed.

“Poor, dear Nelly,” said Rochester in a mocking tone meant to lighten the pall suddenly cast over the room. “Such a gloriously complex creature you are, of which His Majesty shall only ever appreciate one facet.”

“Is that what your poem says?”

“Among other things.”

“And certainly not so properly,” Savile added.

“Life at court has nothing to do with being proper! And it is certainly not for the faint of heart. But it is delicious gossip we live by.” Rochester laughed. “I write about that. For example, did you realize that unappealing cow you met at Windsor, Anne, daughter of the once-great chancellor of England, is the Duchess of York, married to His Majesty’s own brother?”

“How about the Countess of Shrewsbury. Now
there
is good fodder for gossip!” chimed Savile. “The she-devil herself, who was so caustic with you, behaves that way to absolutely everyone, even her lover, the great Duke of Buckingham, and right there beneath the very pert nose of the woman he intends to marry in a week’s time!”

“Great in his own mind, if not in his bed, or at least that’s what they say!” They laughed together, enormously pleased with themselves when they saw by her expression that Nell had absolutely no idea as to either revelation.

“But poor Mary Fairfax was so fair and naive. She sat right there beside the countess, smiling all the while,” said Nell.

“Oh, my dear.” Rochester shook his head. “Whoever told you that desire had anything at all to do with an important marriage?”

They were stopped then by a commanding click of the large brass front-door knocker. For an instant, until Jeddy turned the handle and opened the door, a very hopeful image of the king darted across Nell’s mind. “I am looking for Lord Rochester,” declared a cultured voice. Nell drew in a breath, determined to slow her heart as Rochester and Savile stood.

“Why, speak of the devil,” Savile said beneath his breath.

“We really must be careful about that in future,” Rochester concurred with a smile.

“Your Grace,” they said, bowing reverently to the Duke of Buckingham, who stood now in Nell’s drawing room, dressed formally in dark-blue long velvet coat and breeches, lace spilling from his sleeves. His hat, with a waving purple ostrich plume, topped a long golden wig.

“I saw your coach outside as I passed,” Buckingham declared with a surprisingly easy smile. “And thought perhaps I might once again find a damsel in distress.”

“Mrs. Gwynne can certainly take care of herself, as she so cleverly cares for the king,” said Rochester as he and Buckingham smiled at each other, carefree as childhood chums. “But since you are here, do join us for champagne and great topics of the world, yet untapped.”

“Oh, and give us the poem you promised,” said Beck, swallowing a large mouthful of champagne and batting her eyes at Henry Savile.

“Very well, then, shall I?”

“You must,” Nell declared.

Biting back a smile, Rochester began:

“She knew so well to wield the royal tool,

That none had such a knack to please the fool.

When he was dumpish, she would still be jocund

And chuck the royal chin of Charles the Second.”

“Of course, it’s all in the way you say it:
second.
It really is a poem to be appreciated verbally, not read.

“This you’d believe if I had time to tell ye

The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,

Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth and thighs,

Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.”

“Well,” said Beck, into an awkward silence. “You did warn us.”

Nell’s eyes darted in turn to each of her guests. Finally, they settled on Rochester. “And do you know me well enough to write a poem like that?”

“Oh, I write them about all of the king’s mistresses. He says it is one of his greatest delights.”

“’Is Majesty’s ’eard this, then?” Nell’s tone was incredulous.

“Just two days past at Newmarket,” revealed the duke.

“And you’ve still not been sent to the Tower for it?” asked Richard Bell. It was the first words he had spoken since coming into the room.

“It is what the king fancies about you, Nell, how deliciously undiluted by life you are, how wonderfully earthy your charms. It holds greater power with him than you know,” said Buckingham. “I was with him when Rochester recited the entire verse. I can tell you that His Majesty was most thoroughly entertained.”

“I would imagine the queen was not with ’im, then,” she said, pressing back a smile.

“Not then, no. Her Majesty has gone to Bath, hoping the waters there will ensure a healthy pregnancy this time. But he wishes to see you.”

“And ’ow do you know that?”

“I am his oldest and dearest friend, my dear. There are times when I know the king better than he knows himself. And I know that he thinks of you most fondly.”

She settled back, wrapping her hands around the carved arms on her chair. “’E ’asn’t sent for me.”

“Life is complex for one who rules an entire country, and he is very busy indeed. But he will, Nell. Trust that he will.”

They stayed on into the evening, drinking and playing cards as the lamps and candles were lit throughout the echoing rooms and hallways. Then they stumbled out onto the flagstone, in a fit of laughter, to Lord Rochester’s waiting coach. Through the hours, they had spoken of the French, the Dutch, the economy, and sex, and heard more of Lord Rochester’s poems.

“We would indeed like to return, if you would have us,” Rochester slurred as he was helped up the coach steps.

“We could make it a regular event,” Nell called out from her front porch, torch lamps flickering on either side of her. “And I shall call you my merry band.”

“A truly splendid idea,” Buckingham concurred. “Perhaps, if he is fortunate indeed, one day we shall even invite the king!”

After glancing into the mirror but still grimacing at the reflection, Rose sank onto the edge of the bed. She drew her knees against her chest and only then felt herself smile. He cared for her as she was. It still amazed her. What had begun as a flirtation in the corridors at court was becoming something real. She could actually feel it. Possibility. Promise. Then she caught sight of her hands.

No amount of cleaning, lotion, or oil could hide the scars there. No one would ever know the cruelties of life in the gaol, or the indignities of her childhood. But having a man like John say he cared for her went a long way toward healing a heart she had thought would be wounded forever. She would never be like Nell, she would always live in the shadow of her famous sister. But just now, as the scent of him still lingered in this room, Rose Gwynne knew that today marked the beginning of her own little miracle.

That night, Nell sat slumped against the dust-blue padded chair at her dressing table, wearing her cotton and lace petticoats, letting Rose brush out her curls. Jeddy, on the other side, silently rubbed scented balm of Gilead into the palms of her hands and then her fingertips.

“Did you actually enjoy the company of men like that?” Rose finally asked.

“’Twas what I was supposed to do. They are ’Is Majesty’s friends, after all.”

“But are they
your
friends? Enough to call them your band?”

“’Tis all a very different world. I’m only tryin’ to learn to fit in. I need allies to survive, and they were ’elpful to me in it. Beyond that, just now I can’t say. Speakin’ of that, is John Cassells
your
friend? Or is ’e already, perhaps, more?”

Rose stood and set the brush down onto the dressing table. Color crept into her neck and into her face. “We were speakin’ about the king’s world, not mine.”

“I don’t ’ave a right to ask my sister about somethin’ that goes on in my own ’ouse?”

“The man in
your
bed is the only one you should be worryin’ yourself about.”

Nell ignored her slight. “Captain Cassells is ’andsome enough. And we know ’e’s got an income to keep you.” She bit back a smile, cleverly changing the subject back, but Rose grew suddenly serious.

“I’m not known for my judgment with men any more than Ma, Nelly. And I can’t say I think the world of yours.”

“I’m a girl from the back alleys of London who, by some strange miracle, ’as found ’er way to the king of England’s bed! ’Ow can you ever find fault with that?”

“The king ’as a wife, Nell, and ’e’ll always ’ave a wife.”

“So long as ’e loves me, what I’ve got is more than I’ve a right to,” Nell declared. “And, for me, ’tis enough. Now tell me all about John!”