The Perfect Royal Mistress (49 page)

De Croissy’s hand pressed into her shoulder then, pulling her to an abrupt halt beneath a ceiling mural full of clouds and angels. Once again, Louise turned; this time her face was crimson with rage. “How
dare
you touch me!”

From behind gritted teeth, he coldly replied, “I had hoped to spare you the explanation, but you leave me no choice. We have too much at stake now, and I will not have you risk the place King Louis believes you have attained with these childish tirades of yours! Is that entirely clear?
Bon.
Then you should know he has gone off to that actress of his. An unpleasant truth, yet there it is. And from what I have observed, you are not so entirely indispensable to His Majesty as to go demanding his return. You would do well, as Mrs. Gwynne herself does, to tolerate his dalliances and be there, clean, pretty, and smiling, when he
does
again desire you, which may not be anytime soon if he sees you raging and stomping about like this!”

Louise’s blue eyes narrowed. “How
dare
you! I will be queen of England one day, and I could have you drawn and quartered for speaking to me in this manner!”

He gripped her arm then and pulled her close so they would not be overheard. “Fantasies are delightful,
chérie,
until they interfere with business. You will never be queen; you are already a whore. Now, you have a job to do if you wish your family in France to continue living in their newfound luxury. And I suggest you do it admirably, or you will be out on your ear and back to France, a disgraced harlot who could not keep an old lecher like King Charles from running off to a mere actress.”

Tears pooled in her eyes, and she turned her lower lip out in a dramatic pout as it began to quiver. “This was not how it was supposed to be when I agreed to come to England.”

“Life is difficult everywhere,” he seethed and pinched her arm even more tightly. “I suggest now that you’re here, you get creative, and make the best of it,
chérie.
”

Charles rode to Lincoln’s Inn Fields with a heavy heart. He had told his advisers that he would tell Nell himself, that it would be easier for Nell, coming from him. But he knew there were no words that would suffice. In their endless hours of conversation, he had learned what Richard Bell had come to mean to her. Her first friend in the theater, Nell always proudly proclaimed. She had lobbied tirelessly for better parts for him, as he, in the beginning, had lobbied for her. Without Richard, Nell always said, she would still be selling oranges, and she most certainly would never have met the great love of her life.

Not bothering with the formality of a knock, a royal guardsman opened the front door for the king. Charles then stepped inside before Buckingham and the Duke of York, both of whom had insisted on accompanying him. The royal physician also followed. Nell was sitting beyond the archway, in the drawing room, playing basset with Rose. Helena Gwynne was sitting out in the entrance hall on the steps holding the new baby, James, surrounded by Jeddy and Charles, who were tossing balls down the stairs and giggling together. It was such an idyllic scene that the king’s heart squeezed in his chest. She’d had too much trauma in her life already for this. He felt a thickness at the back of his throat, a burning at the prospect of what he would say, how this next moment was about to change everything. He nodded to Helena, then moved toward the archway. Nell glanced up, saw him, and sprang to her feet, smiling broadly. His appearance was not a surprise; he often came to her unannounced when he could steal a moment here or there.

The king steeled himself and took a step forward.
This is mine to do,
he thought.
She deserves as gentle a heartbreak as I can make it for her.
“It’s Richard, Nell,” he said.

She froze, stunned, before him.

“There has been a fire at the theater.”

Suddenly, she was looking up, eyes wide, tears pooling there, and he was holding her arms, watching helplessly as the first tears slid down her cheeks. “God…Oh, God, no…”

“It is a terrible tragedy, sweetheart. The theater is completely destroyed. He was trapped in one of the tiring-rooms.”

He stood there, still bracing her, watching helplessly as she collapsed. Her mind would be hurling images at her with cruel precision, he knew. Richard’s laugh…his crooked smile…the utter kindness to her that she had always described to him. Her body jerked uncontrollably as she wept. “I just saw ’im yesterday…only just embraced ’im for the last time…’e ’ad found the courage at last to ask Beck Marshall to marry ’im. Ballocks! Oh, ballocks!”

“Leave us, all of you,” the king commanded then, and there was no other sound but Nell’s sobbing as everyone moved across the wide Turkish carpet, through the drawing room, and back into the kitchen.

The house, so full of life only a moment before, was still now, with the quiet accentuating every sound. The tall clock in the entrance hall that ticked away. The floorboards beyond the drawing room straining as one of Nell’s servants moved with the others. The king knew he could have his doctor administer something to make her sleep. But that would not take away the pain, only prolong it. How well he knew that himself. Instead, he knelt with her, and held her in his arms, knowing there was nothing in the world even a king could do to help. “I am so truly sorry, Nell,” he whispered into her hair.

“Stay with me,” she bid him in return.

She asked him for so little, Charles thought. He wanted to give her the world. Right now, he knew that all she wanted was the one thing even a king could not give her: the life of Richard Bell.

Chapter 30

H
E WHO REINS WITHIN HIMSELF AND RULES PASSIONS, DESIRES, AND FEARS, IS MORE THAN A KING.

—John Milton

L
ATER
that same afternoon, feeling nostalgia, and the heavy pull of his conscience, Charles summoned Lady Castlemaine. After their many and complicated years together, and for the sake of their children, whom he adored, he meant to set things right. And he would tell her in person, whatever consequences that might bring.

“Duchess of Cleveland?” she asked, a slight catch in her voice, as they stood facing each other in a small sitting room, a part of his private apartments. The pale pink light of late afternoon was showing in through the windows, casting shadows around them.

“You will be Countess of Southampton, as well.”

“I don’t understand. I bid you for years to give me this, and now, when I haven’t seen you for months—”

“We had good years together, Barbara,” he said evenly, as his ever-present collection of spaniel puppies tumbled and barked at his feet. “You gave me some of your very best. I know that now. You were there for me even in France, before the Crown was restored. You helped me borrow clothes suitable enough to ride back into London…”

In spite of herself, she bit back a smile. “I remember it well.”

“So do I. You will also become Baroness Nonsuch, for helping me cover
that
particular indignity.”

“And do I claim Henry VIII’s palace that goes with that name?” she asked ungratefully.

“Of course.” He knew how desperate she was for money. He had bailed her out more times than he could count, taking money from every source he could find to pay off her enormous gambling debts alone.

“So, my dear Charles, what has you feeling so magnanimous today?”

“Age and regrets, I suppose,” he answered her honestly. “Perhaps I am trying at last to be a better man.”

“A noble, if impossible, task. But the attempt, it is for Nell really, is it not?”

“And if it were?”

She looked at him for a long time before she replied. “I would much prefer to hate her, Charles. I think everyone would. But the truth is, your Nell is damnably likable.”

“She is,” said the king. “Isn’t she?”

Three days later, on a crisp and cloudy Saturday afternoon, Charles strolled through St. James’s Park with Louise. They were followed by the French ambassador, de Croissy, and several French attendants. The thought came to the king again, stubborn, like a child whining to be heard; he pressed it back, but it only came again more strongly:
She really was not quite what you had hoped she would be. And so now, what will you do?

So there it was. Out. Acknowledged. Accepted. He faced the prospect not only of breaking her heart, but also of returning her to France, her reputation in tatters, and ill-suited for any sort of proper marriage. God help him, rogue that he was, still he wanted her gone. After their first time three months ago, Louise had gotten onto her knees beside the bed and begun to pray, exactly as his wife had done on their wedding night. It had done little to maintain his raging fantasy of bedding the chubby-faced French girl he had convinced himself he loved. A month later, and three days after the death of Richard Bell now, Charles tried not to remember that disappointing encounter. As they strolled together through the lushly landscaped park, Louise’s arm linked through his felt like a noose around his neck.

What Louise de Kéroualle lacked in desirability she had, these last months, made up for in availability. Since she was housed now in Barbara’s former suite of apartments at Whitehall, convenience certainly gave her the edge on his attentions, if not his heart. No, his blood did not burn any longer when he was with her. Nell had always been his fantasy. Ah, Nell! The passion between them was unmatched. He felt his heart quicken, remembering. With everyone else there were the motives, bribes, unrelenting power games, which, truthfully, at times had their own allure. But with Nell, it was only the lust and the love. Simple and powerful, as was she. Louise held her hand out to a small, timid deer that had approached them. She jumped back with a little squeal of delight when its wet nose touched her fingertips. Then she turned to smile at Charles. Nell…He should be there with her right now. Today was the funeral for Richard Bell. He should be there with Nell to comfort her, but she had asked him not to come. He had been hurt, and yet he understood. Too much would be made of their appearance together, and the memory of a dear friend would be lost to gossip.