Margaret Moore (24 page)

Uncle Elias shrugged.

“He told me that I am being talked about, and it is not flattering.”

“By jealous women, I don’t doubt,” Uncle Elias replied, rocking back and forth on his heels as if his excitement and delight must take physical form. “All the ones the king has not bestowed his attention upon, I’m quite sure. Don’t trouble yourself about it. That’s the price you must pay for the royal favor.”

The price she must pay. Yes, he would put it that way, and apparently he thought she was going to be getting her money’s worth.

This would all be worth it only if she could be Rob’s wife.

Slouched in a wing chair, Sir Philip Martlebury glared at his footman over the rim of his brandy glass. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed?” he demanded, his words slightly slurred as he put his drink down on the table beside him.

“Yes, Sir Philip,” the trembling servant replied. “He said it was important. Very important.”

“Who said?”

A man shoved his way past the footman and walked to the center of Sir Philip’s library. “I did.”

He was about Philip’s age, with greasy dark hair that hung about his broad shoulders and clothes that had clearly seen better days. He also sported a patch over his left eye.

“Who the devil are you?”

The man removed his patch. “Don’t recognize me, eh, Martlebury?”

Sir Philip straightened, then glanced at the gawking footman. “Leave us.”

The servant obeyed, closing the door softly.

“Well, well, well,” Philip drawled, reaching again for his brandy. “I thought we’d seen the last of you. Or have you got another sister to sell? My father’s been dead these five years, though, and I have different tastes.”

A muscle in Jack’s jaw tensed. “Maybe you don’t want Vivienne Burroughs, after all.”

The glass of brandy halted its progress to Philip’s mouth.

“Ah, now you’re interested.” Without waiting for an answer, Jack strolled over to the decanter on the side table and lifted it to his lips. He drank down several large gulps, then set it beside Martlebury with a bang. “She doesn’t want you because she’s got a lover, and I know who it is.”

Philip scowled. “The whole city knows who it is, you oaf. The king.”

Jack grinned. “Think so, do ya?”

“I do. So if you thought to sell me that information, you can go now.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to sell, ‘cause it ain’t the king.”

“What, some brother of yours?”

“A friend, as a matter o’ fact.”

“What friend of yours could be the lover of a woman like Vivienne Burroughs?”

“Cost you them rings you’re wearin’ to find out.”

“You’re lying.” Philip took another drink.

“Why would I do that?”

“For my rings, which are worth considerably more than you asked of my father for the pleasure of your sister’s company.”

“I was just a boy then. I come up in the world since.”

“To where you would sell friends?”

“A man has needs.”

Sir Philip eyed him speculatively. “I won’t argue with that,” he remarked. “But if Vivienne Burroughs has a lover, he’s a royal one, and more power to her—and so to me,” he finished.

He opened his mouth to call for the footman, but in the next instant, Jack was behind the chair, his hand clamped over it.

“Listen to me, you pompous ass,” he hissed in the nobleman’s ear. “I can stick you quick as a wink and be out that window before your servants get here. It ain’t the king who’s had her, and there ain’t goin’ to be no reward for you being cuckolded. If you want her uncle’s money, what I know will mean that you get it. Now, are you goin’ to pay me for what I have to say, or do I rob ya and slit your throat?”

His eyes full of panic, Philip nodded.

“I wouldn’t make any loud noises if I were you.” With his other hand, Jack drew out his long, sharp knife. “The rings, Martlebury.”

The nobleman quickly took them off and held them out.

Jack came around the chair and snatched up the jewelry.

Philip wiped his lips. “I could have you thrown in prison for robbery.”

“Aye, ya could, but then you won’t find out who’s been plowing Vivienne Burroughs’s furrow.”

Philip reached for his brandy. His hand shaking, he raised the glass to his lips and drank before speaking again. “Well, who is it—Cheddersby?”

“Rob Harding.”

“That’s ludicrous. Heartless Harding?”

“The very same.”

“He’s representing me.”

“He’s representing you, all right—in her bed.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and disgust. “I’ve heard stories about Harding and Godwin. He’s a sodomite.”

Jack’s lips curled scornfully. “Then I’m the king’s long-lost brother. Stories, they are. I tell ya, he’s already made love to her at least once, so if you want Vivienne Burroughs, you’ve got her. Her uncle’ll be glad to be rid of her—unless you think he’ll let her marry a solicitor, and one with scarcely a penny to his name.”

“You’re a scoundrel and a liar. When have they had a chance?”

“He was with her t’other night. Climbed in her bedchamber window like the thief he used to be. I seen him meself.”

Philip rubbed his naked fingers. “If that’s true, I’ll have him thrown in prison, the lying rogue.”

Jack grinned. “Worth a few baubles, ain’t it?”

“I believe it is, yes,” Philip agreed slowly. “If you’re not lying.”

“I can prove it.”

“How?”

“He’ll be climbing in her window tonight, like as not. You could wait in the mews and see for yourself. He’ll go in to her very bedchamber and there won’t be a peep out of the house because he’s welcome.”

“She would hardly let me touch her, that whore,” Philip muttered as his hands balled into fists.

“We’re all whores, ain’t we, in one way or another?” Jack noted dispassionately. “Dog eat dog. Every man for himself. That’s the way of the world.”

“I daresay that’s how you justified selling your sister to my father.”

Jack’s jaw clenched again. “You’re selling your title for money, ain’t ya? You gave me them rings in exchange for what I had to tell ya. I sell what I have, no different.”

“I think peddling your sister to a disgusting old lecher is quite different. She fought him, you know,” Philip continued coldly. “Bit and scratched. He had to beat her senseless the first time. She was better after that. Never made a sound, not even when he was done with her and cast her out.”

“Because she was havin’ his bastard.”

“So what of that?” Philip asked rhetorically with an airy wave of his hand.

Jack regarded him studiously. “On second thought, maybe I oughta kill you.”

Philip straightened. “You wouldn’t dare. My servant saw you.”

“Thievin,’ murder, I swing either way.”

“You didn’t rob me,” Philip said desperately. “I gave you the jewels.”

Jack smiled. “So you did, and don’t you forget that, in case it comes before the courts. What are ya going to do to Rob?” His eyes gleamed eagerly. “Kill him?”

“Sully my sword with the likes of him? Oh, no, Mr. Leesom, nothing so crude as that. I will ruin him. I will send him back to the gutter where he belongs.”

“Fair enough,” Jack said. His gaze roving over the many portable, valuable items so carelessly displayed, he sauntered to the door.

“How much did my father pay you to kill Janet?”

Jack slowly turned back. “I never killed her.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. I am just curious.”

“She done herself in. Too ashamed to go back to Rob, too afraid he’d turn her away. Even then he had a high and mighty opinion of himself.”

“How much will it cost for you to cripple him?”

“What, hamstring ‘im?”

“No. I want him castrated.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Like a bull?”

“He has enjoyed what should have been mine,” Philip said. “He has aspired far beyond his place. I want him alive to contemplate that, and all that he has lost. How much?”

“Two hundred pounds and passage to the New World,” Jack replied after a moment’s thought.

“Very well.”

“When?”

“We’ll go to Burroughs’s house tonight. If he comes there as you say he will, you can do it then. You
are
capable of overpowering him?”

“O’ course.”

“Especially since he will not be expecting an attack by his friend.”

Jack ignored Philip’s remark. “What’ll you be doing?”

“If you are such a clever fellow, I’m sure you can help me climb in a bedchamber window.”

Jack ran his measuring gaze over the man and looked doubtful. “Won’t it be enough to watch ‘im climbin’ in?”

“What, and miss the opportunity of calling Vivienne a whore to her face? I think not.” An evil, rapacious smile grew upon Philip’s face. “And when I make her pay for cheating me, I will enjoy it all the more if Harding has to watch.”

V
ivienne and Uncle Elias stood uncertainly in a corner of the Banqueting House of Whitehall Palace. Around them, the women were attired in fine silks and satins, but had painted their faces and exposed so much naked skin, they might have been actresses. Or whores.

The men were no better, for the majority of them seemed drunk. And as for the language … Vivienne was shocked by the obscene words and suggestive nature of most of the conversations she overheard.

She glanced up at the ceiling, where she understood one of the scenes depicted represented Temperance subduing Wantonness. Apparently Wantonness had gotten the upper hand during this reign.

Even Uncle Elias, who had so yearned for this invitation, appeared to be dismayed by what he was seeing and hearing.

“I don’t see her anywhere,” he muttered more to himself than to Vivienne.

“Lady Castlemaine?” Vivienne proposed, realizing his dismay had sprung from another source.

Uncle Elias started as if he had forgotten she was there. “Yes, and the king isn’t here, either.”

“Then perhaps we should leave,” she suggested. “Maybe he’s changed his mind about me.”

Or it could be that she and Rob had been worried about the king’s motive for nothing. Perhaps he had simply seen a way to help them, albeit one that allowed him liberties she would never permit otherwise.

Somebody tapped her on the shoulder. “Yes?” she said, turning swiftly to discover a man dressed in livery behind her.

“Mistress Burroughs?” he asked, bowing and giving her such a knowing look, she thought he must be the most insolent servant she had ever encountered. “Yes.”

“I am Chaffinch, the king’s page. Will you please step this way?”

She had heard of him; he was the servant most in the king’s confidence.

“Go, Vivienne,” Uncle Elias growled under his breath, “and remember what an opportunity this is. Don’t throw it away.”

A swift look at the faces of those nearby confirmed that they were also making assumptions as to Charles’s reasons for summoning Vivienne. What else
would
they think, given who had come to fetch her, Charles’s reputation and what had happened at Lord Cheddersby’s?

“I would not keep the king waiting, Mistress Burroughs,” Chaffinch murmured.

Vivienne glanced at her uncle. “Will you wait for me?”

Uncle Elias glared at her. “Who can say how long you may be?” he replied. “You must stay with the king for as long as he wants you.”

Why she had expected him to say otherwise, she didn’t know. “Very well, don’t wait,” she snapped before turning on her heel. “Come along, Mr. Chaffinch. To the king.”

She held her head high and ignored the speculative looks, sly smiles and excited whispers as the man led her through the crowd to a door that led to a corridor.

Then they turned another way, and another, until she was quite lost. With a shiver of dread, she wondered if that was the intention.

Finally, Chaffinch halted before a large double door. “The king’s private apartments,” he informed her as he opened them.

Vivienne stepped into a room full of scarlet and gold, ornately decorated with scarlet wallpaper and gilded trim. Fine, delicate baroque furnishings filled it, and it was illuminated by what could have been a thousand candles. Perfume and the scent of burning wax filled the air, and she found it difficult to breathe—especially when the man seated with his back to the door rose and faced her.

King Charles wore what appeared to be a dressing gown over his untied, lace-trimmed shirt and dark breeches. He was so casually attired, it was as if he were nearly naked.

“Majesty,” she murmured, her heart pounding as she curtsied.

The doors closed behind her with a dull thud.

They were alone.

“Ah, Mistress Burroughs. Vivienne,” he said, coming to her and taking her hand to raise her. He stood eye to eye with her, smiling. “We are so delighted to see you.”

“You invited me to Whitehall, Your Majesty, so naturally I came,” she replied, barely resisting the urge to pull her hand from his warm grasp.

“Of course we did. We have an appreciation for beauty, and so we enjoy having it to hand.”

“I am not a painting or a sculpture, sire.”

“No, you most certainly are not.” He finally let go of her and strolled toward a table covered with a white, gold-embroidered cloth that reached to the polished parquet floor. A crystal decanter and glasses were on it. “Would you care for some wine?”

“No, thank you, Your Majesty.”

He turned to her, his mustache moving up with a grin. “There is no need to be so cold and unfriendly, Mistress Burroughs. This is necessary, is it not? People must believe you care for us, not your true
amore.”

So, this
was
only a ruse. Her breath rushed out in a sigh of relief. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The rumors are going about that we have seduced you,” he noted with amusement. “We understand there is already a wager among our friends on how long you will keep our royal favor.”

Anger began to replace her dread. Her situation was born out of desperation, not a desire to amuse him. “Majesty, I didn’t know exactly what you had planned, and since you are my king, I did not question you. But I assure you, I have no great liking for the tales being spread. I accepted them as the price I must pay to rid me of my unwanted suitors so that I can marry the man I love. You must forgive me if I do not find our dilemma a source of amusement.”