Margaret Moore (12 page)

“Well!” exclaimed Lady Lippet. “I was only trying—”

Neville quite calmly interrupted. “Father, you remember Sir Richard Blythe. And may I have the honor to present Lord Cheddersby?”

Both men bowed toward Lord Barrsettshire, who did not acknowledge the introduction save with a scowl.

“Come, Arabella,” he barked. “We are leaving!”

Arabella’s smile was loveliness personified. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I am summoned.”

With that, she glided past Foz, who stared after her as if he had just been told he was really the King of France, and the sardonic Richard, who seemed curiously pensive.

“I didn’t think the play was that immoral,” Richard reflected after she had disappeared from view. “Did you?”

“She is so beautiful!” Foz said dreamily. He looked accusingly at Neville. “You didn’t say she was beautiful. You said pretty. And she championed you most excellently, don’t you think?”

“Yes, she is lovely, but I am not in need of any championing from Lady Arabella or anyone else,” Neville replied coolly, even as he wondered what had possessed Arabella to do that.

Maybe she was the kind of woman who was not happy until she had every man’s approval. Or maybe he was truly on his way to winning his wager.

“I thought your play was the best yet,” he continued.

Richard shook his head ruefully. “Zounds, man, although I perceive you have settled upon the gallant protector role in your plan for conquest, you are going to be out fifty pounds.”

“You think so?” Neville replied as he sat upon the bench.

“A fortnight? She will never succumb in that time. For all her fine clothes and undeniable beauty, I think beneath those perfect breasts beats a puritanical heart. That is, of course, unfortunate, as it is unfortunate she has not better taste in plays.”

Neville smiled. Richard would never forgive her criticism of his work, so she was safe from him. “If you think she is immune to me, you should have arrived a little sooner.”

Foz gave Neville a look that was at once avidly curious and trepidatiously critical. “What do you mean?”

“She is not completely impervious to my attentions.”

“Nevertheless, I would not count my fifty pounds yet,” Richard said. “Buckingham could scarce take his eyes off her.”

“That disgusting lecher!” Foz cried. “If he so much as speaks to her, I’ll … I’ll …”

“Challenge him to a duel?”

Foz flushed.

“Let me worry about Buckingham,” Neville said.

“Why worry about him?” Richard asked. “If he despoils her, will that not solve your problem?”

“The thought of her—or any woman—despoiled by Buckingham does not sit well with
me. Besides, the wager has been made.”

“Do you think she liked me?” Foz suddenly asked with more intensity than Neville recalled him ever displaying before.

“No,” Richard replied sardonically. “I don’t think she likes any of us particularly, not even Neville.”

Foz’s face fell.

“Do not trouble yourself with her, Foz,” Neville said, deciding that Richard was seeing only what he wanted to see in this instance. Arabella had criticized his play, therefore she must not like Richard, and so then she would not like his friends.

“Truly, she’s too ignorant for men of our sophistication,” he continued. “Come, let us retire to a tavern to tell Richard what the people in the pit were saying about his
magnum opus.
”

“It was all good,” Foz said eagerly.

“I had a moment’s doubt when I saw the king frown during the first speech,” Richard confessed. “I had to threaten Minette with dismissal before she would consent to say the opening just as I wanted, and then I feared I had offended His Majesty.”

“She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever beheld,” Foz said with a sigh as they exited the box.

Neither Neville nor Richard realized he was not talking about the actress.

* * *

Very early the next morning, George Villiers stifled a yawn as he watched the king play tennis in the newly built court at Whitehall Palace. Charles had decided he was growing stout and thought exercise would make him thinner. To see if in this was successful, he weighed himself before and after every game.

Now, clad in a white shirt and petticoat breeches, the king ran about after the ball like a madman, his pack of spaniels yipping and barking and tussling among themselves on the sidelines. There was also a gaggle of courtiers watching the game, and they were only slightly more quiet than the dogs.

The king’s partner was Lord Belmaris, also called Croesus because of his vast wealth. The fellow was dull in the extreme, stocky, had a wart on his nose and snorted like a pig when he ran, but he was a good enough tennis player, Villiers supposed.

Better Croesus Belmaris than Neville Farrington, the one man at court Villiers saw as a rival in intelligence, wit and looks.

The crowd of fawning courtiers cheered as the king made a fine hit. They always cheered heartily, the hypocrites. Some of these had even cheered when Charles’s father lost his head.

If Charles could forgive them, Villiers thought angrily, why could he not forgive his oldest friend and ignore the straitlaced Puritans
who presumed to condemn the man who had been with Charles all those years in exile? They blamed
him
for the monarch’s excesses, as if there was something wrong with a man satisfying his appetites.

Villiers did not believe that, and neither, he was sure, did Charles—especially with regard to the appetite for women.

Besides, the execution of his father and the constant conflict within his own government could never be far from the king’s mind. A man with such concerns must be forever in need of diversion, and it was in this need that Villiers knew the path to his own restoration lay. As of yesterday’s attendance at
The Country Cuckold
, he was sure he had found that path.

Finally, the game ended. As Charles wiped his face with a towel and strolled toward the scales, Villiers hurried to join him, ignoring the questioning looks and outright scorn of the other courtiers.

Fools. Did they think he would forget?

It took great effort to keep smiling when he saw the peevish look that came to the monarch’s face as he realized who stood beside him.

“Well played, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Buckingham,” the king said with apparent good humor, while Villiers noticed that he used the more formal term of address.
“What brings you to Whitehall so early?”

“I wanted to know how you liked
The Country Cuckold.
”

“We thought it very clever.” With a broad grin, the king regarded the measure of his weight. “Look here—we have lost three pounds!”

“Excellent, Your Majesty! With God’s blessing, you shall live to a fine old age.”

“With God’s blessing and treading very carefully,” Charles muttered, a dark shadow passing over the usually cheerful face.

“Did you notice the Earl of Barrsettshire at the theater, Majesty?”

The king gestured for a liveried servant to give him his jacket. “Who?”

“The Earl of Barrsettshire.” Villiers maneuvered his way closer to the king and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He was in a box to the right of the stage and had an astonishingly pretty girl with him, even more lovely than La Belle Stewart.”

“We didn’t notice.”

Liar
, Villiers thought. He knew the king too well to be fooled by his apparent lack of interest.

“I think she seems a good deal more intelligent than Frances Stewart, too,” Villiers added significantly before raising his voice slightly as he stepped back. “It has been many, many
years since the good earl has been in London, Majesty. Would it not be a kind gesture to invite him to Whitehall?”

“A fine idea, Buckingham. We must make sure all our nobles feel welcome when they visit London.” Charles turned as if to go, then glanced back. “We thank you for suggesting it.”

As the king strolled toward the palace, trailed by his courtiers and his spaniels, Villiers made a sweeping bow.

His head lowered, no one saw his sly, triumphant smile.

“Oh, my dear! Oh, Wattles!” Lady Lippet exclaimed as she entered the earl’s withdrawing room later that day in a flutter of ribbons, lace and feathers.

Today, her gown was mauve, her underskirt orange, her hat more precariously perched than ever and her powder spotty, evincing some haste in dressing. “Is it true? That red-haired varlet wasn’t lying?”

The earl rose and gestured at the chair beside Arabella, who was in dutiful attendance. “Indeed it is. We have been invited to Whitehall this evening.”

“Oh, this is marvelous!”

As Lady Lippet lowered herself onto the chair and proceeded to fan herself briskly, the
earl handed her the note he had received from the palace.

Arabella regarded all three with something less than complete delight. After meeting the Duke of Buckingham and enduring Neville Farrington’s attentions, she was coming to realize that life among the upper class in London was not quite what she had imagined it would be.

Parts of it were as different as Neville was from the boy she remembered.

But not everything had been a disappointment, she reminded herself. Despite the subject of the play, she had enjoyed the theater. Perhaps the court would be enjoyable, too, if Neville and the Duke of Buckingham were not there.

Lady Lippet held the note from Whitehall to her bosom as if it were a message from her true love. “An invitation to the palace so soon! What a triumph!” She waved the letter at the earl. “Did I not tell you we should go to the theater? Was that not a brilliant plan? And now the court! Oh, Arabella, you are the most fortunate of women!”

“I knew the king would remember me,” the earl said proudly.

Lady Lippet’s eyes narrowed as she considered Arabella. “You do not seem to appreciate the honor, Arabella, or the opportunity.”

“Indeed, Lady Lippet, I am sensible of the
honor to Lord Barrsettshire, for the invitation was extended to him.”

“And us, surely!” the lady cried in horror as she scanned the letter again.

“We are not mentioned.”

“It does not say we are
not
invited,” Lady Lippet said, once again grinning with joy. “Besides, the Banqueting House is always so crowded, you and I will hardly be noticed.”

If she wore another such gown, Arabella thought, Lady Lippet could hardly escape notice.

The lady rose as fast as her constrictive bodice would allow. “Now I had better return home to prepare. I shall come here in plenty of time so that we can journey to the palace together.”

The earl nodded as Lady Lippet, with a sigh as if abandoning her lover, handed him the note. “Until later, Wattles. Look for me at seven o’clock.”

She bustled out of the room, her ribbons streaming out behind her like pennants in the breeze. Leaving Arabella to wonder if it might not have been a better idea to look for her husband in Lincolnshire, after all.

Chapter 9

“A
rabella, take care of your skirt,” Lady Lippet commanded. “Water will surely stain it.”

As Arabella stepped carefully into the boat rocking on the Thames, she obediently checked to make sure she wasn’t inadvertently sitting in a puddle, despite the canopied covering, or dragging her skirts in bilge water.

Going to Whitehall by river, Lady Lippet had explained, was faster and easier than being jostled about in a coach in the narrow, cobblestone streets of the city.

It certainly offered a different view of London, Arabella reflected, looking at the buildings crowding the banks of the Thames. In the distance she could make out the bulk of St. Paul’s and Parliament.

Unfortunately, the odor of the Thames was decidedly unpleasant, so after taking her seat,
Arabella held her handkerchief to her nose.

As for the river being less crowded than the streets, that was only slightly true. Many vessels of all shapes, sizes and conditions plied the river.

The earl got aboard and then Lady Lippet, whose advent caused the ten-foot-long boat to rock precariously.

Having an immediate vision of being dumped in the Thames, Arabella gripped the thwart tightly while the boatman made a grab for Lady Lippet’s arm.

“Take care, my lady, we wouldn’t want you to drown,” he muttered.

“Nonsense!” Lady Lippet cried, sitting down heavily so that her full skirts half-covered the earl. “You are not holding it steady, you oaf!”

Arabella shifted further toward the stern to allow the earl more room and glanced at the burly boatman.

She thought that Lady Lippet had better watch her tongue. Otherwise, she might wind up in the Thames, and not by accident. Since her gown of bright yellow and red must weigh at least ten pounds, she would surely sink directly to the muddy bottom.

Once everyone was settled, the boatman guided the vessel away from the wharf to join the many others on the river. Some, like theirs, were intended for passengers, with canopied seats in the bow. Others were clearly for transporting
goods. The boatmen, all of whom seemed to have a similarly brawny build, called out to each other as they passed, sometimes good-naturedly, at other times distinctly the opposite.