Margaret Moore (15 page)

Lord Cheddersby suddenly came bustling into view, a beaming smile on his face.

“Lady Arabella, a delight! An absolute delight! I was
thrilled
when Neville told me you might be here. I have been searching for you everywhere, haven’t I, Neville?”

“Indeed, he has,” his lordship replied evenly.

Arabella sought to emulate Lord Farrington’s cool composure.

“I had nearly given up in absolute wretchedness, but Charles Sedley was so kind as to point me this way.”

“Sedley is the soul of generosity.”

“I did not think so before, but he was certainly all amiability this evening.” Lord Cheddersby looked at Arabella like an adoring puppy. “How lovely you look this evening, Lady Arabella! That color suits you to perfection. And your hair! You are as lovely as … as lovely as Lady Castlemaine!”

While Arabella could not get used to hearing herself compared to the king’s
grand amour
, she responded to the sincere approval behind Cheddersby’s compliment with a warm smile. “Thank you very much, my lord.”

“Foz, Lady Lippet seems to have gotten herself lost,” Neville said. “Would you be so good as to try and find her and tell her Lady Arabella has been left alone again?”

“Absolutely! Delighted to be of service! Stay where you are, and I shall bring her here.” He glanced at the far end of the room. “I trust I shall have time to find her before the king arrives.”

With that, the kind-hearted fellow hurried off.

Arabella regarded Neville steadily. “Does he always do whatever you say?”

Neville frowned. “Foz is free to do whatever he wishes.”

“Truly?” she replied skeptically. “He seems to live to do as you suggest.”

“Or as you might, or any pretty young lady. Or any gentleman Foz believes to be his friend. He is an accommodating, innocent soul and needs protecting from people who would exploit him.”

“Ah!”

Neville’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘ah’?”

“I understand how it is between you, that’s all.”

“And how is that?”

“That it is well and good for you exploit him because you claim to protect him, too.”

“I don’t exploit him!”

“Order him about then. And does he not pay for any dinners or wine?”

“He can afford it better than I.”

“I see,” she replied pertly.

His lips pressed together slightly. “No, you don’t.”

“Then perhaps Sir Richard Blythe could write a play that will explain such things to a country bumpkin like myself.”

“It might be rather amusing.”

“As amusing as all the activities of the courtiers to which I have so recently been a witness, perhaps. He must ask your advice, for you seem very familiar with the doings here at Whitehall, my lord. You are invited often, I assume.”

“I do not need a special invitation.”

“You are that intimate with the king?”

He smiled. “I am not intimate with any man.”

She flushed and commanded herself not to be embarrassed because of something
he
said. “You are on good terms with him, then.”

“He likes to play tennis with me. And pall-mall.”

“You are good at sport,” she said, wondering what he meant. Perhaps tennis and pall-mall were card games.

“I am better at another,” he said quietly, the gleam in his eyes no longer one of amusement.

She had had quite enough of his easy,
shameful banter and seductive looks. “No doubt, since you have spent so much time in such pursuits, to the detriment of your duty to your father.”

His expression hardened and he took hold of her hand firmly. This time, his touch did not kindle desire. The fierceness of his grip made her remember her first impression of him in London—that there was much more to Neville Farrington than he chose to reveal. “Who do you think you are to presume to criticise me?” he demanded. “Are you prescient, that you know all that has passed over the years between my father and me?”

As the tension stretched between them, and Arabella continued to regard him with her shrewd, sparkling eyes, Neville was tempted as he had never been before to tell someone of his secret activities on behalf of his father. He wanted Arabella to understand that his father did not know his own son, and that he was not the lax wastrel the earl thought he was.

He wanted to tell her of his most recent interview with Messrs. Pettigrew and Hutchins at the bank. It had taken him nearly half the day to persuade them to advance his father whatever monies he required while in London without mentioning Neville’s involvement in the family finances. Finally, after many pointed reminders of how things had been before he had gotten involved, the bankers had agreed.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the far end of the hall. Neville glanced over his shoulder to see what was happening.

“Has some other spurned mistress decided to get her lover’s attention by some shocking, immodest, undignified display?” Arabella asked, tugging her hand away.

“Nothing nearly so disgusting, Lady Arabella. The king approaches.” Arabella gasped as she looked past him, and Neville permitted himself a small smile at her discomfort while they both made their obeisance to the approaching monarch. Let her be uncomfortable, for she seemed to have an ability to make him feel more upset and uneasy than he had been in many a year.

Determined to act as if nothing were amiss, he turned his attention to the king, who was, for once, accompanied by his queen.

The petite Catherine had been the Infanta of Portugal, and had brought with her the greatest dowry ever given to an English king. In person, she was a dark-haired, dark-complected lady who was not unattractive; however, against the brilliant beauty of Lady Castlemaine, she could never shine.

But Neville preferred her to the famous beauty, because she was an honorable woman who seemed to genuinely love her royal husband.

Neville glanced down at the curtsying Arabella—and
nearly forgot all about his dismay and the approaching royalty, for her action brought the swelling tops of her breasts and enticing cleavage into his view.

If she had done what Mrs. Fotheringham had done, the entire male population of White-hall would have been at her feet, slavering like dogs.

Someone cleared his throat. Neville looked up, startled, to see that the eyes of the Merry Monarch himself were upon him, twinkling with laughter.

Then Buckingham swooped in between Neville and Arabella.

“Your Majesties, may I present Lady Arabella Martin,” he said, as if he had every right to do so.

The king smiled warmly and extended his hand to Arabella, taking hers to indicate that she was to rise. “Lady Arabella, you are a most welcome addition to our court.”

Queen Catherine glanced at her husband, and Neville knew she was of the same mind as he. They both guessed what that smile presaged, and neither one of them was glad to see it.

Neville elbowed Buckingham out of the way.

“Your Majesty,” he said with a bow.

The king’s smile grew. “Ah, Farrington! We might have known you would be close by a young lady of such obvious charms.”

“Lady Arabella is my father’s ward.”

“Indeed?” His Majesty replied, and it struck Arabella that he seemed more amused than anything else. “Then your father is here?”

Neville looked surprised. “Yes, sire, he is.”

“We recall him from our father’s court. No doubt he wishes to give us some advice.”

Arabella saw the laughter in the king’s eyes and suspected he knew exactly the sort of thing the earl was likely to say.

She could now understand why King Charles was held in high esteem despite his moral lapses. If everyone in the country could have seen their ruler at this moment, they would have thought themselves very lucky. He did not behave pompously or proudly; he might have been any well-to-do man of middle years, and one with a particularly friendly address.

“We would have you join us for tennis tomorrow morning, Farrington.”

“I would be honored, Your Majesty.”

Charles turned to Arabella. “And Lady Arabella must watch, of course. We enjoy having company when we play. Inquire of the royal dogs if you do not believe us.”

Arabella, momentarily robbed of the power of speech by the king’s invitation, could only curtsy again in reply.

“We shall expect you at the new tennis court at six o’clock.” The king glanced over his
shoulder, then leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now we must speak with the ambassador from France. Odd’s fish, the fellow’s a bore, but we owe Louis too much to insult anyone he sends here.”

Charles straightened, and as he did so, Arabella suddenly sensed that he was attempting to look down her bodice.

She was seeing shameful behavior everywhere, thanks in no small part, she was sure, to Neville and Buckingham and those others.

“Adieu, then, until tomorrow, Farrington,” the king said with a pleasant smile. “We are delighted to meet you, Lady Arabella. Buckingham,” he finished dismissively, barely glancing at the duke. The king strolled away, the queen at his side.

“I beg your pardon,” a young male voice said from somewhere nearby.

Arabella, Neville and Buckingham turned to see a very good-looking liveried servant approaching. “Lady Castlemaine requests your presence in her apartments, Lord Farrington.”

“Summoned by Lady Castlemaine, eh?” Buckingham said with a mocking grin. “Whatever does this mean?”

Arabella glanced at Neville sharply, but his expression betrayed nothing—not anger, not pleasure, not surprise, not shame.

“She says it is urgent, my lord,” the servant
said with slightly more emphasis and not a little arrogance.

“You had better go,” the duke said. “Have no fear that your entrancing companion will pine for you. I will see that she is kept amused.”

As Arabella took a step away from the duke, Neville nodded at something behind her.

“There will be no need to exert yourself, Your Grace,” he said with a wry smile. “I believe I see Lord Cheddersby bringing Lady Lip-pet along right now—and the wealthy, unmarried Croesus with her.”

Arabella glanced over her shoulder. Bustling toward them, Lady Lippet led the wart-nosed nobleman by the arm in a grip that would not have been inappropriate for one of the king’s men taking a traitor into custody. Lord Cheddersby brought up the rear.

Arabella smiled with genuine relief—until she turned back and realized Neville was already walking away, following the beautiful Lady Castlemaine’s servant.

Chapter 11

B
arely controlling an urge to turn back, Neville marched behind the young man, whose duties probably included a certain intimacy with his mistress. Much as Arabella confused and disturbed him, he hated leaving her with Buckingham.

What did the king’s mistress want with
him
, anyway? That she often looked at him he knew; it was even a little flattering. But he had been friends with her husband, Roger, a cuckolded laughingstock who had taken himself to his estate in Ireland rather than see the mocking faces at court and hear the snickering laughter behind his back. For that, Neville would never forgive his wife.

Nor was she loyal to her royal lover. Indeed, her infidelities were legendary—just as the reasons for her continued hold over the king were cause for much speculation. It was said she
knew more ways to bring a man satisfaction than a hundred whores.

And what a whore she was, Neville thought with no small disgust as he was brought right into the bedchamber of the opulent apartments next to the king’s own.

Lady Castlemaine reclined on a tall, canopied, gilded bed covered with satin sheets and a multitude of pillows. The furnishings were costly in the extreme, as were her clothing and jewelry.

It was also extremely obvious that the king’s mistress was expecting her second child. The babe could not be Roger’s; they had not lived together for over a year. Rumor had it that this time the father was not the king, either, but Sir Charles Berkeley. Sometimes empowered to act as ambassador between the king and his mistress, it seemed Berkeley and Lady Castlemaine had a rather interesting notion of the extent of his duties.

“I trust you do not mind meeting with me under these circumstances,” she said coyly as Neville bowed, “but I fear I am easily fatigued these days.”

Even in her present condition, she was one of the most beautiful women in England, but in her eyes, there was a hard, cold calculation that destroyed her beauty for him.

How very different was the expression in Barbara Castlemaine’s eyes from Arabella’s.

Lady Castlemaine plucked at the sleeve of her gown while he continued to stand. “I hear your father has a ward, a pretty little thing.’’

“He has a ward, my lady.”

“And she is young?”

“Young, and in search of a husband.”

“A husband?”

“A husband,” he confirmed.

“Has she any fortune?”

Neville’s jaw tightened. “Some.”

“Ah. I have heard another rumor, Farrington,” Lady Castlemaine said, languidly raising herself on her elbow and leaning toward him, her full breasts straining at the fabric above her rounded belly. “Is it true that your father plans to will his money to her and not to you?”