The Darling Strumpet (24 page)

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Authors: Gillian Bagwell

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #General

BOOK: The Darling Strumpet
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“Poet!” Lacy shouted. “You’re more a fool than a poet!” Someone laughed out loud at that, and the sound seemed to push Howard over the edge. With one of his beribboned gloves, he slapped Lacy across the face.
“That, sir, is the action of a gentleman. Do you dare acknowledge the insult?”
“I’ll acknowledge it right enough,” Lacy roared, “like the honest common Yorkshireman that I am.” He thumped Howard over the head with his walking stick, and Howard fell back, appearing more shocked than hurt. Hart was at Lacy’s side, pulling him away, and Mohun rushed to restrain Howard.
“’Fore God, John, get hold of yourself, man,” Hart begged.
“Did you hear what he said?”
“I heard, but let it go, or you’ll only make things worse for yourself. You’re free now and all’s well.”
“And what are you all looking at?” Lacy roared at a knot of gentlemen who had stood watching the argument like a tennis match. “Get out! Go home!” Taken aback, the gawkers departed.
Howard picked his hat up from the floor and jammed it onto his head. Nell thought she could practically see steam coming out of his ears.
“You have not heard the last of this, I vow,” he said. “I’ll to the king, and he shall teach you your lesson.” He stumped off toward the stage door. Once he was gone, the air seemed to go out of Lacy, and he sagged onto a bench.
“I’m sorry, Charlie. Sorry, Mick.”
“Never mind,” said Hart. “It’ll pass.”
“Yes,” said Mohun. “I’ll to the king again. But I don’t think we’ll be playing tomorrow.”
As Nell left, the scenekeeper Richard Baxter was tearing down the playbill that had been posted outside the theater, announcing the next day’s play.
“A bad business.” He shook his head. “How are we to eat if we cannot play?”
 
 
 
DESPITE MOHUN’S ENTREATIES, THE KING INSISTED THAT THE PLAYHOUSE would remain closed. But he knew the entire company suffered hardship if they could not play, and Lacy was a great favorite of his. So, having made his point, he relented after a week, and the next Saturday the playhouse put on
Bartholomew Fair
. A week after that, Lacy was back onstage and charming the crowds once more, in his famous role as the country fool Thump in
The Changes
.
 
 
 
SHORTLY AFTER THE HUBBUB OVER
THE CHANGE OF CROWNS
CAME the first performance of
All Mistaken
. Nell’s role of Mirida, another saucy, gamesome wench, fell solidly in the mold of the parts in which audiences so loved her.
“ ‘I’ll lay my head,’ ” she began, “ ‘ne’er a girl in Christendom of my age can say what I can. I’m now but five years i’ the teens, and I have fooled five several men. My humor is to love no man, but to have as many love me as they please, come cut or long tail!’ ”
After her first scene, Nell saw Dicky One-Shank and several of the scenekeepers gathered in the wings.
“’Fore the devil, I doubt I’ve ever laughed so hard,” Dicky said, giving her a slap on the back. “Keep it up, Nell, and I’ll go to my grave with a smile on my face.”
“He’s right,” Richard Baxter agreed, grinning. “This one’ll play for a while, and no mistaking.”
“That’s our girl!” Matt Kempton laughed. “Our own Nell!”
The laughter built with each successive scene. Nell and Hart were on fire, and Nell knew it.
At the end of the play, Nell came offstage elated, the applause still echoing in the house. Hart kissed her as soon as they were in the wings, his eyes shining with love and pride. Lacy stood there, beaming, but seeming on the verge of tears. He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head.
“What a show you gave today!” he cried. “Wat would be right proud of you. There is not one thing I’d tell you to do different, sweetheart. You’ve taken all we’ve taught you to heart and put it to work with the gifts God gave you and what no one could teach you.”
Rose rushed toward them, nearly dropping her basket in her haste to crush Nell in a hug. “Oh, Nell, I’m that proud of you!” she cried. “You were born for the stage, wasn’t she, Mr. Lacy?”
“Indeed,” Lacy agreed. “Our girl’s done right by us, hasn’t she, Charlie?”
“She has,” Hart said. “I knew all the world would be in love with her, and so they are.” His smile was affectionate and proud, but there was a shadow of sadness behind his eyes. Nell put her hand in his, and he raised it to his lips and kissed it. “Our own Nell, with the world at her feet.”
The next day, Dorset, Sir Charles Sedley, and Harry Killigrew ambled into the tiring room before the performance.
“Need any help dressing?” Harry leered.
“Shoo,” Nell laughed, flicking a powder puff at him. “How can I be expected to concentrate with the likes of you running about underfoot?”
“I could concentrate your mind wonderfully,” Dorset drawled, leaning against the dressing table, where he had a view down Nell’s bosom.
“I could do it better,” Sedley argued, coming to her other side.
“Mayhap we should all have a go, and see who succeeds best,” Harry said, moving close behind her and sliding his hands over her shoulders.
Nell looked from one to the other. “I think the three of you are mighty full of talk,” she laughed up at them.
“Nelly—” Hart’s voice broke off as he took in the scene, Harry’s hands on Nell’s bosom, Dorset and Sedley lounging on either side of her. Nell slapped Harry’s hands away and jumped to her feet. Harry chuckled and Nell rounded on him.
“Get out, the three of you,” she snapped. “Could you not have heeded me before?”
The three men exchanged glances and made for the door where Hart stood, thunder in his face.
“Hart,” said Harry, smirking as he passed. “Always a pleasure.”
 
 
 
“IT’S COMING, NELL,” SAID HART, LATER THAT NIGHT. “YOU WON’T admit it even to yourself yet, but one day not long from now you’ll find you’ve come to hate me because of what I cannot be and what I cannot give you, when you’re offered such temptation as daily parades itself before you.”
“My Hart, my heart, I could never hate you,” Nell whispered. “Harry’s a fool.”
“It’s not just Harry,” Hart said. “It’s all of them. With their money and power and youth. I’ve loved you so, Nell. It would be more than I could bear to see contempt for me in those bright eyes of yours.”
“But I love you!” Nell cried.
“Do you? Then do this for me. Take your freedom. Move to your own rooms. And if at the end of three months you still want me, I’ll be here.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 
 
M
AY DAY. NELL HAD HEARD THE FIDDLE FROM HER ROOM upstairs at the Cock and Pie and run down half dressed, in her skirt and smock, to see the milkmaids dancing. Their pails were decked with little nosegays of flowers and their sleeves were adorned with ribbon garters.
“Mistress Nelly!” Sam Pepys was waving his hat as he made his way grinning across the road toward her. “A splendid day, is it not?”
“It is indeed,” Nell answered, smiling at his good humor.
“I’m seeing the play this afternoon, but I believe you are not in it, alas?”
“No,” Nell said. “A rare day off for me.”
“Indeed.” Pepys seemed not to want to leave. “A well-earned rest, I make no doubt. Though my pleasure in any play is always less when it lacks your talents. I hope you have no thought of quitting the stage?” He’d heard, Nell thought. Damnation. Did all London know that she and Hart had split?
“You’re too kind, Mr. Pepys. But no, I assure you, you’ll find me back on the boards tomorrow.”
She watched Pepys hurry off down Drury Lane, and sadness gripped her. It would be a wonderful day for a walk out to Islington or by the river, and many such a day she had enjoyed with Hart, needing only his company to make her happy. His lodging was within sight, just across Catherine Street. But she feared he would not welcome her knock at his door. Another lonely day to face.
 
 
 
IT WAS IRONIC, NELL THOUGHT, SWABBING THE MAKEUP OFF HER face after another uproarious performance, that at the very time that she and Hart were no longer lovers in real life, they were a resounding success as a couple onstage. London could not get enough of them. The playhouse was doing so well with
Secret Love
that Killigrew had revived Dryden’s earlier comedy
The Wild Gallants
and an addition had been written into
The Knight of the Burning Pestle
parodying
Secret Love
, and Nell was also to give a specially written new prologue. The Duke’s house, in an effort to ride on the coattails of Nell and Hart’s success, had hastily put up a play in which Moll Davis dressed as a boy and danced, but it faltered in the face of the new sensation produced by Nell and Hart in
All Mistaken
.
Nell smiled to remember how she had burned with jealousy when Dicky One-Shank had told her about Moll’s first appearance on the stage. Five years ago that had been. A lifetime, it seemed.
A movement at the door caught her eye. The Earl of Rochester stood there. He moved forward until he stood directly behind her, his tigerlike eyes holding hers in their reflection. She found that she could hardly breathe. Without having spoken a word, he grasped her around the waist with both hands and pulled her close against him. He pulled aside the curls at the back of her head, and softly bit the nape of her neck. Nell gasped and found herself arching against him.
Finally, he spoke.
“Come.”
Nell only nodded. He took her by the elbow and led her out the stage door, then handed her into the carriage that waited there. As the carriage started forward, he regarded her with a languid smile.
“Are you hungry?”
The question was so incongruous that Nell laughed.
“I am, but damned if this is not the most abrupt invitation I’ve ever had, my lord.”
“Call me Johnny.”
The carriage was moving through Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in a few moments it drew up before an imposing house next to the Duke’s Playhouse in Portugal Street. The door was opened by a liveried servant, and as Rochester led Nell upstairs, he called over his shoulder, “Bring up supper and leave it in the outer room.”
Upstairs, he pulled Nell into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Undress yourself,” he commanded, and watched while she obeyed. His eyes on her lit fires deep within her belly. He threw off his coat and waistcoat as she knelt and opened the flies of his breeches. She took him into her mouth hungrily, devouring him. His gasps told her that he was as inflamed as she, but after a few moments he withdrew, positioned her on hands and knees on the bed, and took her from behind, pulling her to him as he thrust deep inside her. He spent quickly, then let go and lay beside her, panting.
“Supper,” he said. “And then we’ll do it again properly.”
 
 
 
“MAYBE IT’S GOOD,” ROSE SAID. “THINK OF IT—YOU’V E BEEN WITH men for money, and then only with Robbie and Hart. You’re under obligation to no one. He has a wife, but that’s his lookout. As long as you keep your eyes open and your wits about you, what’s the harm? Does he please you?”
“Yes,” Nell said with a shiver. “I can scarce keep from laying my hands on his tackle the moment I see him.”
“I feel the same about my Johnny,” said Rose. “He’s a rogue, but I can’t help myself.” Ever since the night of the fire, she had been keeping company with John Cassells, the handsome stranger who had stumbled into the playhouse, and had lately moved into his lodgings.
 
 
 
NELL LAY WITH ROCHESTER BESIDE HER IN THE TANGLED BED LINEN. She was utterly spent, yet felt more alive than she had ever been. Her nether regions were still humming from Rochester’s attentions. She had not known it was possible to experience a sensation quite like that his tongue had produced in her. “Tipping the velvet,” he had called it. Certainly she had never imagined anything like that inexorable build to the shattering release that had had her gasping, bucking, pulling his head to her, never wanting it to end.

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