The Perfect Royal Mistress (13 page)

“That new actress, Nell Gwynne, is starring today, Your Majesty,” Arlington leaned over to remark behind a raised hand. “They say Dryden finds her absolutely fascinating.” He was clearly glorying in his place beside the king, with Buckingham now locked away in the Tower.

Nell Gwynne
…why was the sound of it familiar? The old woman was still smiling at him and now clearly trying to suggest something with her eyes. Great God, was she trying to suggest
that
? She looked old enough to be his own mother!

“I saw her last month in
The English Monsieur.
She was hilarious. Had half the balcony throwing flowers to her, instead of oranges.”

“Now there’s a switch to note,” Charles chuckled.

Moll, who had been listening from the king’s other side, shot him an irritated glance. He chose to ignore it. Finally, the candle lamps rimming the stage were lit and the crowds in the pit, and around him in the various other boxes, broke into thunderous applause.

First onstage was a stout, white-haired man in velvet robes, who acted as the narrator for the prologue. By his presence, the cheers turned to thunderous disapproval and great shouted choruses of “Bring on Nelly!”

Charles bit back a smile and settled against the high-backed gilded chair. This afternoon might shape up to be a bit of fun, after all. As he glanced down again, even the woman with the vizard was shouting for Nell. This girl must be something unique indeed. A moment later, wearing a remarkably elegant dress, her full copper hair cascading down her back, Nell Gwynne took the stage. Before she spoke a single line, the entire crowd erupted in applause, whistles, and catcalls. Brazenly and with a charming smile, she looked directly out at the men before her in the pit. She smiled broadly, blew a kiss, and then turned to her costar, Charles Hart, who was making his own entrance from the other side. They met onstage, joining hands, as a couple intending to marry. The rumor of their real liaison was so rampant that the audience began to chuckle at once.

“As for the first year, according to the laudable custom of new married people, we shall follow one another up into chambers, and down into gardens, and think we shall never have enough of one another. So far ’tis pleasant enough, I hope,” he said loudly.

“But after that, when we begin to live like ’usband and wife, and never come near one another, what then?” she said with a bold wink.

The crowd rewarded Nell by laughing so boisterously that Hart’s next line was completely lost. The king bit back a smile and remembered Nell Gwynne. Of course. How delightfully surprising! The orange seller with the big heart, standing outside after the fire, had become a star. Absolutely marvelous!

“She has only been on the stage for six months and already she has captured London,” said the Earl of Arlington, who leaned forward from his chair behind the king.

“And a number of hearts, I would imagine.”

“It is well known in the theater that she is Charles Hart’s mistress,” said Moll gratingly.

“Fortunate Mr. Hart,” said the king, as the crowd erupted for her once again.

The next hour rushed by in a whirl of laughter, surprise, and delight, and the king was charmed as he had not been for a very long time. As he watched Nell, he could feel her sensuality even with the theater’s length between them. That, combined with her wit, made her positively irresistible to every man present. She was gamine, saucy, and wildly exciting; knowing she was from the darkest streets, he recognized her as a consummate survivor. The King was disarmed.

When Nell took her bows, he leaned casually toward Arlington and lifted a hand across his face to mask his words. “Keep Moll occupied as we leave, and I shall owe you a favor.”

“It would be easier to keep the plague out of London in September.”

“It was not a request, Arlington, no matter how kindly delivered.”

The two men exchanged a glance as Moll Davies clamped onto the king’s forearm and gazed up adoringly at him from his other side.

“I need a moment, lovely. Arlington here shall see you safely to my coach.” He stood, and she stood as well, still holding on fast to his arm.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Nature calling, my lovely girl, is a largely private matter.”

Nell was just coming off the stage, her face glowing with triumph, her skin bathed in perspiration, when she heard a voice break through the shouts of applause. “Nelly! Where are you, love? Un’and me, sir! Nelly Gwynne’s me own daughter, she is!
Nelly!
”

“Oh, good lord,” said Mrs. Knepp beneath her breath. “I’ve one of those creatures myself to taunt me when I least expect it.”

“As do I,” said Beck Marshall, shaking her head in camaraderie as each unlaced the stays of the other’s tight, high corset. “But I wasn’t ever likely to tell her about the life I’d made here or I’d never have seen a shilling of my own.”

“I didn’t tell her,” said Nell on a sigh. “She smells money like a huntin’ hound.”

“There you are, Nelly! Be a love, then; tell these gents your poor Ma’d only like a word?”

Helena Gwynne, as usual, was drunk. Her dress was stained with mud, food, and perspiration, as if she had fallen into the street on her way to the theater. Quite likely she had. Stout and ungainly, Helena grabbed onto the doorjamb to steady herself. Her eyes were bloodshot. Nell felt her heart seize. She had not seen her mother in nearly three months. The urge to say she had never seen the woman before in her life was overwhelming. She was embarrassed by her, afraid of her, and felt far more shame in her company than anything close to affection. “’Tis all right, William,” she nodded. The men who stood guard after the shows, in order to protect the girls, lifted their brows in surprise.

Helena smiled a gap-toothed smile, and ran the back of her hand across her face as the two men turned to leave. “My, don’t
you
look ever the lady! Such is the stage life, I suppose; magic at turnin’ a sow’s ear like you into a right proper silk purse for an ’our or two.”

The other actresses went to one of the dressing tables to give Nell a moment of privacy. Nell lowered her voice. “What do you want, Ma?”

“Actually, I’d ’ave thought to see you in one of these plays by now, properlike. I’d ’ave thought you’d ’ave bought me a seat.”

“You don’t care about the theater, or me. So what do you want?”

She shrugged. “Only a penny or two, then, hmm? ’Tis all.”

Nell went to her handbag and pulled out two coins. Before she could say anything, they were interrupted by the shouts of Richard Bell. “The king comes! The king is coming here!”

Nell did not believe it—for how unlikely such a thing seemed!—but she could take no chances with her mother. Pressing the coins into Helena’s hand, she led her to the back door personally to be rid of her swiftly. As those around her stood, only to fall into deep curtsies, Nell turned and saw him in the doorway. This close, she saw that he was handsome, and so amazingly tall.
Tall…great God in His heaven, it is…

She quickly dropped into a low curtsy herself.

“Mrs. Gwynne, your performance was most entertaining.”

Oh, ballocks, smile, you fool!
a silent voice urged.
Smile like you couldn’t care a whit!
She looked up and managed a disarming smile. “So long as Your Majesty ’as found it so,” she said, as though she had been speaking to him all of her life, “I shall do my best to disregard the critics, should they not find the same favor in my performance.”

Charles indicated that all present should rise. Then he replied, “I am told they are as fond of you as the audience is.”

“’Tis not a fact I know of, and one should never indulge in speculation, Your Majesty. The opportunity for disappointment is too vast.” Charles smiled at that, straight white teeth shimmering in the lamplight, and she was flooded with memories of that day, well over a year ago now, in front of the theater.
So that is how Rose made it out of the gaol! Of course it was him! Who else?
In her mind, Nell saw him as he had been that day, the simple costume, his unadorned head, the lack of jewelry or ornamentation. There had been nothing of the pampered royal about that man, with the two-day growth of beard, the bloodshot eyes, and look of shock on his face, she thought now. That day, they had both been someone else. It was a dark time in London’s history that oddly linked them.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gwynne.”

“But of course we’ve met, you know, Your Majesty,” she said.

“So we have,” returned the king. “But in circumstances somewhat divergent from these. May I say, you have changed, and charmingly so.”

“And you are exactly ’ow I remember you, but now with the wig.”

“And how is your sister?”

“She is well, sire, very well, thanks to a mysterious intervention of kindness.”

In the doorway suddenly stood a man with auburn hair and youthful blue eyes. Nell remembered him at once. Seeing the king before he saw Nell, the man lowered himself into a courtly and proper bow, sweeping his plumed hat before himself.

“Your Majesty.”

“It has been a while, Buckhurst,” said the King. “How is your mother?”

“She is well, Your Majesty, thank you. Completely recovered from her ague.”

Both men, named for the previous King Charles, looked at Nell then.

“Lord Buckhurst,” said the king with a slight and bemused smile. “May I present London’s newest sensation, the lovely and talented Mrs. Gwynne.”

He was ever the gentleman about meeting her as an orange girl, silent and discreet. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Gwynne.”

Nell nodded. “The pleasure’s mine, Lord Buckhurst.”

“You were magnificent just now. I find I never laughed so hard at anything.”

“Lucky for me the play was a comedy.”

Hearing the swell of chuckles around her, Nell felt herself draw a breath, standing between two such impressive and noble men, one of them, quite amazingly, the king of England. She lifted her face and looked into his dark eyes. His gaze upon her was direct and intense, as if they were the only two in the room.

“There you are! I should have known!”

Moll Davies’s harsh accent was like a brittle twig snapping.

“Oh, do let’s depart, Your Majesty,” said Moll. “The force of a royal child grows weighty on such shapely little legs as my own.” The soft cackle that escaped her lips then was a taunting, ugly sound. Nell watched the king’s expression change. He looked back at her more formally, the connection between them extinguished.

“Mrs. Gwynne,” he said with a courtly nod. “Best of luck to you with the new play and the ones to follow. Though I doubt you shall need it.”

“I ’ope Your Majesty will be watchin’.”

Moll Davies glowered as the king nodded to Nell once again. Then they turned together and left the tiring-room to a rising crescendo of whispers from the crush of costumed actresses who, once he had gone, broke apart and went back to changing. No one cared that Lord Buckhurst had remained. Soon two other gentlemen entered, each bearing flowers for someone. Nell turned then to face Buckhurst, suddenly alone in a sea of other activity around them.

“You must be quite impressed to have caught the eye of the king.”

“If I wanted to end up like Mrs. Davies, I might be.”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Have supper with me.”

You’ve got to find yourself a well-placed man, then make ’im fall in love with you
…Moll Davies’s words came at her almost like a response. Even for his open flirtation, the king was not an option. But this man before her most definitely could be. “I’ll not be wantin’ a meal,” she replied, remembering how things had begun between herself and Charles Hart. “But I might well fancy a ride through St. James’s Park in a proper coach.”

“Would you now?”

Buckhurst smiled boyishly, and Nell saw, for the first time, truly how handsome he was. He was a proper gentleman, a noble one at that.

“Aye.” She smiled back. “I fancy I would.”

“Well, then. In that case, I shall be honored to be the one to take you.”

Chapter 9