Winsor, Kathleen (111 page)

"Wait
a few days. I'll see what I can do for you."

The
next morning Charles talked privately with Henry Ben-net, Baron Arlington, who,
though he had once been Buckingham's friend, now hated him violently. In fact,
the Duke had few friends left at Court; he was not a man to wear well under the
strain of daily association. Charles told his Secretary of State exactly what
Castlemaine had told him, but he did not mention Barbara's name.

"It's
my opinion," said the King, "that the person who told me this was
deliberately misinformed. I'd be more inclined to think it was
my
horoscope
Villiers had cast."

Arlington
could not have been more pleased if someone had brought him the Duke's head.
His blue eyes glittered and his mouth snapped together like an angry trap; his
fist banged down on the table. "By Jesu, your Majesty! That's
treason!"

"Not
yet, Harry," corrected the King. "Not until we have the
evidence."

"We
shall have it, Sire, before the week is out. Leave me alone for that."

Three
days later Arlington gave Charles the papers. He had immediately put into
operation all the backstairs facilities of the Palace, and upon arresting and
examining Heydon they discovered copies of several letters from him to the Duke
and one from Buckingham to him. Charles, thoroughly annoyed at this latest
treachery on the part of a man who was literally his foster-brother, issued a
warrant for his arrest. But the Duke, in Yorkshire, was warned by his wife and
he got out of the house just before the King's deputies reached it.

For
four months the Duke played a cat-and-mouse game with his Majesty's sergeants,
and though sometimes a rumour arose that his Grace had been located and was
about to be taken prisoner, it was always the wrong man they captured or the
Duke was gone before they got to him. People began to make disparaging remarks
about his Majesty's espionage system, which had always been compared
unfavourably to Cromwell's. But actually it was not strange that the Duke could
elude his pursuers.

Fifteen
years before, the King himself had travelled halfway across England with a
price on his head and posters fixed up everywhere describing him, had even
talked to Roundhead soldiers and discussed himself—and then finally escaped to
France. The best known noblemen in the country went unrecognized to taverns or
brothels. Any gentleman or lady could take off the jewels and fine clothes and
go masquerading with the danger not that they would be recognized but that, if
need arose, it would be almost impossible to establish identity. And Buckingham
was an accomplished mimic into the bargain, able to disguise his face and
manners so that even those who knew him best had no idea who he was.

And
so it was that at last he even turned up in the Palace itself, dressed in the
uniform of a sentry with musket, short black wig and heavy black mustache and
eyebrows. He wore built-up boots to increase his height and a coat thickly
padded over the shoulders. The sentries were often posted in the corridors to
prevent a duel or other anticipated trouble, and no one noticed him—for a
couple of hours. He amused himself by watching who came and went through the
entrance to his cousin's apartments.

About
mid-morning Barbara herself strolled out with Wilson and a couple of other
waiting-women; one little blackamoor carried her train and another her muff,
out of which peeked the petulant face of her spaniel. Barbara sailed on by, not
even seeing him, but one of the waiting-women did and when he smiled she smiled
in return. Sometime later when they came back the maid smiled again, but this
time Barbara noticed him too. She gave him a sidelong glance just as she
disappeared, her eyes running with quick approval over his handsomely padded
torso, and one eyebrow went up slightly.

The
next morning she paused, gave him a languishing look through her thick lashes,
and unfurled her fan. "Aren't you the fellow who was here yesterday? Is a
duel expected?"

He
made her a respectful bow and in a voice and accent quite different from his
own replied: "Wherever your Ladyship is, there is danger of men losing
their heads."

Barbara
bridled, pleased. "Oh, Lord! I'll swear you're impudent!"

"The
sight of your Ladyship has made me bold." His eyes looked down into her
bodice, and she gave him a smart rap on the arm with her fan.

"Saucy
wretch! I could have you kicked!"

She
gave her head a toss and walked away, but the next morning a page came to
summon him into her Ladyship's chamber. He was taken down the corridor and
through another door which led back to her apartments by means of a narrow
passage he knew well enough, for it opened directly into her warm, luxuriously
furnished bedroom, and there he was left alone. Barbara was playing with her
spaniel, Jockey, and wearing a half unfastened dressing-gown, her hair falling
down her back.

She
looked up, straightened, and gave him a careless wave of her hand. "Good
morning."

He
bowed, his eyes bolder than ever, and Barbara's own were going over him as
though he were a stud stallion on exhibition at Smithfield. "Good morning,
your Ladyship. Indeed it is a good morning when I'm asked to wait upon your
Ladyship." He bowed again.

"Well—I
suppose you're surprised that a person of quality has sent for a mere nobody,
aren't you?"

"I'm
grateful, madame, if I can be of service to your Ladyship."

"Hm,"
murmured Barbara, one hand on her lip, half her naked leg showing as the gown
fell away. "Perhaps you can. Yes—perhaps you can." Suddenly she was
more brisk. "Tell me, are you a man of discretion?"

"Your
Ladyship may trust me with your honour."

"How
d'you know I intend to?" cried Barbara, annoyed that he should understand
her so readily.

"I
beg your Ladyship's pardon. I meant no offense, I assure you."

"Well,
I wouldn't have you take me for a whore—just because I live at Court.
Whitehall's got a mighty evil reputation these days—but I'll have you know,
sir, I'm a person of honour."

"I'm
convinced of that, madame."

Barbara
relaxed again, and let the gown fall lower over her breasts. "You know,
you're an uncommonly handsome young fellow. If I took a fancy to you I doubt not
that I could see you advanced to a better position."

"I
want nothing but to serve your Ladyship."

"Ordinarily,
you understand, I wouldn't glance at a sentry— but the truth of the matter is,
I find myself strangely drawn to you."

He
bowed again. "It's more than I deserve, madame."

"What's
more
than you deserve, you puppy?"

This
time Buckingham answered her in his own voice. "Why, your Ladyship's kind
approbation."

"Well—"
began Barbara, and suddenly her eyes opened wide and she stared at him.
"Say that again!"

"Say
what again, your Ladyship?" asked the sentry.

Barbara
blew a sigh of relief. "Whew! For a moment you
sounded
deucedly like a gentleman of my acquaintance—whom I'm not eager to see just
now."

Buckingham
leaned lazily back on his musket. One hand reached up to draw off his wig and
his normal voice asked, "Not his Grace of Buckingham, by any chance?"

Barbara's
eyes popped and her face went white, one hand to her mouth and the other
pointing at him.
"George!
It isn't you!"

"It
is, madame. And don't make any sound, I beg of you. This implement"—he
tapped his gun—"is loaded, and I should not like to shoot you just now—for
I think you're still of some value to me."

"But
what are you doing here—of all places! You're mad! They'll cut off your head if
they find you!"

"They
won't find me. A disguise that was good enough to fool my cousin should be good
enough to fool anyone, don't you agree?" He seemed highly amused.

"But
what are you doing here?"

"Don't
you remember? You sent for me."

"Oh,
you impertinent dog! I could kill you for this trick! Anyway—I only meant to
raise your blood—I was just passing the time with you—"

"A
very pretty pastime for a person of quality, I must agree. But I didn't take up
that post to be seduced by my Lady Castlemaine. You know what I'm here
for."

"Not
I, I'm sure. I've had no hand in your troubles."

"Only
that you gave my secret away to his Majesty."

"Gave
it away? You lied to me! You told me it was York's horoscope you were having
cast!"

"Even
a lie, apparently, was unsafe with you. The King needs only a sentence to guess
at the whole plot of a play." He shook his head, as though in sympathy for
her. "How can you be so foolish, Barbara, when it's only by my good nature
that you remain in England at all? However, it will doubtless be easy enough to
buy my freedom now. I have an idea he'd forgive a much greater offense than
mine to know that those letters are burned—"

"George!"
cried Barbara frantically. "My God, you wouldn't tell him! You can't tell
him! Oh, please, darling! I'll do anything you say! Command me and I'll be your
slave—only promise me you won't tell him!"

"Lower
your voice or you'll tell him yourself. Very well then—since you want to
bargain. What will you give in exchange for my silence?"

"Anything,
George! Anything at all! I'll give you anything— I'll do anything you
say!"

"There's
just one thing—I want at present—and that's the clearance of my name."

Barbara
sat down suddenly, scared and hopeless, her face turned white. "But you
know that's the one thing I
can't
do! No one could do that for you—not
Minette herself! Everyone says you're going to lose your head—the courtiers are
already begging your estate! Oh, George, please—" she was beginning to
cry, wringing her hands together.

"Stop
that! I hate a driveling woman! Old Rowley can watch you mope and wail if he
likes but I've got other matters to think of! Look here, Barbara: your
influence with him isn't wholly gone. You can convince him, if you try, that
I'm innocent. I'll leave you to think of your own means— A woman never needs
help making up lies."

He
put the black wig onto his head again and picked up his musket. "I'll make
it possible for you to communicate with me." He bowed. "I wish you
success, madame." Turning then on his high heel he left her apartments and
the Palace; the broad-shouldered, black-haired sentry was never again seen at
Lady Castlemaine's door.

Even
after Amber was married she continued to remain at Almsbury House, for she
hoped soon to be given an appointment at Court and live there.

As
for her husband, she suggested that he take lodgings in Covent Garden, and
because he had been henpecked from the cradle he did so, though against his
better judgment. For despite the fact that it was permissible, even correct
form, for husbands and wives to hate each other, to keep mistresses and take
lovers, to bicker and quarrel in public and circulate the grossest slander
about each other—it was not permissible to occupy separate homes or to sleep in
separate beds. Amber was amused to discover that she had started a scandal
which swept all the fashionable end of town.

Her
husband was named George Stanhope, and the title conveyed upon him by the King
was Earl of Danforth. He was just twenty-two, a year younger than she, and to
Amber he seemed an arrant fool. Timid and non-assertive, weak and thin, he
lived in a habitual froth of worry as to what "Mother" was going to
think about everything he or his wife did. Mother, he said, would not approve
of them occupying separate lodgings, and finally he brought the news that
Mother was coming up to London for a visit.

"Have
you room for her in your apartments?" asked Amber.

She
sat at her dressing-table having her hair arranged by a Frenchman newly arrived
from Paris, over whose services the ladies were clawing one another. In one
hand she held a silver-backed mirror, surveying her profile, admiring the lines
of her straight forehead and dainty tilted nose, the pouting curves of her
mouth and small round chin.

I'm
handsomer than Frances Stewart any day, she thought, rather defiantly. But
still I'm glad she's gone and disgraced and will never be back to trouble us
more.

Gerald
looked unhappy, pale and ineffectual. Travel on
the Continent had not polished
him; a moderately good education had not given him mental poise; the customary
indulgence in whoring and drinking had certainly not made him sophisticated. He
seemed still like a confused uncertain lonesome boy and this new turn his life
had taken only made him feel more lost than ever.

These
people—his wife and the other women and men who frequented Whitehall—were all
so brazenly confident, so selfish in their preoccupations, so cruelly
unconcerned for the hurts or hopes of another human. He longed for the quiet
and peace and sense of security he had not had at home. This world of palaces
and taverns, theatres and bawdy-houses, scared and baffled him. He almost
dreaded to have his mother come, to have her meet his wife, and yet the news
that she was coming had relieved him considerably. Mother was not afraid of
anyone. -