‘Demand, do you? When you’ve caused my first-floor gaming rooms to be wrecked? You’re lucky I don’t call a constable and have you taken up for it!’
Carolina spilled out of the coach to grasp a shaking Reba by the arm. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ she cried, her own troubles sinking for the moment into the background at sight of all this commotion.
‘Oh - hello, Carolina.’ Reba acknowledged her friend, then stooped to rescue several pairs of kid gloves and some orange ribands that had spilled on to the cobbles. She looked up as the front door was slammed with force. ‘Well, I suppose that ruins my gambling career,’ she grumbled.
‘But you didn’t have a gambling career!’ cried Carolina, bewildered. She snatched up Reba’s other box. ‘Oh, do come along. We’ll have some coffee in the nearest coffeehouse and you can tell me all about it.’
The hackney driver had not stirred from his perch to help either lady. His brows were lifted in amazement. He’d have a rare old story to tell his Lottie tonight, he would! Couple of wild ones had invaded his hack. Wouldn't be surprised if they insisted he drive them to Hell and demand the Devil let them in!
‘Since you’re going to ask me anyway, I might as well tell you.’ Reba sighed as she climbed in beside Carolina and they sat with her boxes on their laps. ‘Last night Bertie - that’s Lord Grymes - came rolling in deep in his cups and I saw a chance to make my fortune. Whist, primero, cribbage, ombre - I play all the card games, but whist is my speciality. And so we sat there gambling for small stakes - and Jenny Chesterton chose to overlook it. But as I began to win his jewellery - the diamonds from his cuffs, the ruby at his throat, his watch - she began to take notice. Bertie hates to lose, and Jenny’s had to throw him out before. And all of a sudden he staggered to his feet and roared that I was cheating him out of the family jewels!’
‘And were you?’ asked Carolina resignedly, for she knew Reba of old. Reba seldom made these little distinctions - she tried to keep the cards stacked in her favour. ‘We-ell . . .’ Reba shrugged. ‘Nothing too flagrant.’
‘But Jenny Chesterton had noticed?’
Reba nodded. ‘And suddenly she grabbed me by the arm and yanked me from my chair, tearing my sleeve. Well, Bertie is very unpredictable and at that point he seemed to rear up and he fixed her with a drunken leer and he said, “Are you attacking this young woman, madam?” And with that he overturned the table and began kicking the chairs apart. He’s very strong and there was chair stuffing all over the floor. And as he careened around with several gentlemen who were already the worse for drink themselves trying to control him, they broke up quite a bit of furniture. And also confused everybody’s bets, for money and cards were all on the floor by then. So when they finally got Bertie quieted down, quarrels broke out as to wagers and who owned what was scattered on the floor. At that point several actors from the theatre came in - Jenny doesn’t usually allow them inside her doors but I guess she was rattled by all that had happened - and they began scooping up the money. When the players protested they calmly insisted they’d dropped it, and a general brawl broke out and the whole first floor was wrecked.’
‘But that was last night. Why should Jenny throw you out this morning if she didn’t last night?’
‘I think she smouldered all night,’ Reba said frankly. ‘And if her lover, Lord Ormsby, had been willing to foot the bill for the damage, she might have forgotten about it. But I could hear them quarrelling downstairs this morning and he told her that her damned gaming house was becoming a drain on him and he’d have no part of any refurbishing and stalked out.’ Reba shifted the heavy box on her lap. ‘And at that point Jenny came charging upstairs and told me I’d have to pay for the damage!’
‘And of course you couldn’t,’ Carolina said resignedly.
Reba shrugged. ‘Of course not. And she raved and said she’d have my clothes then! That she’d sell them and use the money to repair her rooms since Lord Ormsby wouldn’t!’
‘Do you think she will? Oh, here’s a coffeehouse—driver, let us off here.’
‘Who knows?’ said Reba as they alighted, carrying the boxes. But when they were inside, seated at a small table by a window that looked out upon the street, she said meditatively, ‘I don’t really think so. Jenny isn’t that vengeful. But I don’t think she’ll let me come back and stay there for I broke one of her cardinal rules - no gambling on my own account.’ She looked up suddenly at Carolina. ‘You look pale,’ she commented. ‘And your hair’s a mess!’
‘I don’t wonder,’ Carolina said with a short laugh. ‘I got a small shock this morning. My - lover - ’ - she was reluctant to mention Rye’s name - ‘went off with another woman.’
Reba gave her a pitying look. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ she said sincerely.
‘Don’t say “I told you so”,’ said Carolina with a grimace. ‘I don’t think I could bear it.’ Her coffee was so hot it burned her tongue - she swallowed it anyway.
‘No, I won’t. I’m as big a fool as you are.’ Reba’s voice was bitter. ‘Some people never learn and I suppose I’m one of them. Well’ - her quick glance shrewdly appraised Carolina’s handsome gown - ‘at least he didn’t leave you empty-handed!’
‘No, that was not his intention,’ Carolina said in a small voice. A biting pain went through her heart. He had tried to provide for her, damn him, when all she really wanted was for him to love her!
Suddenly through the window she saw Andrew striding along, peering about him - and beside him Virginia in a light summer dress, looking upset.
Carolina choked on her coffee and bent her head as if to collect something she had dropped on the floor.
‘Reba,’ she hissed in panic, ‘if those two people come into the inn you must help me get out quickly before they see me!’
Reba turned to scan the pair on the street. ‘They’re going on by,’ she said. ‘I don’t know the woman, but the man - ’ She gasped. ‘Why, it’s Rye Evistock’s brother - I can’t think of his name. You can sit up now, they’ve gone.’
Carolina straightened to see Reba staring at her. Her russet eyes had widened as she leaned forward.
‘Ryeland Smythe,’ she murmured. ‘And that was Rye’s brother you’re hiding from! There isn’t any Ryeland Smythe - you married Rye Evistock in Fleet Street!’
Carolina’s deep flush gave her away.
Reba’s mouth had opened as well as her eyes, and suddenly she threw back her auburn head and her laughter pealed. ‘We’re a pair of fools, Carol!’ she gasped, when she could speak again. ‘Robin seduces me and deserts me - and what do I do? I take him back the moment he returns and go through a meaningless ceremony with him in Fleet Street! And you, Carol - Rye left you standing lost in a maze in bitter cold at my home in Essex a year ago last Christmastide. You thought at the time he had left you there in a thin gown in the hope you might freeze to death!’
‘He had reason to hate me then, I suppose,’ Carolina said dully, bent on giving the devil his due. She might also have protested that wasn’t really what had happened, but then she would have had to explain about Tortuga, about Rye’s other identity as Kells - for Reba plainly hadn’t heard about that. But something held her back. She told herself it was because the Crown might seize her emeralds but she knew it was more than that - she had not yet shaken off the fierce loyalty that had bound her to him. ‘I suppose I deserved that - in Essex,’ she sighed. ‘For what I’d done to him!’
‘Oh, we’re both getting our just desserts,’ Reba agreed airily. ‘And I don’t like it a whit better than you do!’ She rested her chin on her hand and looked out of the window. Suddenly she stiffened. ‘Good Lord!’ She leaned forward, almost pressing her nose against the pane as she stared into the street. ‘That’s Annette Osborne out there,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure of it!’
Carolina was drawn to look at a thin young woman walking unsteadily by. Bravely gowned in red, she seemed very frail. There were dark circles under eyes that seemed vacant, without hope. But her
thin cheeks wore vivid spots of rouge, her pouting lips were reddened and her hair, which seemed to have no lustre of its own, was dyed a brilliant red.
‘But that’s a prostitute out there,’ protested Carolina. ‘Nevertheless. It’s also Annette Osborne.’
‘Who is Annette Osborne?’
‘She’s a girl I knew in Bristol before we came to Essex. She’s a couple of years older than I am, a merchant’s daughter, very strictly brought up. Mother was always saying “Why can’t you be more like Annette Osborne?” I used to hate her! Then Annette fell in love with one of her father’s clerks and her family wouldn’t let them get married, so she ran away with him. We heard later that they’d been married in Fleet Street. Her parents might have taken her back but that was the last straw . . .’ Reba was staring in horror after the passing woman, who plodded on out of their range of vision. ‘Annette’s aged ten years,’ she muttered. ‘She looks terrible!’ She shuddered and turned to Carolina. ‘Let’s hope the same fate doesn’t overtake us,’ she said ironically. ‘To the future!’ With a sardonic gesture she raised her coffee cup.
‘Well, I don’t know about you but I’m positive that such a future will never overtake me!' said Carolina vigorously. ‘Because I’m not going to stay here and let this city grind me down!’
‘Do you have a place to go?’ asked Reba conversationally.
‘No,’ admitted Carolina.
‘But weren’t you staying at an inn?’
‘I was - until this morning.’
Reba gave her a jaded look. ‘They put you out because you couldn’t pay?’
‘No, I can’t go back there because Rye’s brother and my sister are staying there!’ blurted out Carolina.
‘Oh, I see!’ Reba’s auburn brows shot up. ‘But what about your clothes?’
‘I don’t care about my clothes,’ Carolina said stubbornly. ‘I’m not going back for them. I left a note,’ she added.
‘Burned your bridges . . .’ mused Reba. ‘Well, what now?’
‘I think Andrew and Virgie were searching the town for me,’ Carolina said uneasily. ‘The anxious way they were looking about as they passed here told me that. I want to get away - right now!’ She put a hand impulsively on Reba’s wrist. ‘Oh, Reba, don’t stay here waiting for a man who will never come back! Come away with me.’
‘Where?’ demanded Reba.
‘To America.’
Reba laughed. ‘Back to “Bedlam” in Virginia? I doubt your family would welcome me - an impoverished castoff, slightly used!’
‘I wasn’t thinking of going back to Virginia,’ said Carolina, choosing her words carefully. And all of a sudden she wasn’t. She wanted to try a new life - far away.
‘Any particular place?’ Reba asked indifferently. Her speculative gaze was still noting passersby.
‘Yes,’ Carolina said in inspiration. ‘Philadelphia. I have a sister there - at least that’s where she was when she was last seen. Penny. She’s the one who left her husband, you remember I told you about her?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Reba sounded amused. ‘She ran away to the Marriage Trees with him and then decided she didn’t want him after all.’
‘Well, he was a terrible dolt,’ Carolina said.
‘Aren’t they all?’ Reba sighed.
All except one, you mean, divined Carolina. And that one is Robin Tyrell, Marquess of Saltenham. Ah, Reba, you’re still in love with him.
‘You didn’t want to marry Robin just to become a marchioness, did you?’ she asked her friend quietly.
‘No. Actually I just wanted to be his wife.’ Reba looked down into her empty cup and laughed. ‘There must be something more potent than coffee berries in this brew - that’s the first time I’ve ever admitted that to anyone!’
‘I think I always knew it,’ murmured Carolina.
So for all her attempts not to show it, Reba had really been in love all along. But Carolina, younger and less wise in those days, had seen only Reba’s hard-polished exterior - she had never looked below the surface or seen beneath the banter. Trouble, Carolina thought grimly. was giving her insight - although perhaps a trifle late!
‘Reba,’ she said quietly. ‘I once cost you half you wardrobe - and you’ve never reproached me for it. Let me make it up to you now - let me pay your passage with me to Philadelphia.’
Reba turned to consider Carolina, a twisted smile upon her lips. She turned the coffee cup restlessly in her hands. Then, ‘Well, why not?’ she said briskly. ‘We certainly can’t make any bigger fools of ourselves there than we already have here!’
THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR’S RESIDENCE
LONDON, ENGLAND
Summer 1689
21
Within the Duchess of Lorca’s bedchamber the man who had called himself Diego Viajar embraced the bride he had not held in his arms all these years past. Outside the bedchamber a shadow skulked.
That shadow was Sancho and his ear was pressed to the bedchamber’s oaken door. He could hear little within - a man’s voice, murmuring, rich in tone, an elegant rustling murmur that would be the Duchess of Lorca’s. And then - just as he had feared - a faint sound as a booted foot came up against the corner of the thronelike bed, a little breathless tinkling laugh. And then only - could he really hear it or did he only imagine it? - the tantalizing rustle of straining bodies sliding along a coverlet.
Half sick with murderous envy, Sancho’s stocky form leant against that thick door. Beads of perspiration dotted his dark brow and his palms, pressed against the wood, were wet as well. It took all the will power that was in him not to fling wide the portal and burst in upon the lovers, to make short work of the man with the long knife he carried, and crush the erring Duchess in his arms.
He had felt that way about every lover she had ever had. For Sancho’s love of the young Duchess - though silent and never alluded to - ran deep. He would have died for her.
Unfortunately, the Duchess did not care, accepting such loyalty - indeed such debasement, for Sancho had for his lady’s sake betrayed the Duke of Lorca again and again - as merely the just due of her beauty, her queenly femininity.
In Spain she had been more circumspect - most of the time. Sancho had even dared to hope that those swift almost absent-minded smiles she sometimes gave him held a deeper meaning. He had sweated blood trying to shield her clandestine meetings from discovery. It had eaten into his entrails that it should be so, but he had been ever mindful of the fate that would await the reckless Duchess should her affairs be discovered: Death. Or a life spent forever locked away in a convent. Or perchance some more cruel imprisonment, lying chained in some out-of-the-way stronghold of the Duke’s. The possibilities were endless - and unthinkable. Sancho, swallowing his pride, lowering himself to treachery to his sworn lord, the Duke of Lorca, had bent his considerable efforts to shielding his mistress.
In Paris, when the Duke of Lorca was sent to the Court of Versailles as ambassador to France, Sancho had foreseen a welcome end to the young Duchess’s passions. But Sancho’s relief had been of short duration.
In Paris, the Duchess of Lorca had discovered the French courtiers. The new palace of Versailles had sparkled with them: young gentlemen in richly embroidered satins, resplendent with gold and silver braid, gentlemen wearing black patches and sometimes powder and paint, gentlemen who took snuff from a variety of intricately decorated snuffboxes - and favours from any source offered. One such source was the brighteyed Duchess of Lorca who moved excitedly from the gilded Hall of Mirrors to the fabulous Orangery - and lingered on one of the splendid staircases leading to the Swiss Lake while the lounging courtiers, who seemed always to follow her about, closed the distance. The young Duchess was accounted one of the most brilliant jewels in a startling array of such gems that roamed the palace gardens at Versailles and there were wagers made behind ringed hands and wafting fans as to who would be her latest ‘conquest’.
But the Duchess of Lorca, dragging her slender fingers in the Grand Canal from one of
the Venetian gondolas placed there by Louis XIV, had at last been sated by all this attention.
Eventually she had some to England at the side of the Duke of Lorca who, having exchanged the post of Ambassador to France for that of Ambassador to England, kept his greying head bent over cranky missives from Spain inveighing him to do better with this barbaric heretic country to which he had been sent. The harassed Duke had given little thought and no attention to the affairs of his beautiful young wife - indeed he would have paled had a whisper of them reached him.
And that they had not reached him was due in part to the Duchess of Lorca’s own careful machinations - but largely to Sancho, who guarded his lady’s reputation as zealously as a husband and would have found a way to stick a dagger into anyone who made free with it.
England had been at first a respite for Sancho - and then had come those meetings with the Englishman the Duchess visited by night at the Shark and Fin. Sancho had no idea that the Duchess was involved in the Duke’s disappearance - indeed he had been duped into believing that it was love that took her to the Shark and Fin.
Now there was this other Englishman, met outside the Drury Land theatre, at sight of whom a slight tremor - not overlooked by Sancho, who had been guiding her through the crowd at the time - had gone through the frail form of the Duchess.
And now this latest Englishman, in response to an invitation sent via an orange girl at Drury Lane - was here in that most holy of sanctuaries, the Duchess’s bedchamber. No other man save the Duke had ever violated that particular female domain - and since he was her husband Sancho had grudgingly accorded him that right. Sweating and with the blood pounding in his head, Sancho was undergoing the agonies of the damned as he envisioned what was going on within.
What was actually happening there would have plunged the knife even more deeply into Sancho’s aching heart.
For Diego and his lost lady, time had swept back and both had for the moment forgotten that they had other loves and other ties. For them the candlelight had turned into the golden sunlight of Salamanca where as young lovers with all their lives ahead of them they had kissed and exchanged whispered vows in the shadows beneath the stirring rustle of the palms.
Windsong Page 30
