Whitehall--Season One Volume One

by Liz Duffy Adams

  Barbara suppressed a smile. The foolish woman would do it just to spite her, and then the whole court could mock her papist songs.

  • • •

  Jenny had provided herself with a clean apron and tucker and recoiled her hair under her starched coif before heading out on the “errands” that the Portuguese cook had requested. She trotted down the plain whitewashed stairs which led from the maids’ dormitory at the top of the palace to a backyard where she could set off into London.

  Below her, footsteps rose from the lower levels, along with a pair of men’s voices. “How did you come to learn of these stairs?”

  A laugh and then an aristocratic drawl. “Well . . . the servants are supposed to move unseen among us, and so I simply made the . . . acquaintance of a serving maid.”

  “An acquaintance . . . I see, indeed, my Lord Rochester.”

  “And, of course, it has served me well to be able to visit Babs.”

  “Are you so familiar with Lady Castlemaine?”

  “As familiar as she will let me be, which is more so now that the King’s fancy is turned elsewhere.”

  A scoffing laugh followed. “The king’s fancy—that Portuguese usurper.”

  “Patience, dear Jamie. That’s what we shall solve with the help of my dear Babs.”

  Jenny stopped on the stairs. If they were going to visit the Lady Castlemaine, then they would need to go through the door she had just passed. She could continue down the stairs, or attempt to retreat up them and escape their notice through another door. She dared a peek over the banister, and saw their plumed hats bobbing not half a flight below her. They were too close, so her best recourse was to continue down.

  “Think you that she can truly help?”

  “She has the ear of everyone that matters. And you yourself are an object of great interest here at court. Your so-called proof of your legitimacy aside—and you know you’ll have to produce it at some point, we can’t take it on faith forever—did not the king acknowledge you as his son?”

  Jenny lowered her head and pattered down the stairs as though she had some urgent business.

  “Hist—someone is coming.”

  She rounded the corner of the stairs, and a young man with the look of the king about him stood with his hand upon the chest of a nobleman with curling blond locks. Lord Rochester. She had seen him in the halls often enough, but the other man was unknown to her. Given his unmistakable resemblance to the king, though, he could only be Mister Crofts, the royal bastard everyone had been talking about this month and more. Lord Rochester pursed his lips and stepped away from the other’s hand, squarely into Jenny’s path.

  “Good day, my pretty. Where are you off to this fine afternoon?”

  She widened her eyes and answered in Spanish. “No le entiendo.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No hablo inglés.”

  Lord Rochester slapped his thigh in delight. “Portuguese! She understood not a whit of what we were discussing.”

  “She’s pretty enough.” Mister Crofts came up the stairs and studied her as if she were a horse. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I’ll wager there’re other languages she understands.”

  Jenny’s heart raced. She tried to pull her hand free. “El burro sabe más que usted. Tírese a un pozo.”

  The young man turned to Lord Rochester. “No one takes these stairs, you say?”

  “None but the servants.” He smacked Mister Crofts on the buttocks. “But you forget that fairer treasures await us in my Lady Castlemaine’s apartments. And that those are but a taste of what is yours by right.”

  With a kiss to the inside of her wrist, the king’s bastard released Jenny’s hand and sighed. “Until later, then.”

  They continued up the stairs as if she had never been present. Jenny leaned against the wall of the stairs. If she couldn’t win friends among the servants, at least she could continue to prove her devotion to the queen. And should not the queen know what Jenny had just overheard?

  • • •

  The sedan chair ride from Whitehall did nothing to steady Lady Eleanor’s nerves. In his reply to her message, Lord Russell had been insistent that she come to him, without fully understanding how difficult it was to get away from the palace. She knotted her fingers in her handkerchief and wiped her brow clean with the linen. It was too cold outside for her to be sweating, and yet she was.

  As the sedan chair settled on the ground outside Westminster Palace, she inhaled the rank river air and tucked the kerchief into the pocket beneath her skirt. Stepping out, she walked toward the door. She felt half-naked, on the street without a chaperone, but there was nothing for it. It was certainly not the first time, but it never became comfortable.

  When the door opened, she was led through the now-familiar hallways to the office where Lord Russell awaited. He sat behind his table, scribbling, determined to make her wait for notice again. The petty games he played sickened her, but if she had any hope—either for revenge or escape—it was through his good graces.

  Today, though, she hoped her news would satisfy him. Without waiting for leave, she dragged a chair closer to his table. The wooden legs groaned across the floor.

  Lord Russell looked up, lip curling. “Well, my lady?”

  Spreading out her skirts, Lady Eleanor sank into the chair. “I have two pieces of information for you, my lord. The queen is going to host a concert.”

  “What care I for that?” He cast his quill down on the table, and ink spattered across the pages. “I gave you specific instructions to discover the details of her Catholic marriage.”

  “The concert is to feature her chapel musicians.” She tilted her head to the side, watching his pale eyes for understanding. “Her chapel musicians, sir. A concert of religious music, beyond doubt. It is the first step at attempting to convert the court to her papist beliefs.”

  He snorted and tugged on his chin. “Ah. Yes . . . we may perhaps make use of that. It will certainly look bad, and increase ill will against her. A grave misstep on her part. And the second?”

  She smoothed her skirts and let the silence stretch between them. He had toyed with her so many times, but she could match him today. For her second piece of news was much better than a simple concert. After the exchange between Lady Castlemaine and the queen in chapel, Eleanor had taken care to be where the countess could find her and spill her rumors into her ear. Whatever Lady Castlemaine’s reasons for doing so—Eleanor assumed it was simply in her nature to spread vile gossip—the information had both shocked her and given her hope.

  Eleanor smiled triumphantly, and said, “Have you heard of Mister James Crofts?”

  “Of course. Who has not? The king’s bastard, off the notorious whore Lucy Walter. That is nothing to our purpose.”

  Eleanor stared at him, speechless and brought up short. Russell frowned impatiently. “Ah, this is where your ignorance of the wide world fails you. Of course you would not have heard of it, mewed up in the country. But it is not a secret to the court.”

  “Not a secret? That he is the king’s son?”

  “Young Crofts is openly acknowledged.”

  Eleanor rallied, leaning forward and placing her hands on his desk. “Ah. But is it as well known that his parents were secretly married? Making him the legitimate heir to the throne?”

  Russell went still, fixing her with his pale blue gaze. “Where did you hear this?”

  “The Lady Castlemaine.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hm. And did she tell you how she knew? Did she mention any proof of such a claim?”

  Eleanor hesitated, thinking. “Well . . . not precisely. She seemed very sure of it, however.”

  Russell made a scoffing sound, pushed back from his desk, and stood, going to pour himself a glass of wine from a small cabinet. “Do you think I have not thought of this? How convenient it would be if the king had married the woman in youthful impulse, and thus provided a Protestant heir ready to hand? And yet, here the bo
y is, nearly of age and no evidence yet produced of any such thing. I am not such a fool as to grasp after phantoms, simply because they promise what I would wish to believe.”

  Eleanor stood and drew herself up, not yet willing to give up her prize. “And yet should we be foolish enough to ignore a weapon that comes to hand, because we mistrust it? What if it were true? You did not hear the lady; she was very persuasive.”

  He said drily, “I can easily imagine what Lady Castlemaine gains by spreading such a tale. But that is no reason for us to be taken in by it. You must sharpen your wits, lady mine, if you are to prosper in this matter.”

  Eleanor thought bitterly of how little she wished to be at this business at all. And yet, since she had no choice, it was doubly bitter to fail.

  Russell crossed to her, and standing close, picked up her hand and pressed his wine glass into it. To offer her his own glass was too intimate a gesture, intended to fluster her, his usual game. She put the glass down on the desk and looked up into his face, her lips pressed together.

  He looked back down at her, his expression hard. “Have you nothing, then, to tell me of the Catholic wedding?”

  “Nothing yet, my lord. But I believe she was near to confiding in me this morning. Her trust deepens. I promise you, it is merely a matter of time.”

  He nodded, going back around his desk to sit. “I hope so, my lady. I hope you are not forgetful of your duty to me, and of the consequence to your family if you are.”

  Her stomach tightened, and her breath quickened. She said, “Trust me. We shall soon have the tools we need to pry the papist woman from the throne.”

  And if she had her wish, she thought, King Charles would go right along with the queen. She would see both of them all the way to hell.

  • • •

  The next day, Jenny bent her head to scrubbing the tea stains from the queen’s teapot. Her Majesty might never see the inside of the pot, but that was no reason to leave it brown. Across the table, Mavis had a silver ewer and was buffing it for the table.

  She glanced up and raised her brows. “I can put that away for you. Promise, won’t let none of the others touch it.”

  “But I’m not finished yet.”

  “Pardon, mistress.” The soft voice was accented and rolling. “The queen wants you.”

  Jenny turned on the bench. Standing behind her was the little page boy, Samuel. Born in the Indies, he had been a wedding gift from some noble lord to His Majesty, who had in turn presented him to Her Majesty. Poor lad seemed nearly as lost at the palace as she was. “Oh, Sam. Did she say what she wanted me for?”

  “The tailor is here again.”

  “Right.” She placed the teapot carefully in Mavis’s hands. “Thanks, dear. I owe you.”

  “Just promise to tell me every word your young man says.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” But Jenny checked her apron for stains. “I’m just helping with translation.”

  “Mm-hm . . .” Mavis pulled the teapot closer. “Don’t forget to pinch your cheeks. You’re looking pale as milk, my girl.”

  Jenny stuck her tongue out at Mavis, but hurried after Samuel. She didn’t need to pinch her cheeks, not with the stairs between them and Her Majesty. She’d be flushed enough from the climb.

  “How’re you settling in, Samuel?” she said to the small, straight back.

  “I am very happy, mistress.” He said it as if by rote.

  “Do they treat you well?”

  “I am very happy.” He gestured to the door in front of them. “The queen is waiting.”

  She tugged on her apron to straighten it. And then she pinched her cheeks, just in case. Ah, she was an idiot. Who would look at her when the Queen of England was present? Not to mention the splendid Lady Castlemaine? Sighing, Jenny stepped into a room filled with ladies and a consort of musicians.

  The room also contained Mister Hammett—he stood next to a pile of fabrics, stretching out lengths for the tailor to show to Her Majesty. And the king.

  Jenny’s heart thumped sideways in her chest. The king. She swallowed and shot Samuel a glare. He gave her a shy grin as if to say that he had known full well that the king was here. He might have warned her, now mightn’t he? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen the king before, but she’d never spoken to him, and if the queen wanted her usual help with the tailors then Jenny would be doing a fair bit of speaking. She swallowed again. It would be fine as long as she kept her head.

  Mister Hammett didn’t seem the least bit nonplussed about showing fabrics to the King of England. Perhaps he did it regularly as part of his duties. As he folded a piece of linen and turned to set it back on the pile, his dark gaze caught hers.

  He smiled, inclined his head, turned back to the tailor, and murmured something.

  Jenny’s feet seemed to have grown roots; she had to yank them up to make herself move forward. It wouldn’t do for the queen to see her standing there and staring. She crossed the room and sank into a curtsy before the king and queen.

  “Ah. This is the young woman you were telling me about?” The king said it as if he had no memory of having seen her before, which likely he didn’t. Her job was to be invisible, after all.

  Except to the queen.

  “Yes. Jenny is most helpful.” Her Majesty gestured for her to rise.

  To Jenny’s surprise, the king switched to Spanish. “Then let us give thanks that she knows the words for ladies’ clothing, as I do not. Not even in English.”

  At some point, the queen or the king or the tailor was going to use a word that she could not translate. She must learn more about the trade so she would be prepared for whatever the queen asked. She straightened from her curtsy, keeping her gaze respectfully lowered, and backed up until she stood next to Mister Hammett.

  “I was rather hoping you would be here,” he murmured, and shifted so that she had a clearer view of the material.

  To make it seem as if they were discussing fabric, she lifted a fold of deep red velvet. “Do I make your job so much easier?” she murmured.

  “Among other things.” His lashes were so very long and dark. With one hand, he gestured toward the stack of fabric. “What do you think we should show them next?”

  “What is the queen having you make?” She glanced at the musicians.

  “Costumes for an opera, I think. Or a ballet. I’m not entirely clear.”

  “I’ve never been to the theater.” Her throat closed a little. She truly would not know any of the right terms for this sort of garb.

  He paused in the process of pulling out a length of green velvet. “Have you not? Well, perhaps . . .”

  She put her hand on a periwinkle blue silk. “If it’s for the queen, try this. The green will make her look sallow. And—perhaps, what?”

  “Thank you.” He slipped the silk she’d indicated from the stack and handed it to the tailor. “In that case, if it is not too forward, might I be allowed to escort you to the theater?”

  “Oh.” She turned her attention to the queen, who was running her hand over the periwinkle silk with evident delight. Such an excursion would be an opportunity to ask Mister Hammett questions about costumes. Nothing more than that. Her interest had nothing to do with the appealing timbre of his voice. “I could ask for leave, I suppose.”

  Mister Hammett smiled. “I shall have to see what is playing. With luck, The Coffee-House will be running that day.” He reached for the green velvet again and showed it to her. “Think you that this might convey a summer day with the periwinkle? For the musicians’ dress?”

  “Grass and sky?” She nodded and he handed it to the tailor. “What is The Coffee-House?”

  “A play that I have been most interested in seeing because it is about a man of my own heritage.”

  “Might I then ask where you are from?”

  “London.” He flashed her a brilliant smile. “But I thank you for not asking until now. My father is from Turkey, and the play concerns a coffee-shop owner from the same country.
I suspect everything about it is wrong.”

  “Then why do you wish to see it?”

  “Because I am curious.” He had a dimple when he smiled. “And Turks are so exotic, who would wish to miss the spectacle? Will you come?”

  For a chance to see him smile again? “Yes, thank you.”

  • • •

  The night air caught against the sweat on Charles’s skin and sent a shiver down his spine. He kissed his lover’s cheek and rolled off her. At their feet, Rogue readjusted himself on the bed with a little whuffle of protest. In the dark of their drawn curtains, Charles could not see her, but could feel the gooseflesh on her arms.

  “Cold, my love?”

  Catherine snuggled against him. “Not when you are here.”

  “Well . . .” He drew the coverlet up higher, wrapping it around her shoulders. “I shall be here all night, then.”

  She sighed, but it was not the sigh of contentment that she had uttered during their lovemaking. He raised himself on an elbow, wishing that he could see her, but she was a mere shadow. “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing. Not really.”

  “Do you not wish me to stay?”

  “Oh! No. No, it is not that at all. Only . . .” Her hand slid under the covers and cupped his hip. “I was only thinking how nice this was.”

  And yet, her sigh had sounded discontented. Charles worked his arm out from beneath the coverlet and found her cheek. He traced the soft curve and worked his fingers back into her hair. He would hazard a guess, and if he was wrong, then her correction might lead him closer to the truth. “Do you miss Portugal?”

  “What? No—I mean, yes. But that is not why I sighed.”

  “Aha! So you do have a reason to be discontent.”

  She rolled toward him and found his lips in the dark. Her breath was warm, and for a moment she managed to distract him. His loins stirred in response to her touch. Lord knew there were not many women who could awaken him so easily a third time in one night. Barbara—

  He pulled back, suddenly certain what had caused her to sigh. “Dearest . . . the nights that I do not spend with you are not spent with another.”