His Last Mistress: The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth

by Andrea Zuvich

  He showed her the page where his astrological wheel had been drawn out.

  She couldn’t help but smile at this, “I am glad of it - have you learned anything from your chart?”

  “Apparently I am what is known as a ram?”

  “Aries, after the God of War.”

  “How appropriate for me!” he said, with a chuckle.

  “Jemmy! Come here, my boy!” hollered the King merrily from the opposite side of the room, where he was playing a game of cards with his French mistress, the Duchess of Portsmouth. He energetically gestured for Monmouth to go to him. “God’s teeth! Help me, Jemmy, Louise is sure to deplete the entirety of the royal coffers at this rate.”

  “Duty calls. Please excuse me.”

  He could see plainly that she did not like him, but there was something that drew him to her, he could not tell what. Some strange connection, he knew she must feel it, too. It was more than lust, for he was acquainted with lust all too well, it was something else, something more powerful, something that was both frightening and elating.

  Chapter 5

  The King was desirous of merriment, and so commanded a masked ball be held at the Banqueting House at Whitehall Palace. Henrietta was filled with excitement for this would be her first official outing with the Earl of Thanet since their betrothal.

  She chose a pink gown with whalebone stays that pulled in her waist to an admirably small size, and a neckline low enough to show off her now womanly figure whilst retaining some modesty. Her ash blonde hair was all heaped atop her head, save for the two long curls that lay quite fetchingly down her neck and rested upon her the right side of her chest. The sleeves of her shift were trimmed in lace and ruffled elegantly at her forearms. Her perfume was her favourite, made from damask roses.

  As she and the Earl entered the great room, her eyes roamed about the white walls and the beautiful Rubens paintings that adorned the ceiling. It was a colourful affair, with glittering jewels and colourful frocks, elegant fans and a large group of musicians who played popular music perfect for dancing. Hundreds of lit candles bordered the room and above in the chandeliers, casting a warm glow upon the revellers.

  Henrietta danced with the Earl and intended to dance only with him, when suddenly, the Duke of Monmouth, clothed in a suit of rich red brocade, came upon them and asked to dance with her. The Earl nodded to him curtly, for he could not refuse the man, but real concern crept into his mind as he watched them dance – the Duke had made it clear that he admired Henrietta. Richard could see the lust in his eyes, and perhaps worse, there was genuine feeling there, too. He prayed that Henrietta would not fall under the Duke’s spell, as so many before her had. The musicians played French pieces, and the tall King energetically twirled and swayed to the Baroque airs.

  “Does this music please you?” Monmouth asked, as he hopped in tune to the music. He was an exceptional dancer, so lithe and fluid in his every movement, that she felt unequal to the task of being his dance partner.

  “Aye, Your Grace, it doth.”

  Monmouth again spoke, “Will you not converse with me?”

  “You are an excellent dancer, Your Grace.”

  “I thank you – I love music. I could dance all day. King Louis himself dances to Lully’s music.”

  “You’ve been to France?”

  “Aye, many times, for I oft visited my Aunt Minette there. I taught her some country dances, much to the extreme annoyance of her stupid husband, whom they call Monsieur.” Henrietta felt all the more unequal as a dance partner after this. The lively Minette had died some years before, and one of the brightest stars of the House of Stuart had been extinguished.

  They continued to dance, the other couples swirling about them in a flurry of colours and energy.

  “I think they ought to have more English music; we are in England, after all. Your father’s court is more French than English, some would say.”

  “Aye, but my father has always loved all things French - his favourite mistress is French and it pleases her.”

  She looked towards where Queen Catherine sat, surrounded by her glum ladies. “But the Queen – look you how forlorn she is, no doubt due to your father’s open flaunting of his mistresses.”

  “Oh, she’s a good sort – she knows he loves her.”

  “How could a man love one woman but have so many mistresses?”

  “My father knows what he is doing.”

  She cast an anxious glance towards Richard, who hovered like a wraith by the wall, the expression upon his face increasingly uncomfortable as saw that the Duke’s hands were upon his fiancée.

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “I have no wish to offend Your Grace. I only ask that you stop pursuing me. Yesterday, you followed me in the garden. The day before that you sent me flowers. You have been pursuing me as a man pursues a woman. Please stop this for neither of us is free.”

  “I’ve offended you, then? I did not wish to – I only desire for us to be friends.”

  She shook her head. “Your Grace and I are so very different – we come from completely different worlds. It would be impossible.”

  “Impossible? How so? I wish I could understand what you mean. I pray you would be frank and tell me exactly what you think.”

  “You are in earnest?”

  “Aye.”

  She cast an anxious glance at Richard, who though now engaged in a conversation with another courtier, had his eyes firmly upon them.

  “You ask if we can be friends? How can I form a friendship with a notorious rake who abandoned his wife and family and who has also committed murder? ‘Tis almost as bad as friendship with the Devil himself!” she spat, whilst she continued the motions of the dance. “And, pardon me, You Grace, look at you, forever ostentatious in your choice of clothes. Why, you’re nothing but a fop!”

  His eyes widened in disbelief. “A foppish rake and murderer, you say? If this is what you believe, I must be evil incarnate in your eyes.”

  “Not quite evil incarnate, but you are without a doubt the most vain man of my acquaintance. No doubt you have a black heart, which is only concealed by the beauty of your face. It is cruel that God chose to bestow upon you such comeliness when all else about you disgusts me.”

  He stopped dancing.

  “I do believe I have heard enough. I will disgust you no longer.” He bowed curtly, and abruptly, left the dance, leaving people speculating as to what she said to so offend the Duke.

  As Henrietta returned to Richard’s side, he promptly asked, “Is anything amiss?”

  “Nay, my lord, all is well. The Duke had to leave suddenly.”

  She did not know where such vicious words had come from, for she had never spoken to anyone in such a manner before. Why had she been so hostile? Why did she feel as if she was burning up?

  Chapter 6

  In asking for her to be frank with him, Monmouth had inadvertently allowed himself to become deeply wounded by her stinging words, and he spent half the night thinking about what she had said. How dare she speak to him in that manner? No one did. But he knew, deep down, that she spoke the truth, and that was why it hurt as much as it did.

  The next day dawned and he decided that he had to speak with her, explain everything to her. “She is but betrothed,” Monmouth thought to himself. “And therefore, I can still woo her.”

  He washed his face and hands and rubbed his athletic body down with a cloth, put on a clean white shirt, with its long white sleeves terminating into crisp lace at his wrists - which matched the lace at his throat - and a blue coat with golden embroidery upon the cuffs. He wore his new chestnut periwig, with its tumbling curls, and to his neck, he applied some musk perfume. He popped his characteristic white plumed hat upon his head at a jaunty angle, the Monmouth cock, and flashed a smile at himself in the mirror, pleased with what he saw therein.

  In spite of all his preparations, he had not properly considered how to court the lady. Women had naturally flocked to him
over the years, to the point where he had rarely needed to actively pursue one.

  He rapped at the door. No one came. Impatient as ever, he burst through, his eyes catching a fleeting sight of his heart’s desire – naked! She screamed as he entered and in her haste to hide behind an embroidered screen, she knocked the water she had been using to wash to the ground.

  “Your Grace, how dare you come into my presence thus?” she cried from behind the dressing screen. “Have you no notion of decency? Get out!”

  “Forgive me – I had no idea.”

  He quickly left the room and waited right outside the door. The image of her standing at her basin washing her hair, the trickle of water down the rounded haunches of her buttocks, down her plump, exquisite thighs, tapering down to her slim ankles and sweet little feet. Such a sight to behold – thank goodness she hadn’t been facing him, for then he may not have been able to leave her presence.

  At length, she opened the door, her hair still wet, and she stood with high colour in her cheeks, no doubt embarrassed by what had happened.

  “Again, I must apologise. I have never been very punctilious.”

  She clicked her teeth in irritation. “What is it you came to say, Your Grace? Did I not tell you all at the ball?”

  Monmouth was stunned. “Would you deny me the chance to address the claims you have made against my character?”

  “Your Grace would deny them, of course!”

  “Nay, I deny nothing, but you must allow me to speak. I feel a great weight upon my chest which will only be remedied by discourse with you. Please do not deny me the right to defend myself.”

  She nodded, coldly. She could not fathom the reasons why she agreed to listen to him, perhaps it was out of civility, the fact he was the King’s son, the fact he did not seem evil, and the fact that his voice seemed so earnest.

  “I am married. My Duchess is Anna Scott, of a noble and rich Scottish family, and through her did I become the Duke of Buccleuch. ‘Twas thought important that I should be united to her for these important qualities, never mind the fact that we were both far too young to wed. I was thirteen, and she, twelve.”

  “Many nobles marry at such an age,” she stated, interrupting him.

  “Aye, but we have nothing in common, for she is serious when I am gay, she seeks intellectual stimulation when I want...oh, I do not know what I want sometimes. We have had several children, three now living, children I love, but I have never loved their mother, though it grieves them betimes.”

  “Your poor wife, what miseries you have placed at her feet.”

  “Before you feel great sorrow for the plight of the Duchess, I’ll have you know that she has little love for me, and even less respect. She has always known that I feel nothing for her, and that I was married to her for her money and her title.

  “By the time I was eighteen, I had tired of it all, and I left Anna’s bed. I sought company with those who would bring pleasure to my body; I’ll not deny it. I befriended my father’s friends, whose company brought me much mirth, but whom you would deem to be debauched fops. I will not deny they were anything but this, but I became entranced by their intoxicating world of excess and pleasure.

  “I always searched for something, but I did not know what, until I met Eleanor. She was a bright, silly thing and I was fond of her, but her charms did wear off, and though our children have been loved and provided for, I again never loved their mother. It was a fleeting passion that I held fast to, for the sake of some commonality - which I could never have with Anna. She has grown mercurial in temper, and I have taken to lodging alone, sometimes visiting a lady of the night. All these things satiated the base needs of my body, but not the aspirations of my soul. I never thought I had a soul until I met you.”

  He looked down at the square tips of his leather shoes, his voice filled with regret, “As for being a murderer, I suppose I am, though you have not asked me the circumstances which led me to this deed. I was in my cups after an evening of sordid entertainment with the Wilmot, Sedley, and the others of our group. But the Duke of Albemarle, Viscount Dunbar, and I were in need of whores, so went made our way to a brothel in Whetstone Park, and there, did we make merry. But we were vociferous in our orgy of pleasures, and were asked by a watchman to quieten down for the sake of the others in the establishment. My blood ran hot, stirred up with drink, and with a nature prone to violence, that beadle was killed, and with my sword. I remember the look in his eyes as I thrust my blade into his heart. I later found out that his name was Peter Vernell; I took his life, as I have taken so many lives upon the fields of battle, but unlike war, he didn’t deserve to die. I am ashamed of it, and my father saved us both with a pardon, which I know I didn’t deserve.”

  He didn’t look at her once during this disclosure, but turned to face her now. She had become pale and still.

  “As for being a fop, a popinjay, well, perhaps I am. I enjoy the present fashions and suit them; if that is a crime, then I am a criminal.”

  There again was silence, and this time, Henrietta found her voice and felt obliged to ask, “Is there anything else Your Grace wishes to tell me?”

  “Aye, there is, Baroness. I have lived recklessly, gambled my income away at the horse races, gone whoring, have been more drunk than sober, I’ve beaten men to a pulp with my hands, have had a man’s nose cut off for insulting my father and have been indebted to villains more times than I care to say. But, I do not want to live like this anymore. I want a quiet life with a good woman who will care and love me – not for being the Duke of Monmouth, but for me, Jemmy. I pray to God you will accept me. I need help, I need you.”

  She was speechless. Part of her now longed to take him in her arms and shout, “I will help you, I will love you!” but she couldn’t. Instead, she said, “I do not know what to say. I cannot understand why a man who has so many gifts, so much privilege in this life, can be so monstrous.”

  He shook his handsome head ruefully. “Aye, I am a monster with a pretty face, but I yearn for salvation. With you, for the first time in my existence, I want to be a better man than I am.”

  She tried to be kinder to him. “If I can say anything good about you, Your Grace, ‘twould be that you speak with more charm than you write.”

  “Praise indeed. I have never enjoyed writing.” Henrietta was not to know that Monmouth’s education had been severely lacking, for he was unable to form the letters until he was almost ten, and even at fifteen, he still struggled to write the simplest of things.

  He seemed strangely embarrassed, colour high in his cheeks, and he bowed to her with his customary flourish and left.

  What had just happened? She was disorientated by it all, the deluge of information, was he to be believed? He spoke with an earnestness she had not thought him capable of. Had she been mistaken in her appraisal of him? He had made terrible mistakes, certainly, but did it naturally follow that he would forever be denied a chance for atonement?

  Chapter 7

  “Eugh!” he cried as he smacked the tennis ball hard with his racquet. After his rather painful interview with Lady Wentworth, he rode hard down to Hampton Court, where he planned to release his frustrations in intense exercise. In the past, he would have sought the amorous embrace of another, but the idea was distasteful to him now. Instead, he fenced, took part in a hunt, took brisk walks down the Long Canal, and engaged in vigorous matches upon the old Tudor tennis court.

  “Come on, Monmouth, do pay attention,” shouted his opponent, his friend, Ford, Lord Grey of Werke, from the opposite side of the net. Lord Grey was often associating with Monmouth, and both would often visit Shaftesbury to discuss likely actions they would take should Charles die and James, Duke of York, come to the throne. Grey was of average height and average features; facts which did not always rest easy with him when he was near his friend the Duke.

  Monmouth ran his hand through his sweaty hair, before receiving a tennis ball from one of the attending boys.

  “I have
a troubled mind, Grey, ‘tis true, but there is nothing for it but some exercise.”

  “Well, get on with it, man!”

  He vigorously played the game; all the while he had the image of those leek-coloured eyes first and foremost on his mind.

  ***

  Monmouth returned to Whitehall soon after, longing to see her, to speak with her again. Did she still loathe him? Could she be persuaded otherwise?

  And so, he had discreetly followed Henrietta as she made her way down the wooden staircase. She held a book and walked with a quiet dignity that he found endearing. She entered the library and as she began to close the door, he stopped it with his hand.

  “Lady Wentworth.”

  Henrietta was surprised, and both elation and contempt rose in her chest. She was so different from most of the court ladies – she was a real lady. She did not flirt with him, exchange coy looks at him, nothing. She did not give him any reason to suspect his feelings for her would be reciprocated.

  “Your Grace.” She gave him an indignant look and stepped away from the door, thus admitting him into the room.

  “You enjoy reading, do you?”

  “If it be, Your Grace, it is none of your concern.” She gave a short curtsey and began to leave the room, but he stopped her.

  “I know that you do not enjoy my presence, but that was nevertheless intolerably rude.”

  Shame fell upon her immediately upon hearing his words. She let her head fall to her chest. “Aye, it was, I am sorry for that. I did not mean to be rude, Your Grace.” She paused, still refusing to look at him, “I do enjoy reading, betimes.”

  He grinned, “Now, was that so very hard?”

  “No.”

  She looked away, her pulse quickening with every passing moment, and he shook his handsome head slowly, as if unable to understand something. “Why is it that you are immune to my every attempt at wooing you? Do none of my qualities attract you at all?”