by Holly West
She was a popular hostess and her suppers were always well attended by members of court and parliament, especially those who opposed the Duke of York’s succession to the throne. The prospect of socializing with the Duke of Buckingham and his ilk gave me no pleasure, but the topics of the plot and Sir Edmund were sure to be discussed, and if Titus Oates was in attendance, I could use opportunity to search his rooms for my diary.
“Whatever took you so long?” Nell complained to Lucian. “I was certain I’d have to entertain the savages by myself tonight.”
“Poor Nelly,” Lucian said and kissed her hand. “Always in need of a suitable host.”
Nell laughed. “I’m waiting for you to make an honest woman of me.”
She linked her arms with both of ours and we walked down the massive hall toward her parlor. “How lovely you look, Lady Wilde,” she said. “Your gown is exquisite.”
“Thank you, Nell, but of course it can’t compare to your own,” I said.
Her opulent drawing room already brimmed with guests. Delicate harp music competed with spirited conversation, and the room sparkled with the light of a hundred candles burning from two enormous chandeliers and numerous gilded sconces.
A female servant approached us with glasses of champagne. My first sip tickled my nose, but helped to calm my nerves. “The champagne is delightful,” I told Nell. “Wherever did you get it?”
“Why it’s the same cheap swill I’ve served a hundred times before,” she said. “Hardly worth drinking.” Everyone knew Nell took care to serve only the best food and drink at her parties, but even she had manners enough not to boast of it.
“There’s not a rotgut made that’s not worth drinking,” Lucian said.
I looked around the drawing room, searching for Titus Oates. My plan was simple; Oates’s presence at Nell Gwynn’s party meant his rooms at Whitehall were likely empty, so I’d slip off to Whitehall to inspect them for my diary. Now that I knew where he resided in the palace, my task would be much easier.
It didn’t appear he’d yet arrived, however. My friends, Lord and Lady Sunderland, stood in a corner speaking with a doddering old baron. Their usual residence was their country estate in Essex, but during sessions of Parliament they stayed in London. Lady Sunderland caught my eye and gave a little wave.
“I’m just going to see about supper,” Nell said to us. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Pray don’t leave us with this group of vultures,” Lucian said. “Come back before they tear us to pieces.”
We watched her sail away on a cloud of crimson silk and perfume. “I do hope she serves supper soon,” Lucian said. “I’m about to faint with hunger.”
“As am I,” I said. “I’ve not eaten a thing since—”
“Good evening Lady Wilde, Mr. Barber.”
The Duke of Buckingham had somehow snuck up on us. I hadn’t been face-to-face with him in a long time and I was struck by how much he’d changed over the years. Once, he had been among the finest men at court, tall and blond and rather magnificent. But the years had not treated him kindly, and with his puffy eyes and heavy jowls, he appeared quite ordinary, even ugly.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lucian said.
“Your Grace,” I said flatly, in no mood for mustering courtesy.
“You’re both looking well,” Buckingham said. “And Mr. Barber, let me just say how much I enjoyed your new play.”
“You honor me, Your Grace,” my brother said.
“I do hate to impose, but do you mind if I speak to Lady Wilde privately for a moment?”
Lucian stole a glance at me. I tried to communicate with my eyes: Don’t leave me alone with him.
“I’ll just go see what’s taking Nell so long,” Lucian said, bolting.
I glared in my brother’s direction then leveled my eyes at Buckingham. “Well, what is it?”
He chuckled. “Come now, Lady Wilde, there’s no call for rudeness.”
“Isn’t there, Your Grace?”
“Surely you can spare a few moments of civility for an old friend.” He took a cup of champagne from a passing servant. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. Tell me, how have you been keeping yourself?”
“I’ve been keeping myself out of the gaol—rumor has it Your Grace has not fared so well.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “I’ve always appreciated your wit, my dear. I’m delighted to learn that age has not repressed it.”
“Your Grace is too kind,” I said, deciding to ignore his barb. “Now, if that’s all, I really must go speak with Lady Sunderland.”
“I was surprised to see you at Sir Edmund’s inquest,” Buckingham continued. “An inquiry into such a brutal murder isn’t fit for a lady’s delicate ears.”
I stiffened. “As it happens, Sir Edmund Godfrey was a dear friend.”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. His brother Michael told me you’d visited the Godfrey residence to pay your condolences. He mentioned your husband did business with Sir Edmund.”
“That’s right.”
“It was my impression that Sir Ian Wilde never had business with anyone but whores and rogues.”
I held on tightly to my cup—it was the only thing that kept me from throwing champagne in his face. “It’s possible you were not privy to all of my husband’s affairs, Your Grace. Surely there are more important matters to keep your spies busy.”
“And so there are.” He let his hand rest lightly on my forearm. “Allow me to give you some advice, Lady Wilde. It’s time you dispel with your social calls and questions regarding Sir Edmund Godfrey. You’ve no doubt fulfilled your societal obligations, especially since it appears that you had no prior association with Sir Edmund in the first place. Like your conscience, your kindness apparently knows no boundaries.”
From the start Buckingham had shown unusual concern about Sir Edmund’s death, and now here he was, warning me off of my inquiry. One thing was certain—it was not for any charitable purpose beyond Buckingham’s own petty aspirations.
“Indeed, Your Grace, I cannot help but question why a man in so high a position as yourself would bother with the murder of a lowly public servant.”
“The concerns of the populace are my concerns, Lady Wilde. And in light of Sir Edmund’s vicious murder, the English people are quite rightfully concerned about the rise of Catholicism in our midst.”
What I’d only suspected before now became obvious. Buckingham intended to use Sir Edmund’s death to further his agenda against the Catholics, and by extension, the Duke of York’s ascension to the throne.
I was desperate to end my conversation with this vile man. “At any rate, I’ll take your advice in the spirit in which it’s intended, Your Grace. After all, you’ve never failed to have my best interests in mind.”
Buckingham smiled, as though recalling some pleasant memory. “That’s true, isn’t it? I do hope you enjoyed your time in Holland, my dear.”
His reference to the Netherlands infuriated me, but I refused to let him see it. I smiled sweetly and batted my eyelashes. “Indeed I did, Your Grace. There’s no finer place than Amsterdam in the spring.”
There was a great commotion as the drawing room’s gilded doors opened. Two royal trumpeters stepped in and raised their instruments to play a fanfare. A page followed, proclaiming “His Majesty, King Charles II!”
Charles strode into the room flanked by two guards. He wore a suit of gold brocade, a red velvet waistcoat, black breeches and an elaborately curled black wig. Though most of the men in the room were dressed similarly, none could match His Majesty’s handsome confidence. It was not only his royal blood that marked him, but also a relaxed attitude that communicated amused detachment, a quality almost as irresistible as it was irksome.
Nell wasted no time in commandeering the king and, together, they greeted each guest as though Charles were the master of the house. A mere day had passed since I last lay in his arms, and seeing him now with Nell felt like a knife in my
gut.
Buckingham whispered into my ear. “Are you ill, my dear? I do believe your skin has taken on a rather greenish tinge.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed, steeling myself to remain calm. Nell and Charles approached us and I curtsied deeply, head down, unwilling to look Charles in the eye.
“Lady Wilde,” Charles said when at last I arose. “I’m pleased to be in your company tonight.”
“Are you, Your Majesty?” I asked. I turned my head away from him and glimpsed two new guests standing in doorway. Titus Oates and Captain William Bedloe.
Chapter Twenty
A low murmur spread throughout the drawing room as the partygoers discussed the intriguing new arrivals. Oates preened, clearly enjoying the attention. More than one woman cast an appreciative glance in Bedloe’s direction, but he fixed his gaze upon me, smiling. I returned one of my own; my pleasure at seeing him superseded the curious fact that he’d apparently come with Titus Oates.
Charles smiled wryly. “It appears you have an admirer, Lady Wilde.”
“Come, Your Majesty, we mustn’t be rude to the rest of our guests,” Nell said, pulling him away. A quick glance my way told me she understood my predicament and was trying to help. That was the thing about Nell—she was a rival and an ally all in the same breath.
Buckingham took note of the exchange and chuckled. “You never fail to amuse me, Lady Wilde. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need a word with our guest of honor, Mr. Oates.” He sauntered off, leaving me blessedly alone. Bedloe walked toward me.
“Good evening, Lady Wilde,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“How is it, Captain Bedloe, that I’ve never seen you in London before last week, and now we’re seemingly tripping over each other?”
He laughed. “I don’t wish to accuse a lady of exaggeration, so I’ll just admit to counting the days since we last met. To answer your question, I’ve recently returned from Bristol and before that I was on the continent, mostly in France and Italy. But I’ve a mind to stay in London for a while. I’m enjoying the sights.” The downward tilt of his gaze communicated exactly what sights he was enjoying at the moment.
We watched together as Charles and Nell continued their promenade around the room. I was glad for Bedloe’s presence, as it greatly muted the sting of jealousy. “Tell me, do you know Mrs. Gwyn well?” I asked.
“I don’t know her at all. Mr. Oates extended the invitation, and not wishing to spend the evening alone, I accepted. I’m very glad now that I did.”
“I didn’t realize you were so well acquainted with Mr. Oates.”
“Oh? Are you acquainted with him yourself?”
“Only vaguely.”
“We’ve known each other for several years now. I’d heard he was in London of late so when I arrived, I called upon him.”
“He’s doing rather well for himself, I’d say.”
“Indeed. But Oates is the sort of man who, if he fell into a cesspit, would soon emerge with a new jacket.”
“And by that you mean…”
“He’s resourceful.” Bedloe smiled.
I laughed, for it seemed a fitting description from what I knew of Titus Oates. He was now conversing animatedly with Buckingham. That was an unholy alliance if ever there was one, and it reminded me that time was a-wasting. I needed to get to Whitehall while I knew Oates was here at Nell’s.
I looked up at Captain Bedloe, surprised by the reluctance I felt at the prospect of leaving him. I’d been enjoying myself.
“I do hope you’ll pardon me, Captain Bedloe, but I really must leave.”
“Is anything amiss, my lady?” He sounded concerned.
“Oh no, sir. It’s just that I’m suddenly overcome by a villainous headache.”
A shadow of disappointment crossed his face. “I’m sorry to hear it. Shall I accompany you home?”
It was a feeble excuse and I was certain he thought I was lying in order to escape his company. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth.
“No, no. My footman will see to it I arrive safely. But thank you.”
“Of course, Lady Wilde. Please, might I be so bold as to ask one thing of you?”
“Yes?”
“When you are feeling better, will you agree to have supper with me?”
“Tomorrow night?” I asked, probably too eagerly considering my sudden affliction.
His eyes brightened. “I’m staying at the Cock and Fox on Fleet Street.”
“Then I shall see you there at eight o’clock,” I said. Without waiting for a reply, I picked up my skirts and left Bedloe staring after me. There was no time to find Lucian, so I asked Nell’s servant, George, to tell him I left because of a terrible headache. He agreed and quickly retrieved my cloak.
The rain continued its assault and I nearly slipped on the wet steps as I skipped down to the street. I hired a hackney and, as we headed toward the palace, I formulated my plan. I knew the secret rooms and corridors of Whitehall well and I formed a mental map of the premises. It wouldn’t be difficult getting into the palace. Oates’s rooms were located near the Banqueting House, facing the Privy Garden—if I was careful I could access them without attracting notice. The real work would be getting past Oates’s guard.
The hackney stopped in front of Whitehall Gate and the guards gave me no more than passing glances as I strolled in with a nod and a smile. I stole through the Pebble Court, braving the deluge to avoid anybody seeing me. A door near the west end of the Banqueting House stood unguarded, and I accessed the palace interior there.
Oates occupied the rooms formerly used by Sir Robert Moray, who’d died a few years ago. They were located in the same area as several offices that were used primarily during the day. The corridor between the Lord Chamberlain’s and the Lord Keeper’s offices was cold and dark, illuminated by nothing but a dim light at the end of the hall. I pressed myself against the wall and peeked around the corner. Oates’s room stood unguarded.
I tiptoed to the door and listened for activity on the other side of it. Nothing. I let my breath out slowly and twisted the doorknob—it was locked.
God’s nails, of course it was locked—what did I expect? I clenched my fists in frustration and gave the door a light kick. The palace was full of secret passages but I didn’t figure one existed leading into these apartments. Apart from the narrow hallway in which I stood, there were no other rooms adjacent to these.
I tried the door again, shaking the knob and pushing hard against it. Incredibly, the latch gave way and the door swung open. I stumbled inside, momentarily dumbfounded by my good fortune.
I left the door ajar so I could hear if anyone approached while I searched. Sir Robert Moray had been a scientist, and the king had encouraged him to conduct chemical experiments while he lived at Whitehall. There was no equipment remaining, but the walls were lined with cabinets and shelves, now empty but for a few books. Unlike many of the apartments in Whitehall, this one appeared to consist of only one room. There was a modest-sized, unembellished bed on the wall opposite the desk and a small table beside it.
I set about searching through Oates’s things, starting with the books. I squinted at the titles. Several were in Latin, all of a religious nature, and my diary was not among them. Next, I went through the desk, opening each drawer, sliding my hand deep inside to make sure nothing had slid to the back.
I pulled a thick group of papers out of the center desk drawer and brought them closer to the door so I could read them by the light in the hallway. It was the deposition Oates had written attesting to the Jesuit plot to kill the king. It went on for twenty pages or more, with one accusation after another. Sir Edmund Godfrey’s signature appeared on the last page alongside Titus Oates’s.
I desperately wanted to take it with me, but Oates would surely miss it, and finding my diary was far more important. I returned it to its place, shut the drawer and then moved to the large wardrobe. It stood empty except for two parson’s coats like the one I’
d noticed Oates wearing on both occasions I’d seen him. I balanced on my toes and felt around its top shelf, finding nothing but a pair of slippers and a wool scarf.
I didn’t hear the footsteps until they were directly outside. “What’s this about?” a male voice said. Oates’s guard! I swallowed a startled cry and stepped into the wardrobe, pulling its doors shut behind me just as he entered the room.
The footsteps stopped, and except for my heartbeat pounding in my ears, there was silence. I prayed that whoever he was, he wouldn’t invade my hiding place. An eternity passed before the footsteps resumed and the door hinges squeaked. I waited several more minutes and cracked the wardrobe doors open. The room was empty and completely dark.
I slipped out of the wardrobe. Since Oates’s guard had evidently returned to his post outside the door, the small window above the bed was my only means of escape. I opened the sash and looked down into the Privy Garden. A thick group of rosebushes lay below.
The Privy Garden was dark and quiet, and no one was about. I took off my shoes, threw them out the window, and climbed onto the windowsill, which was slick with rain. I almost lost my footing.
I stayed perched there for a moment, catching my breath while the rain spattered my face, blurring my vision. I closed my eyes and imagined Adam standing below in the garden, encouraging me to jump, as he had when we’d played in trees as children. “C’mon, Isabel, it’s not so very far!”
I leaped out into the night.
I landed in a heap upon the rosebushes, thorns digging into my hands and legs. I scrambled to the ground, picked up my skirts and ran through the Privy Garden’s wet grass until I reached the gate. It wasn’t until the hard gravel bit into the soles of my feet that I realized I’d left my shoes behind.
Chapter Twenty-One
The rose thorns had scratched my skin without mercy and my right ankle felt tender and sore, making the ride home painful. I paid the hackney driver and limped to my door. Cold, tired and dejected, I hoped I could sneak into bed before Sam got home. Eventually he’d expect an explanation for my disappearance from Nell’s home, but I just couldn’t face it now. I wanted only to sleep.
