“Oh, yes.”
He lifted her upon his lap just enough to enter her, and pulled her back close to him, causing her to cry out. The sensations produced were not precisely painful, but Arden knew immediately she had been stretched to her limit. And it had been such a long time since— Arden stopped the thought quickly. She breathed deeply a few times to become accustomed to such fullness, then slowly, she began to move upon His Majesty. Their rhythm together resulted from exquisite care and attention, and the King continued his kisses throughout.
Arden reached her first peak quickly. “Oh! Your Majesty!”
“Call me Charlie,” he commanded, nuzzling her neck.
So “Charlie!” it was, the next time and the next. Not until then did the King turn her, lay her back upon the bed, and complete matters to royal satisfaction.
He kissed her again, afterwards. “You are a veritable delicacy,” he told her. “I shall send for you again soon.” Arden hoped he did not notice her sigh of relief. She didn't dare to think how Treadwell would have reacted had the King been displeased and wanted nothing more to do with her. I hope he is as good as his royal word.
“For now, however,” he added, “I will leave you. You will have roughly five minutes to dress before my men arrive to escort you back home.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
For the first time in many months, Arden had physical exhaustion to complement her mental and emotional fatigue. After being returned from Whitehall, she slept until almost time for the next performance. When she arrived at the theater, Kitty and the other actresses were waiting for her. She sighed with relief. They know. Treadwell will know, too. Even the actors cast more glances her way than usual. Arden allowed herself to be drawn into the bunched gathering of females, doing her best to appear slyly smug.
“Arden, you outright minx!” exclaimed Kitty.
“Poor Lord Robert,” offered another actress, though her voice held no real sympathy for the man Arden loved.
“But who can blame her?” Kitty continued. “Who would not give up everything else, just to be with His Majesty? So tell us, Arden, does rumor have it right?”
Kitty spread her hands apart in a gesture implying length. Hysterical laughter threatened Arden when she realized that to the best of her recollection, Kitty's estimate seemed exactly correct. She smothered a giggle with her hand, and felt herself blushing. How would I feel now? she suddenly wondered, if I had never loved Robert, never married Brian, never had Helena, and Treadwell had never come back to London? More giggles threatened when a wry inner voice answered: A great deal more sore.
“Yes, rumor is right,” affirmed Kitty. “I can tell by your coloring.”
“You should be able to tell by her walk,” laughed another girl. Arden obliged them with an exaggerated impression of a woman who had been riding astride a huge plow horse for an entire afternoon. Titters of laughter answered this performance.
“But you know,” said Mary Betterton, sounding jarringly thoughtful compared to the rest, “it seems as though you really have given up everything else. I haven't seen Bonnie bring Helena by in days.”
Mary hadn't meant any harm, but her words hit Arden square in the gut. Yet she had known she would have to answer the speculation eventually. Arden steeled herself and plunged forward. “I sent them both to the country, to stay with Brian's family. Much healthier for the child, you know. Besides,” she added, deciding to make a thorough job of it. “I had a hunch I would soon be too busy to bother with a little one.”
“But what about your servant?” asked Kitty. “Lord knows I get along well enough without, but you've grown rather used to having someone help you with your laces and fix your hair, haven't you, Arden?”
Arden replied with the only words of truth she'd spoken that afternoon. “With Bonnie there, I feel better about Helena.” Then she added, “I can get a new maid any time I want. Perhaps—” Here she paused for effect. “Perhaps—Charlie can recommend someone for me.” As she expected, this utterance produced peals of delight.
*****
As usual, Arden stole a look at her audience while waiting to make her first entrance. The King's box appeared near to bursting this afternoon. Not only did Charles II attend the play, but the Queen also, with many of her ladies-in-waiting. Arden's throat constricted at the sight of Queen Catharine. An unusual pallor touched the Queen's dark complexion, and she looked grave. Does she know? Arden wondered. How can she not? Everyone else does. Her face burned with the memories of the night before, but fast upon those memories came the recollection of how she'd felt reading Kitty's letter about Lord Robert taking her on the dining room table. She had made another woman hurt like that, a woman she liked and admired. A woman to whom she owed allegiance as Queen of England. And she would have to continue inflicting pain upon Queen Catharine―and maybe even take her husband away entirely. If she did not, Treadwell would kill Helena and Bonnie.
Nothing for it but for Arden to walk on stage and play her part.
*****
Arden arrived at her flat without receiving a summons from King Charles. She did not know whether to be relieved or worried. On one hand she would not grieve her Queen or betray her true love that night. On the other, it made her doubt her ability to comply with Treadwell’s demands.
She trudged upstairs and sighed as she opened her door. Hearing a light, clinking sound, she looked down to find a small glass philter lying at the corner of her threshold. Apparently it had been leaning against the hinged side of her door. A small, folded scrap of paper lay beneath it. Arden picked up both items and examined the philter as she walked into her parlor. The type of small bottle one would find at an apothecary's shop, at first glance it appeared empty. After lighting candles for the evening, Arden picked it up again and squinted at it. Five fine black hairs rested upon the bottom. She unfolded the paper and read: “So far, so good. Keep at it.” She recognized the unbearably tight script as her step-father's. She clutched the philter and wept for a while before she made herself a sparse, cold supper.
*****
The next day, Arden did receive a summons from the King. This time, after she had shed her clothing and covered herself with a royal bed sheet, King Charles entered. Already stripped to the waist, he carried a small vase of blue glass. He looked particularly pleased with himself, though the vase contained no flowers Arden could see.
“Though your eyes are as lovely as emeralds, I would like you to close them for me,” Charles said, approaching the bed.
Arden obeyed instantly, despite her puzzlement. She felt the slightest weight upon the bed beside her, and knew he had laid the vase down. She heard the rustle of fabric as he took off his breeches. She did not understand why the King had become suddenly shy with her. After all, she had already seen him in his entirety. She felt the King move beside her upon the bed, and suddenly an exotic, Eastern scent flooded the room.
“Eyes still shut, Arden?”
Arden nodded dutifully.
“Good. Don't open them until I tell you.”
Then she felt his large, strong fingers dabbing something cool and pleasant onto her face, and the scent heightened. She breathed deeply, realizing she trusted him completely. She wished he had any reason whatsoever to return that trust, and her breath turned to a sigh.
“Patience, Arden,” said the King, misinterpreting. From her face he moved to her neck and shoulders, caressing her as he carefully rubbed the lotion in.
“Am I not soft enough for you, Your Highness?” Arden asked.
“Very much so, my dear,” King Charles replied. “There's more to this than mere lotion, as you shall see soon enough. What happened to 'Charlie'?”
“I am not at the point of 'Charlie' yet, am I, Your Highness?” Arden returned saucily, getting one of the King's hearty laughs as reward.
She also felt a quick, playful tweak at one of her nipples, since he had progressed to her chest and belly. “Again, I counsel you to be patient, Arden.” After he had appli
ed the lotion to her legs and feet, he bid her stand up, but to still keep her eyes closed. He guided her to take several steps across the chamber, but Arden became too disoriented to guess where they halted.
“All right, my dear, open your eyes,” Charles finally commanded. When she did, Arden saw herself. She stood before the large mirror opposite the portraits of the King's nephew and late sister. Many candles glowed in the sconces surrounding the mirror, casting a warm, golden light upon her bare skin. Her skin cast the light back. Shiny, gold flecks gleamed all over her body, as though the King had transformed her into a sprite. Arden couldn't help smiling.
“Not that you weren't perfectly beautiful already, pet,” the King said. “Do you like it? I had one of the workmen save the gilt from the parts of Whitehall I'm having redone, and had it mixed with this unguent I received from one of our ministers in the East Indies.”
“It's—enchanting,” Arden replied. She had never really looked at her entire body before, never really understood what her lovers had seen. She looked like some fine, mythological painting.
“Would you enjoy putting some on me, pet?” the King asked.
The uncertainty of his tone touched Arden. How kind he is, not to command. She smiled, and wordlessly took the blue glass vase from him. As she smoothed the glittering lotion down to the tip of his long nose and across his cheekbones, sad inspiration seized her. “I would like to do this again sometime, Your Highness,” she murmured, keeping her eyes downcast. “Sometime outside, beneath the moonlight.”
“Perhaps,” agreed her royal lover. “Perhaps some night when it is warmer.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Tired once more by the time the litter brought her home, Arden found an elegantly wrapped gift box in the hallway in front of her door. She knew Treadwell could not afford to do something like this, no matter how twisted his desire to torment her, so she guessed perhaps the King had arranged the surprise. She expected she might find another container of the glittering unguent―unguent she had managed to clean from her face and hands before her departure, but which she knew she'd need a good wash to rid herself of completely before she could get some sleep. She smiled a little, picking up the box.
“I would not take it in, if I were you,” rasped Treadwell, stepping from the shadows.
Arden nearly dropped the package. She wanted desperately to grab him by the throat and shake him, to demand her daughter back. The probability of negative consequence to Helena, however―as well as a preference to die messily before giving Treadwell any satisfaction― held her in place. “Why ever not?” she responded coolly.
“Because it was just delivered a few minutes ago by a man in Castlemaine's livery,” chortled her stepfather. “Good work, Arden! You've gone and upset the Great Whore! Must be she fears you're an even better one! Oh, let's see what she's sent you!” He grabbed the box from her, appearing truly gleeful that Arden had probably provoked Castlemaine's ire.
Imagination, or had she caught a whiff of something in the “gift” passed to Treadwell? Impossible to say, with the perpetually unsanitary conditions of the street around her.
An initial exclamation of disgust from Treadwell ended in a howl of delight, once he'd torn off the cover. “Turds!” he declared. “Probably from Charlie Stuart's spaniels themselves! As if to proclaim her closeness to him, by reminding you she lives near enough to cross paths with his favored pets! Oh, you must be doing a very good job indeed, Arden, if you've rattled his favorite whore this badly. Care to see?” He held the box out to her once more.
He's lost his bloody mind, thought Arden, quickly shaking her head. “They're all yours, if you like. Only tell me how Helena fares.”
He carried the box to the open window at the end of the hallway, and tossed the whole thing out. “Of course I don't want them!”
As much as she hated Treadwell, relief still surged through Arden. At least the blackguard holding her daughter had not gone completely mad. “Tell me how Helena fares,” she repeated.
“I should have known you'd spawn a whiny brat,” Treadwell replied. “It seems all she does through the day is mewl and cry. Oh, and eat. She does eat, so she's not ill, just peevish. And every time I move to swat at her, to give her something real to cry about, that slatternly wench of yours steps between and offers her own flesh for mortification. I do love to see a daughter of Eve who knows just how little she's worth.”
“Don't you dare touch Helena,” Arden warned, in her lowest, most threatening tone. “Or Bonnie, either.”
“You are in no position to make demands,” returned Treadwell. “Still—” He hesitated. “I am pleased with your performance so far, so I will spare the rod for now. Well, if you're to continue holding the tyrant's interest, you must get your rest. I shall leave you. I'll be back soon with further instructions.”
“I can hardly wait,” murmured Arden. Considering herself at least temporarily released, she turned and entered her flat.
*****
Arden knew daylight shone abroad when she awoke, but she didn't think the time had yet come for her to rise and ready herself for the afternoon's performance. Then she realized she had awakened because of brisk rapping at the door of her flat. She pulled her quilt over her head, but the rapping persisted. Probably Kitty, seeking lurid description. Arden doubted Kitty would go away until she had what she wanted, so she got out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown.
Not Kitty, but Quaker Margaret stood at Arden's door. She held a rather familiar pouch tucked under the arm not attached to her knocking fist.
“Come in,” Arden said immediately, forgetting she would rather hide the emptiness of her flat from any friend.
“From the talk of the town, I thought thou might need some more of this,” said Margaret, shyly.
Arden could smell the pungent herbs. “Thank you, Margaret,” she said, indicating a chair for her guest. “I hadn't even thought of that.” She took the pouch from the Quaker and emptied it into a large ceramic jar in her pantry. She hadn't thought. And as easily as the King seemed to sire bastards, she would be lucky if it weren't already too late. Arden thought briefly of the supposed advantages of being able to “plead her belly”—i.e., put off her execution for treason until the baby was born―but she knew she'd never want to bring another orphan into the world. Even if James was softhearted enough to let another of his brother's bastards survive, after he became King. God, let it never come to that! Arden prayed inwardly. “Do you want some chocolate?” she called to Margaret. “I'm afraid I don't have any ale.”
“I am fine, Arden. I'm not interrupting thy rest, am I?”
“No matter,” said Arden, returning the pouch to her guest and sitting down with her. “Tell me how London has been doing by you.”
“Quite well, I thank thee,” Margaret replied, smiling. “With the will and help of the Lord, I have brought several healthy babies forth, and been well compensated. I have also prevented an untold number of children born out of wedlock, or to families already struggling to feed the mouths they do have―and been well compensated.”
“Of course!” cried Arden. “Let me get my purse.”
“No, no,” Margaret protested. “I meant it as a gift to a friend.”
“Well, I do thank you,” Arden replied. “And I am glad you prosper, and take satisfaction in your calling.”
A pause, lengthy enough to turn awkward, followed. Arden filled it by wondering what Margaret, as a Quaker, would think if she knew of Treadwell’s plot. Would she approve, because she and her family―and Friends―were not well-treated by the King? Arden doubted it. She had never seen Margaret so much as swat a fly.
“It's very quiet in here,” said Margaret, finally. “Are Bonnie and Helena still sleeping?”
Arden swiftly examined her options. She could tell Margaret that Bonnie had taken Helena for an outing in the park. The odds seemed long indeed against the Quaker girl talking with Kitty or one of the others, and coming up with inconsistencies. Still, one
lie made the safer lie. “Bonnie has taken Helena back to the Malleys,” Arden replied. “She will be healthier there.”
“Away from her mother?” Margaret said, looking honestly puzzled. “But I thought—”
“You thought I wasn't like that,” cut in Arden, suddenly making her voice hard. “In spite of all visible evidence to the contrary. Well, it seems I am like that, after all. You might as well go. You are a sweet fool, Margaret, but a fool nonetheless.”
Margaret’s already pale face grew whiter, and shock widened her gray-blue eyes, but she managed to rise from her seat. “Thou dost not mean it,” she began.
“I do thank you for your gift, though,” Arden repeated, escorting her out of the flat. She closed the door again before Margaret could protest any further. I will not cry, thought Arden, turning back to bed. She is better off, not to think kindly of a traitor.
Chapter Fifty
Courtenay hadn't stayed in France long enough to receive any kind of reply from Lisette's father. To his mind, though, he had been parted from Arden an eternity. Thank God the snow had gone. Thank God the return passage across the Channel had been sufficiently smooth that only Sam suffered seasickness. Thank God he now sat in his own carriage, with Sam at the reins, headed for Arden's apartments.
Despite his single-mindedness, Courtenay had noticed smirks, giggles, and whispers following him since he'd reached London. And no one had made the error of calling him “Lord Robert.” It had been “Mr. Courtenay,” with far less than accustomed deference. Word traveled fast, he supposed. Very likely his former peers talked of his folly amongst themselves and shook their heads in wonder. They probably asked each other how he could possibly bear giving up estate and title, all to marry an actress. No matter. He patted the small heirloom hidden in a lower pocket of his tunic and smiled.
Why he should even think about his valet right now puzzled even himself. Arden would approve, he thought. Concerning myself with the feelings of ordinary people. Sam had been in something of a black mood ever since their departure from France had been originally delayed. Perhaps his own reduction in status―now no longer servant to a future Lord―had just then begun to sink in. Well, contact with the Malley girl should cheer him. Or not. Maybe Sam actually dreaded a deepening of his involvement with the chit. Maybe this caused the servant's spirits to plummet, even though he'd not yet admitted the reason to himself. No matter. Arden shone bright as Courtenay’s only real care. Sam would have to fend for himself in the lists of love.
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