He understood why. He was all but hollow inside. No doubt, she had sensed the flaws deep within him—the violence, the coldness, the dark. She had been right to refuse, and he had been wrong to ask. Nevertheless, he’d be lying to say her refusal hadn’t hurt. He wondered why she wrote him now. Had her lover deserted her? Did she need his aid? Would he help her if she did? Yes. It’s what I promised. Interest sparked, curious to see what she wanted and how she fared, he broke the seal.
She was happy, healthy and well, and she wished him the same. She wanted him to be among the first to hear the happy news. Just a few months past, she’d married William de Veres in a quiet ceremony in a small chapel in Maidstone, with only their servants present. They had thought it best to be circumspect given her new husband’s delicate situation in regards to the king. Things had improved in that regard however, and she had every reason to expect they’d be free to travel shortly. She thought of her dear friend and rescuer often, and hoped they might visit him at Cressly soon.
He was surprised de Veres had married her. She was a lovely girl to be sure, charming and well-bred, but the earl didn’t need her properties, she had no connections to speak of, and it was said he never kept a woman past a week. All of London would be in shock.
He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and then opened his hand, watching dispassionately as her message wafted to the floor to settle amongst the other discarded bits and pieces of the day. Elizabeth had been part of a foolish dream. A brief fantasy of a brighter future where he might take what was left of his life back and fashion it in to something better. He could hardly blame her for having dreams of her own.
He fingered the remaining packet, tracing his thumb back and forth across the royal seal at a loss as to what it might contain. He had removed himself completely from politics and so far as he knew, he wielded no influence and had caused no offense He had no powerful friends to lobby for appointments or position, and his enemies were secrets to everyone but him. He was a country gentleman, a minor baronet, hardly the sort to be called to court.
Life as a soldier had taught him to be wary of surprises. They seldom resulted in anything good. He broke the seal. Although he steeled himself, nothing could have prepared him for what lay within.
To Captain Sir Robert Nichols, Baronet:
Notwithstanding the general amnesty offered by his most gracious Majesty Charles II to those who took up arms against his Father and himself, it has come to our attention that the aid you provided the traitor Oliver Cromwell and other enemies of the Crown was of a more serious nature than originally known. As such, your title and properties, including, but not restricted to the estate and manor known as Cressly, are herewith forfeit to the Crown. In the spirit of reconciliation in which the amnesty was first proclaimed, you are hereby allowed to keep your commission and any monies derived thereby, as well as any personal possessions of sentimental value including horse and weapons, not to exceed in total worth the sum of two thousand pounds. You are herewith given one month to vacate, or be held in contempt of King and Crown.
Signed this third day of April, 1662, by Chancellor Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, for His Majesty Charles II, King of England, Ireland, Scotland and France.
It felt as though the earth had just given way beneath him and Robert struggled to contain a sickening sense of loss. He was no general. No influential Parliamentarian agitator. Just the captain of his own small troop of horse. So much for this new king’s general amnesty. Clearly, it was nothing more than words. But his mounting anger served no purpose. He was on the wrong side of history, and that was crime enough.
He tossed the chancellor’s letter into the fire, watching as its edges bent and curled. Rivulets of flame joined melting wax and a moment later, the paper burst into a molten flower and was gone. Just like that. Just like Cressly. There is nothing left. The storm continued to rage outside. He sat where he was, cold and still till dawn.
CHAPTER TWO
Whitehall Palace, London
Miles to the south in a luxurious chamber overlooking the Thames a sharp crack of lightning jolted Hope Mathews from a troubled sleep. She pulled back the gold-embroidered bedspread and sat upright, heart pounding, and looked toward the open casement window. There was no rain yet, but it was close. The air had a metallic taste and a low rumble echoed in the distance, approaching from the east.
The fine hairs on the back of her arms stood on end and her breath quickened with excitement. Ever since she could remember, she had loved storms. The sight of lightening forking from a leaden sky, the sound of thunder rolling and grumbling ever closer, the power of the wind as it whistled and keened making all but the sturdiest buildings tremble filled her with awe and excitement tinged with a delicious thrill of fear.
She glanced at her royal lover, slumbering peacefully at her side. It amazed her still that the England’s king had reached so far to find her and place her by his side. Her face softened as he stirred in his sleep and a deep sadness tore at her heart. Despite his unrepentant promiscuity it was almost impossible not to fall under his spell. He was her third protector, but the first one she’d had any real feelings for. She was half in love with him, which she knew was foolish and forbidden, and she knew he was not in love with her. It hurt, but life was full of pain and she had survived other wounds. The path that had brought her to the bed of a king was a harsh one, strewn with heartache and bitter betrayal, dashed hopes and danger, and any feelings she had for Charles were not what mattered now.
She was not so foolish anymore as to dream of gallant knights or trust in anything as fickle and insubstantial as love…but security, independence, freedom…these might be in reach. The king would be married soon. His new queen would arrive on England’s shore’s any day.
Her world and his were about to change. She had fine clothes and rich jewels, a carriage and servants and a beautiful home on Pall Mall. The problem was, none of it was official and very little of it was hers. It was his money that paid the bills. She had no suite at the palace despite the many hours she spent wandering its halls, no lands or titles, and her beautiful home and servants were lent to her, not given.
Whenever she came to see him she was ushered up the stairs backing on the river, hidden from view—and at the end of her visits she went home the same way. As much as he treated her as friend and confidante in private, her lowly background meant that in public, she would always be treated not as a mistress, but as a whore, and what had been so easily given, could just as easily be taken away. She needed to ask for what she wanted, no matter her fears of how it might affect what lay between them.
What did one do after having a king as a lover? A slight smile played at the edge of her lips. Why, one retired to a respectable life! With a home of one’s own, a garden, a kitten, some travel, perhaps. But for that to happen, she needed his help and as yet she could not seem to broach it.
It took her a moment to notice that everything around her had gone quiet. The calm before the storm. Lightning flashed, silent in the distance, and a dog barked far away. She plucked a luxurious oversized robe from the edge of the bed. Lost in its folds, with sleeves rolled up and hem trailing on the floor behind her, she went to stand by the casement. The rain came in a sudden hiss, sweeping in great sheets from off the Thames, accompanied by a jagged bolt that lit the sky, bathing her face and the room in a ghostly glow. Fanciful as a child, eyes sparking with excitement, she loosened her grip on the robe and spread her arms wide, waiting for the clap of thunder she knew would come. The wind whipped her unbound hair and the silken robe billowed behind her like blue-and-gold embroidered wings.
She imagined herself a magical creature—a goddess perhaps, mistress of an ancient force much larger than herself. One who could bid the rain to rise to her command and control the ferocity and direction of the wind with a sweep of her arm. One who could effortlessly set the course of her own life and influence the decisions of a king. Perhaps that was why she greeted them with such anticipation. Because
she was always remaking herself. Always aching to be reborn as something new.
“God’s blood, woman! What madness are you about now? I swear you traipse about my palace opening every bloody window in your path. A storm is upon us. Climb back into bed before we are awash.”
She tumbled in an instant, from mighty goddess to lowly mortal. But not so low as that. I am a royal courtesan. And there is power in that, too. Though she turned to look at him, she made no move to obey. He had flung off the covers and lay stretched in all his glory. Her lips pursed in a half smile and she absently twirled a strand of hair as her eyes boldly traveled his length. There are far worse things than being mistress to Charles Stuart.
Her eyes widened and she gave an exaggerated gasp as he leapt from the bed and strode purposely in her direction.
“Ods fish, you’ve even pilfered my clothes! And what are you grinning at, eh? If you’ll not mind me, my dear. I shall have to take your forcibly in hand.” Growling, he reached for her but she screamed and ducked, eluding his grasp, circling to the far side of the bed. It was his robe that tripped her up, stopping her short when she stepped on a trailing hem. As she careened sideways, he caught her firmly by the front of the oversized garment and set her back on her feet. A sudden gust swirled through the chamber and the fire danced to life casting wild shadows on paneled walls and bathing them both in an earthen glow. He jerked her hard against him.
She elbowed his ribs, making him grunt, and tried to pull herself free. This was not a man who valued easy conquests. He chuckled against her mouth, walking backward with her lodged firmly against him, one hand anchoring her in place as the other reached behind him, searching for the window latch.
“No, Charlie, don’t,” she murmured against his throat. “Leave it as it is. Please. I love storms.”
“Ah, yes. So I recollect. You were born in a tempest as your rickety house swayed like a yardarm in the wind. Doubtless, you gurgled and cooed in delight. You must be Electra in disguise. She who calls the storm clouds that move in from the sea.”
“Really? There truly is a goddess of the storm?”
“But of course there is! Am I not holding her in my arms right now?” He twirled her around until she was dizzy, stopping at the foot of the bed. “You see what a mighty king I am? I have captured the whirlwind. Good Christ, but you’re a bounteous handful for any man, my pet. You are truly a meal fit for a king.” He dropped her in a tangle of multihued sheets and pillows and followed her down. “What am I to do with you, Hope Mathews?”
She gathered her courage. “What are you to do with me, Charlie?”
“Well…several things spring to mind.” He favored her with an enticing grin. His fingers traced the contours of her breast, but she brushed them away.
“You are a king, and I a girl from Drury Lane. We are very ill-suited.”
“Nonsense. We are comfortable together and understand each other well,” he said, settling comfortably beside her. “We have both been hungry and poor. We are both survivors. In fact, we are two peas in a pod. Outsiders who have fought our way in. We are in the palace, but not of it, and thus uniquely positioned to appreciate the joke.”
“Yet your father was a king and my mother a brandy-swilling bawd. In this matter I believe I outrank you.”
Charles laughed in delight. “I think I should have liked it better were my mother more like yours. She was a cold and angry woman, and every word, thought or deed was deliberate and controlled. She was much like Lady Castlemaine that way. I do believe she loved my father, though not as much as she loved God. After his murder she married religion, you know. He was a cold demanding stepfather and I’ve had nothing to do with him, except, like Oedipus, to bury him. Now I make merry and dance on his grave.”
“Oedipus?”
“You’re such an innocent little strumpet. Half angel I think. Pay me no mind. Tell me what dark worries have been plaguing you.”
“I…”
“Yes?”
She shivered. His restless fingers had begun to explore again, tracing her collarbone with a delicate touch. “It’s nothing that cannot wait for another time.”
“You’ve been about to say something for over a month now, Hope. Don’t you think it’s waited long enough?” His knuckles stroked her jaw.
She took a deep breath. “Your…your queen will soon be on English soil. She’ll be in London within a month.”
His fingers stilled. He’d been waiting for her to bring it up for some weeks now. Barbara, Lady Castlemaine, had already made her demands. She would be named maid of honor to his Portuguese queen. The idea sat ill with him, but so did the thought of open warfare with his ever more strident maîtresse-en-titre, and in any case, it was better to begin a thing as one meant to continue. Catherine of Braganza had surely been raised to understand the duties and expectations of a royal spouse. She would adjust.
What did Hope want? A title? Jewels? An acknowledged place at court? It would be wildly inappropriate and an affront to his new queen. Barbara was bad enough but at least she was a countess. He could hardly parade an overdressed street urchin under his new queen’s nose, no matter how charming she was.
But he wasn’t ready to part with her yet. A luscious raven-haired vision with stunning eyes, she’d been an unexpected find, and rather than bore him she’d grown on him steadily over time. Enchanting, intelligent and touchingly idealistic despite her tarnished past, she’d been just the tonic he’d needed as he dealt with increasingly burdensome affairs of state, a difficult and temperamental senior mistress, and the unexpected void left by the departure of Elizabeth Walters and that entertaining and annoying ingrate, de Veres.
It was Barbara he took to palace fetes and balls. But it was Hope, the Drury lane orange girl they called his country miss. It was she he took to those private affairs where he was most relaxed and most himself. It was she he took sailing and fishing, and she who walked with him hand in hand in the streets of Newmarket when he went for the racing, mingling freely with the crowds and chatting with everyone as if he were a simple country gentleman, and she his wife.
He tapped her nose and then kissed it. “There’s no need for you to worry about matters of state, my dear. Have faith. I promise you there is naught to fear. I will always see you well cared for.”
She wrinkled her face in protest, and at the risk of annoying him, pressed on. “Your new wife won’t like my being here at court. I shouldn’t want to upset her.”
He tilted her chin with a finger so she looked him straight in the eye. “I have told you that you needn’t concern yourself with it. Your concern should be pleasing me.” His smile was gentle, but there was a coolness to his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Charlie, if I don’t leave before she comes I shall be sent packing soon after. I am no lady to grace your court. I have no husband to give me any hint of respectability. She will think me a common whore and be mightily offended.”
“Hush, love!” His look of annoyance changed to a rueful grin. “You are a most uncommon wench.”
“It’s close enough to the truth, Charles. You know I cannot stay.”
“I know no such thing. I am master here and I won’t be dictated to by ministers, mistress or wife. You have never asked me for anything for yourself, Hope. Should I send you back to the slums of London? Marry you off to some fat merchant? Or drop you by the theater to sell oranges and whatever else you fancy to every young gallant that comes to town?”
She bit back an angry retort. Did he think those were her only choices? She had saved her money and jewelry. She didn’t gamble and she was no spendthrift. She had been preparing for a day like this. “You could help me find a modest property, perhaps. A town house or small cottage where I might retire quietly from court.” She was offering him an easy choice. One that should be a relief. She held her breath. Her future lay in his hands. With one word, he could grant her independence and freedom. One gesture could make her dreams come true.
“So…the price to be rid of you is a modest one. I wonder…what is the price to make you stay?”
She slapped him, her palm leaving a red stain on his cheek. He grabbed her wrist and held it cruelly, denying her the chance to strike again. “Don’t try Barbara’s tricks on me. It only cheapens you.”
“You were the only man who never made me feel like a whore.”
“And you were the only woman who never set a price on her…friendship. It seems we are both disappointed.”
She yanked her wrist from his grasp and sat up. “I am sorry. I should not have hit you,” she said dully.
“And I should not have offered insult.” He took her arm, gently this time, and raised her bruised wrist to his lips to kiss. “Damn, but you’re cold as a corpse. If you’ll not let me close the blasted window, at least let me warm you under the covers.”
She let him pull her back into the bedding and cover them both beneath heavy blankets. Charles was seldom cruel, and his bursts of anger were fleeting and rare. But it hurt to be compared to the voracious and greedy Barbara Palmer. “I was not setting a price on my friendship. I was—”
“I know exactly what you were doing, my dear. I take no offense. Everyone does it. You are more subtle than most. You wish me to convince you to stay. To entice you…with what? I would prefer it did you just tell me.”
“You don’t understand at all.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“Soon it will be beyond my control. Your new lady wife will come. She will tolerate Lady Palmer because she must. Because she belongs at court and is married. But she will not tolerate me. I will be the sacrifice you make to show that you cede her something. I will be banished and shamed in front of the court. You know this is true, Charles.”
Soldier of Fortune: The King's Courtesan (Rakes and Rogues of the Retoration Book 2) Page 3
