“Ah, the American lad I've heard so much about,” the King said, a mischievous smile playing around his wide mouth. He extended his hand to Billie and she kissed the ring as she'd observed Aphra do. She hoped she was doing it right; kissing royal rings was not a part of standard American etiquette.
“And where is your beautiful cousin?” the King asked.
“She was feeling unwell, Your Majesty, so she decided to lie down. She will join us later. She is to play in a masque after the play, and she wouldn't dream of disappointing our hostess.”
One bushy eyebrow inched up the royal forehead. “Or your present host either, I hope.”
“Of course not, Your Highness,” Billie said, flustered at her blunder. Luckily, the King seemed more amused than offended. She wondered what King Charles would do if she called him “Chuck,” a thought that brought the smile back to her face.
The King watched her expression with a smile. “I'm sure she will be famous.”
“She is already, it seems,” Billie murmured, and the King laughed.
“Yes, she will do very well,” Charles said, and turned his attention back to the pretty woman on his arm. It was Hortense Mancini, Duchesse de Mazarin — the one who'd come to England dressed in boys’ clothes.
They bowed low and removed themselves from the royal presence. Billie was scanning the crowds for Nell Gwyn when she noticed a pair of watery blue eyes fixed on her. It was Aphra's foster cousin, Mary Twysden. Billie would have loved to rush up to the lady and bombard her with questions. Instead, she contented herself with a slow smile and a nod of acknowledgment, causing the lady to blush furiously.
“Excuse me, madam,” Billie murmured to Aphra and moved through the crowd toward Mary Twysden.
At her approach, Mary's color grew even higher. When she reached the lady's side, Billie made a courtly leg and straightened up with a smile. “Have we met, madam? I seem to remember you from somewhere.”
Mary struggled to regain her composure, but the bright spots of color in her cheeks betrayed how little she was succeeding. “I—I'm not sure, sir. You do look vaguely familiar.”
“Then perhaps we should refresh each other's memories?” Billie suggested with one eyebrow raised, a trick she had picked up from Rochester, Ravenscroft and Hoyle. “William Armstrong, of the northern colonies,” Billie said, bowing again with a sweep of her plumed hat. She loved that gesture. Perhaps she should take to wearing hats like this in her own time.
“Mary Twysden of Canterbury, widow of Sir Hubert Twysden, daughter of the late Lord Francis Willoughby, and sister of the late Duchess Diana of Winchilsea.” Mary extended her hand and Billie raised it to her lips dutifully.
It was interesting and sad how Mary defined herself according to all the dead people in her life. Billie lifted her head from the smooth hand to look into the smooth face. There were a few lines around her eyes, but otherwise it was a strangely childish face. Billie guessed Mary was between Aphra and herself in age, but somehow she looked both older than Aphra and younger than Billie: her features were no longer those of a girl, but her expression seemed empty of experience. All those deaths could only have had a superficial effect on her, if at all.
“I sympathize, madam. I hope none of your losses are of a recent date?” Mary was at least six inches shorter than Billie, and she gazed down on the other woman with what she hoped was a sympathetic smile.
“Oh, no. My sister died over twenty years ago, and we were so far apart in age, I barely knew her. My father has been dead almost ten years now and my husband three. They are still mourned, but it is no longer fresh.” The bland face, neither young nor old, neither attractive nor ugly, was beginning to take on a glow that transformed the eyes from washed out to swimming. It made Billie slightly nervous.
“That is good to know,” she said with a warm smile. She wanted to get into this woman's good graces, and she would probably never have a better chance, but she didn't want any broken hearts on Will Armstrong's conscience.
Mary Twysden cast down her eyes in a very ladylike fashion, not at all like the impetuous Aphra. “I am glad it pleases you, Mr. Armstrong,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. She was flirting. Should Billie flirt back? Perhaps Mary Twysden could do with a little disappointment, a woman who thought she was too good to acknowledge her childhood with Aphra.
“It does, madam,” Billie said, catching Mary's hand in her own. “It does.” Her expression as earnest, he gazed into Mary's washed-out blue eyes. How different blue and blue could be.
Suddenly Mary's eyes grew wide as she gazed at something just past Billie's shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but I see some friends I must greet,” Mary said and hurried off. Billie turned to see what had frightened the lady away. The Earl of Rochester, cutting a dramatic figure in a jacket of bright rust-orange brocade, a waterfall of lace spilling out at his throat, was sauntering over to her, Ravenscroft at his side. Ravenscroft presented a more mellow vision in warm shades of gold and brown and yellow. Billie swallowed; he looked stunning.
She smiled and bowed as they joined her. “Apparently my reputation is not quite as dangerous as yours yet, my lord.”
“Did I frighten your prey?” Rochester said, raising one dark eyebrow.
“Prey?” Ravenscroft repeated, gazing after the figure of the retreating lady.
Billie shrugged. “She seems to enjoy my company and I was merely being obliging.”
She wondered what Ravenscroft would make of her pursuit of Mary Twysden, but, luckily, he was unable to question her. Aphra was calling the players to the stage.
After the play, there was no time for Billie to seek out Mary Twysden; she had to change for the masque. She joined Nell Gwyn, wondering what the lady would think of that.
“Meet me in the hall,” the royal mistress murmured to Billie. “I would rather not have it look as if we are leaving together.”
Billie shook her head and shot a glance at the King, who was flirting with Hortense Mancini.
Nell shrugged smooth, bare shoulders framed by lace. “We do not want the curious to come looking for us, do we?”
“No, of course not.” Billie bowed and sauntered out of the room.
Nell joined Billie minutes later, a mischievous grin on her face. “'Tis good to have an assignation!” she murmured. “Come, this way.” Billie followed her into a room small by Whitehall standards, but lavish by any other. She liked the King, liked Nell and the Earl of Rochester, but she couldn't help wondering what percentage of the wealth of the nation was in their hands.
“Your clothes are in here,” Nell said, pulling open a gilt wardrobe.
“What would the curious think now?” Billie asked, hurriedly pulling off her brocade jacket and vest, and her companion laughed merrily.
“Perhaps that I have developed a taste for younger men,” Nell said with a grin.
Billie pulled off her breeches and folded them neatly, laying them on the daybed on top of the jacket. “I would have long ago if I were in your position.”
Nell flashed a wicked smile. “Others have.”
“But how do you put up with it?” Billie asked, thinking of the way Charles had looked at Hortense Mancini.
“How does the queen put up with it?” Nell shook her head. “He is the King, Clarinda. He is a law unto himself.”
That was probably the silliest reason Billie had ever heard for putting up with infidelity. It was a good thing Ravenscroft wasn't a king.
She stepped into the silver-gray underskirt and tied the drawstring at her waist. “Well, as long as you are happy with the situation, who am I to say anything?”
“Happy?” Nell repeated. “Who is ever really happy?”
Billie pulled the sleeves of the beautiful damask gown up her shoulders and glanced at herself in the mirror while Nell helped her lace up the back. She couldn't claim to be happy either. She was falling in love with a man from a world where she couldn't stay, and she couldn't take him with her either.
“That is
a very good question,” she said softly.
22
Silvia.
Too Faithful Shepherd, I will try my Heart,
And if I can will give you part.
Damon.
Oh that was like your self exprest,
Give me but part, and I will steal the rest.
Silvia.
Take care, Young Swain, you treat it well,
If you wou'd have it in your Bosom dwell.
Aphra Behn, “A Dialogue for an Entertainment at Court”
There was the rub, Ravenscroft reflected as Clarinda recited the lines; he would have her heart dwell in his bosom. Or perhaps “would” was the wrong word. He'd heard about affairs like this, a need that couldn't be sated — heard but never experienced. His senses were totally caught up in her; every time they met, it was all he could do not to pant like a sick dog, while she greeted him with those cool gray eyes and acted as if there was nothing between them.
He was a sick dog.
She was beautiful as always in her female garb, a damask gown shot through with a fine pattern of green leaves over an underskirt of shimmering gray that glanced silver when she moved. She spoke her lines surprisingly well, her American accent much less noticeable than when she first arrived in London.
“Where every Grace I will bestow,
“And every Look and Smile, shall show
“How much above the rest I value you.”
Ravenscroft didn't doubt that she valued him above the rest, but her affection seemed nearly as calculated as the lines she spoke. He'd made his conquest, drawn it out as he liked, waited until the woman had come to him, and yet he did not feel like a conqueror at all. With other women, once they slept with him, they were his. Clarinda came to him, but she did not give herself to him; she came to him for the pleasure he gave her, uninhibited and tentative and intense, all at once. Ravenscroft was no stranger to affairs in which he was being used sexually, usually by women escaping the drudgery of marriage to an older man, one they did not want to leave because of the security and position in society he provided. Those affairs were easy. Those women gave themselves to him on a temporary basis, a mild regret in their eyes when they left. Clarinda took what she wanted with a passion equal to any he'd ever known, her eyes veiled. She cried out, but she never cried. Ravenscroft was completely and utterly fascinated.
They completed their lines to a polite shower of applause and returned to the author's side. Astrea was resplendent in shades of rust and ocher, but there was a pinched look on her face, and she kept glancing to the door. Ravenscroft wished he enjoyed that kind of ardor. It seemed lost on Hoyle, the unfaithful arse. Admittedly, the man had the good looks and sharp tongue of a Rochester, but at least the wild Earl seemed capable of loving sincerely, to judge by his sardonic devotion to Elizabeth Barry. But where Aphra was obviously devoted, Elizabeth just as obviously was not; like Clarinda, she too was adept at maintaining a certain distance.
Ravenscroft didn't like what that seemed to imply about him and the men in his set. It was lowering to imagine that fascination could be reduced to something as simple as a woman who played the game much like a man.
Although the masque was little more than reciting some lines of poetry, Billie had been anxious. It was the first time Aphra had ever entrusted her with a speaking role, however small, and she didn't want to flub it.
But when she and Damon joined the playwright after their short performance was over, Aphra took her hands with a smile. “You did quite well, Clarinda. Perhaps you will make an actress yet.”
Billie raised one eyebrow. “Am I not already?”
Aphra laughed. “That you are. You played Silvia well.”
“Faith, you play Silvia too well,” Ravenscroft threw in.
“But your rendition of Damon was lacking, I think,” Elizabeth said. She was gazing at the Earl of Rochester, where he stood a little apart with the King.
“How can that be?” Ravenscroft said, chuckling. “I am Damon, after all!”
“I was well pleased with my partner,” Billie said, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter tone. She wondered if Damon really did want to steal her heart. She couldn't allow that to happen. Physically, he spoiled her rotten, making it hard to think when she was near him, but that made her all the more determined to keep her distance outside of the bedroom. Her only defense was camaraderie, much easier when she was wearing pants.
The hint of a smile touched Elizabeth's generous mouth. Billie turned to see Rochester approaching with the King, several other bewigged gentlemen trailing behind. She was introduced to His Majesty for the second time that evening, and, for the second time, planted a respectful kiss on the royal ring. Odd custom to go around kissing stones. She wondered what King Chuck would do if he could read her thoughts. He seemed perfectly capable of laughing at himself, but thinking of him as King Chuck might be going too far, even for a king who'd spent most of his youth on the run.
She rose out of her curtsey and smiled as charmingly as she knew how.
The King drew the other members of his party forward. “Mrs. Behn, here are several people who would like to congratulate you on the evening's entertainment: Sir Christopher Wren, Mr. Robert Boyle, and his sister, the Viscountess Ranelagh.”
Aphra curtseyed again. “We are acquainted. Sir Christopher, Mr. Boyle, my lady. I am honored that you enjoyed the play.”
Billie tried not to stare. This was proving to be quite the week for meeting historic celebrities. Christopher Wren! Sightseeing in London could give a body the impression that Wren had single-handedly built half the churches in the city. She'd heard of Robert Boyle too — was it something to do with the Royal Society? Billie knew he was famous, but she couldn't remember what for.
Before she had a chance to speak to one of the most famous architects in English history, King Charles addressed her. “So you are the American cousin.”
She turned, hiding the start he had given her with a smile. “The American cousin? There are any number of cousins in America, Your Highness. I myself have three.”
The King gave a hearty laugh, and his dark eyes grew a touch darker. “Your reputation precedes you, madam.”
“That is hardly a good thing for a woman in this day and age, Sire,” Billie said with a grimace.
There was a gleam in the King's eye that Billie found mildly alarming. “In your case it is good, I assure you, Mistress Armstrong.”
Billie inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I must confess, I am relieved.”
King Charles laughed again. “Relieved? You have a very refreshing way about you.”
“I'm glad I am able to amuse you, Your Majesty.”
Ravenscroft, on the other hand, did not appear amused at all. He had crossed his arms in front of his chest in a very defensive posture and was following the conversation with an intensity that took her by surprise. The sight of his glowering look reminded her that this was a man who had pulled a sword on someone who said he wrote doggerel.
Luckily, Billie was saved from the necessity of rebuffing royal advances by a vision in pink with an Italian accent, who descended upon the King and carried him away.
Billie shook her head in disbelief as she watched them retreat. “How many mistresses does the King have in residence?” she murmured so that only her immediate circle could hear.
“Oh, only two, I believe,” Lord Rochester said with a cynical smile. “Nell and Hortense Mancini. Louise Kéroualle, his French whore, has retired to the country to recover from the wages of sin.”
“Only two?” Billie repeated sarcastically.
“And then of course there's the Queen,” Elizabeth added.
“Their presence doesn't stop him from flirting with you, my dear,” Damon said with a tight smile.
“Well, I'm not his mistress and I don't intend to be,” Billie snapped.
“Ah, but every woman would be the King's mistress, given the opportunity,” the Earl said, shaking out the lace at his wrists
.
Billie shot him a look of disbelief. “You obviously judge people by your own moral standards, my lord.” She turned on her heel brusquely, and strode away, forgetting that she was in her women's garb. She shortened her stride to something more appropriate to skirts.
Most of the time she liked Lord Rochester, his wit and undeniable charm, but he could be such an ass! Perhaps it was an occupational hazard, being nobility and incredibly attractive to boot.
A woman stepped out of the crowd in front of her, halting her impetuous march away from the earl.
“I beg your pardon,” Mary Twysden said, obviously reluctant to speak with a woman on the fringes of respectability, but just as obviously eager.
“Yes?” Billie said, pretending not to know her.
“You are Mistress Armstrong, are you not?”
She nodded. “And with whom might I have the pleasure?”
“Mary Twysden, an acquaintance of Mrs. Behn's. Pray, might you know what became of your cousin?” A slight blush dusted Mary's cheeks and she rushed forward. “I have something particular to say to him.”
Billie glanced around the room. “I thought I spied him only moments ago,” she lied. “When I see him again, I will tell him you were looking for him.”
“Oh, that won't be necessary,” Mary replied, flustered. “Good day.”
The lady escaped Clarinda and her bad reputation, and Billie went in search of her trousers. Finding the room where she'd changed earlier was more difficult than expected, but at least she didn't stumble on any lovebirds, only some yappy spaniels, and she quickly closed the door on them. Changing back into breeches had not been part of the plan, but this was an opportunity not to be passed up. Besides, playing the woman this evening was getting complicated. Flirting with royalty made her uneasy, and Ravenscroft's reaction pleased her even less. He had seemed to blame her, an attitude Billie associated with the most provoking sort of macho possessiveness.
Once she was back in her male garb, Billie adjusted the lace at cuff and collar, breathed a sigh of relief, and went in search of Mary Twysden.
Chameleon in a Mirror Page 25
