by Nina Mason
Praise for Royal Pains, books one and two:
“An erotica reader’s pot of gold…”
–Triple A Book Blog
“Mason writes with a confidence, intelligence, and provocativeness that has this reader hooked on her voice. I want to read more, please.”
–Romantic Historical Reviews
“Wow, did Ms. Mason bring it. It’s historical, but it’s smokin’ hot!”
–Bound by Books
“Had me hooked from page one till the very end!”
–Just One More Romance
“An amazing read from start to finish.”
–Eclipse Reviews
“I wholeheartedly recommend it to lovers of erotic historical romance.”
–A Reader’s Review
“An exquisitely beautiful yet intriguing story encircled by a world of unrest far more real than we want to acknowledge.”
–Unwrapping Romance
“An amazing, well-written, hot read that I simply couldn’t put down.”
–Sabina’s Adventures in Reading
“The description of the characters is so detailed it is like looking through a picture album at them. And the story line is not only exciting but HOT!!!”
–Immortal Reviews
“An erotic romance fan’s delight!”
–My Book Addiction and More
“Hot, historical, naughty and romantic—a total winner!”
–Amazon customer
“If you like your sex hot and your history accurate, read this series!”
–Amazon customer
Beware the devil in disguise…
The year is now 1685 and Maggie’s father has just been crowned King of Great Britain, but that doesn’t mean trouble is over for the Duke and Duchess of Dunwoody. Rather than cool the flames of hatred between Papists and Protestants, the coronation of a Catholic monarch has only added accelerant to the already raging blaze. Two-faced devils lurk in every corner of the royal court, as do diseases with the power to kill and maim. When Robert falls prey to the smallpox virus, it looks as though Maggie will lose the two people most precious to her—her beloved husband and their only child—the son she bore three months before after five years of heartbreaking miscarriages and stillbirths. The one person in London who can help save her son demands a steep price in exchange her services. Will Maggie trade Robert’s hard-won fidelity to save her only child…or offer the apothecary an even more scandalous alternative?
Books by Nina Mason
The Queen of Swords
The Tin Man
Devil in Duke’s Clothing (Royal Pains #1)
The Duke’s Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains #2)
The Devil’s Masquerade (Royal Pains #3)
Starry Knight (Knights of Avalon #1)
Dark and Stormy Knight (Knights of Avalon #2)
The Devil’s Masquerade
Royal Pains: Book Three
Nina Mason
Copyright © 2015 by Nina Mason
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Acknowledgements
For their support and encouragement along the way, I thank my wonderful family; my critique partner, Amanda Siemens; and my beta readers: Anne Rindfliesch, Patty Hanson, Rosemary Hendry, Patricia Statham, Meaghan Royce, Tricia Pariso Anderson, Mary Lou Hoffman,
Pam Swan, Darlene Suber, and Carrie-Anne Driscoll.
For the gems of historic detail I mined from the following reference books, I offer gratitude (posthumously, in many cases) to their authors: The Diary of Samuel Pepys; Diary of the Times of Charles II by Henry Sidney, Earl of Romney; James II, and his Wives by Allan Fea; The History of the Coronation of King James II by Francis Sanford; A View of the Reign of James II by Sir James Mackintosh; The Last Days of Charles II by Raymond Crawfurd; Whitehall Palace: An Architectural History of the Royal Apartments, 1240-1698 by Simon Thurley; Queen Anne: The Politics of Passion by Anne Somerset; Princess and Queen of England, Life of Mary II by Mary F. Sanders; The Social Life of Scotland in the Eighteenth Century by Henry Grey Graham; and, of course, the indispensable Wikipedia and multiple other articles, blogs, and tidbits found on the Internet.
At the Signe of the Crosse in St James’s Street,
When next you go thither to make your Selfes Sweet,
By Buying of Powder, Gloves, Essence, or Soe
You may Chance get a Sight of Signore Dildo.
You’ll take him at first for no Person of Note
Because he appears in a plain Leather Coat:
But when you his virtuous Abilities know
You’ll fall down and Worship Signore Dildo.
–From Signore Dildo by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Preface
After the Restoration of the British monarchy in 1660, fears about King Charles II’s Catholic leanings ran high among the Protestants of his dominion. While the new king was publicly Anglican, his cousin, the King of France, and his brother and heir presumptive, belonged to the Church of Rome.
In 1681, triggered by the opposition-invented Popish Plot, a bill was introduced in the House of Commons to prohibit James Stuart, the Duke of York, or any other Catholic from ever ruling Great Britain. Charles outmaneuvered the Exclusion Bill’s proponents by dissolving the Parliament, eliminating the only lawful avenue for preventing his brother’s succession. Thus thwarted, his opponents turned to unlawful schemes to deprive the next in line of his birthright.
The aim of one such plot was to ambush both Stuart brothers as they passed by the Rye House, a medieval mansion in Hertfordshire, on their way back to London from the horse races at Newmarket. The royal party was expected to make the journey on April 1, 1683, but, when a fire forced the race’s cancellation, the king and duke departed Newmarket earlier than planned, forestalling their premeditated murders.
Many of the conspirators were hanged, drawn, and quartered; others were imprisoned in the Tower of London; and still others—most notably the Duke of Monmouth, an illegitimate son of King Charles—fled prosecution. Monmouth and others of his cabal, including the Scottish Earl of Argyll, were given asylum in Holland by the duke’s Protestant relations, William and Mary, the Prince and Princess of Orange.
Two years later, when King Charles died after suffering a sudden fit, speculation abounded that the at-large Rye House plotters had poisoned the Merry Monarch. On the last evening of his life, Charles was received into the Catholic faith, throwing a thicker net of distrust over the Stuart Dynasty.
Under this dark cloud of suspicion and insurgence, the Duke of York acceded to the throne as King James II and VII…
Chapter One
Westminster, London
St. George’s Day, 1685
Maggie drew a deep breath and straightened her posture to maintain the pretense of noble deportment as she processed with the other peers along a course marked with red cloth, fencing, and, at several points along the way, His Majesty’s Troops of Horse and Regiment of Foot Guards. Several yards in the distance loomed the towering gothic face of their destination: the Collegiate Church of Saint Peter, the ancient cathedral better known as Westminster Abbey.
Heart aflutter, she tightened her grip on the coronet in her hand. In a very few minutes, her father, who’d inherited the throne upon the death of his elder brother four months prior, would be solemnized as King of England, Scotland, and Ireland in a ceremony of unprecedented splendor.
Her Catholic father, usually parsimonious to a fault, had spared no expense or extravagance to lord his triumph over his Protestant detractors
—a decision whose wisdom she questioned. Poking one’s opponent in the eye, it seemed to her as well as to Robert, was hardly the way to induce him to forfeit the match.
“Your father mistakes winning a battle for winning the whole of the campaign—to his great peril,” her husband had said one night before they’d retired to their separate bedchambers, as had become their custom in recent months. “The forces pitted against him will not give up their cause just because he wears the crown. The Divine Right of Kings no longer holds sway, but your father, not unlike his brother before him, turns a blind eye to what he’d rather not see. Though the truth should have been clear enough after the execution of their father, both brothers were far too mesmerized by the gleam of the royal scepter to contemplate their true position. And they’ve done naught since to secure the favor of the populace, which matters more than they realize. Instead, they carried on in the manner of the godly untouchables they believe all monarchs to be—an outmoded attitude I fear one day soon shall lead to the downfall of the Stuart Dynasty.”
She feared it, too. Greatly. But consoled herself for the moment with the sunshine. If God disapproved of her father’s ascendency, would He have blessed this day with such fine weather? She thought not. Well, hoped not, leastwise.
The sunshine might portend divine favor, but the heat also made the heavy crimson velvet layers of the ermine-trimmed mantua and robe of estate she’d donned for the occasion unpleasantly warm. They’d only been walking fifteen minutes and, already, she was sweating in the manner of a sow, her back ached like a ditch-digger’s, and her bosoms were painfully engorged beneath the compressing bones of her bodice.
Seeking distraction from her discomforts, she looked around her at the other duchesses, who, all similarly clad, walked before and astride in ceremonial formation. Ahead of the duchesses trooped the lesser peers. Behind them, came the dukes, including Robert, donning formal periwigs and their own striking costumes of estate. Following the dukes were the queen and king, shielded from the sun by matching jingling canopies of golden cloth.
Accompanying the bells was the exultant music provided by the drummers, trumpeters, and multiple choirs leading the pageant. Beyond the iron barriers erected for the occasion, a mob of commoners vied for a better view of the grandiose exhibition.
Taking another deep breath, Maggie lifted her free hand to her swollen décolletage. Though the discomfort was considerable, she could not begrudge the cause. After five years of failed attempts, she’d finally borne her husband an heir. Three months past. A beautiful black-haired cherub they’d named James Robert, after his grandfather and father.
Her thoughts leapt back to the night her son had been conceived. She’d lost so many babies in the preceding years, Robert—as devastated by the miscarriages and still births as was she—had begun to avoid his husbandly duty. One night, unable to bear his neglect any longer—or her torturous cogitations over how and with whom he might be relieving his passions—she’d stolen into his room, tied his hands whilst he slept, and gamahuched him into a state of acute arousal. By the time he awoke (from what must have been an exceedingly pleasant dream), he was in no temperament to protest.
The memory of her triumph unleashed a torrent of tingling thrills, which, to her mortification, caused her milk to let down. Anxiety struck her heart like a gong. God help her. If she did not stem the flow at once, the milk would seep through her garments, making her predicament apparent to one and all.
Woe is me. Whatever am I to do?
As the cavalcade drew to a halt before the entrance to the abbey, an idea came to her—a wonderful, wicked idea. About-facing, she endeavored to catch Robert’s eye, but, to her rising dismay, he was studying the cathedral’s imposing arched windows and soaring twin towers. To break rank would be indecorous, so she attempted to gain his attention by coughing and clearing her throat loudly enough to be heard over the din of music and conversation. To her great consternation, her efforts drew looks from all except Robert.
Out of tricks—and patience—she called out to him. “My Lord Dunwoody…might I have a word?”
He glanced her way at last, but only for a moment before casting around, as if seeking permission from some non-existent intermediary to abandon his post. Though vexed by the delay, she could not help smiling at his appearance. Her handsome husband cut a striking figure in his ermine-edged robes of estate and gold-and-enamel collar of the Order of the Garter encircling the shoulders of his lavishly embroidered justacorps.
Finally, he stepped toward her, his gray-green eyes shimmering with concern. “How may I be of service, My Lady?”
Her courage withered in the face of his directness. She’d planned to communicate her needs through subtle gestures. A downward glance accompanied by a playful wink or suggestive waggle of the eyebrows. Her husband was far from obtuse. He’d deduce her meaning, especially when, since Jamie’s birth, suckling her enlarged breasts had become one of his favorite pastimes. Now, blast it all, she’d have to vocalize her indecent request within hearing of the crème-de-la-crème of the aristocracy.
May God have mercy on my plight.
Searching for words veiled enough to fool her eavesdroppers yet clear enough to communicate her need to her husband, she dropped her gaze to her tingling bosoms. “My breast is full to bursting with the milk of happiness. For James. And I feel the need to share my abundant joy with my spouse.” Meeting his gaze under a flush of warmth, she added, “Somewhere private. Do you take my meaning?”
The deliciously wicked smile that bloomed on his mouth suggested he did—and that blessed salvation was soon to be had.
Stepping up to him, she placed a hand on his chest and moved her mouth very close to his ear. “Do you know a place inside where we can manage the exchange?”
Whilst she’d never been inside the abbey before, the duke had—most recently for the funeral of King Charles II, who died unexpectedly four months prior. She’d been too close to her time to make the trip, so she’d stayed behind in Edinburgh. Fortunately, James Robert waited until his father returned from London before putting in an appearance.
Wee Jamie was the apple of his father’s eye and the thief of his mother’s heart. She had not thought she could cherish another creature half as much as she did her husband, but she’d fallen madly in love with her son the moment she first took him to her breast. Jamie also was a favorite of his grandfather, who’d lost his younger children and grandchildren to stillbirth and smallpox, and his only surviving legitimate daughters to religious differences.
Robert’s voice in Maggie’s ear called her back to the present. “Once the king and queen are seated, I will meet you at the foot of the stairs.”
When he stepped back into line with the dukes, she turned back to the church. The procession crawled along in the manner of a queue until at last the duchesses crossed the threshold into the abbey’s vestibule. Greeting their entry were towering gothic arches, colorful stained glass murals, and a grandly uniformed officer of arms, who conducted them into the nave and up a staircase on the north side of the church. Though her milk had stopped flowing for the time being, her breasts were painfully engorged beneath her sodden underpinnings and boned velvet bodice.
The duchesses took their places before their chairs. They’d been instructed to remain standing until Their Majesties were seated. Craning her neck to have a look at the sanctuary, Maggie saw tapestries had been hung to hide the altar and define the ceremonial space. Farther out, betwixt two descending sets of stairs, a pair of thrones stood upon a tiered dais, one a step or two higher than the other. Betwixt the platform and the nave, a recessed pit contained the orchestra and choirs.
What seemed an eternity passed before the king and queen took their places. As the royal couple sat, the choirs began to sing a hymn. When the hymn was finished, everyone took their seats—except Maggie, who made straight for the staircase. She must have looked harmless—or determined—because no guards interfered. Heart pounding, she descended the st
airs, praying she’d find her husband waiting at the bottom.
Anxiety bloomed in her bosom when she found herself alone in the imposing nave. In the desperate moments that followed, her milk let down again. For the first time since she’d given birth to Jamie, she regretted her decision not to hire a wet nurse. Being the human equivalent of a milking cow was proving to be prodigiously inconvenient. If Robert did not make haste, there would be no hiding her embarrassing condition.
Her worry increased with each second that ticked past. Just when she was ready to abandon all hope of remaining for the coronation, her husband stepped from the shadows into a pool of kaleidoscopic sunshine. Hurrying to her, he grabbed her arm and towed her toward the back of the church. Just before they reached the exterior doors, he cut left, stepped around a corner, and pulled her through a doorway. The room they stepped into was long and narrow with recessed arched windows and a stone fireplace whose elaborately carved wooden mantle reached to the towering coffered ceiling. A sturdy oak table occupied the center of the room whilst chairs carved with crosses stood around the perimeter.
“What if someone comes in?” she asked, fearful of discovery.
