Faversham accounted all this to be no more than the vapourings of a histrionic temperament, the last flicker of the flame of the actor’s resentment; and he deemed himself confirmed in this judgement when, as the weeks went by, the whole affair was permitted by Kynaston to fall into oblivion. Confidently he accounted the incident closed, which but shows that, despite his friendship for Kynaston, his knowledge of him did not go very deep.
It would be about a month after these events that town and Court were set agog by the advent of a new beauty at Whitehall in the person of Caroline Countess of Chesterham. Her coming had been heralded in advance in a letter from the septuagenarian Lord Chesterham to his old friend Faversham, who had been cornet of horse in a regiment commanded by his lordship at Naseby. He wrote from the remote wilds of Cornwall, whither he had retreated some years before, to announce that he had married a young wife.
What the town said of it is neither here nor there, and, in any case, is very readily imagined. Also, it is readily imagined with what curiosity the town looked forward to his announced visit, and to see this girl whose beauty he extolled at such length in another letter addressed to Lady Denham. His lordship wrote that, although he had never thought to forsake his hermitage again, yet having taken so young a bride he was sensible of the duty that he owed her, and that since it was her desire to see something of the great world, he could not find it in his heart to deny her.
A handsome house was made ready for them in Pall Mall by a steward, and a posse of servants sent ahead. And a few days later the news was put about that they had arrived.
Among the first to pay their devoirs were, of course, Sir Lionel Faversham and Sir John and Lady Denham. To receive them they found, however, none but the bride, installed in a nobly proportioned drawing-room whose windows looked out upon the park.
They had naturally assumed from his lordship’s letters that she would be country-bred, but they found little to confirm the assumption in her appearance and her manners. She was of striking, of superb beauty — tall, straight, and slender, with a carriage of such grace and supple dignity that a queen might have been proud of it. If a fault there was in that glorious, gipsy-tinted face it was that it too closely matched her bearing. It was cold and proud, and it derived a something almost of boldness from the steady glance of her magnificent sombre eyes. Her gown was in the very latest mode of France, and her abundant, lustrous black hair, intertwined with a string of pearls, was dressed in the very noontide of fashion, whilst a round black patch — that very latest of fashion’s mad conceits — sat roguishly upon her chin, and yet another on her cheek ‘neath her left eye. Her voice was low and cultured and very rich, and none could have been more infinitely and nobly at ease than she when she explained the absence of her septuagenarian bridegroom.
She informed her visitors that within ten miles of town they had been overtaken by a courier, who brought them word that his lordship’s brother had a seizure, and was not expected to live, whereupon his lordship had gone posting back at once, leaving his wife to end the journey alone and to await him in London, whither he would follow as soon as might be. She brought a little note from him to Lady Denham, in which he implored the latter’s good offices of her — a charge which Lady Denham very amiably accepted, entirely ravished by the grace and dignity of Lady Chesterham.
Faversham tells us that he withdrew perturbed in spirit. He had conceived his old friend to have committed the regrettable imprudence of giving rein to an infatuation for some rustic Hebe, whereas instead he was driven to fear that he had fallen a prey to an adventuress of talent, who would not be long in covering him with that ridicule which so often falls to the lot of the old man who marries a young wife — the Pantaloon in the Comedy of Life.
The events most certainly nourished these fears of his, and did credit to his discernment. Presented at Whitehall by Lady Denham, Lady Chesterham created a greater sensation than in its day had been caused by the advent there of Barbara Palmer. Her triumph was to be read in the hostility with which the women received her. Metaphorically they recoiled before her. That cold assurance, amounting almost to boldness, which Faversham had detected in her bearing, proved repellant to the majority of her own sex. They discovered in her something almost approaching raffishness, which disconcerted their own more veiled immodesty. And then there was her astounding popularity with the men to quicken the venom of the ladies of the Court. The latter looked on with noses at a disdainful angle, whilst they stripped her character to its last rag, tore her reputation into tatters.
Yet she thrived amazingly in the assiduous court that was paid her by the brothers, fathers, and husbands of her instinctive enemies. The sultan Charles himself was vastly taken with her — which, after all, considering his temperament, was not wonderful. He went the length of visiting her in her splendid mansion in Pall Mall, a matter which caused Faversham to wring his hands in despair, and pray that her husband’s brother might get his dying done with as much despatch as possible.
But there was worse to follow. All day, and often far into the night, a line of chairs and coaches stood before her doors, and in her ante-chambers, such was the press of courtiers that you might have deemed yourself at Whitehall.
In her social tastes she proved herself extremely catholic. Not merely were beaux and men of fashion welcomed; soon her rooms were thronged with wits and poets, painters, writers of plays, and even one or two actors haled thither in the train of Sir George Etheredge, who himself belonged to two worlds. To all she was alike gracious, until in the end, inevitably, she came to manifest to one a special favour. And this one, to Faversham’s dismay, was none other than Sir Charles Sedley, that devourer of hearts, that heartless blighter of reputations. And the worst of it was that the first advances came undoubtedly from her. She it was who ogled the rake and lured him on to pay his assiduous court.
Soon her name, coupled with Sedley’s, was on the gay town’s lips. Faversham — immensely daring — breathed a warning to her. She measured him with her bold black eyes, ‘twixt raillery and scorn.
‘I protest I find him vastly amusing,’ said she.
‘I pray Heaven, madam, you may always say so,’ said Faversham impressively.
‘You are more devout than witty, sir, which is to say, you are a dullard,’ was the fleeting answer with which she quitted him.
Some days later, in the Rhenish Wine House, which was full of company at the time, Sir Lionel came face to face with Ned Kynaston. The actor had a flushed, excited air, and his eyes were bright.
‘What’s this I hear of Sedley, Sir Lionel?’ he cried out, in a voice that drew attention. ‘They are coupling his name with Lady Chesterham’s. But an hour ago I all but had a duel on my hands through it.’
Faversham’s lips tightened. He froze. Were matters indeed gone so far that her name was thus flung about a wineshop? Yet because of his affection for Kynaston he tempered the rebuke that had arisen to his lips.
‘Lady Chesterham’s affairs,’ he replied gravely, ‘are her own and Lord Chesterham’s, who, no doubt, will demand an account of any who presumes to lend her name to scandal-mongers.’
‘Faith, then, he’ll need to be returning soon, or he’ll find his work done for him by another. Curse me, Sir Lionel, I tell you no man shall say a word against her ladyship in my hearing but I’ll ram his lies down his dirty throat with the point of my cane!’
Faversham took him by the arm.
‘Be silent, Ned!’
‘Silent?’ roared Kynaston. ‘Shall I be silent what time that foul fellow Sedley’s verses upon her are being sung up and down the town? I’ll do more than write verses in her honour to prove myself her slave!’ And he declaimed, adapting:
I’ll sing my praise of thee in trumpet sounds,
And write my homage down in blood and wounds.
Faversham’s grip upon his arm tightened. He dragged him out of the tavern into the pale February sunshine.
‘Art mad, Ned?’ he growled. ‘Another wor
d in that strain in public, and I shall quarrel with you. If you respect the lady as you pretend, afford by silence some testimony of that respect.’
But the mischief was done. Kynaston had been abundantly overheard. His words were, of course, repeated. The women got hold of the story, and it suffered nothing in their fierce retelling of it. This bold wanton was so lost to decency, so greedy of admirers, that even players were admitted to sun themselves in her smiles. As for Kynaston, there were no limits to what was said of him. It was most plausibly suggested that, availing himself of the opportunity her lack of circumspection was affording him, he meant to oust Sedley from her favour, and thus take vengeance upon Sedley for the beating he had received by his appointment. Since her tastes were admittedly base, it was deemed not impossible that he might prove victorious in this contest, though, to be sure, it would be a victory that could bring him but little glory. Thus the ladies.
That pretty tale overran the town like wildfire. It came to Sedley’s ears, and set him in a seething passion. In this he went off to Lady Chesterham’s.
‘Madam, what is’t I hear?’ he burst out at sight of her.
From the couch where she reclined she eyed him languidly.
‘I see that you are come to set me riddles,’ she drawled. ‘But I warn you that they weary me.’
‘Riddles?’ quoth he. ‘Ay, a riddle in sooth. ’Tis said that you favour that low fellow Kynaston; that you receive him here; that he has the temerity to proclaim himself the champion of your good name!’
‘Does he so?’ she cooed. ‘I vow ’tis vastly sweet in him.’
‘Vastly sweet?’ he roared. ‘Fan me, ye winds! Do you realize what it means? Would you have him blast your fair repute, madam?’
She considered him with half-closed eyes, smiling insolently over the edge of her gently moving fan.
‘Do you desire to be alone and absolute in the enjoyment of that privilege?’ quoth she.
He looked at her blankly a moment, speechless. Then he stamped his foot.
‘’Tis not to be borne!’ he cried.
‘Who bids you bear it, sir, whatever it may be?’ she countered scornfully. ‘Did I bid you to come pestering me with your sheep’s eyes and your sighs and your silly speeches? If the dear lad please me, what is’t to you, pray? Who gave you rights upon me? La, now! I protest you weary me.’
‘Caroline!’ he began unsteadily. He advanced and stood over her, glowering down into that mocking, gipsy-tinted face. He swallowed, and began again. ‘You are to understand, madam, that it is not safe to play fast-and-loose with me.’
The jewelled fingers of her fine long hand moved her fan gently to and fro again. Her lip curled.
‘You are a mirror of the politenesses, sir.’
‘Curse me, madam, I do not aim at politeness!’
‘In that case you will be the less put about.’
‘Ha! You rally me! You make a mock of me!’ he raved, beside himself with anger. ‘You have brought me to this — to this! And now — —’
He flung his arms wide and let them fall again, his face very pale.
She sat bolt upright.
‘Sir Charles,’ said she, ‘I was warned of your presumption and your ill-repute.’
‘If that dog Kynaston has dared malign me — —’
‘Believe me, ‘twere impossible — beyond the compass of his invention. It is time, Sir Charles, you understood that you have no right or claim upon me beyond such as it may be my pleasure to confer. Such rights belong only to my husband.’
‘Damn your husband, madam!’ he snapped in his rage.
She rose, frowning.
‘Sir Charles, you forget the respect due to me,’ she rebuked him, with a great dignity, her face forbiddingly cold. ‘You have my leave to go.’
He gaped foolishly, stricken by her sudden iciness.
‘Forgive me!’ he pleaded. ‘I — I am a little disordered. I — —’
‘Faugh!’ she broke in. ‘I could forgive your being disordered, but I cannot forgive you for being maudlin and tiresome. Heaven be my witness I never could endure a tiresome man. I give you good-day.’
He flung out in a rage, not trusting himself to say another word. In his heart he cursed her for a wanton who had but lured him on that she might subject him to this humiliation. But anon, as he cooled, he came to consider that perhaps he had been precipitate. His vanity argued that her self-respect must have compelled her to resent the too-masterful tone he had taken with her. He had been foolish; he had displayed no more tact or judgement than an oaf.
Hence it happened that he came contritely to her house upon the following morning, intent to make his peace with her, confident of his power to do so. He reflected that no cloud would ever have troubled their relations but for that rascal Kynaston. The very thought of the fellow was enough to fling Sir Charles into a fresh passion. But he curbed his mood, bethinking him that to give way to it was to suffer defeat in the end. After all, Kynaston was most rarely handsome, and he had gifts — Sir Charles deemed it prudent to admit his enemy’s strength — which might entrap the heart of a wilful, headstrong woman such as Caroline Chesterham. Women were such fools in these matters, he considered. They never could distinguish between a rogue and a gentleman.
He entered the spacious hall at the foot of the main staircase — a hall which served the purpose of the mansion’s principle ante-chamber. Here he found the usual company assembled, but, if anything, more numerous than usual, which put him out of temper. Yet perhaps she would do him the honour of granting him immediate and private audience?
He approached one of her splendid servants, and slipped a guinea into the fellow’s hand and a message into his ear. The lackey pocketed the coin, and vanished. He returned almost at once.
‘Her ladyship’s compliments, Sir Charles, and she desires to be private until she announces herself disposed to receive.’
Vexed, Sir Charles turned aside, and fell into absent-minded talk with Buckhurst. Ten minutes passed, and then there was a sudden stir in the courtly groups about the hall.
Down the stairs, serene and graceful, came a young man in a suit of heliotrope satin edged with silver, a wealth of lace at wrist and throat, his plumed hat under his right arm, and an ebony cane dangling from his left wrist. His hair fell in a shower of golden ringlets, a bunch of them caught in a heliotrope ribbon on a level with his left ear.
It was Ned Kynaston. As Sir Charles stared incredulously he could scarcely believe his eyes. A red mist rose at last before them; he felt a tightening at the throat. He and some twenty of the first gentlemen of the town were left there to cool their heels like lackeys whilst she was private with this low-born fellow, who descended now as self-assured and supercilious as though the house belonged to him.
Men nudged one another, and Sir Charles felt every eye turned upon him. He told himself that he was become their laughing stock.
Then, on the fourth step from the foot of the stairs, Kynaston paused.
‘Her ladyship’s compliments, gentlemen, to you all,’ he announced — ladies there were none present at this levee— ‘and she bids me beg you to hold her excused, as she desires to rest herself this morning.’
This was too much for Sedley. Rudely he shouldered his way through the throng to the foot of the stairs, and every eye was upon him, every face betrayed its gleeful expectancy of a scene.
‘So,’ he growled, hoarse with passion, ‘you play the lackey, do you, Kynaston? Faith, I never saw you better fitted with a part to suit you.’
The actor, still on that fourth step — a position which gave a certain advantage over his enemy — paused to take snuff daintily before replying.
‘Ha, Sir Charles!’ he said, in his clear, bell-like voice, and never had an audience hung more intently upon his words. ‘I have a word for you in addition to what I have announced already.’ He shut his snuffbox with a snap, and dusted fragments of the Burgamot from his ruffles. ‘If her ladyship does not receive this morning t
he fault, Sir Charles, is yours. I see no reason to spare you the humiliation you seek when you thrust yourself in here despite her ladyship’s definite dismissal of you yesterday. Yet her ladyship would have spared it you, and ’twas to that end — that she might not be forced to single you out — that she determined today, being informed of your presence, to deny herself to all.’
Mad with anger and mortification, intent only upon insult, Sir Charles flung forward with the retort:
‘You lie, you dog of a play-actor!’
That was Kynaston’s great opportunity. In a flash he took it; took it like one who has been waiting in leash for it. His right hand swung up, and he caught Sir Charles a buffet full upon the cheek, that knocked him into the arms of Sir John Ogle.
There was a pause until Sedley recovered from his astonishment. Then, bellowing blasphemy, he lugged at his sword. Instantly a dozen hands fastened upon him.
‘Not here, Charles!’ cried Buckhurst. ‘We’ll not suffer it in her ladyship’s house. You shall not make her name the talk o’ th’ town. Elsewhere, Charles! Elsewhere! Not here!’
Thus they — his own friends — committed him to it. He glared at Kynaston, who, leaning now upon his cane, looked down upon him with a crooked smile.
‘You dog!’ he roared. He was foaming at the mouth, his handsome, dissipated face aflame with passion. ‘I’ll kill you for this! My friends shall wait upon you!’
‘You sent your friends to me once before. Faith, they were the friends I should expect in you,’ drawled the actor.
Through Sedley’s furious mind there flashed then a suspicion that all this was an elaborate trap in which he was caught. But still he did not realize its details.
‘It shall be cold steel this time!’ he bellowed. ‘Get measured for your coffin.’
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 530