Lords of Misrule (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 4)

by Stella Riley

  Having washed and changed into a fresh gown, Lydia sat before the mirror while Nancy attempted to restore her hair to some sort of order. It had to be admitted, she thought clinically, that black wasn’t her colour. Some widows managed to look delicate and ethereal. She didn’t. She merely looked pale, insipid and a bit crow-like. The last thought brought a slight curl to her mouth. It didn’t matter if she looked like a crow. Black might not suit her but the reason she was wearing it was her protection from the plot that she suspected was being hatched on the floor below.

  Finally, when she could delay no longer, she said, ‘Oh well. Best get it over with, I suppose. There’s only an hour before supper so I ought to be able to last that long without murdering one of them.’

  ‘You keep your chin up, Miss Lydia. They can go on at you all they like but they can’t do nothing. Mr Neville made sure of that.’

  ‘He did,’ agreed Lydia. ‘And that, of course, is half the problem.’

  * * *

  By the time Lydia entered the room, the family gathering in the parlour and run out of a number of things. Patience was one of them and, having talked themselves to a standstill for nearly three hours, conversation was another. Ably assisted by both his cousin and his brother-in-law, Margaret’s husband, Joseph, had virtually finished off the wine … while his sister, Elizabeth, had demolished most of the fruit tartlets. As usual, Margaret looked ready to hit someone.

  Lydia allowed herself to smile. She also allowed herself to stand perfectly still, just inside the door and wait, with slightly raised brows, for the three gentlemen to remember their manners. Belatedly and a little untidily, they hoisted themselves to their feet.

  Lydia dropped the merest suggestion of a curtsy and sank into the nearest empty chair. Joseph and Gideon resumed their seats and Geoffrey hovered by the mantelpiece.

  ‘You took your time,’ snapped Margaret.

  ‘Not especially. And I wasn’t aware that there was any hurry.’

  ‘There isn’t, Cousin – no hurry at all.’ The Reverend Geoffrey Neville crossed the room to possess himself of one of her hands and bow over it. ‘As always, it’s a great pleasure to see you – though, if you will forgive me saying so, you look rather more tired than when I saw you last.’

  ‘Surely that was only two days ago?’ Lydia freed her fingers with a deft tug and smiled sweetly up at him. ‘I had no idea you studied me so closely, Cousin.’

  For a moment, no one said anything and Lydia waited to see which of them would embark on the usual refrain; the collective chorus that had started within days of Stephen’s funeral and been going on ever since. It also occurred to her with a faint quiver of amusement that she wasn’t the only one who looked like a crow. Clad in the unrelieved black of full mourning, all six of them did.

  Joseph Neville had none of his late father’s spare, silver-haired elegance and also lacked his height. At the age of forty-three, his complexion was decidedly florid and he was already losing his hair. A few years younger and several inches taller, Margaret, his wife, might still have been considered a handsome woman but for the lines of discontent marking her face. His sister’s passion for cakes and pastries was having the inevitable effect on her hips and his brother-in-law’s weak chin was twinned with an even weaker character. As for Cousin Geoffrey, for whom Lydia suspected the family had plans … he had a long nose, narrow shoulders and perpetually sweaty palms.

  She wished he’d stop smiling at her. It was making her teeth hurt.

  Plainly tired of waiting, Margaret shot her husband a look as sharp as a kick to the shin.

  ‘Ah,’ said Joseph. ‘Yes. We wanted to speak to you, Lydia. As a family.’

  ‘Did you? About what?’ As if I didn’t know.

  ‘About your … er … outside activities.’

  Lydia folded her hands in her lap and fixed him with a cool stare.

  ‘You have something new to add?’

  This seemed to throw Joseph off his stride. ‘New?’

  ‘Well, yes. I presume you’re referring to the lorinery and the haberdashery – or more specifically, to the fact that both employ crippled ex-soldiers and war-widows. And if that’s so, I can’t imagine what more there can possibly be to say since you’ve spoken of little else for the last six months.’ She paused and drew a bracing breath. ‘To be honest, Joseph, I’m quite tired of discussing it. And I would have thought that, by now, you would be, too. Both you and Margaret must surely have realised that I have no intention of giving up either business – and that there’s nothing you can do to make me.’

  That did it. All five of them started to talk at once until, inevitably, Margaret emerged triumphant.

  ‘Why must you be so stubborn?’ she demanded angrily. ‘These aren’t suitable occupations for a respectable widow!’

  ‘Nonsense. Lots of widows have their own businesses these days.’

  ‘Normal ones, yes. Not the likes of yours! Associating with women who are little better than whores --’

  ‘I really wish you’d stop calling them that, Margaret. They are not whores. Do you honestly think the Haberdasher’s Guild would have admitted them if they were running a brothel out of the back room?’

  ‘What makes you so sure they’re not?’ asked Elizabeth, dusting pastry from her fingers. ‘How do you know what they get up to when your back is turned?’

  ‘I know because I don’t just take people off the street at random,’ returned Lydia, striving for patience. ‘The women I employ are the only bread-winners in their families. By providing them with a couple of rooms and a modicum of equipment, I make it possible for them to earn a basic living with their embroidery and lace-making and so on. How much more respectable do you think it can get?’

  ‘No one is saying you’re doing anything wrong, Cousin,’ interposed Geoffrey earnestly. ‘Indeed, your desire to help these poor unfortunates does you a great deal of credit. But you must see that things are different now. As a widow, you should give some serious thought to – to how it all looks.’

  ‘But I don’t care how it looks.’

  ‘Then you should,’ remarked Elizabeth. ‘People talk, you know. Several of my friends have even commented to me directly about the way you spend your time – so I hate to think what’s being said behind my back.’

  ‘I’m surprised your friends are so interested. But the next time the subject comes up, you might tell them that, if they buy their lace from Bennett’s in Paternoster Row or from Howell’s in the New Exchange, it was probably made by my ladies in Strand Alley.’

  ‘Ladies?’ scoffed Elizabeth. ‘They are hardly that. And as for yourself – what was just about acceptable in my father’s wife is not at all appropriate in his widow. His rather young widow, I might add.’

  ‘Your father made it possible for me to do more than offer a few coins or a basket of food,’ said Lydia flatly. ‘People don’t want charity. They want self-respect and honest employment. The lorinery provides that. Every man who works there --’

  ‘Rogues and vagabonds, the lot of them,’ snapped Margaret. ‘My God – some of them are even Royalists!’

  ‘So they are. Odd as it may seem, men on both sides lost limbs and eyes – thus making them less desirable employees than the able-bodied. I take on men who need help – irrespective of their politics.’

  ‘But you risk fights breaking out amongst them, do you not?’ drawled Gideon Parker, speaking for the first time. ‘Or are they all just one big happy family?’

  ‘Yes. In essence, that’s exactly what they are.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me if I find that rather hard to believe.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should visit Duck Lane and see for yourself,’ she suggested, knowing he wouldn’t. Then, ‘It’s very simple, Gideon. We have one rule and one only. No one asks who fought for whom and when and where. And it works.’

  ‘Until they get drunk,’ spat Margaret. ‘Don’t try telling me half of them don’t drink themselves silly on Neville money.’

>   Ah. Now we’re getting down to it, thought Lydia cynically. Money. None of this has anything to do with the lorinery or the haberdashery or what is or isn’t a respectable occupation for a widow. It’s to do with Stephen’s will and the fact that they’re all still smarting over him leaving me a good deal more than they expected.

  Keeping her voice as level as she could, she said, ‘Anyone would suppose that whatever costs there may be are coming out of your own pocket – which we know isn’t the case. Also, as I believe I’ve mentioned before, the lorinery is now breaking even and within a year is likely to be making a profit. Every bridle, bit, harness and spur we make is bought by either Mortimer’s Saddlery or by Cotterell’s and paid for at Guild rates. As for the men we employ – they all work hard and to the best of their ability, limited as that may be. There has never been a hint of trouble and not one of them has ever offered me the least disrespect – nor would they.’

  ‘I’m sure we’re all relieved to hear that,’ began Joseph. ‘But --’

  ‘Good. Then let that be an end to it.’

  ‘But caring for unemployed soldiers or their widows and orphans isn’t your responsibility.’

  ‘No. It isn’t. Currently, it’s the responsibility of His Highness, the Lord Protector,’ retorted Lydia trenchantly. ‘And I’d hope to see him getting on with it when he’s got comfortable in his new chair and can spare a thought for the men who fought under him. Certainly, despite a lot of well-meaning talk, neither the Rump nor the Barebones Parliament ever made any proper provision either for crippled ex-soldiers or the fellows currently fighting the Dutch at sea. So while we wait for Cromwell to rectify that, I’ll continue doing what I can – because, though Parish Relief may work well enough in the smaller towns, it’s never going to be sufficient in London where the demand is so much greater.

  ‘What makes you such an expert?’ asked Margaret sourly.

  ‘Common sense. Something we haven’t seen too much of recently in the powers-that-be.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘It’s clear enough, isn’t it? Cromwell threw out the Rump at sword-point, then replaced it with the Nominated Assembly – which was the last thing anybody wanted. Then, when Praise-God Barbone and the rest of the Saints didn’t live up to his expectations, he pushed them out of the way so he could assume power himself.’ Lydia paused and looked Joseph in the eye. ‘You know what your father would have said about the current government. He’d have called it a dictatorship, veiled by a flimsy cloak of constitutionalism and he’d have disapproved of it heart and soul – in which he’d have been by no means alone.’

  ‘I don’t deny that,’ said Joseph, knowing he couldn’t do so. Stephen Neville had been a staunch Presbyterian, standing squarely behind men like Sir William Waller and Sir Arthur Haselrig. ‘But the Lord Protector has promised elections and a new Parliament and --’

  ‘He has indeed,’ agreed Lydia. ‘And we must hope that he likes it better than the previous effort – or it could be equally short-lived.’ She rose from her seat and smiled at them all. ‘Was there anything else?’

  She knew there was. She just wondered, watching the glance that passed between Joseph, Margaret and Geoffrey, if any of them would be crass enough to actually say it.

  ‘I’m sure I speak for us all,’ said Geoffrey smoothly, ‘when I ask you to at least consider what we have said. It is well-meant. And I’m sure that if Stephen were here --’

  ‘If Stephen were here,’ said Lydia, moving towards the door, ‘there would be no need to have this conversation at all.’ She turned, her hand on the latch and added, ‘I know it doesn’t suit you to admit it … but Stephen would tell me to carry on the work he and I started. And he’d tell all of you to let me alone to get on with it.’

  * * *

  Not surprisingly, supper was an uncomfortable affair and not much improved by the departure of Elizabeth and Gideon, Cousin Geoffrey’s unsuccessful attempts to be charming or the presence of Joseph and Margaret’s daughters. Janet and Kitty spent the entire meal bickering about which of them owned a silk shawl until Lydia felt like banging their heads together. Then, just when she was wondering how soon she could escape to her bedchamber, rescue arrived in a form she could have done without.

  Voices in the hall told her that her brother was home … and that he’d brought company.

  ‘Sir high-and-mighty Aubrey, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘And who do you suppose he has with him this time?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ sighed Lydia rising. ‘But there’s no need for you to be troubled by them.’

  ‘We’d be even less troubled if he stopped treating this house like his own private tavern.’

  ‘I know – and I’ll speak to him.’ Again. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll put them in the back parlour. There’s no fire lit in there so they won’t get too comfortable.’

  ‘Why can’t they sit with us?’ demanded Kitty, also quitting her chair. ‘I like Aubrey’s friends. They’re the only interesting men I ever meet.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because the last fellow he brought home was drunk and leered at you,’ said Janet. ‘It was disgusting.’

  ‘I bet you wouldn’t say that if he’d been leering at you.’

  Lydia looked from one to the other of them and despaired.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered. And fled.

  * * *

  Sir Aubrey Durand ushered his guests into the back parlour saying, ‘I apologise for the chill in here – but it’s better than trying to be civil to my sister’s relatives by marriage.’

  ‘That bad, are they?’ asked the younger of his two friends with a grin.

  ‘Worse.’ He moved around the room, lighting candles. ‘Stephen was a decent fellow and a good husband to Lydia, despite being so much older. But the son is an ass and the daughter-in-law, a bloody nightmare.’ He stopped as the door opened and his sister walked in. ‘Hello, Lyd. Please tell me the others aren’t hard on your heels.’

  ‘They’re not.’

  ‘Not even the dreadful girls?’

  ‘Not even them – though Kitty made an attempt.’

  Aubrey shuddered, then gestured to his companions.

  ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Gentlemen, this is my sister, Mistress Neville. Lyd … allow me to present Colonel John Gerard and Sir Ellis Brandon.’

  The young, slightly-built Colonel smiled and bowed. Lydia dipped a curtsy and wondered why his name rang a distant bell.

  Sir Ellis meanwhile, older and elegant in tawny velvet, sauntered across to take her hand and, with an extravagant bow, murmured, ‘Mistress Neville … a pleasure. But I fear that we should apologise for our intrusion.’

  Lydia withdrew her hand and said prosaically, ‘Thank you – but I’m used to it.’ And, to her brother, ‘I’ll send Nancy in with wine – though, if you want to avoid the usual lecture, I’d advise you against making a night of it.’

  ‘We won’t. But perhaps you could bring the wine yourself? We have matters to discuss and would rather not have servants tripping about while we do so.’

  Lydia shot him an acute glance, wondering what these three had in common that created a need for secrecy. Then, having no objection to listening outside the door if needs be, she nodded and left the room.

  When she returned with a bottle and glasses, the gentlemen had their heads together around the table. She caught the words, ‘That business with Pantaleon --’ before Sir Ellis stopped speaking. And that was when she realised why Colonel Gerard’s name had seemed familiar.

  Setting down the tray and taking her time about filling the glasses, Lydia said, ‘Perhaps I’m mistaken, Colonel … but aren’t you the gentleman the Portuguese Ambassador’s brother tried to murder a few weeks ago?’

  A warning glance passed between the three of them. Then, sighing slightly, John Gerard said, ‘You’re not mistaken, Madam. The whole affair was extremely unfortunate.’

  ‘So I understand.’ Like half of London, she’d read about it in the newspaper.
‘The Intelligencer said it began as an ‘affair of honour’ – though it didn’t much sound like one to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t. Dom Pantaleon and his friends were in their cups and full of arrogant bravado. It began with a lot of unmannerly jostling and progressed to loud and extremely offensive insults which, foolishly perhaps, I didn’t choose to ignore.’

  ‘In English?’ asked Lydia. And when he looked at her, ‘I thought it was odd that they were apparently insulting one and all in English rather than Portuguese.’

  He shrugged. ‘They were spoiling for a fight. I tried to remonstrate with them and got a blade in my shoulder for my pains – which is where my part in the incident ended. But the next night, Pantaleon took an armed escort and went back to the New Exchange hunting for me. I wasn’t there, of course … but a young man of approximately my height and build was buying ribbons for his bride-to-be.’ He paused and then added tightly, ‘Dom Pantaleon killed him.’

  ‘And has been tried and found guilty of murder,’ remarked Aubrey. ‘Somewhat awkward since Cromwell’s been negotiating a treaty of sorts with the Portuguese.’

  ‘It will be even more awkward if they hang him,’ drawled Sir Ellis.

  ‘Do you think they will?’ Lydia asked. ‘An Ambassador’s brother?’

  ‘Guilty of murder in a public place and in front of a dozen witnesses? They can’t afford not to – though I imagine they’ll take their time about it.’

  ‘Probably.’ The Colonel frowned into his wine. ‘With hindsight, I wish I’d stayed out of it. If I’d kept my mouth shut and just let them roister their way through the Exchange that night, none of the rest of it would have happened. The murdered man’s family wouldn’t be mourning his loss. That idiot, Pantaleon, wouldn’t be awaiting execution. Cromwell would be getting his treaty. And I’d have been spared both a painful wound and several uncomfortable hours in the Secretary of State’s office, answering questions and making a formal deposition.’ He looked up, his eyes locking with those of Sir Ellis Brandon. ‘Whichever way you look at it, the ramifications are both numerous and undesirable.’