Lords of Misrule (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 4)

by Stella Riley

  Gilbert Wakefield called one afternoon armed with a bunch of Michaelmas daisies, a slim volume of poetry he thought Lydia might like and, for the first time, a quantity of flirtatious banter. On some superficial level, she enjoyed all three. So when Aubrey arrived home early just as Gilbert was leaving, she invited him to stay for supper … and watched the two men striking up an immediate friendship.

  At the lorinery, Nicholas collected the damaged merchandise and supplied replacements which he insisted on unloading himself in the presence of Hal Belcher. This, he informed Mr Potter, was to be their new system. To remove any possibility of tampering, they would make all deliveries in their own carts and insist that goods were checked on arrival in their presence.

  Colonel Maxwell sat down to study what he swiftly recognised were three entirely different codes. On first glance, one of them looked so straightforward that he expected to unlock it in a matter of minutes. An hour later he realised he had made completely the wrong assumption and had, in fact, fallen into a neatly laid trap. Eden sat back, smiling.

  Very clever, Mr Neville. I’m going to enjoy doing battle with you.

  * * *

  On the following day, having received word from Lydia that she’d heard nothing from the lawyer, Colonel Maxwell put on his uniform and paid Mr Hetherington a visit.

  Forced to admit that he hadn’t exactly taken his office apart in a search for the missing documents the gentleman found himself subjected to the Colonel’s most forbidding stare and said defensively, ‘I was sure Mistress Neville would discover the deeds in her own possession.’

  ‘She didn’t. Furthermore, she told you at the outset that she wouldn’t,’ snapped Eden. Then, ‘Can it have escaped your attention that this is a very serious matter? Or that your professional reputation will scarcely be enhanced by a charge of negligence?’

  Mr Hetherington blanched.

  ‘I’ll set both my clerks on to it immediately, sir,’ he promised. ‘If the deeds are here, I can assure you that we will find them.’

  ‘See that you do. And keep Mistress Neville informed – or I’ll be paying you another visit.’

  Mr Hetherington shuddered at the thought.

  Eden left the office hiding a grim smile.

  * * *

  On September 28th, a cavalcade of two coaches accompanied by a groom and two outriders pulled up in the Tiltyard. Venetia had arrived … along with her younger sister, her maid, all three children, their nursemaid and a mountain of luggage. Regardless of the chaos and grinning stares around them, Gabriel swept his wife off her feet and kissed her until she was dizzy. Then, aware that three pairs of small arms were clutching what bits of him they could reach, he knelt down to hug his children, directed a lazy grin over their heads at his sister-in-law and said, ‘Hello, Phoebe.’

  While this was going on, a complete stranger sought Nicholas out at the lorinery and handed him a sealed missive addressed to Colonel Maxwell. Since he’d been expecting something of the sort for a while now, Nicholas wasted no time in passing it on to Eden.

  ‘Villiers?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Finally.’ Eden looked up. ‘Don’t delay supper on my account. I may be late.’

  The note directed him to a tavern in Doctors Commons. Eden arrived there early but found Colonel Villiers already ensconced in a corner, partially hidden from the main room by a pair of stout beams. Moreover, he had two companions with him – one of whom Eden instantly recognised.

  Eden removed his hat and made all three a courteous bow of acknowledgement.

  ‘Colonel Villiers … and Sir William.’

  Edward Villiers rose and offered his hand, swiftly followed by Sir William Compton who smiled faintly and said, ‘I remember you, Colonel.’

  ‘Yes. I imagine one tends to remember one’s gaolers.’

  ‘What I primarily recall is being treated with a good deal of civility while you were in command of the Tower – and much less after you were posted elsewhere.’

  ‘Mother always insisted that good manners cost nothing.’ Eden sat down and glanced enquiringly at the third man, ‘Perhaps someone could introduce me?’

  ‘Henry Wilmot, Earl of Rochester,’ murmured Villiers.

  Eden narrowly avoided revealing his shock.

  Hell, he thought. Rochester? In England? Why? I hope nobody’s going to pretend he’s here just to meet me.

  But he bowed to the man who’d got Charles Stuart away after Worcester, shared his subsequent wanderings and worked tirelessly for him ever since as envoy to all the courts in Europe, and said, ‘A pleasure, my lord.’

  Rochester inclined his head. ‘I hope so. Ned, William … would you allow the Colonel and myself a moment’s privacy?’

  Surprise registered on both their faces but they immediately rose and moved away.

  The Earl said, ‘I am placing a great deal of faith in your discretion. You will realise, I am sure, that if my presence in England comes to the attention of either the Secretary of State or any of the Army leaders, I face immediate arrest.’

  ‘Yes.’ Eden had realised that quickly enough, aware that it made his own position decidedly tricky.

  It was about to get trickier still.

  ‘Your name,’ remarked Rochester calmly, ‘has come up in Paris.’

  Although he hadn’t previously thought about it, Eden realised that his approach to Villiers had made this almost inevitable. Deliberately flippant, he said, ‘Nothing bad, I hope?’

  ‘No.’ There was a long, meditative silence. ‘I discovered that you and I have a mutual acquaintance. The gentleman in question doesn’t share information lightly – or, indeed, at all if he can help it. But in order to convince me that I might trust you … and without supplying any details whatsoever, he managed to convey the impression that you once performed some far-from-insignificant service for the King.’

  The air froze in Eden’s lungs.

  Had Ashley sodding Peverell lost his mind?

  Since there was nothing he could usefully say, he said nothing at all.

  ‘I only mention this, Colonel, so that you will see the possible ramifications.’

  Oh I see them well enough.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ asked Eden softly. ‘If so, allow me to inform you that it is neither wise nor necessary.’

  The older man smiled and shook his head.

  ‘If I’d wanted to threaten you, I wouldn’t be keeping what I know from Ned and Will. I merely dislike playing without holding at least one good card.’

  ‘And letting your opponent see it?’

  ‘In certain instances. There is no point to it otherwise.’ Rochester leaned back in his chair and toyed idly with his tankard of ale. ‘What are you doing here, Colonel? What do you hope these talks may achieve?’

  ‘A more reasonable attitude,’ returned Eden. ‘On both sides.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough? Without the constant threat of Royalist-led insurrection, you and your friends wouldn’t be facing arrest on a daily basis. That’s worth something, surely?’

  ‘To some of us, less than you might think. You’re asking us to give up.’

  ‘Give up what exactly?’ asked Eden impatiently. ‘Hope of seeing Charles occupy his father’s place? You can go on hoping for it. What you can’t do is continue trying to achieve it by force. The recent rising in Scotland was a waste of time, money and lives on both sides. You must know that. And you must also know that the country is sick of bloodshed and upheaval. It’s been going on for thirteen years, for God’s sake! Time to make an end.’

  Rochester sighed. ‘I can’t argue with that – much as I might like to. Unfortunately, the murder of the late King and personal loyalty to his son aren’t lightly set aside. Also, Charles is not quite twenty-five years old and can’t exist purely on hope. If there was the slightest chance of a change through negotiation, he’d take it. He is a pragmatist. He knows compromise is essential and will do it. But there is no such chance, is the
re?’

  ‘Of him regaining the throne? No. Cromwell may be unpopular but he has a firm grip on the reins. He isn’t going to relinquish it voluntarily and putting him in the ground won’t help. In fact, it’s likely to put Charles further from the throne than ever because there would finally be some chance of constitutional government.’ Eden paused and then, rising said bluntly, ‘Personally, I consider the King’s execution a lamentable and unnecessary mistake – in which I’m not alone. But it can’t be undone. And the opposite side of the coin says that any move towards restoring Charles would leave a lot of currently powerful men wondering just how far his spirit of compromise will actually stretch … and how many of them would end up entertaining the crowds at Tyburn.’

  Rochester also rose. ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Accept the hand that is being held out to you. It may not give you everything you want but it offers something. And if, my lord, you are in England to ferment yet another abortive rebellion, I’d advise you to think again.’

  * * *

  On the following day an event occurred which caused consternation in a few quarters and gales of laughter in a good many others.

  Accompanied by Secretary Thurloe, the Protector took a drive in Hyde Park to try out the team of six horses recently bestowed upon him by the Duke of Oldenburg. Part-way through the ride, Cromwell apparently took it into his head to drive the coach himself. This turned out to have been a mistake. Deciding to test the horses’ speed, he whipped them up a bit too enthusiastically – upon which the horses tried to bolt, jolting Cromwell from his seat, on to the pole and from there to the ground. Unfortunately, his foot remained entangled in the reins. Even more unfortunately, while he was being dragged along the loaded pistol in his pocket discharged itself.

  At this point, Thurloe took a wild leap from the coach, landed badly and wrenched his ankle. Cromwell, unnerved and mildly singed, managed to extricate himself and roll out of the way; and the coachman was finally able to bring the excited beasts to a standstill.

  The tale spiralled like a tornado from tavern to tavern, gathering momentum as it went. Secretary Thurloe had screamed like a girl as he flew through the air; he’d broken his ankle and the surgeon had advised amputation. Cromwell had been dragged half the length of the park and shot himself in the arse. The coachman had lost his job and was being charged with treason; so too, for having provided the horses, was the Duke of Oldenburg.

  By the time Colonel Brandon made a flying visit to Cheapside an hour or so before supper, saucy verses were already being set to music.

  Grinning at Eden, Gabriel said, ‘I always felt that loaded pistol was a mistake.’

  And Eden, who had only heard rumours, said, ‘I assume he didn’t shoot himself?’

  ‘No. But that ruins the story, doesn’t it? And people are having so much fun. I’ve just heard a fellow remark that he hoped the Protector’s next ride would be in a cart to Tyburn.’

  ‘I imagine quite a few others think the same. If you’re staying, I’ll fetch the ale.’

  ‘No. I’m going home. I only came to issue an invitation. Venetia suggested that you might like to sup with us tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gabriel, picking up his hat and turning towards the door. Then, as if it was an afterthought, ‘I’ve asked Nicholas as well, by the way. And the widow. You’ll arrange to escort her, won’t you?’

  And was gone before Eden could answer.

  * * *

  If Colonel Maxwell had doubts about the forthcoming evening, Lydia had more of them. Nicholas had somehow guessed that she liked Eden more than a little; Colonel Brandon was far from stupid; and the Colonel’s wife, as well as being beautiful, was probably also a pattern-card of manners, deportment and sartorial elegance. So the most serious question facing Lydia was what on earth she was going to wear.

  All her clothes pre-dated Stephen’s death and some, thanks to his failing health in the last few months, were even older. Telling herself that it didn’t matter and couldn’t be helped, she began pulling gowns from the clothes-press. One of them would do. One of them had to.

  By the time Nancy walked in, the bed was piled high and Lydia was no nearer making a decision. Gesturing to the mess, she said, ‘This is hopeless.’

  ‘No it’s not. Sit down and leave it to me. Where’s that dusky-pink taffeta?’ Nancy started sorting through the heap and finally found what she sought at the bottom of it. ‘Yes. This one. Now let’s get busy.’

  An hour later, Lydia stood before the mirror, twisting her hands together. She looked at the low, sweeping neckline and embroidered bodice of the rose-coloured gown. She hadn’t worn anything like this for so long she didn’t know whether to be elated or alarmed. She said, ‘I’m sure widows aren’t supposed to show quite so much flesh. I should add the lace collar.’

  ‘Over my dead body. You’re fine as you are.’

  ‘And my hair.’ Her fingers strayed to the clever tumble of curls piled high on her head. ‘It’s lovely, Nancy … but perhaps a little young for me?’

  ‘Stop this minute!’ scolded the maid. ‘You will not go out looking as if you was fifty. And there’s the doorbell. That’ll be the Colonel.’

  ‘And Sir Nicholas,’ Lydia reminded her a fraction too quickly.

  ‘I reckon.’ Nancy dropped a light cloak over her shoulders and fastened the ties. ‘Sir Nicholas is all right. More than all right, as it happens. But I know which one I’d pick, given the choice. Now – off with you.’

  Eden waited in the hall, hat in hand and impeccably neat as ever in moss green broadcloth, against which his hair glowed like dark fire.

  Lydia hesitated at the turn of the stairs and then, swallowing hard, continued her descent.

  ‘Good evening, Colonel.

  ‘Mistress Neville.’ He bowed politely. ‘I congratulate you. In my experience, ladies are rarely so punctual.’ And offering his arm, ‘Shall we go? The carriage is waiting.’

  ‘Carriage?’ It hadn’t previously occurred to Lydia to wonder how they were getting to the Tiltyard which lay on the far side of the City. Then, seeing the smart equipage at the door and feeling suddenly guilty, ‘Oh. Did you hire this because of me?’

  Eden helped her up, waited for her to settle in the seat facing Nicholas and climbed in after her. ‘Not at all. Nick and I tossed a coin to see which of us should have the pleasure of taking you up before us on horseback – but then it looked like rain and Nick was worried about his new hat.’

  Nicholas grinned and shook his head.

  ‘Ignore him, Lydia. He’s been like this ever since he heard this tale about Cromwell shooting himself in the …’ He stopped. ‘Well, shooting himself.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Did he?’

  ‘Nearly. You hadn’t heard?’

  ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘Since Nicholas has apparently turned too finicky to use the word ‘backside’, I’ll tell you,’ said Eden. And proceeded to do so.

  By the time he had finished Lydia was pink with laughter, her misgivings forgotten. Then the carriage came to a halt and her skin prickled with nerves again.

  Ten minutes later, she wondered what she’d been worrying about. Colonel Brandon welcomed them, his small daughter balanced comfortably on his hip and said, ‘Venetia will be down in a minute. The twins are creating a storm. Eden – take Mistress Neville’s cloak, will you? I seem to have my hands full.’

  And just like that, Lydia knew it was going to be all right.

  Inside the parlour, Phoebe Clifford rose to smile cheerfully at her brother-in-law’s friends.

  Then, when the introductions had been made and Gabriel had put Rosie down in order to pour wine for his guests, the child said clearly, ‘Aunt Phoebe … where is that man’s other arm?’

  Gabriel communed briefly with the ceiling; Eden turned a laugh into a cough; and Phoebe, turning scarlet, whispered, ‘Hush, darling. That isn’t a – a polite thing to say.’
>
  ‘Why?’ Rosie continued to gaze at Nicholas in apparent fascination. ‘Can I ask him?’

  ‘No!’ said Gabriel and Phoebe in unison.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, easily. And dropping on his knees beside Rosie, he said gravely, ‘I only have one arm because I lost the other one.’

  Her expression said that she didn’t find this explanation convincing.

  ‘Didn’t you look for it?’

  ‘I did. But it was quite badly hurt, you see … and it wouldn’t ever have worked again.’

  The big grey eyes grew worried. ‘Couldn’t the doctor make it better?’

  ‘No. He tried but he couldn’t so I have to manage with just the other one.’ Nicholas smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. It doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘Can … can I touch where it was?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  She nodded and stretched out her hand. Around them, everyone else in the room held their breath. Then very gently she stroked his shoulder over and over. And returned Nicholas’s smile with a beaming one of her own.

  Lydia found herself blinking back tears and saw that Eden had turned away, clearing his throat. Mistress Clifford, while biting hard on her bottom lip, was staring at Nicholas with an expression that defied interpretation.

  Then the spell was broken as the door opened and the loveliest woman Lydia had ever seen walked into the room; a vision of alabaster skin, silver-gilt hair and pansy-blue eyes.

  As though he wasn’t aware of doing it, Nicholas stood up, his jaw going slack.

  And Lydia saw Phoebe Clifford’s gaze drop to her lap, a tiny resigned smile touching her mouth.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Venetia. ‘I swear the boys deliberately turn into imps from hell every time we have company. And now the cook is telling me that supper will be served in exactly twenty minutes – whether I like it or not, apparently. Sir Nicholas, Mistress Neville … welcome to the bear-pit. But first,’ she turned to her daughter, ‘it’s past your bed time and Molly is waiting.’

  ‘Sit down, Venetia,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ll take her.’

  Nicholas felt the child slip her hand into his and give a little tug. She said, ‘I want you to come, too.’