Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  “I’ve heard talk of a Catholic conspiracy to murder the king. I know none of the details, but—”

  His smile wavered and his grip on my hands tightened. I expected his next words would be of horrified astonishment, but instead he said, “Surely you’re not one to listen to idle gossip?”

  I frowned. “So it’s just that? Mere gossip?”

  “Ridiculous gossip at that.” He gave a hollow laugh. “What reason would the Catholics have for killing the king?”

  For this, I had no answer. Charles was a declared Protestant, but his inner circle teemed with Catholics, including his wife, Catherine, and his brother, the Duke of York. Since Charles had no legitimate heirs, York would inherit the throne. Though parliament’s opposition to York’s succession increased by the day, Charles insisted that, Catholic or not, his brother would be the next king. It simply did not make sense that the Jesuits would murder a monarch whose agenda was so in keeping with their own.

  Of course, the sooner Charles was dead, the sooner York would be king. Would they dare kill him in order to hurry the process along? I couldn’t believe York would orchestrate his own brother’s murder, but that didn’t mean other high-ranking Catholics wouldn’t attempt it. My mind leaped to Edward Coleman and his recent imprisonment.

  “But my lord, how can you be certain?” I asked, searching Danby’s face. “Have you already investigated?”

  “I can’t discuss details of the king’s security. But I assure you, no such plot exists.”

  “Thank you, Lord Danby. I’m relieved.”

  “I’m glad to set your mind at ease. I’m only sorry you were troubled to begin with.” He paused and leaned a little closer to me, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me, who is the scoundrel that filled your head with this nonsense?”

  He was clearly agitated and his grasp grew even tighter. A hint of alarm passed through me—if indeed there was no plot, why would he react so strongly to a bit of apparently harmless gossip?

  I smiled gaily, gently pulling my hands away from him. “Truly, my lord, I can’t recall. I suppose I heard it at the ’Change or in the theatre. You know how chatter flies about London.”

  “Don’t simper at me like a foolish woman. I know you to be far cleverer than that. Where did you get the information?” His manner was now distinctly menacing, and it both confused and angered me.

  “I learned the hard way that cleverness doesn’t become a woman, my lord. I’ve long since retired my intellect.”

  “I’m sorry if I sound harsh,” Danby said, retreating. “But the king’s safety is my greatest concern, and it’s your duty as an English subject to report everything you know. I must insist, from whom did you learn about this plot?” His tone had steadied but his voice was edged in steel.

  “I told you I couldn’t recall. Do you doubt my word, my lord?” My tone was equally firm, but my confidence wavered.

  “Have you told anyone else?”

  “No. How now, what’s this?” I said. “I come here thinking of nothing but the king’s welfare, and you treat me as though I’ve planned a conspiracy myself!”

  We sat there, gazes locked. I’d erred terribly in coming to Danby and I wanted nothing so much as to throw him out on his arse, if only to quash the apprehension his response had raised in me. I took a breath to calm myself and glanced out the window. The king had separated himself from the group and was now walking toward my carriage.

  Danby also noticed the king’s approach. “We shall leave this for now,” he said. “But I advise you to forget anything you’ve heard about a plot and speak of it to no one. I don’t wish to arrest you, Isabel, but make no mistake, I will not hesitate to do what’s necessary to protect the king.”

  The words stung as though he’d struck me. The implication I could be a threat against His Majesty was outrageous and yet he was clearly serious. Not only had I lost my only remaining friend at Whitehall, I had unwittingly made myself a target of his suspicion.

  Danby stepped down from the carriage, removed his hat, and bowed to me. “Your servant, madam,” he said.

  The king stopped short when he saw Danby. Close enough now to see my face, Charles looked at me for a long moment before turning around and walking in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Four

  My encounter with Lord Danby put both Sam and me in a foul mood. In the hackney on the way to Coal Yard Alley that night, he brought it up again. “Do you think it likely Danby will arrest you?”

  “I think if that were the case he would’ve done it today,” I said. “But I’ll tread carefully near him in the future.”

  He forced his breath out through pursed lips. “At any rate, you’ve done your duty and reported the plot. Let’s hope that’s the end of it.”

  Was it the end? I retained the uneasy suspicion that it wasn’t.

  We arrived at Coal Yard Alley, and I’d no sooner removed my diary from its desk drawer when someone knocked on the door. Sam, who’d been busy lighting the fire, gave me a wary glance and strode over to it. He lifted the peephole cover and peered out.

  “It’s a woman,” he said. “It appears that she’s alone.”

  “See what she wants.” I laid the diary on my desk and moved to my other chair.

  Sam opened the door slightly. “Yes?” He listened for a moment and then opened the door wider.

  A petite woman concealed in a black hooded cloak and a black eye mask entered. “I waited hours for you to come,” she said, breathless. “I’m desperate for your help, Mistress Ruby.”

  “Please,” I said, extending my arm toward the bench. “Take a seat. What’s your name?”

  She surveyed the room nervously, resting her eyes on my desk where I’d left my diary lying open. From that angle I knew she couldn’t read anything but still I wished I’d thought to close it.

  “Your name, please?” I repeated.

  She returned her attention to me and said, “My name is Jenny.”

  “Who sent you, Jenny?”

  “Everyone knows about you, Mistress Ruby,” she said. “I’ve been saving for six months to pay your fee.”

  Most of my patrons were rich and could pay my price without a second thought. That Jenny had struggled to afford my services bothered me somewhat. My conscience gave me no trouble for taking money from my rich clients to hear their usually petty requests, but I had no wish to exploit those of lesser means. “Tell me your problem,” I said.

  She gave Sam a sideways glance. “It’s all right,” I told him. “You can go.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “You may speak freely now.”

  “I’ve been married for two years,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But still there’s been no child.”

  I sighed to myself. It was a common problem that women came to Mistress Ruby with. In truth there was little I could do, but they were a stock of my trade. I would offer her solace and a little hope, but beyond that only God could say.

  “What remedies have you attempted thus far?” I asked.

  “I take doses of powdered ginger, I sit over baths of boiled yarn mixed with ashes— Oh, there are too many things to list. I do everything and yet nothing works.”

  “Is there a reason to believe something might be wrong with you? An accident, perhaps, or an illness?”

  “No, I’m of good health.” She paused. “You see, I had a baby before—I wasn’t yet married. My husband doesn’t know. He thinks I can’t bear a child. He accuses me of being as barren as the queen. But I can’t tell him the truth, it’s too shameful.”

  My heart swelled for her. It didn’t matter if the fault for her childless state lay with her husband, the blame would fall on her if she didn’t produce one. As women, it was our lot to bear not only the pain of having children but the responsibility when none came at all. I reached for her hands, but she pulled back.

  “It’s all right,” I said, learning forward. This time she relented and placed her hands in mine. I closed my eyes and began a slow chant. �
��Child of earth, child of wind, child of fire, child of sea, I call thy soul to welcome thee.”

  I retrieved a pouch of powdered ginseng from my cabinet and handed her the bag. “Mix this into your husband’s morning draught. I suggest preparing a warm, spiced ale with sugar, for he’ll be less likely to detect the flavor.”

  “It won’t harm him?”

  “No. Listen carefully, for the second step is the most important. The next time you bleed, wait ten days and then lay with your husband every day for the next eight. Do this every month for the next three. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “You must also make sure he eats beef liver at least three times a week. If there are no signs of a child in three months, return to me and I’ll advise you further.”

  She clasped the pouch in her hand and brought it to her chest. “Oh, thank you, Mistress Ruby. I know that a child will come now. How much should I pay?”

  I asked for enough to pay only for the herbs I’d given her. She handed over the coins, thanked me again, and left. I hoped for her sake I wouldn’t see her again.

  I returned to my desk to record the visit in my diary, but after a moment I sat back in my chair and rested my hand on the curve of my belly. I felt nothing but my stays, but there was a time when I’d felt the gentle movements of the king’s baby. After my release from Marshalsea Prison in 1667, I’d reunited with Charles and later found myself with child. I had no love for Sir Ian Wilde but I married him at Charles’s insistence to give his child a name—I would’ve sacrificed anything for her welfare. But it was all for naught. She died shortly after birth. Even after so many years, the memory of my daughter caused my throat to tighten and my eyes to brim with tears.

  Sam’s abrupt entrance interrupted my thoughts. I wiped a tear from my cheek, but not before he noticed it.

  “Is something amiss?” he said.

  Sam had helped me through the worst of my marriage and knew about my lost child, but I hesitated to mention the reason for my weeping. He’d never been married, never had children—how could he possibly understand the pain that overwhelmed me still? Loyal as he was, Sam tended toward reclusiveness and preferred the company of men when his carnal needs overcame him. He was a man of action, not of emotion, and I did not often look to him for sympathy in matters such as this.

  “I’m just tired.” I returned the diary to its place in my desk. “Let’s go home.”

  * * *

  It was past midnight and I’d just drifted off to sleep in my warm bed when a soft knock on my bedroom door woke me.

  Alice tiptoed into the room holding a candle. “I’m sorry to disturb you, m’lady, but you’ve a visitor waiting downstairs.”

  I sighed and slipped deeper under the cover. “Whoever it is, tell him to return at a respectable hour.”

  “He’s from the palace.”

  I let the words sink in. It had been many months since I’d received a summons from Whitehall. Considering the hour, Charles must’ve attended a late supper or a party and found himself alone in his rooms afterward, in want of company. I got up and grabbed my dressing gown, pulling it on as I headed downstairs. A handsome young man dressed in His Majesty’s livery stood at the door and identified himself as one of the king’s messengers.

  “Yes?” I asked, though I already knew the reason for his visit.

  “The king has requested your presence in his chambers tonight, Lady Wilde,” he said. “I’m here to transport you.”

  I missed Charles, and seeing him today reminded me how much I longed to feel his arms around me. If Jenny’s visit had not prompted the memory of my dead child, I might’ve acquiesced, but as it was I quashed the impulse to see him before it could take hold. Charles wasn’t the sort of man to force a woman to see him against her will, and my concern for his safety didn’t mean I had to take up with him again. I’d ended my affair with him once and for all and I intended to keep it that way.

  I raised my hand to my lips and gave a delicate cough. “I’m afraid I’m suffering from a touch of the ague,” I said. “Please send His Majesty my regrets.”

  Chapter Five

  Friday, 11 October 1678

  After a late breakfast the next morning, I set off to see my younger brother, Lucian. He’d left a note with Alice the night before, saying he was desperate to see me. Knowing him, that more than likely meant that he needed money. Fortunately, my success as a fortuneteller allowed me to assist him on occasion. He didn’t know of Mistress Ruby’s existence—not because he was untrustworthy but because his propensity for drunkenness made confiding in him unwise, and like most people, he assumed I lived off a nonexistent inheritance left me by Sir Ian.

  Lucian rented a room in a ramshackle house on Watter Street near the Dorset Garden Theatre where his plays were often produced. Despite his success as a playwright, he hadn’t managed to obtain better accommodations for himself. I walked up to the house, sidestepping a beggar who lay on the street, and knocked on the door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grayson,” I said when his landlady opened it. She was a fat, homely woman, with doughy pink skin and thinning white hair. Like all landladies in London, she disapproved of everything, though she was unusually tolerant of my devil-may-care brother. “Will you please fetch Lucian for me?”

  She peered at me over her spectacles. “Fetch ’im yourself. I’ve got work to do.” She turned and clomped toward the kitchen.

  I went upstairs and walked down the hall toward Lucian’s room. The carpet was worn nearly bare, and the dingy wallpaper had peeled off the walls in places. I knocked on his door and received no answer, so I opened it. The stench of stale beer, sweat, and the contents of his chamber pot issued a rude greeting. Lucian’s form was sprawled across the bed like a corpse. I strode to the window and opened the tightly drawn curtains, then lifted the sash to let in some fresh air. He moaned.

  “You’re in a fine state,” I said. “I do hope the evening’s festivities were worth it.”

  He hoisted himself up and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t quite recall,” he said, throwing off his cover. “But if they weren’t, rest assured I shall try my luck again tonight.” He wore only stockings and a wine-soiled shirt; his trousers and jacket lay in a pile on the floor. He made a show of looking around the room, under the cover and beneath the bed. “I could’ve sworn there was a wench with me when I went to sleep last night. I wonder where she’s run off to?”

  Without replying, I went to the wardrobe to find him a clean shirt. Except for a pair of trousers, it stood empty. “Where are the rest of your clothes?”

  He shrugged. “I expect Mrs. Grayson took them.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t wish to know by what means he’d enticed her to do his laundry. “Get dressed,” I said, pointing to the garments next to the bed. “I’ll buy your morning draught.”

  We decided on the Black Horse Tavern, Lucian’s regular haunt. He trudged along in silence, his hat brim pulled down and his coat clenched tight around him. Without warning, he ducked into an alley and retched. He stayed there bent over for a moment then straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Aye, that’s better,” he said. I grimaced.

  We continued up Watter Street until we came to the Black Horse. The small tavern was crowded with patrons taking their midday meals, and the air was fragrant with stewed meat, roasted potatoes, and ale. We spotted a table in a back corner and soon after we sat, a buxom barmaid sidled up to us.

  “Didn’t expect to see you today, Mr. Barber,” she said. “You were in a mighty bad way last night.”

  “And when has that ever stopped me, Sarah?” Lucian said with a smile and a wink. “Bring us two hot spiced ales and be quick about it.” She giggled and left to fetch the drinks. Lucian watched her backside approvingly and then turned his attention to me. “It’s a pleasure to see you this morning, dear sister, but pray, what brings you out so early?”

  I didn’t point out that it was already dinnertime. �
�Alice gave me your note,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Ah yes. Thank you ever so much for obliging me.”

  “How are you?”

  “The usual drinking, whoring, and gambling,” he said. “Speaking of which, I was at Whitehall last night. The king inquired about you.”

  “Did he?” My cheeks warmed with the recollection of the previous night’s summons.

  “Indeed he did. Buckingham hosted a small supper party and the king attended.”

  Ordinarily, the mention of Buckingham’s name would’ve annoyed me, but I was momentarily distracted when a tall man entered the tavern. He removed his hat to reveal a square and handsome face. He wore a dark wig with tight ringlets falling well below his shoulders and his clothes were in the latest French style, of obvious quality. They fit him well, accentuating his form. This was no beribboned fop—his presence was so commanding I had difficulty tearing my eyes away. Lucian looked over his shoulder to see what had taken my notice.

  The man took a seat near the window and rested his eyes on me. A sly smile crossed his face and I glanced away, embarrassed.

  “I’ll not deny the fellow’s handsome,” Lucian said, “but he’s no match for His Majesty.”

  I flushed again and forced my attention back to Lucian. “Hush,” I said. “The king needs no advocating from the likes of you. Now, you were saying—Buckingham was released?” Last I knew the Duke of Buckingham had been incarcerated in the Tower for daring to publicly question the king’s postponement of a parliamentary session.

  “Have you been away from court that long? Buckingham was released weeks ago.”

  I frowned. “He’s back in the king’s good graces then?”

  I disliked the Duke of Buckingham, but not without good cause. When I was seventeen, Charles asked me to go to Amsterdam, entrusting me with the task of befriending a high-ranking officer in the Royal Dutch Navy named Jacobus Prak. It was two years into our affair and I was deeply in love with the king, so I went without complaint. I gained Prak’s trust and eventually learned the planned movements of the Dutch fleet and its readiness for attack, as well as who the Dutch agents were in England and where they were. I dutifully reported all of this back to Whitehall.