Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  Chapter Fifteen

  William Chiffinch met me at the outer door leading to Charles’s private apartments. As Page of His Majesty’s Bedchamber and Keeper of the King’s Private Closet, it was Chiffinch’s job to procure women, collect bribes, and act as a spy when necessary. Chiffinch, who had inherited his job from his father, reveled in his role as royal whoremonger and managed the king’s personal affairs with efficiency and aplomb.

  He kissed my cheeks and frankly appraised me. “Lovely,” he said. “His Majesty is waiting for you.” He accompanied me to the entrance of the king’s bedchamber and stepped aside so I could enter first.

  The quarters were magnificent, full of imposing furniture chosen with a careful eye to please the king. Finely woven tapestries depicted angelic scenes, and gilded sconces held dozens of glowing candles. Charles indulged his love of clocks by displaying several, and their collective ticking and chiming produced a distracting yet somehow charming cacophony.

  The centerpiece of the room was a huge bed adorned in crimson damask. It was installed in a railed-off alcove and flanked by two heavy draperies held open by a pair of golden flying boys, while gilded eagles flew over the bed itself.

  Charles sat near the massive stone fireplace wearing a red silk dressing gown and green velvet slippers. One of his beloved spaniels perched on his lap and two more lay at his feet; all three barked greetings when they saw me. The king stood, displacing the pup, and walked toward me.

  “Hello, my dear,” he said, arms open to embrace me.

  The first time I laid eyes on Charles Stuart, I was fourteen years old. He’d been restored to the throne the year before, after spending eleven years in exile following his father’s execution. My family was not of noble blood, but after my father died, my then sixteen-year-old brother Adam used our small inheritance to bring Lucian and me to London. Determined we would not starve, he became apprentice to Sir Richard Winser, a goldsmith commissioned to craft several of the new regalia for Charles’s upcoming coronation at Westminster Abbey. Sir Richard entrusted Adam with the task of helping to deliver the jewels to Whitehall. Eager to catch a glimpse of our new king, I begged Adam to let me accompany him. He agreed so long as I kept my mouth shut and did not cause trouble.

  I confess to some disenchantment upon first seeing Charles. Accustomed to the fair Kentish lads of my childhood, his darkness was unappealing. But this did not cut both ways and Charles examined me with the same attention to detail he gave to his new regalia. When he dared to brush one of the auburn-colored tendrils from my face with a familiarity that made me blush, his boldness prompted a tart remark but I held my tongue.

  “What’s your name, my dear?” he said.

  I curtsied, nearly toppling over in the process. “Isabel Barber, your Highness.”

  “Well, Miss Barber, someday you shall bewitch every man who lays eyes upon you.” He gave me the seductive smile I would come to know well, and as simply as that I was smitten.

  To my disappointment, the king seemed oblivious to my devotion to him. He was kind on the few occasions we met but regarded me as one would an adorable child. It wasn’t until I turned sixteen that I received my first royal summons, and I realized that Charles had not been oblivious—he’d only been biding his time.

  Adam was distraught and begged me not to go. It mattered not that this was a request from the king himself—he believed the Barber name would be forever stained if I gave myself to any man outside of marriage. He promised to turn me out of the house, but I knew it was an idle threat. It didn’t matter anyway. Charles Stuart was my destiny, the man I would love forever. Of course I went.

  My first intimate encounter with him was tender and sweet and satisfying, just as I had dreamed it would be. It also yielded the hefty payment of fifty pounds and thus, the nature of our relationship was made clear. Was I the king’s whore? Perhaps I had been, for a time. But as a benefactor he’d proven to be wholly unreliable, and after so many years we generally regarded each other as comfortable companions and occasional adversaries. I had been a royal mistress for nearly half my life, and no illusions remained about my association with Charles—nor, it seemed, could I give him up.

  Now, the king gazed down at me and smiled broadly. Curiously, his expression put me in the mind of Captain Bedloe. I realized they shared a sort of world-weary quality. Both seemed slightly bored with their surroundings, and were, perhaps, a little ruthless—the sort of men who tempted ladies to dispense with their virtue against their good judgment.

  “Will you be needing anything else, Your Majesty?” Chiffinch said.

  “Are you hungry, my dear?” Charles asked. “Shall I have something brought in?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  He dismissed Chiffinch and as soon as we were alone, he kissed me with a fervor that thrilled me. “It’s kind of you to come, my dear.” He took my hands in his and raised them to his lips.

  I curtsied deeply. “You know I cannot refuse an invitation from Your Majesty—at least not for very long.”

  “But would you, if you could?” he said with a teasing glimmer in his eye.

  When I did not reply immediately, he chuckled. “Ah. Perhaps a question better left unanswered.”

  He gestured for me to sit on the couch and poured two cups of claret from a flagon. He gave me one before sitting down beside me. “I was happy to see you at the theatre today,” he said. “You were so beautiful, I confess I couldn’t keep my mind on the performance.”

  “I shall not tell my brother your attention was otherwise occupied while you watched his play.”

  “Lucian doesn’t give a fig what I think. He only seeks my endorsement, which I have gladly given.”

  “At any rate, I’m surprised to hear your other companions did not offer sufficient amusement to keep your mind off me,” I said. There was an edge to my voice, for seeing him with the tiresome Duchess of Portsmouth today still rankled.

  Charles laughed and took my hand. “Come now, Isabel, don’t tell me you’re still angry with me?”

  “Your Majesty’s amusements are none of my concern.” I said.

  “Indeed, they are not.” I frowned and he took up my hand again. “Surely you didn’t come here ready to argue?”

  I gave him a little smile. “No, of course not.”

  He got up and stood behind me, massaging my shoulders with his large hands. I leaned into his touch and he kissed the back of my neck and then whispered into my ear. “Tell me, have you missed me, darling, even a little?”

  I told the truth. “I’ve missed you.”

  He came from around the back of the couch and removed the cup from my hand, setting it on the table. I stood up and kissed him, tenderly at first, and then with increasing fierceness. He returned my kisses with equal force and pushed my gown off my shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. He reached behind me and untied my stays. I stepped out of both garments and he carried me to the bed. His robe slipped open to reveal his nakedness and I pulled off my shift as I lay back against the pillows.

  Charles was in his late forties and the years since his restoration to the throne had each been etched into his face in the form of deep lines around his eyes and mouth. Age had made him somewhat jowly, and he had lost much of his hair, which he cut close to the scalp. Despite all of this, he remained tall and well-formed and sure of himself, and he still aroused passion in me.

  After we thoroughly enjoyed our reunion, we lay talking, the bed covers twisted around our bodies.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” I said, plucking idly at the hairs on his chest.

  Charles’s eyes were half closed. “And why is that?”

  “I heard about the Catholic plot to assassinate you.”

  He glanced at me sideways. “You know about that?”

  “With Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death, I expect all of London knows by now. Are you not afraid of being murdered too?”

  He smiled. “If you were so worried about my welfare, why didn’t you
come here sooner and see me for yourself?”

  “I did. I spoke to Danby about it and he told me it was fiction. Was he telling the truth?”

  “You little minx!” Charles said. “Is that why I saw you with him last week?”

  I chuckled. “You didn’t think it was an assignation, did you?”

  “I didn’t know what to think. The two of you were such good friends, once upon a time. I confess, I used to be jealous of him.”

  My thoughts flitted again to the Captain Bedloe. “If I was going to have a tryst, it would be with someone far more enticing than Danby, believe me. At any rate, our friendship is over, I think.” I bit my lip. “He didn’t take kindly to my asking questions.”

  “Don’t let it trouble you, Isabel. He’s just doing his duty.” Charles leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “I thank you for your concern all the same.”

  “You’re certain you’re in no danger?”

  “Danby has thoroughly investigated the plot and found no evidence it exists.”

  “If that’s true, why have you invited Titus Oates to live at the palace? I hear he’s occupying the finest rooms in Whitehall.”

  “Did Lucian tell you that?” He was growing wary, despite his mild tone. “Oates’s residence here is none of my doing. Danby suggested it and I’ve allowed him to do as he wishes. Oates’s been put in Sir Robert Moray’s old rooms, hardly the best in the palace.”

  I made a point to remember this.

  “People are saying the papists are responsible for Sir Edmund’s murder,” I said.

  “If indeed it was a murder.” He moved away from me and turned onto his back.

  I rolled to my side, elbow crooked, with my head resting on my hand. “What else could it be?”

  “It’s no secret the poor man suffered terribly from melancholia. I’m of the opinion he died by his own hand.”

  “You think Sir Edmund killed himself?” This took me aback. Sir Edmund had certainly been distressed during our meeting, but it was justified, given his dilemma. “I wasn’t aware you even knew him.”

  “I’ve had some dealings with him over the years,” Charles said. “Enough to see he was a troubled man. I once had him detained because he tried to have my physician arrested for a debt. Sir Edmund went on a hunger strike, claiming a judge had ruled in his favor and I overruled it.”

  “Did you?”

  He smiled mischievously. “My dear, I’m the king. Surely there are some small liberties I can take now and then.” As though to illustrate his point, he extended one arm and fondled my breast.

  Though it seemed Sir Edmund had had his share of troubles, I didn’t consider the king’s story sufficient evidence that Sir Edmund had killed himself. I’d learn more at tomorrow’s inquest. I thought it prudent not to say so, however. Instead I rolled toward him and rested my head on his shoulder. “I’m at least glad to know you’re safe.”

  “Oh, how I’ve missed you,” he said, holding me tightly. During these, our most intimate moments, when he ceased to be the king and was simply a man, I almost believed he loved me.

  * * *

  Chiffinch escorted me out of the palace, but instead of using the back stairs, we walked arm in arm through the Stone Gallery, Whitehall’s central corridor.

  “I’m unaccustomed to being paraded through the palace like this,” I said. “Be careful or you’ll have me feeling like a proper lady.”

  “You’re too modest, my dear,” Chiffinch said. “You’re one hundred times the lady these sluts are.” As he said the words, we passed Lady Shrewsbury and he acknowledged her with a polite nod and a smile.

  I laughed. “You’re wicked.”

  Further down the hall I glimpsed Lord Danby in conversation with an odd-looking man. He was short and rather fat and wore a chaplain’s ensemble, complete with a tall black parson’s hat. I knew in an instant it was Titus Oates.

  “Who’s Lord Danby talking to, William?” I asked to make certain.

  Chiffinch’s expression turned sour. “It’s Titus Oates. He’s recently arrived from France, though he’s English of course.”

  “Ah, yes. Lucian mentioned he lived here now. He must have important friends if he’s residing at Whitehall.”

  “It’s just a temporary visit, I assure you.” Chiffinch’s occupational success was built upon his talent for gathering intelligence and his subsequent devotion to keeping it secret, especially where it concerned the king. Despite our camaraderie, I knew he wouldn’t divulge any substantial information to me no matter how much I wheedled.

  “Introduce me?” I asked.

  He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “If you insist. But I must warn you, he’s a most disagreeable fellow.”

  When Danby and Oates noticed our approach, they halted their conversation. Chiffinch bowed halfheartedly to each of them. “Mr. Oates, may I present Lady Wilde?”

  I curtsied. “A pleasure, Mr. Oates. Your reputation precedes you. My brother Lucian speaks very highly of you.”

  Oates’s face lit up. “Lucian Barber is your brother? He’s indeed a charming fellow. I’m quite fond of him.” His voice, high-pitched as a woman’s, carried an unpleasant nasal sound.

  “I trust your stay in England has been enjoyable, sir?”

  “Unfortunately, the opposite is the case. The papists have started trouble in England, and I’ve been called upon to lead the charge against them.”

  At this grand declaration, Danby coughed delicately. “Might I have a word with you, Lady Wilde?”

  His tone was friendly enough but after our disastrous last meeting I was cautious. “Certainly, my lord.”

  “Will you gentlemen pardon us?” Danby led me to a nearby corner where his voice wouldn’t carry. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology for my inexcusable behavior the other day.”

  I regarded him with skepticism. “I don’t understand why you suddenly feel the need to make amends.”

  “I know you were only trying to help the king, but matters pertaining to his security must remain confidential. You took me by surprise when you mentioned the plot, and I treated you abysmally. As you can see, circumstances have changed.”

  “So it’s true? The papists have devised a plot against the king?”

  Danby hesitated. “The true nature of the conspiracy is not yet clear,” he said. “With Mr. Oates’s help, we’re trying to ascertain the extent of it.”

  I searched his face. “Lord Danby, did the Catholics kill Sir Edmund Godfrey?”

  “An investigation is already underway.”

  “If you’re investigating, that means—”

  “Isabel, I assure you the king is safe. Promise me you’ll not trouble yourself with this matter further.”

  I heard no threat in Danby’s tone, but I didn’t fully trust him. Still, there seemed no harm in letting him think that I’d forgiven him, so I curtsied and smiled. “Thank you, my lord. I accept your apology.” I moved to rejoin Chiffinch and Oates, but Danby stopped me.

  “Promise me, Isabel.”

  What else could I do but give him my word? “I promise.”

  We returned to our places beside Chiffinch and Oates, Chiffinch looked almost comically relieved.

  “The hour is late and I must get home,” I said. “If you gentlemen will pardon me.”

  Chiffinch resumed his escort and I linked my arm through his. “Oates isn’t that bad,” I said when we were a sufficient distance from Oates and Danby.

  “He’s naught but an ill-mannered toad,” Chiffinch said. “You haven’t heard him when he gets to ranting about the papists. He’s absolutely insufferable.”

  Perhaps Chiffinch was right. At the very least Oates had proved himself to be tenacious, since it now appeared he had the ears of the men at the highest levels of court. But there was something else on my mind as I left the palace that night. I couldn’t help but wonder if, in spite of his apology, Lord Danby was still lying to me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday, 18 October 1678


  I awoke the next morning feeling more optimistic than I had the night before. Not only had I finally met Titus Oates, but I’d succeeded in learning where he resided in the palace. If some part of my contentment was also due to my reunion with the king, so be it. I put those musings aside and concentrated on the matter at hand, today’s inquest into Sir Edmund Godfrey’s death.

  I thought briefly about my promise to Lord Danby but quickly put it out of my mind. If I attended today’s inquest into Sir Edmund’s death, what of it? On the face of it, I was just another curious Londoner looking for an afternoon’s diversion.

  We set off for St. John’s Wood just after breakfast. Sam hopped into the carriage as soon as we left the busy London streets, and the route became rough after we turned on the road to Hampstead. Grassy fields dotted with grazing livestock enveloped us on each side, and a determined wind whistled through the cracks around the door and windows. My stomach gurgled angrily as we rocked to and fro and I regretted the large portion of oysters I’d eaten that morning. I wrapped the fur blanket tighter around me, praying the journey would soon be over.

  My mood improved when at last Elijah stopped the carriage, but a peek out the window showed a long line of carriages in front of us. As we took our place in the queue, I moaned.

  “God’s nails, has the whole of London come to view Sir Edmund’s corpse?”

  After a lengthy wait, Elijah parked the carriage and we edged our way toward the entrance of the White House Inn. A group had congregated at the front door and Sam used his body to open a pathway for us. More than one bystander muttered an angry curse as we pushed through, but Sam pressed forward, leading me into the tavern by the hand. The warmth of the fire was a relief, but the horde of customers caused a steamy, unpleasant closeness, filling the room with the stink of damp wool and unwashed bodies.

  Spacious as the tavern was, today it was packed to the rafters. A single barmaid hurried from table to table, trying to serve patrons as quickly as she could. It was an impossible task and she worked amid the angry complaints of impatient customers.