Virtue and Vice

by Kimberly Brody

  “Stay here, Meg. I must hire a coach for our journey.”

  The maid gasped. “My lady, how will we manage on our own?”

  Izzy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I lived for a decade in exile, Meg, with very few luxuries and amenities. Surely between the two of us, we will manage just fine.”

  As long as my husband doesn’t catch us. But Izzy left that thought unsaid.

  ***

  After they’d reached Fowey, on the opposite coast from Padstow, Izzy hired a ship to take them to Portsmouth. They traveled through the night, and Izzy awoke in the morning with enough time to be topside as they pulled into Portsmouth harbor. Even so early in the morning the place bustled with activity.

  Stretching aching muscles, she yawned. Worry over Ram’s reaction coupled with her already frazzled nerves over the journey had conspired to keep her tossing and turning through the night. She looked forward to this last leg of the journey, so she might find Ram’s house and seek her bed early.

  She returned to the cabin and woke Meg. The maid helped Izzy into an older blue gown that would be more comfortable to travel in than her best gown with its very pointed bodice. The maid then plaited her hair for her. Together they wrestled the trunk from the cabin, placing it on the dock. Here there was no shortage of waiting coaches, and Izzy was able to hire one in short order to take them on the long journey into London. After the driver had loaded the trunk into the carriage, she gave him the address of Ram’s house in Bishopsgate, then settled back against the squabs for the journey.

  Izzy woke with a start, looking around at various landmarks that unmistakably proclaimed they’d reached London. She’d slept almost the entire length of the passage, and the sounds of the city must have awoken her. As the coach pulled up before an elegant townhome, Izzy’s palms began to sweat. She was about to enter unknown territory and face her husband’s household staff, but she would maintain her poise and control no matter what.

  Servants appeared from the house to help her from the coach and take her trunk. One even paid the driver the agreed upon fare for the journey. Goodness, Ram’s staff was efficient! With a mental shake of her head and her shoulders straight, she walked up the steps of the imposing whitewashed house to meet the impeccably attired butler standing inside the threshold of her temporary abode.

  If he was surprised by the unexpected arrival of a visitor, it didn’t show on his weathered face. “How do you do, Miss…?” The butler trailed off, waiting for her to identify herself. When she did, his eyes opened wide.

  “I am Isabelle, Lady Royston.”

  “My lord did tell us to prepare for his imminent marriage. Many felicitations on your nuptials, my lady. I am Dexter, and if you need anything at all, you must come to me directly.”

  “Thank you, Dexter.”

  “Will Lord Royston be joining you?”

  “Not for a few days yet. He has pressing business in Cornwall.”

  “Of course.” He motioned towards the stairs. “Let me show you to your chamber, all has been prepared in anticipation of your arrival.”

  Piqued at this proof of Ram’s absolute assurance that she’d marry him despite his charade, she also couldn’t help but be pleased he’d gone to so much trouble to delight her. Beautiful and opulent were the first words to come to mind as she took in her new bedchamber. With walls covered in striped damask of pale green and yellow, the room had a dainty, feminine feel, much different than the heavy, masculine feel of the chamber she’d shared with Ram at Chesworth. The green carpeting beneath her feet was plush and already she could imagine the way her bare toes would be buried in it in the evening. A pale yellow chaise lounge sat near the window, and a beautiful crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Braziers set along the walls cast a warm glow around the room, reflecting light in the enormous polished silver mirror that stood in the corner. On the far wall of the chamber was a large ornate bed, its slender wooden posts rising towards the ceiling with carved cherubs and nymphs adorning them. A gauzy pale green curtain draped around the bed.

  Obviously, Ram’s mother had had little or no say in the decoration of this chamber.

  If Izzy designed a chamber for herself, she couldn’t imagine one more perfect.

  “Will this satisfy you, my lady?” Dexter inquired.

  “Oh,‘Tis perfect, I love it.”

  He smiled, then pointed to a door on one side. “Your wardrobe is in there, and through that door,” he pointed to another door on the opposite side of the room, “lies Lord Royston’s chamber.”

  Some of her joy faded. When Ram caught up with her, he was going to be very angry and very close at the same time.

  “Dexter, may I have a copy of the keys for this room?”

  He gave her a peculiar look. “I’ll make certain you have them directly.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve had a long journey, my lady. Would you like dinner sent here to the room so you can relax?”

  “That would be wonderful. You are so very thoughtful. Is there a chamber you could plenish for my servant, Meg?”

  “Think no more on it, I’ll see her to a chamber in the servants’ quarters with all haste.”

  “I shall need new gowns made, and quickly. Would it be possible to have a modiste brought round tomorrow?”

  “That will be no problem at all.”

  Apparently, anything she wanted was hers for the taking.

  “Again, I am grateful to you.” She bestowed a bright smile upon him. “I believe you might be the most efficient butler I’ve ever met.”

  Her flattery brought a blush to his pale cheeks. “You are most welcome. You must not hesitate to call for me should you have need of anything at all.”

  “I will not.”

  When the butler had pulled the door shut behind him as he left, Izzy collapsed onto the bed in relief and exhaustion. She’d done it! The first part was behind her, but still the worst part —facing Ram— loomed before her. She needed to attend to her business as fast as possible.

  Tomorrow she’d see about gaining an audience with the King.

  Chapter 17

  Ram was furious.

  He’d spent a pleasant day with Izzy’s brothers, Eric and Heath. They’d gone hunting in the morning, then spent the afternoon playing cards, drinking, and conversing. The two men had regaled him with harrowing stories of the mischief his wife had wrought as a young girl, and Ram had pitied her father for having to be the one to clean up her messes.

  He should have saved the pity for himself.

  Upon arriving home he’d known right away something was wrong when Hawthorne queried whether or not Izzy would be remaining at Rendstell Manor for the night. As soon as the butler told him Izzy had taken a trunk with her, Ram knew she’d fled.

  Scarcely home for more than a few minutes, and more than a little unsteady from drink, he’d jumped on Mercury and ridden back to Rendstell, where he’d demanded to speak with Belinda.

  Izzy’s cousin had been decidedly cool to him as he questioned her about Izzy’s destination; until finally he impressed upon her the dangers Izzy could face traveling alone through the countryside. Belinda informed him Izzy had gone to her brother’s estate in Wales, which appeared likely when he questioned his very unhappy driver, who claimed he’d brought Izzy and one maid to Padstow earlier in the day.

  Ram had ridden through the night, arriving at Tyrone’s home early in the morning, only to face a blank look and questioning eyebrow when he’d demanded to see his wife.

  “I’ve not seen Izzy since I gave her away and placed her in your protection at your wedding ceremony. Have you misplaced her already?” Tyrone had drawled.

  Ram seethed, and Tyrone’s amusement didn’t help. After resting Mercury for a few hours, he’d once again jumped into the saddle, and ridden back to Chesworth House.

  Nay. If fury was what he’d felt upon discovering she’d run away, there was not a strong enough word to describe the emotions coursing through him now. Fury, mixed with a rising concern,
because his wife was missing and might be in trouble and he had no idea where to find her.

  He found himself back at Rendstell Manor the next morning, questioning each of her relatives about Izzy’s whereabouts.

  Belinda’s face paled when she learned Izzy hadn’t arrived in Wales. “Think, Belinda, ‘tis important. Is there any place else she might have gone?”

  “She told me she was going to Wales. That is all I know, my lord.”

  Izzy’s mother was near tears. “Where could she be? And why did she leave in the first place? And all alone?”

  He sighed, and met his father-in-law’s concerned eyes. “I’m afraid Izzy believes our marriage would be best served with an annulment.”

  “Why? And how? The marriage was consummated” Heath stated as if there could be no doubt. But then his glance landed on Ram and Heath narrowed his eyes. “Wasn’t it?”

  Ram flushed. “The marriage is legal in every way.”

  “London.” Izzy’s father said.

  Ram turned to him. “London?”

  “I know Izzy, and if she’s truly after an annulment, she’ll seek the King and plead her case before him. She’s probably at White Hall at this very moment. Everything else was naught but a ruse to make you think she’d gone to Wales.”

  Suddenly it all made sense, though Ram doubted it was the King alone Izzy planned to see. Ram’s father was in London. She was going to do exactly as she threatened. “Why on Earth would she believe the King of England would ever get involved in a private matter between a husband and wife?”

  Beaumont sighed, and for the barest moment a look of affection crossed his face. “The day Izzy met Charles, she climbed onto his lap, as bold as can be. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years of age. She asked him if it was true that he was the King of England. When Charles assured her he was, she blithely told him he’d better return to England then and reclaim his throne, for he’d get nowhere sitting about in France. I was appalled, but as you might imagine, Charles was quite amused. Since then our king has always been overly indulgent with Izzy, and we crossed paths often with him at Court in Saint Germain and in Holland. She probably believes that if she can convince him she’s very unhappy, he’ll step in and rescue her.”

  The thought of a young Izzy playing military advisor and dictating to the king was endearing, but the knowledge that Charles was particularly fond of Izzy left Ram cold. He too knew their monarch quite well, and while Charles may have been indulgent with her when she was a child, she was now a very beautiful woman and the King had a soft spot for exquisite females. Ram also knew Charles loved to play the part of rescuer to damsels in distress. Ram shuddered to think about what Izzy might give up in exchange for her freedom.

  “Do you know where in London she might go?”

  The Baron shook his head. “I’ve not yet had an opportunity to restaff our London house since we’ve returned, but she may have gone there. Or she might have gone directly to the source and taken rooms at White Hall, to be close to the king.”

  Ram shuddered again, though her father obviously misconstrued his concern. “Fear not, Ramsay. Izzy has been surrounded by the courtiers of Charles’ court most of her life, though we lived in exile. She has friends aplenty who will guide her.”

  It wasn’t Izzy’s navigation through the Royal Palace that concerned Ram. He doubted Beaumont had been to White Hall since he’d returned from the restoration celebrations a year past, so he most likely did not know what an utter den of iniquity the place had become. And no one contributed more to the court’s vice than the king.

  Ram was almost tempted to leave Izzy to her own devices. But concern and possessiveness got the better of him, and he readied himself for another tiring journey, even as he made a promise to himself. When he came face to face with his errant wife again, he would take great pleasure in tanning her exquisite arse.

  ***

  Izzy studied the array of fine fabrics in bright jewel tones laid out before her. It was such a joy to see them after the somber colors imposed on the people of the country by Cromwell for so long. Dexter had done a magnificent job doing her bidding, and the dressmaker had arrived early, with trunks of fashion accessories in tow.

  All Izzy had to do now was make her selection and she would have a new wardrobe in a matter of days. She chose from a bolt of sapphire blue silk, a satin in a deep indigo shade, and an emerald green damask. She intended to woo a king and gowns made from all three of these colors would look striking with her dark hair and blue eyes.

  She quickly picked the rest of the material needed for undergarments, crinolines and petticoats, and made a selection of shoes, fans, and masks. The dressmaker was enthusiastic to begin work on the gowns, and Izzy was enthusiastic to hand Ram the bill for the expensive trousseau. She offered double payment to the woman if she could produce the gowns in under a week.

  One problem arose immediately. Izzy lacked anything of sufficient quality to wear that evening if she were to journey to White Hall and seek an audience with the King. “Madame Papille, do you have any gowns with you that may be altered now so I might have something to wear tonight?”

  The French modiste pursed her lips for a moment, then brightened, clapping her hands together as she called to one of her assistants, “bring me ze gown of seelver from the coach!” Then she turned to Izzy. “A mistrez of a Duke had zees gown commissioned, but once she tried it on, it made her appear very sallow. But with your coloring, Madame, you weel sparkle in ze gown! It will be tres bon!” The dressmaker hurried out of the room.

  When she reappeared with garment in hand, Izzy was entranced with the gown presented before her. Made of a delicate silver fabric that shimmered in the light, the pointed bodice directed attention to the split skirt that would look beautiful over a petticoat of pale pink, which she already happened to have on hand.

  “I’ll take it!” she cried with delight. “Do you think we can fit it right now so I can wear it tonight?”

  “Certainement. We weel have you feeted right away.”

  After measurements were taken for the new gowns and she’d stood still to be pinned for the alterations of the silver gown, Izzy was satisfied with the day’s work. She’d also had Madame Papille’s assistants take one of her old gowns and, with a little bit of creative stitching, they’d removed the lace that covered the shoulders and lowered the neckline to reveal a low décolletage, and brought in the bodice so it fit snugly down to the skirt, which then flared out. Though it was plain and unadorned, they’d managed to bring it more into mode. Now Izzy had gowns enough for two evenings at White Hall, and by the third day, Madame Papille had promised to deliver at least one completed new gown.

  Finally, the dressmaker and her assistants left and Izzy began planning the evening. She went downstairs for a light supper, then rushed back to her bedchamber, calling for Meg as she went.

  She was already in her undergarments and stockings by the time Meg arrived and helped finish getting into her corset and then into the delicate silver creation. The maid touched the fabric in awe.

  “You look beautiful, my lady. The king won’t know what hit him when he lays eyes upon you.”.

  Izzy preened under the compliment, then set the maid to the task of creating a stylish fashion for her hair. She’d bought some silver ribbon from Madame Papille, and Meg wove it into her tresses as she pinned Izzy’s hair up. The shimmering ribbon matched the fabric of the gown, and set the red in her hair sparkling. Meg clasped the diamond and sapphire necklace Ram had gifted her around her neck, then stepped aside so Izzy could see the results in the mirror.

  Izzy almost didn’t recognize herself.

  The gown clung to her curves like a second skin, and the low cut of the bodice showed off her high breasts to perfection. The pink of her petticoats peeking through hinted at virtue. The combination of sophistication and innocence would work well to her advantage at the jaded court.

  The last time she’d worn the latest fashions, she’d been
barely more than a child. Now, full grown, she looked every bit the seductive woman she must be if she wanted to have her way with the King. Papa may not have had the money to provide her with new wardrobes whilst they were in exile, but she’d honed her flirting and coquettishness on Charles’s courtiers at every opportunity. She was ready to take on St. James!

  ***

  Izzy arrived at White Hall in Lord Royston’s personal coach, with his crest painted clearly on the side, praying all the while his father, the Earl, had not decided to attend that evening. Instead of heading to the presence chamber as she’d expected, they were directed instead to the beautiful Banqueting House designed by Inigo Jones for King James I, which sat just within the Holbein gateway. A celebration of some sort was in progress. She groaned aloud, the sound echoing in the carriage. There would be even more courtiers present than the norm and she swallowed hard, as her stomach fluttered.

  There was no need to be nervous. As a married woman it was completely appropriate for her to spend an evening alone at White Hall. It might even be enjoyable to meet old friends and acquaintances she hadn’t seen since the news of Cromwell’s death sent the royalists flocking home to London in droves.

  As she stepped inside, the splendor of the building awed her. She’d been in royal palaces across the continent, but the Banqueting House was truly a piece of awesome architecture. Even crammed full with courtiers, the interior was a remarkable sight. The enormous hall rose two stories high, the second floor open to look down on the hall below. Magnificent columns in a style reminiscent of Ancient Rome upheld the balcony. At the far end of the giant room held the throne where the King received his courtiers and important nobles from across Europe.

  The crowning glory was the hall’s magnificent paneled ceiling, painted by Rubens at the first King Charles’ request. What sad irony that the king had been executed on scaffolding set just outside the Banqueting House he’d so enjoyed.

  Squaring her shoulders, she began the trek through the throngs of people in the direction of the throne and hopefully, the King. The first familiar face she encountered belonged to Edward Hyde, Charles’ closest advisor, who’d been in exile with the King almost from the very first. He was a man in his late fifties, his hair more gray than the sandy blonde it had been when last she’d seen him. He was a relic from the old days, dressed in the plain, dark clothing that had adorned courtiers in the time of King Charles I.