by Stella Riley
‘Don’t be a bigger fool than you can help. She’s not quite eighteen and seems to have become infatuated with the first fellow to show her a bit of kindness.’
‘And a cripple’s not a great bargain, is he?’
A dangerous gleam entered Eden’s eyes.
‘You’re not the first man to lose a limb in battle and I doubt you’ll be the last. So pull yourself together and make a courtesy call in Shoreditch. You’ll find the Morrells’ house easily enough – Jack’s an armourer. And don’t tell me you can’t ride with only one arm, because you can. Unless you’re a bloody daisy?’
So Nicholas had gone to Shoreditch in a mood of sullen resentment and returned subtly changed. From Jack and Annis, Eden learned that he had arrived with a face like stone and a manner only a hairsbreadth from rudeness. Then he’d come face to face with Verity – pale and forlorn, her eyes full of doubt – and stopped as if poleaxed. By the time he left, said Annis, Verity had some colour in her face and the Captain had remembered his manners.
After his second visit, Nicholas had immediately sought out Eden to say bluntly, ‘You’ve done more for me than anyone could expect of a stranger and borne with my moods with exceptional patience – and all for no thanks that I remember making. I’d like to rectify that now, if I may.’
That had been seven months ago, since which time – in between making himself useful to Eden and forging a friendship with Samuel Radford – Nicholas had taken to visiting Shoreditch every other day. Eden hoped whatever came of it would be for the best. It would be nice to help two people live happily ever after. It was just a pity he couldn’t do it for himself.
He took another cursory look at Francis’s letter before shoving it away at the back of a drawer. He didn’t have to think about it now. He didn’t have to think about it at all, if he didn’t want to. And as for Celia … well, Celia could go hang.
There was a tap at the door and Eden turned, smiling, as Deborah Hart walked in. Though less buxom than she’d been before her ordeal, her skin had regained its luminosity and her eyes were serene. She said, ‘I came to ask if you’d be taking your meal at home today.’
‘Unfortunately, not. I’m due at Whitehall in an hour – the Officers’ Council is presenting a petition for numerous reforms and the dissolution of Parliament. Oh – and it’s asking for arrears of pay. Again. And if that doesn’t take the rest of the afternoon, there’s also to be some discussion about confiscating Royalist lands to fund the Navy.’ He paused and added, ‘I’ve told you before. There’s no need to knock when you know I’m alone.’
She shook her head slightly. ‘It’s better so. More … appropriate.’
Eden looked at her, taking in the plain blue gown and crisp white cap over neatly-arranged hair. She looked every inch the perfect housekeeper – and, indeed, she was. He’d offered her the position because doing so killed two birds with one stone. She needed work and he needed someone to run his home. Simple. What he hadn’t anticipated was that, from being more conscious of her than was comfortable, he should progress so swiftly to wanting her … or how, despite all his care, she had somehow known.
It had been on a night at the turn of the year when she’d been under his roof for almost three months that he’d gone to his room and found her waiting for him, still fully-dressed but with her hair unbound. Shock had frozen him to the threshold for several seconds before he’d had the sense to close the door. Then, walking to a point some three steps from him, she had said calmly, ‘I have waited to see if there was some other woman in your life but it seems that there isn’t. I am here because I want to be and because I think you do too. If that is so – and you were to ask – I could stay.’
Eden had opened his mouth on a sensible, graceful refusal and, instead, heard himself say huskily, ‘Then stay.’
Smiling, she had allowed him to close the space between them. And, when he had done so and she was almost in his arms, she said, ‘I know you are not in love with me. It is of no consequence so long as you never pretend. And I will be discreet.’
Eden had stopped the words with his mouth and felt the naked hunger in her response. Desire flared into a blaze and he pulled her down with him into the softness of the feather quilt, his fingers already busy with the laces of her gown. Later, he dimly remembered murmuring, ‘Forgive me … and forgive my intemperance. But it’s been a long time.’
And, in a voice as unsteady as his, she’d said, ‘For me, also. So be as intemperate as you like, my dear … and I shall meet you half-way.’
She’d met him more than half-way – not just on that night, but on all the others that had succeeded it. She’d also kept her promise about discretion. Sometimes, Eden had difficulty equating the quietly efficient woman in the sober dress and starched cap with the wildly wanton creature who shared his bed at night. And though he was no more in love with her now than he’d been eight months ago, he was wholly addicted to the pleasures her body brought him. Sometimes he also found himself wondering if she really was a witch, after all.
Looking at her now, he said, ‘You’re a strange mixture, Deborah.’
She smiled and, as so often, answered his thought rather than his words.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve used no spells or charms or potions. Nor will I.’
Thinking it a joke, he said, ‘Are you saying that you could?’
She shook her head and side-stepped the question.
‘It wouldn’t do any good. There will be someone else for you one day.’
Eden’s mouth curled. He had told her about Celia. She was the only person to whom he’d ever voluntarily related the sorry tale of his marriage and it had been done to show the limits of what he had to offer. Now he said merely, ‘I think we can agree that that is unlikely.’
The dark eyes continued to gaze unwaveringly into his and, with a complete absence of expression, she said again, ‘There will be someone else.’
Something in her voice caused the hairs to prickle on the back of his neck.
‘How do you know?’ he asked unwillingly.
‘Some things are clear. When you meet her, you will know.’
Following hard on the heels of Francis’s letter, this was uncanny. Eden would have liked to believe that Deborah had read it – except that he knew she hadn’t. He said, ‘I’ve told you that divorce is … problematic. And Celia is still a young woman.’
‘Things happen. Life is uncertain.’ The odd light in her eyes faded and she shrugged slightly. ‘Then again, perhaps I’m wrong. I could be. I only know that there is a woman in your future – and I am not she.’
Eden relaxed. ‘Perhaps not. But I’m content with the present. Aren’t you?’
‘More than content.’ She smiled gently. ‘I love you.’
His muscles tensed again and he said rapidly, ‘No. You’re grateful for what I did in Worcester. That’s all.’
‘All? You saved my life.’
‘But I don’t want it as payment.’
‘I know. It isn’t being offered as such.’ She paused and then said, ‘This is not a question of payment. I love you and you know it. You’ve known it for a long time. You’ve just never let yourself acknowledge it … and you hoped I would never say it.’
Eden turned abruptly away to the window and, with his back to her, said, ‘If you know that, why are you saying it?’
‘To point out that the pleasure we share is of my choosing and that I’m satisfied with it. To tell you that, when the time comes, I shall fade into the background without reproaches. So you need feel neither guilt nor concern for the future.’
He frowned down at his hands, wondering – as he so often had done – how it was she could identify the things he even hid from himself. He said slowly, ‘You make it sound simple. But it is far more than I have the right to ask of you.’
Behind him, the dark eyes grew very bright and she dashed her hand across them. Then, summoning an untroubled smile and keeping her voice perfectly level, she said, ‘My dear …
in all my life, you are the only person who has never asked anything of me. I sometimes wish that you would. But in the meantime, allow me the pleasure of offering.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
ACT THREE
COUP DE FOUDRE
Paris, August to November, 1652
‘Who ever loved who loved not at first sight?’
Christopher Marlowe
ONE
Having left the preparation of the attic to Pauline and Archie, Athenais rose early on the day appointed in order to be out of the house when the gentlemen-lodgers arrived. She therefore left for the theatre an hour earlier than necessary, had to kick her heels until Froissart and the rest turned up – and then found herself unable to concentrate.
Matters came to a head when she bungled a speech and drifted out of position to block Marie d’Amboise’s entrance at the optimum moment. The result was a short but venomous exchange, causing the remainder of the rehearsal to take place in intense froideur. And, at the end of it, Athenais’s mood grew even blacker on discovering that the light drizzle had turned into a torrential downpour which meant that, unless she didn’t mind getting soaked to the skin, she’d have to remain in the theatre.
By the time Pauline arrived, dripping, she was sitting in her wrapper, furiously brushing her hair. Without even waiting for Pauline to close the door, she said, ‘Did they come?’
‘Yes.’ Pauline dragged off her sodden cloak and shook it, managing to shower Athenais in the process.
‘So what happened?’
‘Happened? Nothing. They came. Your father hung around for a while, then came downstairs with the servant. I left the pair of them sharing a bottle of wine in the kitchen. I only hope neither of them has any money or they’ll be drunk as fiddler’s bitches by the time we get home. Shouldn’t you be getting into your costume?’
Athenais rose and shed her robe.
‘What were they talking about?’
‘How would I know? It was all in English.’ Deftly, Pauline laced the girl into the simple blue gown she wore for the first act. ‘I thought of having a word about your father but decided it might work better coming from you – preferably accompanied by a smile or two. There. That’s done. Sit down and I’ll do your hair.’
Athenais sat. Floating by on a cloud of patchouli, Marie d’Amboise said languidly, ‘I hope we’re not in for a repetition of this afternoon’s fiasco, my sweet.’
‘Oh sod off!’ muttered Athenais.
‘Now, now … is that any way to speak to me after all my efforts on your behalf?’ Smiling, Marie met Athenais’s eyes in the mirror. ‘Isn’t Lady Verney’s brother to your taste?’
‘I can take him or leave him. So if you want to put in a bid, don’t hold back on my account.’
Marie laughed softly and sailed on.
Catching Pauline’s look of enquiry, Athenais said, ‘Don’t ask.’
Due, perhaps, to the unceasing deluge outside, Athenais found the performance a huge effort and came off-stage feeling jaded. To discover the Marquis d’Auxerre lounging in the Green Room with several of his friends was therefore the last thing she needed.
Henri de Vauvallon, gave her his usual vapid smile and inclined his too-blonde head, while the Comte de Choiseul stared openly at her décolletage. She hated the pair of them.
The Marquis rose to meet her, kissed her hand and continued to hold it.
Correction. She hated all three of them.
‘Good evening, ma belle. I’m afraid we missed the play – one of the Cardinal’s interminable dinners, you know. Consequently, we’re all eager for a little entertainment and have settled on the Maison Fontanelle. You’ll accompany us, of course?’
The Maison Fontanelle was an establishment where gaming could be conveniently and discreetly combined with whoring. It did not, therefore, take a genius to work out where Athenais would end up if she agreed to go with them.
Allowing her hand to rest passively in his, she sighed and said, ‘I’m sorry, Monseigneur --’
‘Philippe. My name, if you recall, is Philippe.’
‘Philippe … forgive me, but there was rehearsal all afternoon and then the performance and I’m quite exhausted.’
The heavy brows drew together as he scrutinised her face and he said reluctantly, ‘You are certainly rather pale.’
‘The rain makes my head ache.’ The fact that he still had her hand made it easy to give a convincing shiver. ‘And I think I may have caught a chill.’
‘Let us hope not,’ He released her and stepped back slightly. ‘Froissart is working you too hard. I shall speak to him.’
‘No – no, please don’t,’ returned Athenais quickly. ‘If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. Worse still, I leave room for another to take my place. And what would become of me then?’
‘I believe I can think of something.’
‘But for how long, Mon – Philippe? You don’t settle for second-best, do you?’
‘Never.’ The Marquis closed in again, trapping her in a corner where his body hid her from other eyes. ‘But what are you saying? That you want some guarantee of permanence before coming to my bed?’
This was deeper water than Athenais had envisaged. The scent of sandalwood was overpowering and she’d have given a week’s wages for the satisfaction of telling him to go to the devil. Controlling herself with an effort, she said lightly, ‘Not at all. But if I did … I wouldn’t be the only one making conditions, would I? I seem to recall you saying you wouldn’t buy my favours. That you wanted me to come to you for yourself.’
‘Ah. That rankles, does it?’
‘Far from it. I respect you for it.’
‘How charming.’ He placed his hands on the wall either side of her shoulders and leaned a little closer. ‘Let us come to the point. You want promises – but my answer is the same as before. I’ll give you nothing until you come to me. And the only promise I’ll make is that you’ll do better by coming voluntarily than if I have to … coerce you. But make no mistake, my dear – I will have you. One way or another.’
Without warning Athenais’s nerves snarled into a knot and she was back in the grave-yard of St. Julien-le-Pauvre. She said unevenly, ‘You shouldn’t count on it.’
‘But I do, sweetheart. I do. And so should you.’
A predatory smile curling his mouth, he closed the gap between them and took her chin in one hand. Then, taking his time about it, he kissed her. His mouth was hard and possessive and he forced hers open so that he could take what he wanted. Managing not to shudder, Athenais shut her eyes and did not open them until he released her.
He said, ‘I have to leave Paris for a few weeks, so you have time in which to decide. But don’t wait too long … and choose wisely. I’d be sorry to curtail such a promising career – but I will if I have to. And as you said – what will become of you then?’
Holding her eyes with his own, he tapped her cheek with one finger and stepped back. Then, as if nothing had occurred, he led his friends urbanely from the room.
Athenais swallowed her nausea and stalked away to the tiring-room. When Pauline materialised at her side, she said abruptly, ‘My skull is splitting. Unlace me and let’s get out of here. I suppose there’s no chance the sodding rain’s stopped?’
It hadn’t and they arrived home with wet feet. Pauline mulled some wine to go with their supper and came back saying, ‘Stay out of the kitchen. Your father and the English servant are still there, too drunk to stand.’
With a jolt, Athenais remembered the two gentlemen in the attic. Then, brushing the thought aside, she met Pauline’s eyes and said baldly, ‘You were right. He says he’ll have me whether I like it or not. If I resist, he’ll see to it that I never act again.’
‘Ah. So now we know where we stand,’ came the calm reply. And when Athenais said nothing, ‘You said you’d sleep with him if you had to. And it’s beginning to look as if you’ll have to.’
There was a long silence broken only by the cheerful crackling of
the fire until, finally managing to force the words past the bile in her throat, Athenais said, ‘There’s your answer, then. What else is there to say?’
‘A few things. To begin with, I’ve been assuming you’re not a virgin. But I’ve known you since you were sixteen and, if you’ve had a lover during that time, you’ve kept it pretty dark.’
Very slowly, Athenais looked up, her expression utterly impervious.
‘I’m not a virgin. The rest is of no consequence.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Christ!’ Athenais surged to her feet. ‘What is this – the damned Inquisition? I’ve told you that, as and when it becomes necessary, I’ll do what I have to. What I won’t do, however is bloody well wallow in it. So from this point on, you can damned well do that on your own!’
* * *
Twenty-four hours went by without Athenais coming any nearer to her gentlemen-lodgers than a brisk footfall on the stairs or a light, distant voice. Their servant, on the other hand, was a different matter and was frequently to be found in the kitchen with Archie. Athenais acknowledged his presence with a cool nod and made it impossible, by her refusal to speak English, for her father to draw her into conversation. As for the man’s masters, she made no attempt to put herself in their way and was naturally unaware that, while Ashley was doing his best to avoid her, Francis had so far merely been unlucky.
In the meantime, she followed her usual routine and tried, without much success, to stop thinking about both the Marquis d’Auxerre and the strangers in the attic. Then, after a night plagued with unpleasant dreams in which she failed to murder the Marquis, she arose with a raging sore throat and all the other signs of an incipient head-cold.
Pauline took one look at her and ordered her back to bed with a steaming mug of butter-ale. Eyes watering and neck swathed in red flannel, Athenais forced herself to drink the brew and then said feebly, ‘It’s only a chill. I’ll be well enough by this evening.’
‘You won’t,’ came the flat reply. ‘No – don’t argue. I’ll tell Froissart that Delphine will have to go on tonight. God knows she’s waited long enough for the chance.’