by Stella Riley
‘Sir.’ Ashley stopped walking and allowed his tone to sharpen. ‘This is all very well – but in many senses, it’s beside the point. Tales of your doings are spinning out of control. For every girl you bed, rumour credits you with three; and for every occasion you and Buckingham engage in a little rough-and-tumble in a tavern, gossip has you picking fights right, left and centre. If you don’t want Cromwell sniggering behind his hand and every ruler in Europe deciding you’re too light-weight to be worth helping, you’ve got to employ some restraint. And if Buckingham has trouble understanding that, I’ll force the point home with him myself.’
For a long moment, Charles stared at him in silence, leaving Ashley to wonder if he’d over-stepped the mark. But finally the King said, ‘You’re right. I don’t deny it. But at present I’ve nothing of any significance to fill my time. And George is always entertaining.’
‘I understand the evils of inactivity only too well, Sir. And I’ve no wish to deny you every amusement. I’d just caution you to employ a bit more discretion and dilute my lord Buckingham’s company with that of your other friends.’
‘Such as yourself?’
‘I’m not so presumptuous, Sir,’ came the wry response. ‘But, as ever, I am at your disposal.’ He paused and then, not without humour, added, ‘I’d also suggest Sir William Brierley – though every time I pass an evening with him I spend the following day with a sore head. Does what I’m suggesting sound so very terrible?’
‘No. I suppose not.’ Charles turned away and strolled on along the path. ‘It’s just that I’d like the illusion that some small part of my life is my own. And don’t – don’t tell me that it is and that it’s called self-control – or I may just hit you.’
Ashley knew perfectly well that this was an empty threat. On the other hand, the fact that he’d said it, boded ill for the subject Ashley had to raise next – but he knew there was no escaping it so he said cautiously, ‘If you can bear with me a little longer, Sir, there’s something else.’
Charles shot him a sideways glance. ‘Spit it out, then.’
‘It concerns your relationship with Lucy Walter.’
Drawing a sharp breath, the King said, ‘Outside the not insignificant fact that we have a son, I have no relationship with Lucy Walter – and haven’t done since last October. When I got back here after Worcester, I sent her a pearl necklace and told her it was over. I had thought that fact and the reasons behind it were common knowledge.’
Ashley nodded. ‘Her child by Viscount Taafe, to name but one? Yes. But I understand that you still pay Mistress Walter a pension?’
‘I support my son. I promised Lucy a pension but have yet to find the means to pay it.’ The dark Stuart eyes showed wariness oddly mingled with impatience. ‘If there is a point to this, I’d appreciate hearing it.’
Ashley sighed inwardly and considered his options. There weren’t many.
He said, ‘Because the lady persists in calling herself your wife, there have always been rumours that you did, in fact, marry her. I need … I’m sorry, Sir – but I have to ask if there is any truth in such talk.’
‘None. How many times must I say it?’
‘At least once more, I’m afraid.’
‘Why?’
‘Because someone is trying to turn rumour into fact.’ Ashley hesitated and then said baldly, ‘Someone who claims they can provide proof. And before I spend God knows how long trying to find out who it is, I’d like to know whether or not there is any.’
Charles was silent for so long that Ashley thought he didn’t intend to answer. But finally he said wearily, ‘There shouldn’t be – though I wouldn’t put it past Lucy to fabricate some. But if you’re asking if it’s possible somebody has got hold of Lucy’s and my marriage lines, it isn’t. Is that what you’ve heard?’
‘No – or not in so many words. Just that there is written proof of a marriage. And it’s hard to know what else could be meant by that.’ Ashley frowned, his mind scanning the possibilities. ‘Could Mistress Walter have anything else? Documents of any kind? Letters from you promising marriage or hinting that young Jemmy is legitimate? Anything at all that could account for this anonymous person’s claim?’
‘Not as such – and none of the things you mention.’ Charles swung away a couple of steps and, still with his back to Ashley, said, ‘But she does have … papers … which could be damaging if she chose to make them public. Papers which, in view of her recent activities, I would very much prefer to have in my own possession.’
What papers? was Ashley’s immediate thought, swiftly followed by, Christ. Is he asking me to steal them back? If so, he’s going to need to be more specific.
He said neither and, instead prompted calmly, ‘What recent activities?’
Casting an impatient glance over his shoulder, Charles said, ‘She went to London.’
Calm instantly exploded into alarm. ‘What?’
‘She went to London – ostensibly to claim some inheritance or other. What she actually did was to get clapped in the Tower on a charge of spying for me.’ Charles turned, his smile wholly sardonic. ‘You don’t know Lucy, do you?’
‘No. I’ve seen her, of course, but --’
‘And not looked past those stunning looks, I daresay. If you did, you’d understand how ludicrously ill-suited she is to espionage. She’s self-centred, hysterical, wholly unreasonable and not at all intelligent. In short, she’s the sort of spy you’d only use if you wanted them to be caught.’
‘Is she still in England?’
‘No. Cromwell’s fellows soon recognised their mistake and hustled her aboard a ship to Flanders. She’s back in Paris now – probably lodging with her latest lover. I shouldn’t think you’d have too much trouble finding her if you chose to look.’
Ashley nodded, knowing that he had to start somewhere and, as yet, he had nothing else to go on. He said slowly, ‘Sir … you realise that, if there is anything you’re not telling me, the time will almost certainly come when you’ll have to? If enough people start to believe that you married Mistress Walter, it won’t matter whether you did or not. And though I’ll do my best to stop that happening, I’m unlikely to achieve much groping around in the dark.’
‘You underestimate yourself, Ashley. I suspect that you can grope in the dark as well as any man – and better than most.’
* * *
On the following morning when Colonel Peverell had disappeared in pursuit of undisclosed business, Francis finally accepted that the project he’d been consumed by for the last ten days was finished. He’d written and re-written, cut, honed and polished until there was nothing more that he could logically do to it. And the knowledge made his nerves rattle.
Inevitably, he’d started it with Athenais in mind … but a couple of things had changed that. One was the fact that, though he genuinely liked her and found her breathtakingly lovely, he had never once felt the slightest twinge of physical desire. And the other was an element which hadn’t initially occurred to him but which had somehow crept into the pages and turned his mediocre little opus into something extraordinary. Or he hoped it had.
But now it was finished, he had two choices. Shove the thing out of sight and forget about it … or show it to somebody. Now, today, before he talked himself out of it. And if he was going to ask someone’s opinion, there was really only one possible candidate.
He found Pauline in the parlour, her feet resting on a footstool and a torrent of misty-blue satin cascading off her lap as she set stitches in a hem. Instead of its usual elegant, not-a-lock-out-of-place style, the glossy brown hair tumbled down her back, loosely caught in a ribbon; and, when she looked up at him, Francis thought he caught a gleam of surprised pleasure.
‘Major Langley.’ She gave him her customary half-smile and resumed her work. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’
He didn’t give himself time to think. He simply crossed the room and placed his cherished pages beside her on the sofa. He said, ‘Yes.
I’d like you to read that and let me know what you think. You needn’t worry about being tactful. I’d rather have it straight from the shoulder.’
Pauline tucked her needle away and let the gown slide to the floor as she stretched out a hand for the Major’s offering. She’d been aware for some days now that he was writing something and had wondered what. It seemed she was about to find out.
She said, ‘And you shall have it. Now go away and walk your nerves off elsewhere. I’ll call you when I’m done.’
Francis hovered for a moment and then, with a nod, left the room. Pauline smoothed the pages out on her lap and took a moment to enjoy the sound of agitated pacing in the hall before she looked down at the script. The top page merely said,
MÉNAGE
A Play in One Act
Dramatis Personae
The Husband, His Wife,
Her Lover & The Mother-in-Law
She set the pages down again and shut her eyes.
Oh dear. The most hackneyed idea in the history of theatre. What can have possessed the man?
Then, sighing, she turned the first page and started to read.
Twenty minutes later, mopping her streaming eyes and aching with laughter she’d been trying to keep silent, she opened the door and told Francis he could come back and hear the verdict.
He entered the room without speaking and, refusing the chair she indicated, stood in front of the empty hearth as if facing a firing-squad. Then he absorbed the over-bright eyes, flushed skin and the fact that Madame Fleury’s hair was escaping its ribbon. She looked like a completely different person. She looked like a girl. She also looked as if she’d been laughing her head off. Francis wasn’t sure how he should interpret that. He said, ‘Well, Madame? What do you think?’
‘I – I d-don’t know where to start,’ she managed. And then went off into a fresh paroxysm of helpless laughter.
Francis waited patiently for her to regain the power of speech. It occurred to him that, even if she’d hated his little play, the sight of her clutching her sides and giggling like a school-girl in some sense lessened his disappointment.
Finally, pulling herself together, Pauline said breathlessly, ‘I’m sorry. There are a – a number of lines in there that tend to stick in the memory and – and I just recalled one of them.’ She sat up straight again and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You want to know what I think? I’m … astounded.’
‘Well, that’s something I suppose,’ he replied.
‘It is indeed.’ She grinned up at him. ‘Major Langley – I am not easily impressed. But your play is the sharpest, funniest, most utterly wicked thing I’ve read in a very long time. There’s not one wasted word and the relationship between the characters is so well-observed, it cuts to the bone. The double and even sometimes triple-entendres are in a class of their own. And as for the character of the belle-mére … that is sheer genius.’ She spread her hands. ‘I don’t know how you did it – but I sincerely congratulate you.’
Francis was aware of an unfamiliar sensation filling his chest. His hands tingled oddly and he knew that his colour had risen. He swallowed hard and said, ‘That is … I hardly know what to say, Madame.’
‘Pauline.’
‘Pauline,’ he repeated, managing a slight bow. ‘It’s only an entr’acte or a curtain-raiser, if you will. I – obviously I hoped you might like it. But I didn’t expect …’ He stopped and then deciding to grasp the nettle, ‘When I began it, the play had only three characters. I’m not sure when the mother-in-law arrived. But I know where she came from. You’ll have noticed that she is positioned above and outside the action, in order to comment on it apparently unheard and unseen by the other protagonists?’
‘I noticed she has the most evil lines – which, considering the quality of the rest, is saying something.’ She stood up and held the script out to him. ‘If you don’t give it to Froissart, I’ll take it to him myself.’
‘Willingly – on one condition.’
Her brows rose. ‘Conditions, Major? Really?’
‘Francis,’ he replied, smiling. ‘And yes – really. I’ll offer it to Froissart on condition that, if he decides to stage it, you agree to play the mother-in-law.’
* * *
With no more than a few judicious enquiries, Colonel Peverell traced Lucy Walter to a house near the Palais-Royal. It helped, of course, that he already knew a great deal about her.
Prior to her liaison with Charles, Lucy’s lover had been Colonel Robert Sidney – and possibly that gentleman’s brother as well. Her affair with the then Prince of Wales, had begun in ’48 in The Hague – and had resulted, the following spring, in the birth of their son, James. The relationship had continued, on and off, until Charles left for Scotland in June, 1650 – whereupon Lucy had immediately leapt into bed with Viscount Taafe, producing a daughter less than a year later. When Charles returned to Paris after Worcester, he’d broken his links with the lady – publicly, at least. And that was when the silly female had started trying to regain his attention by means of seeing how much scandalous gossip she could cause.
All in all, Ashley wondered how Charles – who was by no means stupid – had ever put up with her in the first place. Granted, the woman was beautiful; clouds of dark hair and eyes bluer than a hot, summer sky. But her personality left a lot to be desired and she had the potential to become a bloody liability.
A coin he could ill-afford pressed into the hand of the maidservant he saw exiting the house bought him the information that Madame Walter had lodgings on the first floor. Ashley appraised the building critically and came to the conclusion that, if burglary did become necessary, the task wouldn’t be particularly difficult. Then, he lounged in the doorway of a tavern across the street in the hope of seeing any comings and goings.
For a time, all he saw were people who were either servants or possibly tenants of other parts of the building. Then, just when he was considering giving up for the day, a gentleman emerged through the front door and, on reaching the pavement, turned to wave jauntily at the lady dimly visible at a first-floor window. Ashley’s gaze remained fixed on the man, aware of a vague sense of familiarity which eventually crystalised into near-certainty. He couldn’t remember the fellow’s name… but what he did remember was Will Brierley pointing him out as the King’s agent in Brussels.
Brussels? Had Lucy’s journey back from England taken her by way of Brussels? It was possible, he supposed. But if that was when she’d first met Sir-whatever-his-name-was, one or both of them was a remarkably fast worker. Ashley grinned wryly, berating himself for his naiveté. Lucy had never been particularly fussy; and few men refused an offer from a beautiful woman.
Very few men, actually. It was just a damned irony that Ashley himself had to be one of them. Since the incident in the hall when he’d narrowly avoided kissing her, he had managed to see Athenais only in passing and never alone. But he’d still managed to notice that her expression was frosty when their eyes met and bewildered when she thought he wasn’t looking. Hell.
Pushing away from the doorframe, he turned back in the direction of the Rue des Rosiers. Surveillance was a tedious business. Time to give Jem an occupation that would reduce the amount of time he had to spend with Archie and a bottle.
~ * * ~ * * ~
SIX
During the first week in October, everyone at the Théâtre du Marais rejoiced when King Louis left the palace of St. Germain and returned in state to take up residence at the Louvre. Colonel Peverell was less overjoyed and felt impelled to spend as much time as he could spare with his own sovereign, which meant that he learned the latest news from England before he might otherwise have done. This, in turn, was responsible for him having the nearest thing to a quarrel one could have with royalty when he discovered that the Highland chieftains were urging Charles to appoint leaders for a Scottish uprising – and Charles flatly refused to make him one of them.
This, however, he didn’t tell Francis – merel
y revealing that Admiral Blake had won a resounding naval victory at the battle of Kentish Knock.
‘And that,’ he added, ‘presumably cancels out Tromp’s triumph at Plymouth. One wonders which side thinks it is winning.’
‘Both, probably – since that’s the normal way of things. Anything else?’
‘There is – but none of it’s good. Ralph Hopton died in Bruges at the end of last month. And there’s rumour – as yet unconfirmed – that Prince Maurice has been lost at sea.’
‘Oh.’ Francis was suddenly still. ‘If it’s true, Rupert must be … well, I can’t imagine. They argued almost constantly – but were closer than any two brothers I ever knew.’
‘Yes. So we’ll have to pray it is just a rumour.’ Ashley stood up and reached for his sword. ‘Meanwhile, you and I had better take ourselves off to the theatre and attempt to earn our pay. I don’t expect to make much more progress than we’ve done so far – but I suppose there’s always hope.’
This would be their fourth rehearsal and the results so far had been negligible. Of the three actors they were required to train, only Etienne Lepreux showed the slightest potential – which was fortunate since he was required in both fights. Of the other two, Marcel thudded wildly about the stage seemingly incapable of remembering the moves and André clutched his sword like a cudgel, fell over at the least provocation and looked perpetually terrified.
Engaged in placing a sheaf of papers securely inside his coat, Francis said, ‘Perhaps it’s time to start praying for a miracle. With only seventeen days left, we’re going to need one.’
‘Don’t tell me they’ve honoured you with a speaking role?’
‘What? Oh – this.’ Francis patted his chest and shrugged. ‘No. It’s just a little something I’ve been working on. Pau – Madame Fleury suggested that Froissart might like to see it.’
It had taken him until yesterday evening to charm, flatter, cajole and finally bully Pauline into agreeing to his condition. And, in the end, he’d done it by saying – with much less than his usual finesse, ‘You bone-headed woman! It’s your role, don’t you see? I wrote the damned part for you – so the least you can do is pluck up enough courage to play it.’