by Stella Riley
* * *
Two days slid by. Nicholas settled into the household, causing scarcely a ripple and Athenais returned to the theatre – receiving a sharp look from Monsieur Froissart and the observation that she looked remarkably well for someone who’d been throwing up for a week.
A further three days saw Ashley finally able to manage the stairs – whereupon Pauline announced that she would examine his leg whether he liked it or not to see if it was time to remove the stitches. He didn’t like it but she bullied him into submission and removed her handiwork – after which he found that his thigh felt a lot easier.
And at the end of a week, Froissart at last gave Athenais and the rest of the players permission to sit in on a rehearsal for Ménage … so that they could all see for themselves the genius of Pauline Fleury.
Francis had set the piece so that the husband, the wife and her lover interacted in the normal way while the mother-in-law sat on a raised platform – apparently unseen and unheard by the other characters while she delivered a pithy and wickedly funny commentary on their doings. The play was original, clever and stylishly-written. Pauline’s performance raised it to the level of brilliance and the rehearsal finished in a storm of applause – in which, it was noticed, only Marie d’Amboise declined to participate.
Later, released from her lofty station and having escaped from the congratulations of her fellow actors, Pauline sought out Francis and said, ‘Thank you. I thought you were mad to insist on it and that I was equally mad to agree. I was wrong. So – thank you.’
‘It was my pleasure, Duchess. I knew you could do it. It was only necessary that you should know it, too.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ve an idea for Ménage Deux. The husband, his mistress, his wife – and her mother. What do you think?’
I think what I feel for you is becoming dangerous.
She said, ‘If it were anyone else, I’d say writing another play as good as this one is an impossibility. Since it’s you, however, I’ll say that I wouldn’t like to put money on it.’
Francis lifted her hand and saluted it with impeccable grace.
‘That is probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’
‘Am I supposed to believe that?’
‘Yes. Oddly enough, no one has ever rated my abilities very highly. The fact that you – who know this world so much better than I – think that I have some … let’s call it potential … means a great deal.’
His tone was light enough but there was something behind his eyes which Pauline couldn’t quite interpret. She said firmly, ‘You have more than potential, Francis. You have a talent. Write Ménage Deux if you want – or anything else, for that matter. Froissart will snap your hand off to buy it. And if he doesn’t, take it to Floridor at the Bourgogne.’
‘Not the Bourgogne, no,’ came the decisive reply.
‘Why not? Their company is as good as ours – some would argue that it’s better.’
‘That’s not the point.’ His smile, this time, was warm and quizzical. ‘Do I really have to say it?’ And when she closed her lips, refusing to speak, ‘I won’t go to the Bourgogne – or indeed anywhere – because I need my leading-lady.’
* * *
All the way back to the Rue des Rosiers with her hand on his arm, Francis pondered on the thing he was finally beginning to recognise. He’d started writing a play just to see if he could do it … and ended by writing it for Pauline Fleury. When he realised what he was doing, he’d told himself that it was purely because he wanted to tempt her back on-stage – but that wasn’t the real reason and probably never had been. He’d done it because he’d become increasingly fascinated by her. He no longer saw the scar or noticed her slight limp. He only saw the clear, hazel eyes, the luxuriant dark brown hair and the curves of an extremely trim figure. But pleasing as those things were, her intelligence and barbed astringence attracted him more. In that sense, she reminded him a little of Kate Maxwell; the girl he had never really been in love with but fully intended to marry – though, looking back, he couldn’t remember why. Certainly the feelings he detected in himself now were unlike any he’d experienced before. Feelings that had crept up on him so gradually, he’d hardly noticed they were there until he’d seen Pauline take charge on the night of Ashley’s attack. And then, suddenly, he’d wondered why it had taken him so long to appreciate the full scope of Madame Pauline Fleury.
Buoyed up by the success of the rehearsal and the pleasure of having Pauline’s hand on his arm, Francis’s euphoric mood was swiftly banished when he entered the house to learn that his sister awaited him in the parlour.
‘God,’ he breathed. ‘And I was in such a good mood, too.’
Pauline shook her head, grinned and promptly left him to it.
Francis sighed, straightened his cuffs and tried to summon some patience.
Celia was sitting on the sofa, her skirts spread wide enough to prohibit anyone sitting beside her.
Nicholas stood near the fire looking faintly harassed.
When Francis appeared, relief rolled off both of them in waves.
‘Thank God!’ snapped Celia. ‘What on earth do you do with your time? I’ve been waiting an absolute age and was beginning to think you were never coming!’
‘Perhaps you should make an appointment,’ suggested Francis flippantly. Then, glancing at Nicholas, ‘You obviously drew the short straw. Have Athenais and Ashley taken to the heather?’
‘Apparently.’ In the half hour he’d spent with Francis’s sister, he hadn’t exactly warmed to her – but neither was he prepared to be rude. According her a civil bow, he said, ‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Verney – but now I’ll leave you to speak to Francis privately.’ And sedulously avoiding Francis’s eye, he trod briskly from the room.
Francis strolled over to the hearth and leaned negligently against the mantel.
‘Well, Celia? What is it this time – or do I need to ask?’
‘There’s no need to be so horrid. I’m utterly distraught!’
You all-too-frequently are, he thought. I don’t know how Verney stands it.
‘And what am I supposed to do about it?’
‘You must write to Eden again and make him hurry.’
‘For heaven’s sake – it hasn’t been a fortnight yet. Give the man a chance.’
‘I can’t. It’s taken him months to say he’ll do it and I can’t afford to wait as long again before it’s done. I need my divorce now – immediately. Otherwise, I don’t know … I’m afraid what might happen.’
Since Celia never listened to anything that didn’t suit her, Francis didn’t bother to point out that Eden hadn’t said he would obtain a divorce – only that he’d look into the possibility. Sighing, he said, ‘What do you mean – you’re afraid what might happen? I imagine you’ll go on just as you’ve been doing for the last eight years.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s Hugo.’
Ah. Perhaps Verney isn’t standing it.
‘What about him?’
‘He – he’s different. Now I think about it, he’s been different for a while now. But I didn’t really notice until I told him that Eden had agreed to the divorce and then …’ She stopped, twisting a handkerchief between her hands. ‘I thought he’d be pleased.’
‘But he wasn’t?’
‘No. For a long time, he didn’t say anything and – and he looked at me so coldly, Francis. As if he no longer cared for me at all. I said I didn’t understand why he wasn’t happy and he – he said, No. You wouldn’t. Then he went out.’
Francis shrugged. ‘Like Eden, he’s probably not thrilled at the idea of featuring in a divorce case.’
‘It’s not that. He’s different, I tell you. He hardly escorts me anywhere anymore and spends nearly every evening with friends of his own. Sometimes he even stays away all night.’ She paused, looking genuinely distressed. ‘I suppose I should have noticed it sooner but it happened so gradually, you know? And there
’s something else.’
Francis hardly needed the something else since, from what she’d said so far, the conclusion was fairly obvious. ‘Yes?’
‘He used to want me all the time – but he hasn’t t-touched me for weeks. Several times I’ve tried encouraging him to … you know …but he just makes excuses.’ She looked up, seemingly baffled by it all. ‘He’s changed, Francis. And I don’t know what to do – except that I must have the divorce quickly.’
‘On the assumption that he’ll still marry you?’
‘Yes. He has to marry me. He must know that. How else am I to recover a shred of reputation? How else is he?’
Once again Francis refrained from remarking that Verney’s reputation didn’t suffer from living with his mistress but that Celia’s good name had been destroyed the day she ran off with her lover. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Celia. But if, as you must surely have guessed, he’s met someone else, obtaining a divorce from Eden is unlikely to make the slightest difference. In fact, if he’s thinking of leaving you --’
‘He can’t leave me!’
‘He left his wife fast enough – and, like murder, I don’t suppose the second time is as difficult. And if he is thinking of leaving, the prospect of you being free to marry will make him do it sooner rather than later.’
Her mouth set in a mulish line that Francis knew only too well.
She said, ‘He won’t go. I won’t let him go. I know things he wouldn’t want told. I’ve even done things – things I know I shouldn’t have – because he persuaded me to.’
Francis frowned a little. ‘What do you mean – you’ve done things? Such as what?’
‘You don’t need to know. Not yet, anyway.’ She stood up. ‘But you must write to Eden, Francis. Write to him and tell him he must hurry.’
‘So you can blackmail Verney into marriage? If you’ll excuse me saying so, that doesn’t strike me as a particularly good idea – and it’s hardly a suitable basis for matrimony.’
‘I don’t care.’ She pulled on her gloves, refusing to meet her brother’s eyes. ‘I’ve been waiting years to be Lady Verney – and no one shall take it away from me now.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
SIX
Secure in the knowledge that Sir Edward Hyde would keep him informed of the King’s movements and unable, as yet, to initiate further investigations, Ashley devoted the following days to regaining some semblance of physical fitness whilst staying out of Athenais’s way. The first involved walking a little faster and further each day; the second was facilitated by the fact that Athenais had unexpectedly acquired a leading role in the following week’s repertoire and was having to work very hard indeed in order to be ready in time.
The atmosphere at the theatre was one of unusual excitement and heightened tension as the opening night approached. Cryptic hints of the delights to come had been carefully dropped in appropriate quarters but copies of the playbill were being zealously guarded. These announced that Ménage – a comedy in one act by a distinguished new playwright and featuring the welcome return of Pauline Fleury – would be followed by the immensely popular Don Japhet d’Armenie by Paul Scarron.
On the day of the first performance, Ashley managed to limp as far as the Louvre. By the time he got there, his leg was throbbing so badly he had to grit his teeth with every step – which is why he found an unobtrusive corner in which to recover before seeking out Sir Edward Hyde. And that was how he came to see Sir Hugo Verney strolling by with his head bent intimately close to that of a well-endowed blonde, extravagantly dressed in the latest Court fashion and adorned with an indiscriminate array of gem-encrusted jewellery.
Ashley withdrew deeper into the shadows. Francis had told him about Celia’s current anxieties. If the blonde was at the root of them, Ashley thought she was right to be worried. It was possible that Verney had found richer pickings than were to be had at home.
As a matter of courtesy and because he’d been unable to do so for over two weeks, he made his way to the King’s apartments only to discover that His Majesty was playing tennis with Buckingham. Ashley wondered how long the Duke had been back in favour and was glad the current amusement didn’t involve either women or wine. Then he retraced his steps to Hyde’s sitting-room.
Sir Edward received him with raised eyebrows and the immediate offer of a chair.
‘I understand you received your injury in some sort of attack?’
‘Yes. Sadly, the streets are not safe these days.’
‘Indeed. So it is not connected --’
‘Not at all.’ Whether that was true or not, he’d never know – so there was little point in giving Hyde chapter and verse on a dead man. He said, ‘With regard to Lucy Walter, I have reason to believe that any marriage lines she or anyone else claims to possess will prove to be a forgery. But if you receive further communication on the subject, let me know and I’ll deal with it. For the rest, my recent enquiry as to whether you’d involved a third party was because Sir William Brierley was seen to visit the lady.’
‘Brierley? Why?’
‘Since you didn’t send him, I don’t know. It will probably prove to be nothing – but I may speak to him anyway.’
‘Do so, by all means.’ Hyde hesitated and then said, ‘Although I appreciate your current difficulties, I was concerned by your involvement of the new Lord Wroxton. I have seen little of him in recent years, of course … but he was an extremely frivolous youth, much given to idle chatter.’
‘War changes us all,’ returned Ashley, accepting a glass of wine, ‘and someone like Francis, more than most. I trust him – though, as ever, I don’t share my every thought.’
‘Certainly he seemed able to tell me very little. Scarcely more than that you wished to know of any scheme His Majesty might have to visit Le Havre.’
‘I can’t add much to that myself. If my information is correct, the plan is to lure the King, and his brother to Honfleur where assassins will be waiting for them. I don’t know how this is to be done – or by whom – but I’m led to believe that the plot has the secret backing of Secretary Thurloe.’
‘Thurloe!’ exclaimed Hyde, sitting bolt upright. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be at this stage.’
‘But that is iniquitous! A man in his position to involve himself in cold-blooded murder? I am appalled. Words fail me.’
Ashley reflected that there was a first time for everything. He opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled by Sir Edward saying more slowly, ‘Although … if the rumours are true, it would make sense.’
‘What rumours?’
‘That Cromwell has been holding secret talks --’
‘Not so very secret if you know about them,’ interposed Ashley dryly. ‘However. Talks about what?’
‘About the possibility of making himself King.’
For a long moment, Ashley simply stared at him. Then, in a tone of pure disgust, he said, ‘Why does that somehow fail to surprise me?’
Hyde nodded. ‘Of course, it may not be true – or he may have been cautioned against it. But I understand he holds state in the Banqueting House in much the same way as the late King, so the idea is not inconceivable.’
‘And would make removing the rightful King and his heir a necessity?’
‘Yes. Speaking of which – where did you come by your information?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that.’
‘But you must. I demand that you do so.’
‘I can’t. My informant’s life depends on total anonymity. And though I do not doubt your discretion, sir, I’m not willing to break my silence in any circumstances whatsoever – so you’re going to have to trust me.’
Hyde recognised the note of implacability and said huffily, ‘You can’t expect me to be satisfied with that.’
‘I don’t expect it. I do, however, expect you to understand that we’re incredibly lucky to have this information at all.’ Ashley paused but it appeared that this time word
s really had failed the Chancellor. ‘And I particularly wanted to talk to you about how we proceed.’
‘I’m to be made privy to that, then?’
‘Yes. With your permission, I’d like to try to apprehend the assassins. The fellow who has concocted this scheme may or may not be among them … but if he isn’t and we have his minions, he shouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Also, if Thurloe is behind this, I’d like to find evidence of it. I imagine you’d find that useful.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ allowed Sir Edward. ‘But since you appear to have no firm details, how do you expect to manage this?’
‘We know it is to take place in Honfleur. And if the King expresses an inclination to travel to the coast, we’ll know roughly when the trap is to be sprung. It’s enough, I think.’
‘You can’t use His Majesty as bait. I won’t --’
‘I’ve no intention of letting His Majesty or his brother within a hundred miles of the place – which is why I specifically asked you not to breathe a word of this in his hearing. I hope you haven’t done so?’
‘Of course not. But if the King is not to set foot in Honfleur, the assassins aren’t likely to show themselves, are they?’
‘No,’ said Ashley, leaning back in his chair and smiling. ‘But fortunately, I have some ideas about that.’
* * *
Partly out of curiosity, partly because he’d promised and partly because he guessed the occasion might well present an opportunity for a seemingly chance meeting with One-Eyed Will, Ashley braved the pit at the Marais that evening. His guess proved to be a good one. There, in the front-right off-stage box, sat Francis’s sister and Sir William. Unfortunately, the one next to it was occupied by the Marquis d’Auxerre and his usual coterie of young men.
Ashley decided that, for the time being, the anonymity of the pit was preferable – or would be if he could find a bit of wall to lean against. The place was already packed and more people were still trying to get in. Not without difficulty, he elbowed his way to a suitable spot and tried to ignore the ache in his leg.