Royal Harlot (11 page)

We were given chambers far from the others on account of our near-newlywed status, certain proof that Roger hadn’t confided much to his family. The main chamber had floors that dipped and chairs that creaked, and a high, water-stained ceiling that I stared at whenever I lay in bed, turned away from Roger.

I’d been a guest there for three days before Roger finally introduced me to his mother, a weary, faded woman who mercifully kept her dislike for me locked inside her black woolen mourning, along with most of her conversation. The only question she asked was whether I was with child yet. I told her no, and she then ceased to have any further to do with me, which was perfectly agreeable by my lights as well as hers.

That night, I felt Roger’s hand upon my hip.

“You needn’t have looked so shocked when my mother addressed you, Barbara,” he said in the dark, his fingers spreading as they journeyed along my hip to my thigh and back again. “A child would be a great blessing to us.”

I curled my fingers into a ball, trying not to tense beneath his touch. By law I belonged to him, as every wife did to her husband, and though I could withhold my own pleasure from spite if I chose, I could not refuse him the use of my body. “I was no such blessing to my mother.”

“Your mother had no choice because of the war,” he said. “You know that. She sent you into the country, where you’d be safe during the war. If you had a child of your own—of our own—you’d understand.”

“I cannot say if I would or not.” Unlike most young women, I’d been raised without any siblings, in a household of two childless women who had always made it clear they kept me for my mother’s payment alone. I’d never seen children and babies as other than noisy, demanding, untidy, and costly—a plague more to be avoided than desired. Surely this impression was my own mother’s legacy to me as well; the only time when my presence had given her any pleasure was when she’d successfully pushed me into wedding Roger.

“I think you would, dearest,” he said softly, shifting closer to me on the lumpy mattress, so I could feel his thighs pressing against mine. “I’ve heard that a woman doesn’t know true contentment until she holds her firstborn in her arms.”

“Did your mother tell you that, too?” I asked, unable to contain my bitterness. I didn’t want a child now, not his or any other man’s. Childbirth was as great a fatal peril to women as war to men, and even those who survived the pain and suffering likewise bore the scars— lost teeth, withered breasts, fat stomachs—to prove it. “That you must breed your wild filly to tame the spirit from her, and make her your broodmare?”

“My mother would never say that.” He’d worked my smock over my hip, his hand insistent and slightly moist upon my bare skin. “But tell me, Barbara. Where’s the sin in me desiring my beautiful wife?”

I sighed, not knowing how to explain my unhappiness. I’d try as many of the little tricks Philip had taught me to keep myself safe, but if Roger was determined to sire a child, then as my husband, he would have his way.

Yet still Roger sensed my resignation. “What is ill, Barbara?” he said, his reproach unmistakable even as he slipped his hand between my legs. “I know by nature you’ve a warm temperament. In London, you were always ardent for love.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will myself to keep still. I’d not lain with a man, Roger or Philip, since before I’d sickened with the smallpox, and no matter how miserable my heart might be or how artless Roger’s caress, I feared my body’s longing would betray me.

“In London I wasn’t buried among the rushes and the conies, the way I am here,” I whispered, my breath coming faster. “In London, I wasn’t fit to perish of boredom.”

“Then I must do my best to see that you are better entertained, dearest.” He rolled me onto my back and settled between my legs. It seemed he was done in less than a blink, long before he’d come near to fetching me in return. He did not seem to notice, either, kissing me afterward as if he were granting me the greatest gift imaginable, and not the other way round.

For a long time I lay in the dark and listened to Roger’s soft, satisfied huffs as he slept beside me. His seed still lay sticky upon me, yet my body and my heart together ached from unfulfillment.

I would not die of boredom at Dorney Court, no matter how much I longed to. Even I knew such a death was the purlieu of poets, not true life. But to expire from a lack of pleasure, from the joy to be found with love—now that,
that
seemed a hazard genuine enough.

 
Within the week, my life at Dorney Court did in fact become more interesting, though not in the way that Roger had meant.

I was coming back from my early walk through the gardens when I saw the carriage being led into the stable yard. I’d not heard we were expecting visitors—the house was still officially in mourning for Sir James—nor did I recognize the carriage. The horses looked weary from hard driving, as if they’d journeyed the night long on some urgent business. All the servants could tell me was that the newcomers were two gentlemen, friends of Mr. Palmer’s, and that the three of them were now closeted in the library, not to be disturbed.

By the time that Roger came upstairs to dress for dinner, I was in a froth of curiosity, demanding to know who these mysterious gentlemen could be.

“I’m surprised you haven’t guessed, Barbara.” He pulled a fresh shirt over his head, playing my suspense like a fisherman with his catch. “One gentleman should be well known to you by reputation, I believe. Sir Alan Broderick.”

“Sir Alan here!” I gasped with delighted surprise. Though I’d never met Sir Alan, I’d certainly heard enough of him from Roger. Sir Alan was the leader of the Sealed Knot, and was reputed to have been chosen by the king himself to further his cause in England. “Is the other gentleman party to the Knot as well?”

“He is,” Roger said, lifting his chin to tie the collar strings of his shirt in a tidy bow. “Lord Thomas Mulberry. It’s natural for Sir Alan to come to visit. He’s distant kin of yours, you know.”

“Everyone is distant kin to the Villiers,” I said, scarce able to contain my excitement. “That’s not why he’s here. Are you making fresh plans? Are you gathering forces to support the king’s return? Oh, Roger, tell me all!”

He smiled smugly, pleased he could make me beg for even something as petty as this. “In time, my dear, in time. Sir Alan and Lord Thomas will be with us for a few days. They find this house an agreeable refuge, considering the army’s ban against papists and Royalists within twenty miles of London.”

“Oh, pish, Roger, no one heeds that. Why, even here we’re but five miles from London.”

“We’re as good as a hundred, for all the army cares.”

“We’re as good as two hundred to me.” I gave his arm a little shove. “If you won’t tell me now, Roger, then you must let me stay when you gentlemen begin to speak in earnest. You must let me hear and judge for myself.”

He frowned and shook his head. “I do not know, Barbara. My mother will expect you to retire with her. It’s not customary for ladies to remain at the table with the gentlemen and be present for such serious discussions.”

“Once you wished me to know of such things, the things that mattered to you.” I touched the cypher heart I still wore around my throat, then idly trailed my fingers lower, over the plump curves of my breasts, to remind him of other things as well. Though my gown was at least six months behind the French fashion, it still became me: pale pink satin that made me look like a glowing, tender blossom waiting to be plucked. The bodice was cut low and snug, with a falling lace collar that somehow revealed more of both my breasts and creamy shoulders by veiling them than displaying them outright.

“You recall, Roger,” I coaxed gently. “Before we were wed—when you claimed I was more . . . ardent—you kept nothing from me.”

“That’s Sir Alan’s decision to make, Barbara.” His gaze followed my hand, and I knew I’d have my way from the manner in which he swallowed, his lips pressing together as if to keep his lust from bubbling from his mouth. “I cannot promise anything.”

But in his way he already had.

 
“I see you wear the cypher of our martyred king, Mistress Palmer.” Across the table, Sir Alan raised his wine toward me with approval. “An admirable ornament.”

“Thank you, Sir Alan,” I murmured, smiling in return at this distant kinsman. “It was a gift from my husband.”

Sir Alan nodded, and held his goblet up for the servant to refill. He’d no share of the Villiers beauty, that was certain, being short and stout, with a sandy mustache draped over his mouth. I’d already learned he was a man full of unseen prickles, quick to take offense where no slights were intended: an unfortunate quality, I thought, for a leader of so delicate and important an organization. “It’s always wise for a gentleman to brand what belongs to him, eh, Palmer?”

Roger and Lord Thomas laughed, yet while a dozen quick retorts came to mind, I said nothing. Honey-sweet words always fared better with men than tart ones, no matter how much that sticky sweetness would sometimes choke and clog my throat. It was worth it. At least now at the beginning, the price of being permitted to remain here among the gentlemen was that I present myself as a beautiful, obliging decoration, and nothing more taxing—a role I could play to perfection even while I slept.

Now I leaned forward, turned a bit in my chair, just enough to prettily display both my arms and bosom, and slowly drew through my fingers one of the long, glossy curls clustered by my cheek.

“I’ll gladly wear my husband’s mark, Sir Alan, just as I wear his ring,” I said, “but my loyal heart and duty must always bow first to my sovereign lord, His Majesty King Charles.”

“Well said, Mistress Palmer.” Sir Alan shoved back his chair and raised his goblet, forcing the others to join him. “To His Sacred Majesty, and his return to his rightful throne.”

“To the king,” all echoed, but only Sir Alan emptied his goblet again, holding it out impatiently for another filling. I’d heard King Charles detested drunkenness, and could not tolerate company that toppled headfirst into the grape. Clearly he’d never dined with Sir Alan, else there’d be another leader for the Sealed Knot.

“There now, Sir Alan, I told you my wife was to be trusted,” Roger said with unbecoming eagerness. “No questioning her loyalty, eh?”

“No, indeed.” Sir Alan’s face was flushed as he studied me, and I knew it wasn’t from wine alone. “His Majesty can always count on the beautiful women to support him.”

“Have you met His Majesty, Sir Alan?” I asked.

“Oh, scores of times,” he answered, likely expanding those times for my benefit. “Every inch the monarch, and a good many inches at that. He’s half a head taller than most men, you know.”

“How fascinating,” I said, and I meant it. I’d not realized the king stood so far above his subjects, and I wondered wickedly if the rest of him were to a royal scale as well. How else could he truly be the first gentleman of his kingdom?

“I can assure you, Mistress Palmer,” Sir Alan continued, warming to his subject, “that there’s never been another English monarch like him. Intelligent, virile, thoughtful, benevolent, even in his current reduced circumstances. He’s very dark, on account of that foreign Italian blood from his Medici grandmother, but still the ladies do sigh and judge him most handsome.”

“The ladies should not be discounted, Sir Alan,” Roger said cheerfully. “They will constitute a sizable part of his kingdom, and if my wife is any indication, their loyalty will never be questioned.”

I smiled. Ah, Roger had no notion of what I thought when I imagined our tall, handsome king in exile, and it had nothing to do with loyal duty, either.

“Your wife, Palmer, and your sister as well,” Sir Alan said. “Or more properly, your sister’s husband, and his brother beyond that. What a fortuitous connection that has proven to be for us!”

I turned to Roger, my smile now not quite as charming. I’d yet to meet his sister Catherine, nor had I much desire to do so, yet it irritated me that she might know more of my husband’s activities than did I. “What connection is this, Roger?”

“Through the Darrells, my dear,” he said, his smile sickly with an earnestness that pleaded wordlessly for my cooperation before these other gentlemen. “You recall that Catherine is wed to Marmaduke Darrell. His brother Henry has recently secured the place of principal clerk to the Council of State and is privy to their most secret debates and correspondence—all of which he is now copying, and forwarding to Sir Alan. We’ve never before had such access to the most privileged information.”

I cared not a fig for either Marmaduke or Henry themselves, but this connection between the Darrells and the Palmers could prove most profitable to Roger in the future, and to me as well. No wonder he’d not wanted his mother to overhear such a conversation, considering how he’d led his sister’s husband into this treasonous activity.

“This is your doing, Roger?” I asked, pleasingly surprised he’d show such daring. “To arrange such service to the king?”

“Don’t let your husband be modest, Mistress Palmer,” Sir Alan said heartily. “This must all be held in the greatest secrecy, of course, but I’ve made sure His Majesty is aware of every one of your husband’s contributions. And with this last gift of a thousand pounds—”

“A thousand pounds!” There was nothing feigned about my astonishment. I’d been forced to follow endless grating economies while he’d been keeping a secret worth a thousand pounds?

“Such generosity is sure to be rewarded when the king returns to London, my dear,” Roger said hurriedly. “I consider it not only an investment for the crown but for ourselves in the future.”

Sir Alan leaned back in his chair, his smile showing how thoroughly pleased he was with himself, and with our wine, too. “Make no mistake, His Sacred Majesty will recognize his true friends and glean the gold from the base pretenders like Mordaunt.”