Page 11 of Virginia Henley - Unmasked

  She raised her chin and hissed, "Take your hand from me, sir. It makes me feel sick. I shall be safer on the street than here alone with the Devil incarnate!"

  He loosened his grip and watched bleakly as she ran from him. He walked after her, allowing some dis­tance between them, but ready to sprint forward if aught threatened. She reached the corner and he watched her climb into a hackney coach. He stood silently, long after the carriage departed. Then finally, he walked back to his house with slow regretful steps.

  He went into his office and lit a lamp. He looked down into the open drawer with its broken lock and was surprised to see the seals on the letter he had writ­ten to Monck were still intact. Ironically, if Velvet had read the letter, she may have realized he was trying to sway the general to throw his power behind Charles Stuart rather than Richard Cromwell.

  Just one more day and we would have been married! He slammed the drawer closed with a curse. You would not reveal your role to Velvet even if you were married. Espe­cially not, his inner voice prompted. I would never in­volve my wife in anything that was dangerous or tainted with dishonor. It dawned on him that perhaps it was fortunate that they were not married. At least not yet— not until this matter is settled, once and for all.

  Velvet was painfully aware that she had nowhere else to go but Bishopsgate. She had left on a deceptive note and would now have to go, cap in hand, begging to be taken in and given refuge. When the hackney coach arrived at the house in Bishopsgate, Velvet gave the driver a silver half crown and did not wait for change. With trepidation she knocked on the door, un­certain what she would say to the Dowager Countess of Devonshire. She murmured a polite "thank you" to the manservant who opened the door, and hurried through the reception hall to the brightly lit sitting room.

  Christian Cavendish came forward with hands out­stretched in welcome. "Velvet, darling, I didn't believe the day could get any better, but here you are, proving me wrong!"

  The warm reception made Velvet feel unworthy. "My lady, I humbly beg your pardon for deceiving you. It was a wicked and ungrateful thing to do after your generous hospitality."

  . "You left because of my grandson's lewd and las­civious behavior. I soon sent him packing, back to his father." Christian smiled coyly. "When I read your note and learned your true destination was Roehampton, I was vastly amused to think you were running straight to the arms of Greysteel. Dare I hope that you have an announcement to make?"

  Velvet took a deep, steadying breath. "Yes. Lord Montgomery and I are no longer betrothed—we have severed our relationship. If you will let me come back, I will be forever in your debt."

  "Oh, tush, my dear. Where else would you come after a lovers' quarrel? I'm sure it is nothing that can­not be straightened out. Everyone's emotions are bub­bling over the surface on this momentous day. I have written to Queen Henrietta Maria. The royal family will be overjoyed at the news of Cromwell's death. Let us hope this will be the catalyst that sets in motion the restoration of our rightful king."

  "My thoughts exactly. I hope with all my heart that Charles will return." In spite of what that devil Mont­gomery says! "Can we go and fetch Emma back from Roehampton tomorrow?"

  "Yes, darling." She poured them wine. "Join me in a toast."

  Velvet raised her glass. "Here's to His Majesty Charles Stuart, King of England, Ireland and Scot­land!" She drained her glass and did not demur when Christian refilled it. They emptied the bottle, then climbed the staircase on unsteady legs.

  After a sleepless night, Greysteel Montgomery arose before dawn. He spent the entire day riding about London. He visited every section of town, lis­tening to what was being said by the wealthy, the poor and the working-class citizens. He spoke with Puri­tans, Quakers and Roundheads. He stopped at the Temple and spoke with the goldsmiths; he visited the markets and listened to the merchants. He traveled from Whitehall to London's docks. He talked with women and apprentices, churchmen and coach drivers, cookshop owners and watermen navigating the Thames.

  Montgomery returned home and went into his of­fice. He removed the sealed envelope from his desk drawer and weighed it in his hand. As he sat in deep thought, he was actually weighing his role in the scheme of things. Frustration roiled inside him. He was used to taking an active part, commanding and controlling men and events around him. Scribbling furtive notes was too passive an occupation to suit his temperament.

  After he thought everything through, he made up his mind decisively, and put the letter in his pocket. That is the last missive I shall write. He took a blank sheet of paper, folded it and placed it inside a fresh enve­lope. Then he sealed it with wax and waited for the courier.

  Chapter 10

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Greysteel Montgomery's intense grey eyes looked into the bulbous eyes of George Monck as the men sat facing each other across the general's solid oak desk.

  Monck opened an envelope and took out a blank page. "The courier delivered this two days ago." He raised his eyebrows.

  "Since this is my last report, I decided to deliver it myself." As Montgomery handed him the sealed letter, he noted that Monck showed no anger. He is not mask­ing his anger—his temper is imperturbable. Greysteel watched him read the letter and saw that the general's expression did not change. Unfortunately, his thought processes are impenetrable.

  "So. Cromwell is dead. How was the news re­ceived?"

  Montgomery had always given Monck the unvar­nished truth, and he did so now. "Not even the dogs wept."

  Monck nodded. "Give me your assessment of his son Richard."

  "He was quick to step into his father's shoes and be­come Protector, but if a man of Oliver Cromwell's iron resolve could not hold England together, the weak, in­effective son will see the country descend into chaos."

  "Tumble-Down Dick," Monck murmured.

  "Precisely." Montgomery had a great fear. Did Gen­eral George Monck, who had the military experience, the power of office and the better-disciplined army, covet the exalted Protectorship for himself?

  Monck's square hands rested on his desk. He steepled thick fingers and said blandly, "I shall cheer­fully proclaim Richard Cromwell the new Protector in Scotland. We shall see how he performs—given enough rope."

  You cheerfully want him to hang himself.

  "You are the commander of the Protectorate forces in Scotland. If—when Richard Cromwell starts to fal­ter, will you step in and shore him up?"

  Monck was silent for a moment, then said, "The al­ternative would be to sweep him aside and make way for a new ruler."

  Montgomery wanted a straight answer, yet he knew Monck was too cautious to give him one. "You have the power to seize the office of Protector, but the sole responsibility for the kingdom would then rest on your shoulders. There is a way for you to attain honor and security, along with power. In a restored monar­chy, your reputation in arms would fit you to com­mand all military forces. It is not inconceivable that you also could become a valued privy councillor. Worthy goals for a man who has reached the half-century mark."

  "Though you acted as agent for me, your loyalty to Charles Stuart has never wavered."

  "It has not."

  "I suspect it was your advice that prompted Chan­cellor Hyde to send me a secret communique."

  "Did you reply, General?"

  "Give me credit for some acuity."

  "I do. You're far too cautious to commit anything to paper. But if you would consider a verbal communica­tion, I would act as go-between and carry your words directly to Charles Stuart."

  "As I said, I shall publicly proclaim Richard Cromwell the new Protector in Scotland. At the same time I would privately urge those in exile to exercise ex­treme caution and do no sudden thing, if—when the new regime begins to collapse."

  Montgomery caught the subtle nuance. "The public Monck will pay lip service to another Protectorate. Could the private Monck be open to the alternative of a restored monarchy?"

  "I wouldn't go that far. Yet.
I do believe that a return to a freely elected Parliamentary government is essen­tial. Another military government is doomed to fail­ure."

  Though you're not ready to commit to Charles, I know you're not averse to a restored monarchy. Deep down you're a Royalist.

  Monck's bulbous eyes stared into Montgomery's. "The Stuart Court could do itself some good if it moved from a conspicuously Roman Catholic city to one in a Protestant country."

  "That is shrewd advice." And so bloody obvious it should have occurred to all of us in the Stuart camp. Greysteel got to his feet and held out his hand. When Monck readily shook his hand, Montgomery sensed they had an unspoken understanding. "I thank you for your time and your valuable advice, General."

  Montgomery knew he had no time to waste. Once news reached Bruges, Belgium, that Richard Cromwell had been proclaimed Protector of Scotland as well as England, desperate Royalists could set in motion any number of rash uprisings.

  Since Greysteel had stopped in Nottingham to visit his father on his journey to Edinburgh, he decided an­other stop was not necessary on his return to London. And within twenty-four hours of arriving at Salisbury Court, he crossed the English Channel, once again dis­guised in the rough garb of a seaman.

  When Montgomery arrived at the town of Bruges, he found everyone at the exiled Court in hopeless despair. Charles alone displayed his usual stoic self-possession.

  "Your Majesty, I come to give you firsthand knowl­edge of what is being done and said in London and the rest of England."

  "I brace myself for your frankness. It will be a change from the reports of the fawners and flatterers."

  "The funeral arrangements for Cromwell are osten­tatiously royal. A wax effigy draped with black velvet was put on display in Somerset House. People lined up to see this out of curiosity. When the black was re­placed with crimson and adorned with the scepter and crown, mud was thrown at the shield bearing Cromwell's escutcheon. He is to be buried in Westminster Abbey. Londoners love medieval pageantry, but I do not believe they will appreciate it being lav­ished upon the Protector. Now that Old Noll is dead, some, though not all, are whispering about happy days approaching."

  "By that I take it they mean a restored monarchy. I would ask your personal insight regarding this mat­ter."

  "The time is not yet ripe. Any uprisings would be crushed."

  The cynical lines on Charles's face deepened as he smiled. "I am too well schooled in adversity to make another abortive dash for my throne. If Richard Cromwell's Protectorate begins to falter, I might be tempted."

  "Do not be tempted, Your Majesty. His Protectorate will falter and it will fail. This must be allowed to hap­pen. He must be given enough rope."

  "I sense you have more to tell me, Montgomery."

  "I spoke with George Monck personally. After Cromwell's death I rode to Edinburgh to tell the gen­eral that I would no longer be his agent. He is well aware that I am your man, Sire. Though Monck has publicly proclaimed Richard Cromwell the Protector of Scotland, privately he expects him to fail. He re­ferred to Cromwell's son as Tumble-Down Dick."

  "The question is, does Monck aspire to the exalted position?"

  "He has the power of arms to snatch it from Cromwell, but Monck is no longer a young man. Moreover he is aware of the heavy burden of such a position. Monck is far too shrewd to openly commit himself to restoring the monarchy, but he told me that he believes in a freely elected Parliament."

  "The general never replied to Chancellor Hyde's overtures."

  "He is too cautious for written replies. Any future overtures would have to be verbal. I will be your go-between."

  Charles leaned forward. "What is his price?"

  "Extremely high. Monck would insist on choosing the means to restore you without interference from your courtiers. Once you regained the throne, you would have to make him commander of all your forces. Perhaps even consider him for your Privy Council."

  "I am prepared to offer more—a noble title and a pension."

  "Will you guarantee it, Your Majesty?"

  Charles's smile was sardonic. "I will guarantee the noble title. It will cost me nothing. The pension will be up to Parliament. I haven't a farthing to my name." He arose and leaned against the desk. "While I play a waiting game, I think my time would be well spent se­curing myself a wealthy wife."

  "George Monck said something that I pass along to you. Advice that is as obvious as the nose on your face."

  Amused, Charles stroked his large nose. "Indeed?"

  "His exact words were "The Stuart Court could do itself some good if it moved from a conspicuously Roman Catholic city to one in a Protestant country.'"

  Charles looked favorably impressed. "That reveals his shrewdness. It also tells me he has thought a great deal about effecting a restoration." Charles smiled. "What will you ask of me, Greysteel Montgomery?"

  "When you are crowned King of England, ask me again, Sire."

  "Oh, the news is dreadful!" Velvet looked up from the evening paper she was reading. "Sir George Booth has been arrested."

  All winter, Velvet and Christian Cavendish had ea­gerly consumed every bit of news they read in the pa­pers or heard by word of mouth. Pockets of Royalist sympathizers across the country were constantly forming, but General John Lambert, head of England's Parliamentary army, was successful in arresting the leaders and seizing their caches of arms.

  "I had every confidence that Booth would turn the tide when he gained control of Cheshire and Lan­cashire." Christian sat down before the fire as if the strength had gone out of her legs. "Royalist hopes have been dashed asunder once again."

  Velvet scanned the newspaper, desperately search­ing for a scrap of positive news. "It says here that the London apprentices have started a petition expressing opposition to the overthrow of Parliament. When they get enough signatures, they intend to present it to the City authorities."

  "Good for them! We shall go into town and sign it. The will of the people should carry some weight with our wretched excuse for a government." She stood up and stretched. "I ache all over. I'm off to bed, darling. I shall see you at breakfast."

  Velvet sat staring into the flames of the fire. Every­thing seemed so hopeless. Richard Cromwell was proving such a weak leader that the army was gaming more political power every day. He had given in to all their demands so that they would quell the rapidly spreading unrest. Finally, Cromwell had surrendered his control of all military matters to General John Lam­bert. Velvet shuddered. Roundhead soldiers patrol every street!

  She went to bed and when she finally succumbed to sleep, one man as usual dominated her dreams.

  The dark, lean face of Greysteel Montgomery hovered above her as she floated in the lake at her beloved Roehampton. "I cannot touch bottom.... I am over my head!"

  He reached for her. "Trust me to keep you safe, Velvet."

  She clutched his hands and allowed him to draw her close. "You are naked!" Her outrage was a pretense. She had known he was naked all along. Beneath the water, she too was bare. It was all part of her planned seduction to attain Roehampton, the Elizabethan manor that she longed to pos­sess. She had followed her great-grandmother's advice, and it was working like a charm.

  When he carried her from the water and laid her down in the rustling tall grass that grew beside the lake, she smiled. "From the beginning your courtship has been like a military campaign. You believe you have won the battle, but lam the captor and you are my captive. Surrender your control to me."

  His smoldering grey gaze swept over her. "Here is my sword."

  She reached out to stroke his great weapon, and invited, "Sheath your sword, Greysteel!"

  Velvet soon lost control as she surrendered to her lover's passion. She gave everything he demanded, willingly, ea­gerly, slavishly, and reveled in his mastery. He was dark, dominant and dangerous and she loved him with every fiber of her being. Her need for Roehampton paled beside her need for Greysteel.

  As the afternoon shadows lengt
hened they began to dress.

  She looked up and suddenly became aware that Greysteel

  was wearing a Parliamentary uniform. "You changed

  sides You are a traitor!"

  "If you love me, it shouldn't matter."

  Velvet turned away and saw Charles. The king held out his hand to her and murmured her name seductively. She felt torn and looked back into Montgomery's intense grey eyes. Velvet knew she had no choice. Charles had claimed her heart while she was still a child. She turned and gave her hand to the king.

  In the morning when she awoke, the vision of Charles lingered in her memory. At first she refused to acknowledge that she had also dreamed of Greysteel, but as his image and his male scent persisted, Velvet admitted he had been present. She told herself that she had dreamed of him only because he owned her beloved Roehampton. She insisted that her dream re­flected reality. Between the two men, there was no con­test. She would always choose Charles over that traitorous devil Montgomery.

  At breakfast, Velvet carried in the morning paper, shocked at the revelations that the government was two million pounds in debt. "Yesterday, Cromwell called a session of Parliament. Senior officers in the army demand that it be dissolved, and Cromwell has refused."

  "Much as I hate to agree with Cromwell, we must always support Parliament. A military government will trample every freedom. We shall go into town and show our support!"

  The dowager ordered the carriage for eleven o'clock, but when Velvet, dressed in warm cloak and boots, joined Christian in the reception hall, Mr. Burke informed them that Davis was repairing a coach wheel and their plans would have to be postponed.

  "Delayed perhaps, but not postponed, Mr. Burke. Tell Davis to hurry. Get a couple of footmen to help him."

  When the carriage had still not appeared at the front door by one o'clock, Christian again summoned Mr. Burke. "What is the problem?" She banged her ebony stick on the tiles. "Do you not realize that we are on a mission?"

  "That is precisely the problem, my lady." Burke looked at Velvet, seeking her support. "Your mission would be courting danger. Ladies cannot expose them­selves to crowds of people with inflamed tempers. There could be an outbreak of violence."