The Perfect Royal Mistress

  Charles knelt beside the block and lowered his cheek onto the flat surface. Barbara had found him here once and berated him for his foolishness. But no one understood. Not even his own brother. James called it God’s will, and refused to speak of it again.

  Help me be a better king, Father…and help me be a better man than I have been…

  Footsteps were crunching the gravel behind him. The moment, the image, snapped. Charles pivoted around. William Chiffinch, in dressing gown and crimson velvet robe, his salt-gray hair wild, approached flanked by two royal guards. “It is the queen, Your Majesty, you must come quickly!” said Chiffinch, the only royal servant who knew precisely where the sovereign would be.

  “Is it the child?”

  “I’m afraid it is, sire.”

  Chapter 3

  AS ENGLAND’S MONARCH IN HIS CLOSET LAY CHIFFINCH STEPPED TO FETCH THE FEMALE PREY.

  —Poems on Affairs of State

  SPRING, 1667

  “THE selection for last evening met with Your Majesty’s approval, I trust?” Chiffinch asked casually as he held out two large plumed hats for the king’s consideration.

  Charles stood before a full-length French mirror, framed in gold, a gift from Louis XIV. “It would have, if I could remember a thing about her.”

  “She was quite comely, sire.”

  Charles glanced over at the man he knew was as faithful as he was discreet. “Love would be better, Chiffinch.”

  “So the poets do claim. I am told that the queen is still very hopeful. Perhaps—”

  “I am dearly fond of the queen. But fondness is a far-off thing from passion.”

  Chiffinch did not propose Lady Castlemaine because he found her deceitful and vain. “Perhaps Mrs. Davies then?”

  Charles chuckled as the chosen hat was placed on his head, then tilted properly. “She is only a dalliance, Thomas. Nowhere near to touching my heart, or anything higher up than my prick, I’m afraid.”

  Chiffinch nodded but did not respond.

  “Fun and games to press away the darker images that would haunt me. Until the unlikely moment when I discover a real passion, I must settle for as much of the former two commodities as you are able to procure for me.”

  He and Chiffinch were followed silently then down the long corridor by a collection of his aides as he approached the queen’s apartments. It had been two days since her miscarriage, and Catherine was still confined to her bed by the doctors. But her ladies played a game of basset beside her, and beneath the window a young boy played his harp to entertain her. When Charles entered the private bedchamber, all motion ceased. Catherine’s ladies all stood and dropped into deep curtsies. Rustling skirts was the only sound.

  “You’re looking much better today,” he said kindly. “The color is back in your cheeks.”

  The waiting women slowly rose and moved away from the royal couple, affording them privacy. Charles motioned to the boy to begin playing his harp again as he sank into one of the chairs beside her bed. Charles held out his hand to his wife. She took it to her cheek and closed her eyes. She was still horribly pale, he thought, nowhere near the picture of health he had married. In his own way, Charles loved his wife, much as a brother cares for a sister.

  “I am so very sorry, Charles,” Catherine whispered, tears filling her eyes. “I truly believed this time—”

  “There is still time,” he soothed her, even though they both knew it was unlikely. They had been married for five years, and in that time he had fathered four of Barbara’s children, and two others by ladies of the court.

  Buckingham whispered to him about divorce. But she did not deserve that injustice, certainly not yet.

  Charles Hart’s private tiring-room behind the stage was lit by three small lamps with shining pewter bases. Delicate etched glass covered the dancing flames. An elegant tapestry chair was positioned at a dressing table littered with bottles and jars, and in the corner was a daybed of blue velvet fringed in gold. It was the dominant feature of the small, private room. Nell glanced at the boy who showed her inside, then she watched as the door was closed, leaving her alone. She felt an odd mix of anticipation and dread. She waited, listening to the sounds of laughter and footsteps of people going past, beyond the closed door. Finally, from behind a folding screen, Charles Hart emerged and stood before her. His eyes were devilishly wide and green, and there was something unmistakably dangerous about them.

  “So you are the new orange girl.”

  “And you are the famous actor I’ve been warned about.”

  He was smiling, charmingly. “As principal actor and part manager, I like to have my hand on all things concerning this theater.”

  “And are you satisfied with what you see?” she asked.

  “Satisfaction has many layers. I reserve judgment until I know a bit more of you.”

  He was saying suggestive things intentionally. He was, after all, a famous actor who certainly did not need to entertain common orange girls. With beautiful actresses everywhere, and wealthy women waiting for him by the theater curtain, she could not imagine what he wanted with her. He poured a glass of wine, then two. He handed one to her. Nell had never seen glassware so fine, beautifully beveled and cut. She took a grateful swallow.

  “So tell me,” he said, and his cultivated voice was a rich, catlike purr. “Have you seen any of my plays?”

  “I watched you play Mr. Wellbred in The English Monsieur yesterday.”

  He straightened his back. “And how did you find it?”

  “What an orange girl thinks can ’ardly interest the likes of you, Mister ’Art.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “All right, then. I thought you were too serious in the first scene. There was a grand opportunity for a laugh you missed.”

  His confident smile fell swiftly. “You thought so, did you?”

  “Well, sir, you did ask.”

  “You sound as if you believe you might have done better than a grandnephew of the vaunted William Shakespeare.”

  “I’d ’ave got a laugh.”

  “And just how would you say the line?”

  “All right then. The line Lady Wealthy ’as is ‘Go ’ang yourself.’ And Mr. Wellbred should say, ‘Thank you for the advice.’”

  He scratched his chin. “You say I’ll get a laugh like that?”

  “I’ve no doubt.”

  His charming smile returned. “Allow me to take you to dinner, Nell. I would like to hear more of your views on my untapped comedic potential. I know a lovely little place very near here where we can dine quietly, and talk.”

  “You want to take the likes of me out in public?”

  “I asked you, did I not?”

  “True enough, Mr. ’Art.”

  “You’re a cautious girl. And quick for your age.”

  “Do you not mean quick for a girl from modest means?”

  “Nell Gwynne,” he laughed out loud. “You are a charmer.”

  She let him lead her down the street to Long’s, in the Haymarket. It was a delightful establishment, all brightly candlelit, with draperies around the back tables, and linen on some of them. Charles Hart was ushered in with great ceremony, and Nell followed him, unnoticed in her secondhand olive-colored dress. They went to a small alcove, paneled in rich oak, and hung with long swags of vermilion velvet. He sat down at a table, and two women came over to speak with him. Charles Hart did not notice that they blocked the only other chair at the table so that Nell was forced to continue standing.

  “If you please!” Nell finally said. She might not be a lady, but she knew well enough she was a guest. Her comment required the women to turn and regard her. The first one was petite, with dark hair and huge breasts peeking over her lace trim. She bit back an unkind smile as she moved just enough for Nell to reach the chair and sit. “Poor Charles, dredgin’ the depths again?”

  “My dear Moll, it is the variety in life that sustains me. Nell Gwynne, may I present Moll Davies, the finest actress
the Duke’s Theater has ever had the fortune to possess. And I say so even if they did steal you away from our far superior King’s Theater, and from me.”

  “Superiority, Charles, is a matter of opinion.” She laughed in a way Nell thought more suited to Maypole Alley whores than a prosperous, well-dressed actress.

  “Not according to our receipts! You know we outsell you every month!”

  “’Tis only because you’ve Mr. Dryden. A distinctly unfair advantage.”

  She was from Maypole Alley. Her earthy accent and bawdy manner told Nell as much.

  “Word is, you’re doing well enough for yourself,” Charles said, as the second woman was distracted, then called away, by another group of patrons across the crowded dining room.

  “As long as I stay in His Majesty’s good graces, I am indeed.”

  “So then it is true.”

  “Everyone knows the king’s passion for the theater. I simply made it my business to know that…and anythin’ else ’e was passionate about!”

  Intimidated by the grand surroundings, and the celebrity of Charles Hart and a royal mistress, Nell tried to think of something even half as clever to say.

  “So those devilish poems about our king are true?” Hart asked.

  “Every bit. ’Is Majesty is a great bear of a man with the most massive—” She abruptly dropped the final word hanging on her tongue and, with jarring condescension, lowered her gaze on Nell. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”

  “Oh, this is just Nell, an orange girl in need of a meal. Your secrets are safe in this room.”

  Moll looked directly at Nell. A spark of competition flared between them. “Of course. But a girl simply can’t be too careful if she fancies keepin’ ’erself in the style to which the king of England ’as made ’er accustomed. And, believe me, I will remain accustomed! Mark me, girl, if you’ve a mind to actually captivate this fabulous man ’ere, for more than the indiscretion ’e expects, you’d do well to find yourself a mentor like me. Not to be overly boastful, but—” She touched the large stone at the end of a chain that stopped at her ample breasts. “My success is one to learn from!” She embraced Charles Hart, and then was gone.

  Nell wanted to learn nothing from a woman like Moll Davies, no matter where she had come from. But as they dined on courses of oysters and roast leg of pork served on gleaming pewter dishes, Charles Hart was charming. He overwhelmed her with his attentions, and his clever tongue, and she found she rather liked it and him. After dinner, they walked in silence back toward Drury Lane and the theater, linkboys running back and forth around them lighting the path of others for a small fee.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” he said as they passed through a shadowy little cobblestone courtyard.

  “I speak when I’ve somethin’ to say.”

  “Did you not enjoy your dinner?”

  “The meal was fine. ’Twas the performance before it that set my teeth on edge.”

  “Mrs. Davies, was it? Now, you mustn’t take a woman like that too seriously, Nell. She’s a cock-if-you-please sort of girl, just bedded the king of England, and is enjoying her status as royal tart of the moment.”

  Nell stopped abruptly beside the dirty windows of a closed tailor’s shop and looked at him. “I may be just an orange girl, Mr. ’Art, but I’ve a sight more pride than to go boastin’ about like a tart on Sunday.”

  “People do a lot of things to get ahead in this world, Nell.”

  “Maybe so. But there’s a limit to what I would do.”

  “Is that a fact? Until you’ve been offered the brass ring like Moll has, or something close to it, you may want to reserve judgment. There are men who can make a working girl’s life far more comfortable, so long as she is open to the possibilities.”

  “I may be common, as well, but I’ve my priorities.”

  “Priorities rarely keep one warm at night, Nell. And there truly is not a common thing about you.”

  They went up the pathway to Drury Lane and into the main door of the theater with his last words still echoing in her head. Standing inside, with the vacant pit and the rows of benches stretched before them, there was a great hollow grandness to the space. As they paused, Charles Hart turned and softly kissed her.

  The only other man Nell had been kissed by had been one of her mother’s drunken lovers. The taste of his hot, wet mouth, dirty teeth, and breath stinking of ale had been with her since. Hart’s kiss was not repulsive; his breath smelled like the fine wine they had drunk at dinner. With his hand on the small of her back, he led her to his tiring-room. He began to kiss her again, more deeply this time, then roughly. Nell’s knees went weak. Her response turned to fear. She tried to protest, but he was stronger than she could have imagined, and when she struggled it only encouraged him.

  Charles Hart pressed her forcefully against the closed door and was struggling with her dress. There was a tearing, then the sound of buttons clinking onto the floorboards. She tried to turn her head so that her mouth could break free from his, but he lifted his hand to her face and held her chin. Another childhood memory surfaced then. She could have been no more than seven or eight. She had hidden behind a divan on the first floor of the brothel. There had been a man doing this very thing, pressing one of the women up against the wall. His trousers were shoved around his thighs, the pink flesh of his buttocks pushing against her with a frenzied rhythm. Nell had felt curiosity then. She felt shame now. She had kept herself all those years. She had avoided them all. And now, with no more ceremony or care than the woman in the brothel that day, she was to become one of them.

  “Pray, let’s not dally longer!” Hart said as he pushed her toward the velvet-covered daybed. “I do fancy a challenge,” he panted into her ear as he tossed her skirts and petticoat up onto her bosom, and into her face. “But too much of the coquette can surely sour any moment!”

  She beat at his chest, hitting him with her fists. In an odd dance of pull and push, he had fumbled with his codpiece, lifted himself back onto her, then lunged forward. From then on, it was all tearing and thrusting, pushing into her, until suddenly he collapsed, an unbearable weight, and it was over. “God’s blood, but you had me wild for you,” he said to her then, kissing her forehead. “But I promise you, ’twill be better between us next time.” Arranging his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers, Charles looked back down at her, and saw something that stopped him. There were streaks of blood on her thighs. “Great God above! Tell me you were not still a maiden!”

  “I tell you nothin’ now when you wouldn’t listen to anythin’ a moment ago.”

  “A pox on it!” He gripped his head with both hands. “You should have told me! I’m not in the habit—” Charles Hart’s words fell away. He looked at Nell for another moment, his expression pained. It twisted his handsome face. He was shaking his head as he walked out of the room. “Damn orange sellers! Damn the lot of you!”

  After he had gone, Nell slid from the daybed and onto the floor. She reached up to cover her breasts, where he had torn away the bodice, and only then realized how violently she was trembling. She smoothed out her dress and tried vainly to catch her breath. She tried to tell herself she was all right, that her mother and sister did that as a matter of course. She was not certain she could ever learn to actually enjoy it. For all of his reputation as a smooth and confident actor, Charles Hart had been a moaning, sweating pig. She wished she had at least been paid a few shillings if she was going to be forced to live the indignity of her mother and sister’s world after all. But that was her defenses talking, certainly not her heart. She felt a complete fool that her usual judgment had been so impaired by an outwardly charming and famous man. She really should have known better, she thought.

  “Are you all right, mistress?”

  A tentative voice shocked her and she turned, grasping the torn fabric tighter to her chest in response. “Who the devil are you?”

  “Richard Bell, mistress.”

  “Why are you ’ere?”

 
“I’m one of Charles Hart’s actors,” he replied. Then, in the awkward silence, he shrugged. “Actually, I’m more of a cleaning boy, one who gets onstage from time to time when Mr. Hart needs a larger crowd scene. But I have hope, anyway. It’s my foot in the door.” He waited a moment. “But you, you’re different from the others. I’ve seen you. You’ve a way with words.”

  “’Tis only what I’m supposed to do to sell oranges.”

  “But if you’ll pardon me for being bold, Mrs. Gwynne, you’ve got a spark.”

  “And didn’t that just start a flame I didn’t want.”

  They both knew what she meant. He ran a hand behind his neck. She looked away, aching to be somewhere else, even to be someone else.

  “I have an idea how you can best him and better your own situation in the bargain.”

  She truly looked at him then and saw a thin young man with limp hair and a wide, flat nose covered with a smattering of freckles. He had remarkably gentle brown eyes. He was everything Charles Hart was not. That registered with her, especially now. “No one goes up against a powerful man without his own reasons. What’s in it for you, Mr. Bell?”