Margaret Moore (29 page)

“We would have done better to leave you in that filthy tavern to get your throat slit.”

“I did not ask you for any assistance,” Neville replied as he began to straighten his disheveled clothing. “Nor do I regret what I did,” he lied. “There was the glory of being her first.”

“You disgusting scoundrel!”

“Oh, how you hurt me!” Neville replied sardonically. “As if I have not been called that a
hundred times. Nay, a thousand! And a wastrel and lecher and gamester, too.” He suddenly grabbed his friend’s jabot and pulled him close. “Will you next tell me I am like my mother?”

“Who would you say you are like?” Richard retorted, slapping his hand away. “Buckingham, perhaps? He would be as proud as you are for what you’ve done. I suppose you bragged of it in that tavern and every place else you went last night. By now, you and your conquest will be quite famous, and Arabella’s reputation utterly destroyed.”

Neville shoved Richard away. “You are angry only because I beat you to her!” He spotted the pile of papers on Richard’s writing desk. “Odes to her beauty, no doubt,” he sneered, grabbing the top one. His smile grew as he read it.
“The Virtuous Lady: A Tragedy of Love.
What drivel is this?”

“Drivel I doubt you would ever understand,” Richard said, snatching the paper away.

“She inspired you, eh?”

They heard a commotion on the stairs, a sound Neville knew heralded Foz’s approach.

Foz, who wanted to marry Arabella.

Then the hapless Foz appeared on the threshold, his gaze darting between the two men. “It’s true what he said. About last night. I went to his father’s house and—”

“Did
she
tell you?” Neville demanded.

Foz shook his head. “Jarvis. Everyone in the household knows about it.”

“How much did that information cost you?” Neville asked sarcastically.

His foolish friend regarded him not with anger or hatred but a sort of weary sorrow that was anything but foolish.

Neville blushed, then commanded himself not to be such an idiot. She was as much to blame for what had happened as he, deny it though she might. “And has my father and his delicious ward gone scurrying back to Grantham?”

“No, they have not. Well, not yet. That is, the earl is planning to go home. There was an argument, and Arabella has left the house.”

“Left the house?” Neville repeated, taken aback. “Where did she go?”

Who did she know in London that she could go to for help and comfort?

“She’s going to stay at Lady Lippet’s, Jarvis said.”

Neville stared at him. Then he stumbled out the door.

Lady Lippet started and turned from her mirror as someone abruptly entered her boudoir without so much as a knock. “Neville!” she cried, falling back in her chair with surprise.

“Where is she?” he demanded, his eyes
bloodshot, his face deathly pale and his bearing as aggressive as a ruffian from the docks.

“Who?” Lady Lippet stammered.

“A pox! You know who! Arabella. Where is she?”

Leaning on her vanity table for support, Lady Lippet slowly got to her feet. “Where are my footmen? How did you get in here?”

“They were wise enough to let me pass. Now, where is Arabella, for I will not leave without her.”

“Do you think she will want to go with you? You’ve dishonored her, and the whole city knows it. I have seen to that!” Lady Lippet had waited a long time for this moment, and so she smiled with evil relish as Cordelia’s son suffered for his sin and his mother’s, too. “Now all of London knows you are as base, deceitful and lustful as your whore of a mother, and so does Arabella.”

With a bellow of rage, Neville lunged for her, grabbing her by her scrawny throat.

“Are you going to kill me?” Lady Lippet gasped. “You would add murder to your list of crimes?”

His eyes still burning with menacing wrath, Neville let go and stepped back. “You are disgusting,” he growled. “Perhaps I
should
kill you before you corrupt any more innocent women.”

Lady Lippet rubbed her sore throat. “You
are hardly in a position to talk of corrupting women. Besides, your father was her guardian, not I.”

“I should have warned her about you, but I thought her own good judgment, with his influence and protection, would keep her safe from you. I curse myself for being wrong. And now I will take Arabella away from you.”

“I cannot allow that.”

“You? You cannot allow it?”

Suddenly—and Neville never did know how—a pistol appeared in Lady Lippet’s hand, perhaps from the wig box kept on her vanity. “Get out right now, or I will shoot you down like the dog you are and claim you were trying to rape me.”

There was no denying that she meant every word she said.

“I won’t leave without Arabella.”

“Fool! Do you think she wants to see you after you humiliated her?” Lady Lippet’s eyes glowed with sly triumph. “You can see her again, you know. She will be at Whitehall this evening. Of course, she will not want to speak with you. She will have so many other men to talk to. The Duke of Buckingham is very anxious to offer her a shoulder to cry on.”

“You’re despicable!”

“No, my handsome young man. I am only a silly, harmless, ugly old woman. Isn’t that
what everybody thinks? Now, shall I shoot you, or will you go?”

As he stared at her for a long moment, she thought she might really have to shoot him, which would make a terrible bloodstain on her new Turkey carpet.

Fortunately, however, he finally turned on his heel and left.

With trembling hands, Lady Lippet set down the pistol and sank heavily into her chair. Her heart pounded, her legs felt weak—she suddenly felt most unwell.

And her left arm was most curiously numb, although she had been holding the pistol in her right hand.

Chapter 20

N
eville would sooner have gone to hell than meet the king in St. James’s Park; unfortunately, he had little choice but to obey a royal summons.

After he left Lady Lippet, he marched home, trying to decide what to do, and discovered the king’s page waiting with a note ordering him to meet Charles in the park at once. Masking his dismay, anger and dread, and ignoring the page’s scornful reaction to his lodgings, Neville had tidied himself up and dutifully followed the young man to St. James’s.

All too soon, the king appeared, strolling about with ease and nodding graciously to all and sundry.

When Neville thought of this seemingly kind-hearted, friendly man’s lascivious plans for Arabella, he wanted to denounce him for a base scoundrel.

But he could not, for he was no better.

“Ah, Farrington,” the king cried when he spotted him.

Neville smiled and bowed. “Majesty.”

Charles gestured for him to come closer, then led him a little away from the page, his other attendants and his ever-present spaniels. “We have heard some very disturbing rumors about you and Lady Arabella.”

“Rumors, Majesty?”

The royal brows furrowed. “Do not play us for a fool, Farrington. Is it true that you deflowered her?”

So Lady Lippet hadn’t lied. The story was already all over the city. “Lady Arabella’s virtue was an impediment to Your Majesty’s pleasure, at least in her countrified mind. Now that is gone.”

“Ah, Farrington, for king and country, eh? We knew there would be a suitable explanation,” the king replied, and still with apparent good humor. “Was she as delectable as she looks?”

“A gentleman never reveals the details of his
amours
, as you know, Majesty. I will only say that it was not a particularly onerous duty.”

“And then you quarreled?”

“Yes, sire, so now she will have nothing more to do with me.”

The king chuckled. “Bravo, my lord! Bravo! We feared you had forgotten your duty to your
sovereign and are delighted to find it is not so. And this argument heralds the complete end to your liaison?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Well done!”

“Thank you, Majesty.”

“And you will have ample proof of our pleasure, we assure you.”

“Again I thank you, sire.”

“We have also heard she has left your father’s protection.”

“So I understand, Majesty.”

“A pity about Lady Lippet, but that is better for our plans.”

Puzzled, Neville said, “What of Lady Lippet, Your Majesty?”

“The woman is dead.”

“Dead?” Neville asked with wide-eyed disbelief. “I saw her only a short time ago—” He halted in confusion when he realized the king was regarding him shrewdly.

“We heard of this, too, and that you also quarreled with Lady Lippet.”

Neville nodded once. “Yes, Majesty.”

“You did not kill her.”

“No. When I left her, she was alive and apparently well.”

“We know. The physician says it was apoplexy or her heart. We never had a thought of charging you with murder.”

Neville couldn’t quite subdue a sigh of relief.
“But what of Lady Arabella, Majesty? She has nowhere to go in London, no friend—”

He fell silent as the king slowly smiled.

Of course. The king would be her “friend.”

Neville felt sick and ashamed. But he would not blame himself. He had not sinned alone, and she had been willing.

“She has already sent us a most welcome message, Farrington. Tonight we shall have great cause for celebration at Whitehall.” Then the king held out a purse full of coins. “As promised.”

Judas.

The name rang in Neville’s ears as he stared at the purse.

“Well, take it, man. Payment for a job well done.”

Unable to think of a reason to refuse that would not insult the king, Neville obeyed.

“Since you have proved to be so adept at these proceedings, we trust we can count on your assistance in the future, should a similar case arise?”

Neville bowed.

The king ran his gaze over Neville. “The first thing we would do with such a sum is purchase some new clothes. We would have all our courtiers look their best, Farrington.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“We expect to see you at Whitehall this evening, too.”

Neville bowed, then watched the king saunter away.

That night, Neville forced himself to keep his gaze on George Villiers as they stood together in the Banqueting House, and not scan the gathering for Arabella.

He knew that several of the courtiers were watching them. Perhaps they thought they might witness the precursor to a duel; perhaps some of the women wondered if they could take Arabella’s place. Perhaps they were all admiring his new clothes, bought with the money the king had given him.

Neville didn’t care a whit what any of them thought.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Villiers said. “I know it is true.”

“I suppose some men might be tempted to brag of having conquered such a virtuous and lovely lady, but that has never been my way.”

“You have won this battle, and I acknowledge that,” the duke replied with an insincere smile. “I am offering my congratulations.”

Neville regarded him stonily. “Never one to lose an opportunity to be obsequious, eh, Villiers?”

The duke stiffened. “I also wanted to ascertain if you intend to continue conquering her?”

“Once the battle is won and the prize given, I see no necessity for repeating the process—
especially when the battle is fought for someone else.”

“You wooed in proxy? What fool would set you in pursuit of the object of his desire? Anyone familiar with you would guess how it would end.”

“I would not call the king a fool, Buckingham, unless you relish a sojourn in the Tower.”

The duke colored. “The king?”

“After she has lost her virtue, a young woman will be more amenable to sharing her charms with others, do you not agree?”

“That was my thought, too, when you came upon us on the way to the river.”

Neville’s jaw clenched. That anything he might do should be comparable to an action of this man … !

He was no better than this man.

“No wonder Lady Castlemaine was in a temper today. Berkeley is still with her, offering his own particular brand of comfort.” The duke clapped a hand on Neville’s shoulder, and it was all Neville could do not to shrug it off. “But beware, my friend, beware. Charles is the most capricious of men, as I have cause to know. One minute, one is in favor, the next out.”

In Buckingham’s case, Neville thought, he had only himself and his inability to see how his actions might reflect poorly on the king to blame for that.

“I wish you better luck in keeping in his good graces than I have had.”

“I shall endeavor to do so.”

The duke leaned yet closer, so that the wine on his breath was nearly overpowering. “And when the king has had his fill of her, will you reclaim your prize?”

With that question, Neville envisioned Arabella passed from man to man until she ended her days as a sick, bedraggled wharf side whore or beggar.

His seduction would be to blame.

No, she was willing. She was as guilty of her fate as he.

Yet if he had not been so determined to seduce her in the beginning …

“I am done with her,” he replied when he realized that the duke was still looking at him intently. “Or perhaps not. And perhaps the king will not tire of her.”