The Pirate and the Pagan (56 page)

At Barbara’s instigation her cousin Buckingham had been urging Charles to set Catherine aside and marry again so there would be a legitimate heir to the throne. But while the court had been at Salisbury, Charles had kept Barbara at arm’s length and seemed to prefer the company of silly Frances Stewart, who trumpeted her virginity at every opportunity until Barbara feared that if Charles did choose another wife, she would have to be virgin. She must get her head together with Buckingham again to see what they could do to destroy Frances Stewart’s reputation.

George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, didn’t realize it but he was skating on very thin ice with the King at the moment. Live and let live was Charles’s attitude toward most of his courtiers, but George had been involved lately in what amounted to plots against the Queen, which was tantamount to hatching plots against the King. He was also creating a public scandal with Anna Maria Shrewsbury and a private one with his invitations for his favorites to dine at his “high” table.

Tonight, however, Charles chose to be in a magnanimous mood toward Buckingham as they sat around the large oval gambling table with a dozen other courtiers. The entire chorus from the King’s Theatre Royal had been invited to entertain at Berkeley’s bachelor party and almost every man at the table had a scantily clad actress perched on his knee. The byplay and bawdy remarks were most diverting, but Edward Montagu, the Earl of Sandwich, one of the few men without a companion, had been winning and was growing impatient with their antics. “God’s flesh, Lauderdale, keep your fingers out of her, you’re getting the cards all sticky,” he drawled wittily.

The Scot, Lauderdale, was one of the coarsest men in the kingdom, but he amused the King and of course that was his saving grace in everyone’s eyes. He asked Sandwich, “Can’t ye get yer prick up these days, laddie? D’ye have a dent in yer balls?”

Sandwich threw him an amused glance. “Actually I’m off sex for the moment. Did you never notice that as the bills of a mistress mount, the pleasure diminishes?”

Buckingham drawled, “I should tempt you by inviting you to dine at my ‘high’ table.”

“I’ve heard whispers about that. What’s it all about?” asked Sandwich.

Buckingham said mockingly, “We dine and place high-stakes bets at the table. We are served by Oriental girls. How about tomorrow
evening? Sandwich? Lauderdale? Your Majesty? Shall we make a foursome?”

The King looked at him quizzically. “I remember a Chinese girl once; did an unbelievably erotic trick with a string of pearls. Well, why not, George, you’ve dined at my high table for years.”

The Duchess of Buckingham was now living in the country because Villiers had made it plain that conjugal bliss was not and never would be to his jaded taste. He had taken the first steps down deviation road and found it to his liking.

When all three of his guests had assembled the following evening, he asked each of them to change into a black silk robe embroidered with golden dragons then led them to an intimate dining room whose centerpiece was indeed a “high” table inlaid with lapis lazuli. The room was paneled in silver and gold and needed little illumination.

The table was set with delicate porcelain and at each setting was a jade dice box which held carved ivory dice. The gentlemen had to sit on tall stools because of the dining table’s height. An air of expectation filled the air as a houseboy entered the room to light incense and theatrically strike a brass gong. Then four Oriental girls, naked even of body hair, entered the room in a procession. Each balanced three golden chafing dishes upon each arm and each girl served only one man. They were served a potent rice wine, and as the anticipation for what would follow piqued their curiosities, Lauderdale opened his mouth to ask a lewd question. Buckingham placed a finger to his lips and said, “Silence is golden. When we do not speak, all our other senses are heightened. We’ll play a simple game of hazard—the dice will speak for us. The wrinkle is, gentlemen, the first to utter a sound pays a fine of five hundred crowns.”

Lauderdale and Sandwich opened their mouths to protest, then thought better of it. Charles’s eyes were like black obsidian as he watched Buckingham with moody cynicism. When the Oriental girls had satisfied one appetite, they prepared themselves to satisfy another. Their slim, naked beauty in the silver and gold light turned their skins to iridescent pearl. They went to the far end of the “high” table, opened a low door, and disappeared inside. Suddenly three pairs of eyes opened wide in shocked surprise as the men felt their robes opened and their sex organs manipulated by the exquisite touch of fingers and lips.

Lauderdale moaned his pleasure in a thick, unintelligible brogue and Buckingham said smoothly, “That will be five hundred
crowns, John. I hope this game doesn’t prove too rich for your blood!”

Charles stood up and said with distaste, “George, I like women. I have a reputation for being a womanizer, as you all know. But I have never knowingly degraded a woman in my life and I’m not about to start doing so now.” He reached a hand below the table and helped the beautiful girl to climb out from underneath. “Come, my dear, I’m sure we can find a bedchamber where we can be private.” He swept George with a look of contempt and led the girl from the room.

Just before Christmas, Buckingham was the central figure in a quarrel with Shrewsbury. Both King and Court were shocked that he fought a forbidden duel with the old earl and killed him, and at last Charles lost his temper and banished his old friend Villiers from Court.

That winter turned out to be the coldest that England had experienced in a century. Rather than hampering the frivolities of the court, however, it aided them in their voracious quest for new and unique diversions. The canal which Charles had designed in St. James Park froze solid and the place was turned into a winter wonderland. A carnival atmosphere prevailed, where skating, sliding, and snowball fights became the fashionable thing to do. The pathways were crowded with sleighs pulled by colorfully decorated miniature horses and a great ice house was constructed where the revelers could warm up with buttered ale, hot rum toddies, and partridge pies.

In January even the River Thames froze over and Londoners imitated the antics of the King’s court and frolicked on the ice like children. Booths sprang up offering food and potent drink to ward off the chill, and of course entrepreneurs offered everything from skates to roast chestnuts. Punch and Judy shows vied for space next to fortune-tellers’ booths. Betting on trotter races became all the rage; surely a pig on ice was the funniest thing Londoners had seen since dancing dogs performed on heated metal platforms.

Summer was far too involved with her own small world to attend the festivities of the winter season. With the help of Auntie Lil she furnished the new house in Friday Street and hibernated there with Mrs. Bishop to await the birth of her child. She noted with grim satisfaction that all the bills presented to Lord Helford through Solomon Storm were paid without question.

The first week of February the midwife moved in, bringing her
birthing stool and all the tools of her trade, and Mrs. Bishop fussed about until Summer thought she would go mad. She longed to escape her confines some days and her imagination flew her off to the isolated beach in Cornwall where she rode Ebony through the azure sea, warmed by the gulf stream. Her beloved Cornwall, where the ever-blooming flowers turned the soft air to scented seduction and every fantasy ended in memories of the first time she had offered her naked breasts to Ru in that perfect pink dawn so long ago.

She was brought back to the present by a sudden agonizing pain which seared through her midsection like a slash from a cutlass. Mrs. Bishop and the midwife urged her to lie back on the slanted birthing stool with its cutout seat, but after an hour’s ordeal she pushed herself to her feet, using the armrests, and paced about like a caged lionness. Day turned into night and labor almost cut her in half, hour after relentless hour. The only relief she felt was when she threw her head back and screamed curses upon Ruark Helford’s head, then as an afterthought she did the same to Rory just in case he was the author of her misery.

Like millions of women before her she swore off men for the rest of her life. Before she had finished she experienced every emotion known to woman, from helpless tears to hysterical laughter at the cruel joke nature played on females to make a child come out the same way it had gone in!

Finally, when she was at the end of her endurance and stopped fighting it, the baby was born. Mrs. Bishop held the male child with reverence. It was as dark and lusty as its father and she feared that its fierce hunger would be too much for the fragile-looking girl the midwife had just tucked into bed. Also, after the curses Summer had rained on the Helfords all day, poor Bish wondered how she would react to a child who was a miniature Helford from its startling green eyes to its prominent male appendage. She needn’t have worried. Summer held up amazingly strong arms. “My son, please, Mrs. Bishop!” She clasped him to her heart fiercely, kissing the fuzzy dark hair which covered his beautifully shaped head, and the baby’s instinct sought her nipple immediately. A selfish little smile curved her lips. The ultimate revenge would be to refuse to share him.

During the next couple of weeks she was swamped by visitors. Maids of honor from Court came calling bringing their cavaliers, then when her address became known, gentlemen dropped by continually
to invite her to supper and a play since she was only a hop, skip, and a jump away from London’s playhouses. Whispers had spread about her that she was no longer married and of course Whitehall thrived on rumor and gossip. She had been steeped in domesticity so long she had forgotten what it was like to dance, to flirt, to fend off a flattering advance from an ardent male admirer.

Lord Helford sent her a note asking when it would be convenient for him to see his son. She picked up a feather quill and answered with one word. “Never!” Then she realized he would immediately rise to the challenge, so she tore up the note and answered evasively, saying she was taking little Ryan to the countryside for the fresh air and would let him know when they came back to town.

When the Queen sent her an invitation to attend her drawing room for an evening of cards, Summer felt the old excitement rise within her. It had been so long since she’d worn anything more elaborate than a day dress and it seemed like years since she had painted her face.

Mrs. Bishop had been urging her to get out and about more. It wasn’t natural for a beautiful young woman to devote every waking moment to a child, she insisted. Summer hid a smile. She knew Bish was dying to get the child to herself more often and in truth she knew she could never leave him in better hands. She wondered if she would be able to fit into her gowns and was amazed to find that her waist was smaller than it had been, although her breasts certainly were not. In the end she chose something they’d never seen her in before. She took a womanlike pleasure in choosing something spectacular, which would make the other ladies mad with envy. She had decided to wear the pale green creation which shimmered to silvery green when candlelight struck it. However, she found that she had to nurse Ryan a second time to reduce her breasts before she could fit into it. She swept high her dark, silken mass of curls and fastened it by carved jade combs and hairpins, then she made up her face, using kohl on her long dark lashes and bright poppy-colored lip rouge. She had some powder which contained gold dust and she patted it across her cheekbones and on the swell of her exposed breasts. Then she carefully selected her patches. She ignored the usual black ones and instead chose tiny gold ones in the shape of crowns. One went high on a cheekbone, the other she stuck on her breast just above and to side of a nipple
which the gown barely covered. Then she wrapped herself in the pièce de résistance, the pale green fur wrap.

The carriage was brought from its stables behind St. Matthew’s Church and she threw the baby a kiss and told Mrs. Bishop not to wait up for her. Summer took a deep breath, held her head high, and walked into the gallery. She heard gasps and whispers, and when she told the uniformed herald to announce her as Lady Summer St. Catherine, the buzz of the crowd became louder and every head swiveled in her direction.

The King gallantly stood beside Catherine to welcome the guests she had invited, and when Summer made her curtsy, she felt his amused eyes upon her. Only after she had exchanged kisses with Catherine did she look into his eyes. She saw appreciation writ plainly for her great beauty and she also saw speculation prompted by her advertisement that she was no longer Lady Helford.

The crowd swallowed her. They were all there, and she had no trouble keeping them apart tonight as she had when she first arrived in London. Lord Sandwich, head of the King’s Fleet; Cornwallis, who flung silver coins at Royal Ceremonies; Albermarle, who tasted the King’s food. The Duke of Ormond, who had once ridden his horse right into Westminster. Ned Hyde, the aging chancellor, and his plain daughter, Ann, Duchess of York. Summer’s eyes swept the room as she nodded to Rochester, Clifford, Ashley, and Arlington.

Then she went suddenly cold, for watching her through narrowed eyes was none other than Ruark Helford. “Death and damnation,” she swore, “if I’d known he’d be here, I wouldn’t have come.” She heard the King’s deep chuckle from his great height and knew that he’d heard her. She looked up at him and said, “I swear to give me confidence, Sire.”

“I know,” he said, tucking her hand in his. “Don’t worry, I’ll stand by you in the face of the enemy.”

She thanked him with a brilliant smile and whispered, “Damn ’em and ram ’em and sink ’em to hell.”

He threw back his head and his great laughter rolled out. She clung desperately to his big hand as Ruark walked a direct path to them and said in deadly quiet tones, “I see the country air wasn’t to your liking, madame.”

“A barefaced lie, I’m afraid, Lord Helford,” she said smugly, bolstered by the King’s protection.

His voice was silky with menace. “I hope you don’t think you can keep me from my own son.”