The King's Falcon (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 3) (47 page)

Once again Francis refrained from remarking that Verney’s reputation didn’t suffer from living with his mistress but that Celia’s good name had been destroyed the day she ran off with her lover.
 
He said, ‘I’m sorry, Celia.
 
But if, as you must surely have guessed, he’s met someone else, obtaining a divorce from Eden is unlikely to make the slightest difference.
 
In fact, if he’s thinking of leaving you --’

‘He
can’t
leave me!’

‘He left his wife fast enough – and, like murder, I don’t suppose the second time is as difficult.
 
And if he
is
thinking of leaving, the prospect of you being free to marry will make him do it sooner rather than later.’

Her mouth set in a mulish line that Francis knew only too well.

She said, ‘He won’t go.
 
I won’t
let
him go.
 
I know things he wouldn’t want told.
 
I’ve even
done
things – things I know I shouldn’t have – because he persuaded me to.’

Francis frowned a little.
 
‘What do you mean – you’ve done things?
 
Such as what?’

‘You don’t need to know. Not yet, anyway.’
 
She stood up.
 
‘But you must write to Eden, Francis.
 
Write to him and tell him he must
hurry
.’

‘So you can blackmail Verney into marriage?
 
If you’ll excuse me saying so, that doesn’t strike me as a particularly good idea – and it’s hardly a suitable basis for matrimony.’

‘I don’t care.’
 
She pulled on her gloves, refusing to meet her brother’s eyes.
 
‘I’ve been waiting years to be Lady Verney – and no one shall take it away from me now.’

~
 
*
 
*
 
~
 
*
 
* ~

Secure in the knowledge that Sir Edward Hyde would keep him informed of the King’s movements and unable, as yet, to initiate further investigations, Ashley devoted the following days to regaining some semblance of physical fitness whilst staying out of Athenais’s way.
 
The first involved walking a little faster and further each day; the second was facilitated by the fact that Athenais had unexpectedly acquired a leading role in the following week’s repertoire and was having to work very hard indeed in order to be ready in time.

The atmosphere at the theatre was one of unusual excitement and heightened tension as the opening night approached.
 
Cryptic hints of the delights to come had been carefully dropped in appropriate quarters but copies of the playbill were being zealously guarded.
 
These announced that
M
é
nage –
a comedy in one act by a distinguished new playwright and featuring the welcome return of Pauline Fleury – would be followed by the immensely popular
Don Japhet d’Armenie
by Paul Scarron.

On the day of the first performance, Ashley managed to limp as far as the Louvre. By the time he got there, his leg was throbbing so badly he had to grit his teeth with every step – which is why he found an unobtrusive corner in which to recover before seeking out Sir Edward Hyde. And that was how he came to see Sir Hugo Verney strolling by with his head bent intimately close to that of a well-endowed blonde, extravagantly dressed in the latest Court fashion and adorned with an indiscriminate array of gem-encrusted jewellery.

Ashley withdrew deeper into the shadows.
 
Francis had told him about Celia’s current anxieties.
 
If the blonde was at the root of them, Ashley thought she was right to be worried.
 
It was possible that Verney had found richer pickings than were to be had at home.

As a matter of courtesy and because he’d been unable to do so for over two weeks, he made his way to the King’s apartments only to discover that His Majesty was playing tennis with Buckingham.
 
Ashley wondered how long the Duke had been back in favour and was glad the current amusement didn’t involve either women or wine.
 
Then he retraced his steps to Hyde’s sitting-room.

Sir Edward received him with raised eyebrows and the immediate offer of a chair.
 

‘I understand you received your injury in some sort of attack?’

‘Yes.
 
Sadly, the streets are not safe these days.’

‘Indeed.
 
So it is not connected --’

‘Not at all.’
 
Whether that was true or not, he’d never know – so there was little point in giving Hyde chapter and verse on a dead man.
 
He said, ‘With regard to Lucy Walter, I have reason to believe that any marriage lines she or anyone else claims to possess will prove to be a forgery. But if you receive further communication on the subject, let me know and I’ll deal with it.
 
For the rest, my recent enquiry as to whether you’d involved a third party was because Sir William Brierley was seen to visit the lady.’

‘Brierley?
 
Why?’

‘Since you didn’t send him, I don’t know.
 
It will probably prove to be nothing – but I may speak to him anyway.’

‘Do so, by all means.’
 
Hyde hesitated and then said, ‘Although I appreciate your current difficulties, I was concerned by your involvement of the new Lord Wroxton.
 
I have seen little of him in recent years, of course … but he was an extremely frivolous youth, much given to idle chatter.’

‘War changes us all,’ returned Ashley, accepting a glass of wine, ‘and someone like Francis, more than most.
 
I trust him
 
– though, as ever, I don’t share my every thought.’

‘Certainly he seemed able to tell me very little.
 
Scarcely more than that you wished to know of any scheme His Majesty might have to visit Le Havre.’

‘I can’t add much to that myself.
 
If my information is correct, the plan is to lure the King, and his brother to Honfleur where assassins will be waiting for them.
 
I don’t know how this is to be done – or by whom – but I’m led to believe that the plot has the secret backing of Secretary Thurloe.’

‘
Thurloe!
’ exclaimed Hyde, sitting bolt upright.
 
‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I can be at this stage.’

‘But that is iniquitous!
 
A man in his position to involve himself in cold-blooded murder?
 
I am appalled.
 
Words fail me.’

Ashley reflected that there was a first time for everything. He opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled by Sir Edward saying more slowly, ‘Although … if the rumours are true, it would make sense.’

‘What rumours?’

‘That Cromwell has been holding secret talks --’

‘Not so very secret if you know about them,’ interposed Ashley dryly. ‘However.
 
Talks about what?’

‘About the possibility of making himself King.’

For a long moment, Ashley simply stared at him.
 
Then, in a tone of pure disgust, he said, ‘Why does that somehow fail to surprise me?’

Hyde nodded.
 
‘Of course, it may not be true – or he may have been cautioned against it.
 
But I understand he holds state in the Banqueting House in much the same way as the late King, so the idea is not inconceivable.’

‘And would make removing the rightful King and his heir a necessity?’

‘Yes.
 
Speaking of which – where did you come by your information?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that.’

‘But you must.
 
I
demand
that you do so.’

‘I can’t.
 
My informant’s life depends on total anonymity.
 
And though I do not doubt your discretion, sir, I’m not willing to break my silence in any circumstances whatsoever – so you’re going to have to trust me.’

Hyde recognised the note of implacability and said huffily, ‘You can’t expect me to be satisfied with that.’

‘I don’t expect it.
 
I do, however, expect you to understand that we’re incredibly lucky to have this information at all.’
 
Ashley paused but it appeared that this time words really
had
failed the Chancellor.
 
‘And I particularly wanted to talk to you about how we proceed.’

‘I’m to be made privy to that, then?’

‘Yes.
 
With your permission, I’d like to try to apprehend the assassins.
 
The fellow who has concocted this scheme may or may not be among them … but if he isn’t and we have his minions, he shouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Also, if Thurloe
is
behind this, I’d like to find evidence of it.
 
I imagine you’d find that useful.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ allowed Sir Edward. ‘But since you appear to have no firm details, how do you expect to manage this?’

‘We know it is to take place in Honfleur.
 
And if the King expresses an inclination to travel to the coast, we’ll know roughly
when
the trap is to be sprung.
 
It’s enough, I think.’

‘You can’t use His Majesty as bait.
 
I won’t --’

‘I’ve no intention of letting His Majesty or his brother within a hundred miles of the place – which is why I specifically asked you not to breathe a word of this in his hearing.
 
I hope you haven’t done so?’

‘Of course not.
 
But if the King is not to set foot in Honfleur, the assassins aren’t likely to show themselves, are they?’

‘No,’ said Ashley, leaning back in his chair and smiling.
 
‘But fortunately, I have some ideas about that.’

*
 
*
 
*

Partly out of curiosity, partly because he’d promised and partly because he guessed the occasion might well present an opportunity for a seemingly chance meeting with One-Eyed Will, Ashley braved the pit at the Marais that evening.
 
His guess proved to be a good one.
 
There, in the front-right off-stage box, sat Francis’s sister and Sir William.
 
Unfortunately, the one next to it was occupied by the Marquis d’Auxerre and his usual coterie of young men.

Ashley decided that, for the time being, the anonymity of the pit was preferable – or would be if he could find a bit of wall to lean against. The place was already packed and more people were still trying to get in.
 
Not without difficulty, he elbowed his way to a suitable spot and tried to ignore the ache in his leg.

Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait.
 
The doors to the auditorium were slammed shut, the stage candles were lit and the curtains parted on Francis’s masterpiece.

The impression was of a scene already well under-way.
 
Amid pants and groans, a couple grappled enthusiastically on an inadequately-sized couch.
 
The man’s wig was askew and his backside pointed upwards.
 
The woman’s coiffeur was collapsing over one eye, her bodice was half-unlaced and the only thing hiding one ample bosom was the male hand clamped firmly over it.

‘It seems that quantity rather than quality is the current fashion,’ remarked an acidulous and slightly bored voice from above.
 
‘But he should beware.
 
Better men than he have been suffocated by my daughter-in-law’s attributes.’

Laughter flowed through the auditorium and a surprising number of people shouted out Pauline’s name.
 
The couple on the couch continued their ungainly struggles until the audience quietened and then exchanged a few sentences which culminated in the daughter-in-law expressing the fear that her husband would find out.

‘No, he won’t,’ said Pauline irritably.
 
‘He inherited his brains from his father – and keeps them in the same place.’

The pit howled … and so it went on.
 
Ashley had thought the play funny when he read it and now he saw Pauline’s tart delivery, sour glances and rare, malicious smiles heightening every nuance and inviting the audience to catch the double-entendres.

It lasted no more than half an hour and, at the end of it, the entire house was in uproar.
 
The audience refused to let the actors leave the stage as they cheered and clapped and stamped.
 
And then the inevitable call went up.

‘Author!
 
Author!’

Ashley’s brows rose and he thought,
Interesting.
 
Will he or won’t he, I wonder?

There was a small delay while the demands grew more and more vociferous.
 
Then Francis walked on to the stage, doffed his hat in a typically elaborate bow and turned to applaud the cast.

Glancing automatically up at Celia, Ashley watched her face freeze and saw her fan drop from suddenly nerveless fingers.
 
He wondered if she’d recognised herself in the character of the wife and then decided that her vanity probably wouldn’t allow it.

Francis bowed again to the audience and acknowledged his cast with a wide smile and a graceful sweep of his arm.
 
Then he crossed the boards to Pauline, took both of her hands in his own and raised each in turn to his lips, before stepping back in deference and inviting the audience to show their appreciation.

‘Fleury!’
 
came the collective cry.
 
‘Fleury!’

Pauline smiled upon them and achieved a gracefully dignified curtsy.
 
Then, drawing Francis with her, she stepped back into the line … and the curtains closed.

Celia was still looking as if the ceiling had fallen on her head.
 
Rising, Sir William said something to her and, when she nodded dumbly, turned to leave the box.
 
Ashley abandoned his corner and set off to intercept him.

They met on the stairs and Will came to an abrupt halt.

‘Ashley?
 
How fortuitous.
 
At last the chance of some less than asinine conversation.’

Ashley accepted the hand he was offered and grinned.

‘Finding Celia Verney a trial, are you?’

‘My dear, the woman’s tongue runs like a fiddlestick – or at least it did until the author made his entrance.
 
She hasn’t said, of course, but he’s a good-looking fellow so naturally one can’t but suspect an intrigue.’

‘
You
can’t,’ retorted Ashley.
 
‘But you’re quite mistaken.
 
The author is her brother.’

‘Her brother?
 
Viscount Wroxton?
 
Is
he?’

‘He is.’