The Perfect Royal Mistress by Diane Haeger Read Free Book Online Page A

before.” Buckingham’s glance slid from one privy councillor to the next. “But, of course, that will not happen.”
    The king’s gaze followed Buckingham’s. The silence stretched out for what felt an eternity. “My father trusted you implicitly, and I am prepared to trust you, Clarendon,” he finally said. “For the time being, until the French respond to our counterproposal, we take no further aggression toward the Dutch, and we will patrol our harbors but keep the ships unmanned so that we can begin to help the people build shelter.”
    “Rob Peter to pay Paul?” said Lauderdale beneath his breath.
    “Mark me, it will be a grievous mistake,” said Buckingham, who turned his head and gave a little grunt of disapproval which no one but the king heard.
     

    He was propped by a spray of tasseled velvet pillows, in his tall poster bed, with a massive tester behind it. At his feet, and near the fire, was a collection of his beloved spaniels, dozing. The girl would be quietly brought to him, like all of the others, by William Chiffinch, the keeper of His Majesty’s privy closet. Afterward, she would be led away. Like the same tune played too many times, the melody now was gratingly predictable. There was no love in the act, nor any longer even the wild excitement of anticipation. Other than what he felt for his children, and he loved them all deeply, there was no love in his life, no passionate love, any longer. Though he had all of the richness and grandeur that had eluded him in his poverty-ridden exile, his heart was a more difficult void to fill. The harder he searched for someone he could love, the more he found women seduced by the trappings of royalty. Hortense Mancini was first to make an impression on his heart, Lucy Walter was first to make an impression in his life; she was Monmouth’s mother. Then Barbara. Moll Davies. It had become a game to him, to see how long it might take to uncover an honest heart. Catherine loved him. Why, the Portuguese ambassador queried, did a lonely king not pay greater heed to that? Charles did care for her. He enjoyed her company. He even trusted her judgment. But to Catherine, duty was love—he was her duty, not a great passion. They had married, sight unseen. Yet still, even after four years, she was rigid with him. Beyond the necessary encounters to, God willing, produce an heir, there was no playfulness, scant show of affection, and unrelenting prayers every time immediately afterward.
    The decision about war with the Dutch plagued him almost as much as his private life. Continuing on with aggression could prove a dangerous mistake. Like infidelity. Charles remembered well what had happened the last time. Common sense gave way to English avarice. Hundreds slaughtered at sea. A devastating cost. A humiliating defeat. There was a soft rap at the door, and thoughts of war vanished into a light swirl of juniper perfume.
    An hour after she had gone, Charles could remember nothing about the girl.
    Unable to sleep, he rose, and drew on a brocade dressing gown. He went toward a ring of moonlight cast through the grand Elizabethan oriel window, which looked onto his own formal gardens. Here, protected on all sides by Whitehall Palace, he could almost make believe he lived a quiet life in the country where everything beyond the palace walls was clean and safe. Yet, in spite of the danger, Charles was often drawn beyond his protective cocoon. He loved to be anonymous, to slip in and out of the world of which he could never truly be a part. The ordinary world. It was why he went into London so often without his wig and his finery. While there had been hunger and fear in his impoverished exile years, Charles had found a kinship with common people that had changed him forever. He opened the window and a cool rush of night air washed over him, reviving him. Ghosts…so many ghosts at night…
    “Stop! No, I’ll not listen!”
    “You will listen, Charles! They’ve cut off his