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      ‘And how long do you expect to be gone?’ Lady Elizabeth Oxenden, seated in the window embrasure of the library at Winteringham Priory, addressed her son.

      ‘Two weeks. Possibly three.’ Viscount Marlbrooke stood behind the desk, leafing through a sheaf of estate papers. He was dressed for travel, his cloak, gloves and flamboyantly plumed hat cast negligently on the chair by the door. ‘I trust that you will be quite comfortable during my absence. Verzons will see to all your comforts. And there is, of course, Felicity.’

      Indeed there was. She did not care to dwell too much on the thought. The grey light that dulled the brocade curtains and barely crept into the distant corners of the room matched her mood perfectly.

      ‘I beg you will not leave me too long at Felicity’s mercy. I need someone I can talk with, without having to watch my every word in case it offends her sensibilities.’ She deliberately kept the tone light. She would not burden him with a need to dance attendance on his mother.

      ‘Would I do such a thing?’ He raised his eyes to hers, humour glinting, his expression one of surprised innocence. Studying the slight, pretty woman with sable hair, now heavily streaked with silver, he allowed her to set the tone and direction of the exchange.

      ‘Quite possibly.’

      ‘Find her something to do. There must be enough attics to clear out in this place to keep her from under your feet.’

      But then I would be lonely. ‘What an excellent suggestion. Felicity excels at organisation. I will tell her you suggested it.’

      ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. She would immediately balk at the suggestion.’ They smiled at each other, in perfect understanding.

      ‘I suppose, Marcus, that you will find the opportunity to visit Whitehall?’ Lady Elizabeth deliberately turned her eyes to the view beyond the window. Although she might wish herself back in London with its distractions and glamour, she found it difficult to hide her censure of some of the more extreme elements of the Restoration Court.

      ‘Of course. Do I detect a hint of disapproval?’

      ‘Well …’

      Marlbrooke cast the papers on to the desk and moved with agile grace to sit opposite her. ‘You should know, madam, that it pays me to keep my name and person in the King’s mind. Charles is gracious and affable, but notoriously fickle. And since I need his favour yet for the security of my inheritance here at the Priory, I will pay my respects to him with due humility and considerable flattery.’ His black brows rose in faint mockery. ‘I find that I have become adept at it. Do you not approve?’

      ‘I would—’ she frowned ‘—if our esteemed Sovereign Lord were not such a bad example for any man to follow. There, now! I don’t suppose I should have said that, should I?”

      ‘Certainly not! Can this be his Majesty King Charles, our beloved monarch, brought back from exile, who has earned your displeasure in three short years? Are such opinions not treasonable?’ The gleam in his eye was most pronounced. Conversations with Elizabeth Oxenden were always stimulating.

      ‘Most definitely. Rumour says—and I am sure that it is true—that he lost one hundred pounds at cards in one sitting last Twelfth Night.’

      ‘But, as you should know, I do not gamble. Not unless the cards are definitely stacked in my favour.’

      ‘And as for that baggage Barbara Villiers …’

      Marlbrooke laughed aloud. ‘And what do you know about the Lady Castlemaine? Have you been indulging in scandalous gossip again?’

      ‘Of course I have. This place may be some miles from London, but I frequently receive interesting news by letter. Some of it I could blush for!”

      ‘So now you are critical of our new King’s taste in women. Barbara Villiers is a very attractive lady. Ravishing, in fact. A riot of auburn hair, deep blue eyes. And such a figure …’

      ‘And such a trollop!’

      ‘The Villiers blood is as good as yours, Mother.’ He grinned his appreciation of her assessment of the lady who had installed herself so effectively as Charles’s current mistress.

      ‘That may very well be, but she is still—’

      ‘A trollop. As you said. But she has a passionate nature—and Charles is attracted. The lady has presented his Majesty with two healthy offspring already.’

      ‘And neither of them legitimate.’ Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘Of what use is that? The man needs a legitimate heir. My heart goes out to poor Queen Catherine—how she tolerates it I know not. I only hope that you do not bring home such an ambitious, self-seeking harpy as your wife.’

      ‘Mistress Lovell is not an ambitious harpy.’

      ‘Mistress Lovell?’ Elizabeth’s eyes widened, searching in her mind for the last name to be linked in liaison with that of her son. ‘I thought it was Dorothea Templeton.’

      ‘No. That was last month.’

      ‘Oh, Marcus. I wish you would not!’ But she could not prevent a ghost of a smile from warming her expression.

      ‘I know. But allow me a little freedom and pleasure. I promise that while I am at Whitehall I will neither gamble away my fortune nor bring our name into disrepute. Nor marry a trollop. Does that satisfy?’

      ‘I suppose it must.’

      ‘I shall marry soon enough and produce an heir to the estate and grandchildren for you to spoil.’

      ‘It is time.’ She hesitated СКАЧАТЬ