Royal Harlot Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  READERS GUIDE

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for Duchess

  Named a Book Sense Notable Book by the American Booksellers Association

  “There are . . . many reasons to recommend this book, from its myriad believable characters [to its] polished and fluent prose . . . glorious detail…a true escape into the past.”

  —The Historical Novels Review (Editor’s Choice Pick)

  “All the trappings of supermarket tabloids: intrigue, treachery, deceit, and sexual scandals.” —Publishers Weekly

  “Susan Holloway Scott has brought to life the racy world of post-Restoration England in her richly researched and beautifully written Duchess.” —Karen Harper, author of The First Princess of Wales

  “No dry dust of history here, but a vivid portrait of an intriguing woman with all her flaws and strengths. Rich in period detail, the novel also has all the ingredients necessary for a compelling read: conflict, suspense, intrigue, and the romance between Sarah and John Churchill, one of history’s great love stories.” —Susan Carroll, author of The Huntress

  “Compelling. It grips the reader from the very first sentence and never lets go. Scott does a wonderful job of bringing Lady Sarah and her world to life.” —Jeanne Kalogridis, author of I, Mona Lisa

  “As wickedly entertaining as Sarah Churchill herself. . . . Scott brings Sarah blazingly alive in all her sharp-edged beauty and determination. Not to be missed!” —Mary Jo Putney, author of The Marriage Spell

  New American Library

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745,

  Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2007

  Copyright © Susan Holloway Scott, 2007

  Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Scott, Susan Holloway.

  Royal harlot: a novel of the Countess of Castlemaine and King Charles II/Susan Holloway Scott.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-4406-2028-7

  1. Cleveland, Barbara Villiers Palmer, Duchess of, 1641-1709—Fiction. 2. Charles II,

  King of England, 1630-1685—Fiction. 3. Mistresses—Great Britain—Fiction. 4. Great

  Britain—Kings and rulers—Paramours—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3560.A549R69 2007

  813’.6—dc22 2006102816

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Prologue

  FEBRUARY 1660

  I was, I think, a gambler born.

  I don’t mean a few pennies at whist or ombre, a piddling hand of pasteboard cards. I speak of grander games, where the stakes are power, titles, great fortunes, even the heart of the King of England. Mark you, I’m no coward. I wouldn’t have survived so long if I were. I know how to take my risks, and my vengeance, too, on those who dare to cross me. But how I did parlay my beauty and wit to rise so high: that was the game I chose, the game that became my life.

  A gambler, yes. Yet as I sat in the hired carriage not far from the beach and the sea, I was not half so sure of my courage. I was only nineteen then, and I’d never yet strayed from England. The moonless sky was black and wet as pitch, the sea below it clipped with white-caps. The little sloop that was to take me across to Holland bobbed and tugged at her moorings, her crew scrambling about her narrow deck with their heads bent against the wind and spray as they made their last preparations to sail. It seemed a woeful vessel to trust with my life, as well as with the hopes of so many others.

  “There’s the signal, Barbara.” Beside me in the carriage, my husband, Roger, pointed at the lantern held aloft by a sailor. “You must go to them now.”

  “I know.” I retied the ribbons of my hood beneath my chin, not because they’d come loose, but to give my anxious fingers some occupation. My maidservant Wilson had already climbed down from the carriage, and was waiting for me in the rain outside. “Though I wish the sailors could wait until dawn.”

  “Oh, yes, so all the Commonwealth’s navy can be sure to come and bid you a happy farewell.” He sighed with exasperation. “You knew this wouldn’t be a pleasure boat when you agreed to go, Barbara. It’s too late now for you to change your mind.”

  “I’ve not changed my mind, Roger,” I said, wishing he’d show a bit of concern for my welfare. “I only hoped the weather were less fierce, that is all.”

  “It’s better this way.” His pale face was serious in the carriage’s half-light. “I’ve told you before that if you’re caught, no one will come to your rescue, especially i
f you’ve no time to destroy the letters. You’re far safer on a night such as this.”

  I nodded, smoothing my hand along the front of my bodice with a flutter of excitement. I was courting danger, no mistake. Hidden between my whalebone stays and my smock were letters of great importance to the Royalist cause, letters of support and promises of money for King Charles in exile. Sewn into my quilted petticoats were gold coins, too, destined for the royal pockets. Not once in my short life had there been a king upon the empty English throne. As Lord Protector, Cromwell, aided by his sour-faced followers, had seen to that with a long and hateful civil war, and had hidden away all the country’s natural merriment beneath a gray pall of restrictive laws and false piety.

  But now Cromwell was dead, and the government he’d created was falling in crumbling disarray. There were more and more of us around the country working for the restoration of the monarchy. Roger was thick in the middle of the plotting and planning, and well trusted by the Royalist leaders, which was why, as his wife, I’d been chosen as a courier. Yet the old laws were still in place, and if I were captured and the papers I carried discovered, I’d be damned as a spy and sent to the Tower until I was tried for treason. If convicted, I’d be executed, for there was little mercy to be found among the parliamentary judges for Royalists.

  “You’re the only one of us who could go, Barbara,” Roger continued. “There’s no one else who could be spared from our work in London.”

  “You mean there was no one else who was willing to sail to Flanders and risk the smallpox.” I’d had the disease the year before, one of the rare folk to survive, and with my face left clear and unpocked, too. I could travel with impunity into any outbreak, such as the one now ravaging the city of Brussels.

  “Your immunity is a consideration, of course,” Roger admitted. “But that’s only part of the reason you are being sent, Barbara. I shouldn’t have to remind you of how important His Majesty’s return is to my family’s fortunes. I’ve personally given over a thousand pounds I could ill afford to support the king.”

  I’d grown vastly tired of hearing of this famous contribution, trotted out whenever Roger wished to puff his own importance. “You wish such praise for your precious thousand pounds, while you think nothing that I’m to risk my life for the same cause. A pretty balance, that.”

  His voice turned sharp, the way it often did when he criticized me. “You’ve been quite willing to enjoy the benefits of being Mistress Palmer. It’s high time you returned the favor to my father and me, and prove for once you can be an obedient wife.”

  I looked away at the spray-dappled glass, refusing to let him open this old quarrel again. We’d so many of them between us for less than a year of marriage, most centered on what he perceived to be my excessive frivolity. Yet I was no better nor worse than the others among our Royalist friends. With so much unhappiness in our war-ravaged pasts and only uncertainty to our futures, we all took our pleasure wherever we found it, and gave no more thought when it was done. Roger had known when we wed that he hadn’t been my first lover, any more than I had been his, and if he continued this harshness with me, I vowed he wouldn’t be my last, either. Was it any wonder that I now lamented the grievous mistake I’d made, letting my mother push me from her house into such a marriage?

  As if to prove it, Roger’s lecture was continuing still. “I expect you to present my family’s case to His Majesty, how much we’ve sacrificed by supporting him, and how we hope to be rewarded for our loyalty. Be agreeable to the king, Barbara, and make good use of every minute you have in his company.”

  “But I will, Roger,” I said, and I meant it far more than my husband, so full of smug conceit, would realize. Even in impoverished exile, Charles Stuart was reputed to be everything a monarch should: tall, virile, intelligent, and charming. How could I not wish to break free of my husband’s overbearing shadow to meet such a man?

  “Obey me in this, Barbara,” Roger warned, his misguided idea of a farewell between husband and wife. “I’ll hear of it if you don’t.”

  “Perhaps you’ll hear of it sooner if I do.” I opened the carriage door, my cloak whipping around me, driven as if from my own anticipation as by the wind. “Good-bye, Roger.”

  Four days of hard travel later, first by sea to Antwerp and then by poor Dutch roads, I was in Brussels, in the Spanish Netherlands. I recall little of this city beyond that the stone houses had strange false fronts and jagged roofs and that there were many Romish churches and statues, with golden crosses glinting high into the sky.

  I sent my maidservant ahead, and repaired at once to His Majesty’s lodgings. These were my orders, true, but I’d imagined our meeting so often, and in so many ways, that I was all afever to see him at last. Because I’d neither time nor opportunity to change my gown or dress my hair, as I would have wished, I prayed the king would interpret my disarray as proof of my urgency and loyalty to the crown. Besides, I was still of the winsome age where beauty needs little artifice or improvement, and I counted on the brisk glow that the sea air had given to my cheeks and how my dark chestnut hair had been whipped into curl.

  And when I saw the meanness of the royal exile, I realized, too, how wrong it would have been to present myself in finery. I’d heard His Majesty was poor, but I’d no notion of how sadly reduced and impecunious his situation truly was. I was greeted by Sir Edward Hyde, the king’s closest advisor and his lord chancellor, an older gentleman with a ruddy, veined face and watery pale eyes. While Hyde went to fetch the king, he put me to wait in a tiny chamber too humble for a country post inn in England.

  Behind my hidden cache of letters, my heart thumped with anticipation. I’d scarce time to bite my lips to make them redder and to untie my cloak before I heard the door open behind me. I turned, and there, at last, was His Majesty.

  His Majesty. Those two words couldn’t begin to convey the impression he made upon me. He was standing before the fireplace, the tallest man I’d ever met, dark and handsome as a gypsy, with thick black hair to his shoulders and a curling mustache to match. Hardship and suffering made him look older than his twenty-nine years, as did his somber dress of a plain black doublet and breeches, worn and frayed along the hems. Yet there was a regal presence to him that withstood mere clothes or poverty, and if I’d seen him among ten score of other men, I would have known him at once as their king.

  “Your Majesty, Mistress Palmer,” Sir Edward was saying, though I scarce heard him, I was so dazzled by his sovereign master. “Mistress Palmer has come as an agent from your friends at home, sir.”

  I bowed my head and swept my curtsey, low and elegant. I had been born a Villiers, after all, and knew how such things were done.

  “I trust you will be my friend, too, Mistress Palmer, as well as my agent,” the king said, his smile warm and welcoming. “How generous of Palmer to share his wife with me!”

  I smiled up at him, delighted that he’d say such a wicked, teasing thing to me. He was still a bachelor king, and it showed. “I am your friend and your agent, Your Majesty, and whatever else it pleases you for me to be.”

  “Whatever, Mistress Palmer?” he asked, chuckling at my boldness. He glanced down from my face to my tight-laced bodice as I rose, and his open interest made his black eyes bright as jet. “Would that all my subjects were so obliging.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” Sir Edward interrupted with doleful resignation. “But might the lady be asked to present the letters?”

  “Of course, Sir Edward,” I murmured. “Of course.”

  I raised my chin and tipped my head to one side, so my eyes would be shaded by my lashes. If the king would wish to play the teasing game, then I would as well. “They’ve not left my person since clearing England, nor have the gold pieces.”

  I turned away for only a moment to pull the letters from beneath my stays, a show of modesty for Roger’s sake. But it was the king who was smiling when I placed the letters into his hand, and I remembered with droll amusement how my husband had
ordered me to be agreeable to His Majesty.

  “They carry your heat,” he observed, then passed the letters beneath his nose to discover my scent, too, upon them. “What fortunate letters.”

  Sir Edward cleared his throat. “You’ve brought gold for the cause as well, Mistress Palmer?”

  “Oh, yes,” I answered, not looking away from the king. “I’ve great sums sewn into my skirts.”

  That made the king laugh aloud. “We’ve never had such a resourceful agent, Sir Edward, have we?”

  But Sir Edward looked more pained than amused. Clearly he’d been down this path with his royal charge before. For all that the king was reputed to be a man of sober habits, not given to excesses of drink or intemperate speech, he had a great fondness for beautiful women—a vice that seemed no vice at all for such a well-made, manly sovereign.

  “I must urge caution, sir,” he warned. “Pray be mindful of your precious health, and the risk of the smallpox so much in the city.”

  “But I’ve had the smallpox, Sir Edward,” I said cheerfully, never so pleased to have survived that oft-fatal disease. “His Majesty won’t take it from me.”

  “And so, Sir Edward, have I, as you must recall, and so there’s no danger at all.” The king handed the older gentleman the letters, as much as dismissing him. “Perhaps you should begin reading these, while I tend to the gold.”

  Yet once we were alone, the king’s mood turned more serious.

  “I thank you, Mistress Palmer,” he said softly as he came to stand closer before me. “By coming here, you’ve risked much danger for my cause.”

  I smiled up at him. “You’ve risked more for England.”

  “For England.” His dark eyes filled with melancholy pride. “Did your family follow mine?”

  I should have spoken of the Palmers then, as Roger had bidden, but instead it seemed more natural to speak of my own family’s sorrows.

  “My father was Lord Grandison, sir,” I said, “and in your father’s service he was killed during the assault on General Prior’s fort at Bristol. I was not two years old, and never knew him. My mother’s fortune was soon after confiscated, and she and I together were left paupers, to manage as we could.”