SEVENTY-THREE
HANDS BEHIND his back, the king paced determinedly through the Long Gallery, a dozen of his beloved spaniels yapping at his and Colin’s heels.
“I need to beg a favor from you, Greystone.”
“Anything, Charles. You know you need only to ask. What is it?”
His Majesty eyed the busy passage. “Wait till we’re in the laboratory; it’s the only chamber in all of Whitehall where I’m afforded privacy.” Frowning, he paused on the threshold to the Royal Bedchamber. “Od’s fish, how did they get here before me?”
With a sigh, he shouldered his way through the cluster of courtiers who gathered there day and night, competing shamelessly to do him the smallest personal favors.
“Would you like your slippers, sire?”
“A warming brick for your bed?”
“A cup of chocolate?”
“No. No, thank you. No.” Charles beckoned Colin after him, the spaniels darting in their wake. “Quick, into the laboratory before someone offers to hold my chamber pot for me.”
Colin laughed as they shut the door behind them, the clamoring courtiers and barking dogs safely on the other side. “And why not? I hear tell the French court obliges Louis so.”
“Louis the Fourteenth I’m not,” Charles said dryly.
After the confusion of the public areas, the laboratory seemed eerily quiet. Colin’s gaze swept over the profusion of paraphernalia. “Ford would have the time of his life in here,” he said, making a mental note to secure him an invitation.
King Charles only nodded distractedly. The ill-synchronized chiming of his clock collection accentuated the expectant silence. Colin leaned back against a counter, nearly knocking over a telescope in the process. As he whirled to right it, Charles drew a deep breath.
“I’m certain you’ve heard about our embarrassment at the hands of the Dutch.”
“I’ve been out in the country, not out of the country,” Colin replied in an attempt at wry humor.
The king seemed so very serious.
Just two days earlier, the Dutch War had escalated, with disastrous results. Aided by a lack of defense funding and interest from the English government, the Dutch had cruised right up the River Thames, burned three of the largest vessels of the Royal Navy, and sailed back out to sea with the pride of the English fleet, the flagship the Royal Charles, towed behind them as a prize. It was, so far, the most humiliating moment of Charles’s reign.
Yesterday, Charles and his brother James had been on the scene, supervising the sinking of ships in the Thames and its creeks to block a second attack. But it had been too little, too late.
Nobody commented upon Charles’s hard work in defense of the Thames. To the contrary, the talk in London was about how he’d spent the night of the catastrophe dining with his son Monmouth, in the company of his mistress Castlemaine, where they all passed a merry evening hunting a moth around the chamber. He was suffering mightily for his exaggerated reputation of pursuing pleasure over responsibility. The Dutch War had to come to a conclusion, and soon.
“The first step towards peace is to detach Louis from the Dutch,” Charles explained, revealing his plan. “With the French as our ally, the Dutch will be forced to negotiate a treaty.”
“Why should Louis want to side with us?” Colin asked. “Because he’s your cousin?”
Charles shook his head. “One cannot rely on family relationships in foreign policy. At present, Louis covets their territory more than he desires our colonies.” He picked at some lint on his velvet surcoat. “Louis has no real quarrel with England. Indeed, my reign has seen only one battle between us, and he emerged such a clear victor that he must be inclined to cooperate now.”
Colin frowned, confused. “I’ve heard of no fighting with France,” he ventured cautiously. He walked around the chamber, skimming a hand over microscopes, magnets, and air pumps.
“It was a social battle,” Charles conceded with a sigh. He began pacing. “Since the fire, I’ve grown weary of the complicated fripperies we adorn ourselves with here at court. Plumes, periwigs, lace, ruffles, ribbons, chains…it’s all quite ridiculous, don’t you agree?”
Colin couldn’t have agreed more, as evidenced by his pared-down version of court apparel. Still, as Charles himself had brought the dandified fashions from the Continent, a prudent courtier wouldn’t be too quick to assent. “One could look at it that way,” he said guardedly.
“Last October, I designed for myself a more reserved costume. A long black coat, slashed here and there to show a white shirt, with a close-fitting waistcoat to match. Quite practical, I thought.”
“And?” Colin failed to see what this had to do with the Dutch War, or a supposed French War, or any war at all.
“Well, Louis heard about it and promptly dressed all his footmen in my new uniform. I’m afraid the new style was blown out of existence by a gale of laughter,” Charles lamented. He stopped pacing and turned to Colin. “A surprise attack, and a clean victory.”
Colin had to choke back laughter. Louis XIV, the so-called “Sun King,” had pulled off a practical joke of such unmitigated virtuosity, it turned Colin green with envy.
What a coup!
“I suppose it’s just as well,” King Charles added mournfully. “Even though the court, naturally, followed my lead, I heard later that they all felt like blasted penguins.”
They both shared a laugh over that, which was a relief to Colin, since he was about to explode anyway.
When the last chuckles had died away and the king’s face had settled back into worried lines, Colin asked carefully, “And what is it that I can do for you?”
Charles took a step closer. “I need you to carry a letter to my mother in Paris. I cannot correspond with Louis directly; it would raise suspicion.”
The last thing Colin wanted to do was leave Amy, pregnant and vulnerable, to travel to France, a place full of sad childhood memories. He hated France. And there was the debt—what would happen to the estate’s productivity without him there
