“Did Roxhythe hint at that?”
“It may have been. He was very secret.”
“Then I do not think he has authority,” said the Countess.
“But it might be well to tell the King that he has.”
“So I think. And yet—we do not want him in England.”
“My dear Sunderland, the man could ruin you. It would never do to arrest him.”
“He may ruin me in any case. He was deep in Halifax his confidence at first.”
“If he discloses that he ruins himself. He would only do it if he were accused of the Monmouth plot.”
“In fact, it is a threat.”
“A powerful one,” smiled my lady. “He is a great man still. Placate him.”
“God’s life, I want no dealings with him!”
“You are sometimes a fool, Robert. He would be useful.”
“Tchah! In what way?”
“In many ways.” Her ladyship yawned delicately. “If he chose, he could ingratiate himself with James, who is swayed this way and that. With his help you could gain the power you lack.”
“I can gain it myself in time. James will forget the Exclusion. When has Roxhythe ever worked with any man?”
“But the King is dead now,” said her ladyship gently.
An invitation came from the Countess of Sunderland to the Marquis of Roxhythe. Would he wait on her at his convenience?
Roxhythe laid the note down.
“Is it worth while?” he pondered.
Power was within his grasp. And yet. … What did he want with it? He had no wish to serve James. All these years he had plotted and worked for Charles. Now Charles was dead, and life held nothing more for him. In fact, he was tired of life. Why not go into exile? Why remain in this accursed land of memories? He was Roxhythe. … All these men wanted to see him fall. Well … they should not have that pleasure. He had never played the coward’s part. … Yet what did he want with Sunderland? He had no desire to meddle in politics. James could go to destruction in his own way. There was Monmouth. … By God, what could he not make of Monmouth if he chose! Monmouth was weak; he could be influenced. My lord fully believed that he could bring Monmouth to the throne. To what avail? He had no interest in the Duke—no interest anywhere. Why trouble to intrigue for that puny youth? It would mean work, hard work. And his master had not wished Monmouth to come to the throne.
There was the Orange. … No, by heaven! William mistrusted him. And William wanted no help. William was a man, even as he was. A man who stood alone. Alone! … Well—why not? Why not use Sunderland to raise himself to his former level? Return to Whitehall. … Why not? Was he to turn sentimental now, after all these years?
Whitehall … packed with bittersweet memories. Whitehall. … The King’s closet. … No.
Suddenly he rose. God, why not submit to arrest? Why defend himself? It were an easy way out, after all. … Too easy. And they would not arrest him. They dared not.
He picked up Lady Sunderland’s letter. Little less than a summons. Mordieu, who were the Sunderlands to condescend to him? He flung the letter into the fire. He would ignore it.
’Twere amusing to hold Sunderland in fear. And if they chose to make away with him, so much the better. For the present he would continue as he had always done. They should not see his misery.
What was there tomorrow? A supper-party at Buckhurst’s. He would go. Buckhurst was not his enemy. And Sedley. And Digby. And Fortescue. There were a score of men who liked him for his easy wit; a score of men whom he had not harmed.
He looked round the quiet room. Memories, naught but memories. Where was Christopher? If only Christopher were there today, seated in his old place. … He bit his lip. Christopher had chosen the better part. The better part. … The better part … ?
His eyes grew less hard. Had Christopher chosen the better part?
“No! Mordieu, no!”
IX
The Sunderlands
My Lord Sunderland spoke humbly.
“Sire, I think it were best to leave Roxhythe.”
James’ eyes flashed.
“What now? Does he refuse to leave the country?”
“He hinted, Sir, that it would serve him better to remain in London.”
James pulled at his lip.
“What means he?”
“I think, Sir, that he counts himself safe.”
“How? What do you know of him? I can convict him of his guilt in dealing with Monmouth!”
“Sire, he dealt with Monmouth that he might the better serve King Charles.”
“Who will believe that?” James was scowling.
Sunderland looked at him significantly.
“It may be, Sir, that he hath that which will prove it.”
James’ brow grew yet more black.
“Explain yourself!”
“Sir, almost he told me that he had written authority from King Charles.”
There was a pause.
“So I am to allow him to plot and work against me?” A peevish note sounded in the King’s voice.
Sunderland was deprecating.
“I hardly like to advise Your Majesty. …”
“What is your advice?”
“Your Majesty has doubtless considered that Roxhythe makes a powerful ally.”
“Do you dare to insinuate that I should placate the man?” cried James, wrathfully.
My lord was shocked.
“Sir! Such a course were unworthy of you. Roxhythe may seek to placate you.”
“I want no dealings with him!”
“Then of course Your Majesty must have none. Roxhythe is a clever man.”
“An untrustworthy man!”
“Your Majesty says very truly. Nevertheless Your Majesty might make use of him.”
“I dislike him!”
“In that case. …” Sunderland spread out his hands. “Why trouble to notice his existence?” He watched the King’s face covertly, and noted with satisfaction that this seed promised to take root. James said no more.
The weeks passed slowly by. It was one day in March that Lady Sunderland met Roxhythe.
She went to Lady Duncannon’s soirée. Lady Duncannon welcomed Whigs and Tories alike, so Wharton met Halifax, and the Sunderlands, true Tories, rubbed shoulders with every Whig who came. To wit, Lady Sunderland, who sat in close conversation with Lord Macclesfield, lately concerned in the Monmouth plot.
A little stir was caused by the entrance of Lord Roxhythe. Lady Sunderland gripped Macclesfield’s arm.
“La! Roxhythe!”
Macclesfield nodded.
“He goes everywhere.”
“What
