The smile faded. James turned his head away.
Someone knocked on the door. A page entered holding the door for Roxhythe.
James rose quickly.
My lord bowed first to Madame, and then to the Duke.
“I crave your pardon for this intrusion,” he said. “His Majesty sent me to request your presence in his room, sir.”
James straightened his cravat.
“I thank you, my Lord. Madame, you will excuse me?” He left the room.
Down in the streets below were many lights. A torchlight procession was passing. There was much noise of shouting and of cheering. My lord went over to the window, looking out.
“Roxhythe,” said Madame abruptly. “Why does my brother dislike you?”
My lord glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Does he?” he asked.
“You know it. Do you annoy him?”
“You see,” apologized Roxhythe. “I am of a flippant turn of mind.”
That was all he would say. Dissatisfied, Madame broached the subject to the King next morning.
“Charles, do you know that James hates Roxhythe?”
The King was lolling on a couch.
“My dear, he would hate a fly if it teased him.”
“Does Roxhythe tease him?”
“He has a certain air which distresses poor Jamie,” smiled the King.
“It is a pity,” she mused. “James thinks that you do not give him your whole confidence.”
Charles’ mournful eyes widened.
“Dear, dear!”
“He is afraid that you will walk into some trap of Louis’ making. He thinks you are a fool.”
“I know,” said the King. “And I think him one. Yet we are really very fond of each other. An amusing situation.”
“I wish that you understood one another better,” she sighed. “Or rather that James understood you.”
“So do not I,” said Charles. “We are very well as we are.” He surveyed her languidly. “Tomorrow the bond is to be signed?”
“By your Commissioners, and by de Croissy. You’ve no misgivings?”
“None,” he answered. The glance that passed between them was full of meaning.
“I have to thank you for your patience in the matter, Henriette.”
She shook her head.
“No, no! I am so glad to have been of use!”
He put his arm about her.
“You are a very charming child,” he said, and kissed her. “I would I might take you back with me to London.”
Something sparkled on the end of her lashes.
“Perhaps—I wish—so—too,” she said.
He stroked her bright curls. For a while there was silence.
“So I am to have La Kéroualle?” said the King at length.
Madame smiled again.
“You asked for her long ago,” she parried. She was finding a novel amusement in turning the hand she held this way and that so that the light caught the rings on his fingers.
“So I did. Louis must think well of her to send her to me.”
“She is very beautiful,” said Madame, still holding his hand.
“And very cunning?” The long fingers clasped hers.
“Charles, do you not want her at Whitehall?”
“I shall be delighted to have her,” he retorted.
“She comes not as a spy, but as a—”
“Secret agent. A nice distinction. But no matter.”
“I really do not wonder that James is annoyed with you,” said Madame severely.
XI
Unrest
Summer. Christopher sat on the broad terrace at Bevan Court, looking out across the gardens into the blue haze. Before him the great house reared up its turrets, creeper-hung, against the cloudless sky. Clipped yew hedges dotted the lawns at his feet; flowers grew in stone pots around him. It was very still, very hot. Somewhere a bird was twittering sleepily to its mate; lying on the ground beside Christopher was a huge mastiff, his boon companion.
Christopher contemplated the scene restfully. He felt at peace with the world. So much so that presently he closed his eyes.
Lady Frances came out of the old Gothic door on to the terrace. For an instant she stood irresolute. Then she saw Christopher and smiled.
Christopher felt light hands across his eyes.
“Guess!” whispered my lady, behind him.
He jumped up.
“Lady Frances, of course!”
She came round the seat and sat down. The mastiff wagged his tail; then he went to sleep again.
“How hot it is!” said her ladyship drowsily. “How beautiful!”
Christopher agreed.
“I came out to give you this,” continued Frances. She handed him a packet. “The courier has just arrived.”
Christopher turned it over lazily.
“Roderick,” he said. “Have you any news of my lord?”
“A short note. He is escorting the King here in two days time. He adjures you to have everything in readiness.”
“I don’t think there is anything more to be done,” said Christopher. “I have racked my brains to discover something.”
“There is nothing. Do you read that letter! Perhaps your brother will have news of the Prince.”
Christopher broke upon the seals.
It was late August of 1672. The past years had been fairly uneventful at home except that in October of 1670 the Prince of Orange had come home on a visit to England. Roderick had been in his train, and the brothers had seen a great deal of one another. Roderick had succeeded in annoying Christopher by regarding him in studied gloom, and Roxhythe with scarce veiled disapproval. Christopher was thereby made uncomfortable. He was grateful to my lord for asking Roderick to Bevan House but at the same time he wished that he had not done it. He felt that Roderick was not a credit to him. It afforded him some satisfaction to see that Roderick was impressed by his standing in society. It was very pleasant when Lord Buckhurst strolled into the library where they were seated, and hailed him by his Christian name, asking some questions concerning Roxhythe’s whereabouts. Roderick was so disdainful and affected such superior airs that little incidents such as that filled him with unholy joy.
Abroad much had taken place. In France Madame had died suddenly, mysteriously, some said poisoned. In Holland, William Nassau had gradually broken away from De Witt. Lately he had been made, at twenty-one, Captain-General of the army, and was fighting Louis with all the energy and indomitable courage of his race.
The French generals, Turenne and Condé, had overrun three of the Dutch Provinces, spreading terror before
