Ashley shook his head.
“At present, nothing, sir. If you will visit me later in the week I will have everything clear.”
Roxhythe picked up his hat.
“Then, with your permission, gentlemen, I’ll leave you.”
“One moment, Roxhythe!” It was Buckingham who spoke. “We may leave to you the task of informing His Majesty of your decision?”
“My decision?” interrogated Roxhythe.
“That blind to the French spies you spoke of. The public rebuff.” The sneer was thinly veiled.
Roxhythe looked over his shoulder.
“Yes. You may leave that to me. I will speak to His Majesty.”
“I am relieved,” smiled the Duke. He watched my lord go out, and the smile faded. He flung himself back in his chair with a short laugh. “The fool!” he exclaimed. “The fond fool!”
“No, I do not think him that,” said Ashley. “But I wish it were any other than he. I do not trust him; he is too secret. I would he were more a fool; I should be more at ease.”
“Of course he is a fool! What sane man undertakes the King’s most expensive tasks and asks no payment? A fond fool, I tell you!”
“I think he loves the King very dearly,” slowly remarked my lord. “Or else he feigns well. Yet I do not trust him, for I think him selfish, and I do not think he cares overmuch for the country.”
“Oh, ye set too great store on the man, sir! A public rebuff! He who has never endured a slight from the King! He is mad!”
“No, he loves the King. But I wish it were other than he.” He sighed, and gathered together his papers. “I do not conceal from your Grace that I have grave misgivings concerning this business.”
Buckingham chuckled.
III
Christopher Dart
Roxhythe made his way back to the gallery. He found it crowded, and across the room caught sight of the King sitting with la belle Stewart, and laughing boisterously at some witty shaft aimed by Killigrew, standing near. Lady Castlemaine was by the door as he entered, in one of her black moods. He addressed her lightly, bowing. She turned.
“Ah, Roxhythe!” The frown cleared somewhat. “You have not been at Court these last few days. What ailed you?”
“A trifling indisposition, madame. I am flattered that you marked my absence.”
“We missed you at the ball,” she answered. “It was a pretty evening. You heard?”
“I heard that your ladyship was much admired. Sedley spoke of a yellow gown, of blue ribbons, of—”
“Yes. And what said Sir Charles of Miss Stewart?” She spat the words at him.
“He did not speak of her,” said Roxhythe, calmly. “She was present?”
“Ay, the hussy!” Lady Castelmaine struck her fan into the palm of her hand. “The minx! Flaunting her airs and her graces before mine eyes! The bread-and-butter miss!”
Roxhythe shook with quiet laughter. Her ladyship flung him a wrathful glance.
“Oh, laugh, Roxhythe, by all means! I make no doubt you are stricken with the same madness! La belle Stewart! Tchah!” She moved angrily away.
Roxhythe felt the King’s eyes upon him. As soon as he could conveniently do so, he made his way to where Charles was sitting, and went to talk to Digby who stood behind the King’s chair with one or two others.
Presently Charles rose and walked with his fair companion to the door. He nodded carelessly to Roxhythe.
“Davy, be sure you visit me tomorrow.” It was affectionately said; the Monarch conferring a favour on his courtier. Roxhythe bowed.
“I thank your Majesty.”
Charles passed on.
The audience next morning was short. Charles was in a flippant mood, and although he at first objected to publicly snubbing his favourite, he soon consented. He was more interested in Roxhythe’s account of yesterday’s interview, and he laughed heartily at the description of the ill-assorted pair. For a fleeting few moments he was inclined to cancel his commands, reproaching himself for thinking to send Roxhythe into danger. Then that inclination faded, and he fell to discussing various minor details with Roxhythe.
In the evening Roxhythe went to visit Christopher Dart.
Christopher lived in a house looking out on to the river; a jeweller’s shop, over which he rented rooms. On this particular evening he was on the point of going to bed when the little serving-maid knocked on the door, and shrilled through the keyhole that a gentleman wanted to see Mr. Dart. Christopher had already snuffed two candles, and he paused now in the act of pinching the third. He went to the door and opened it.
The maid did not know who the gentleman was.
Christopher looked at her surprisedly. His friends in London were few, and they did not call on him at eleven at night.
The maid smoothed her dress with plump, red hands.
“I told the gentleman ye were like to be abed, sir,” she said, with a pert toss of her head. She glanced at Christopher from beneath her lashes. He was a comely boy.
“Well, I’m not abed, Lucy. But I was on the point of retiring when you came.”
“Be I to send him about his business, sir?” Her tone implied that she would find the task congenial.
“No,” said Christopher, slowly. “ ’Tis not so often that I have a visitor that I can afford to deny myself.” His solemnity vanished in a smile. “Will you show him upstairs, Lucy?”
“A great mill-post of a creature all wrapped up in a coat!” she sniffed. “And not a mite of his face to be seen for his hat all down on his nose!”
“A dangerous fellow,” agreed Christopher, twinkling. “But I have my sword over in the corner there! Don’t keep him waiting, child.”
He tried to think who would be likely to come disguised to see him. His friends were of a peaceable nature, nor had he one amongst them who could be considered taller than the average. While the maid was clattering down the stairs, he re-lit the two snuffed candles, and stirred the dying
