“You had better change your mind before the child is born … unless you would like me to strangle it at birth and set it up in the streets with a crown upon its head proclaiming it the King’s son.”

“You’re fantastic,” said the King, beginning to laugh.

She laughed with him and leaping towards him threw her arms about his neck. In the old days such a gesture would have been a prelude to passion, but today the King was pensive and did not respond.

In Frances Stuart’s apartment the light of wax candles shone on all the most favored of the gallant gentlemen and beautiful ladies of the Court.

The King sat beside Frances who looked more beautiful than even she had ever looked; she was dressed in black and white, which suited her fair skin, and there were diamonds in her hair and about her throat.

From her seat at another table Barbara watched the King and Frances.

Frances seemed unaware of everything except the house of cards she was building. She was like a baby! thought Barbara. Her greatest delight was in building card houses; and everyone who sought to please her must compete with her in the ridiculous game. There was only one who could build as she did; that was Buckingham.

They built their card houses side by side. The King was handing Frances her cards; Lady Chesterfield was handing Buckingham his; all the other builders of card houses had given up the game to watch these two rivals. Frances was breathless with excitement; Buckingham was coolly cynical; but his hand was so steady that it seemed that his calmness would score over Frances’s excitement.

Imbecile! thought Barbara. Is she really so infantile that a card house can give her that much joy? Or is she acting the very young girl in the hope that the King is weary of such as I? We shall see who wins in the end, Mrs. Frances.

Lady Chesterfield caught Barbara’s attention momentarily; she had changed much since those days when she had first married Chesterfield and had been another simpleton such as Frances would have them believe she was. Simplicity had not brought Lady Chesterfield all she desired. Now George Hamilton sought to be her lover—and he had been Barbara’s lover too—and the Duke of York was paying her that attention with which he was wont to honor ladies; it consisted of standing near them and gazing longingly, at them in a manner which made all secretly laugh, or writing notes to them which he pushed into their pockets or muffs; and as the ladies concerned were not always willing to accede to his advances, there had been much amusement when the notes had been allowed to fall, as though unnoticed, from muff or pocket and left lying about for any to read.

Barbara thought of Chesterfield, her first lover, her first experience in those adventures which were more important to her comfort than anything else. Chesterfield had been a good lover.

She realized with some dismay that it was a long time since he had been to see her. She verily believed that he was more interested in another woman than he was in herself; and it was rather comic that that woman should be his wife.

Ah, but he had turned too late to Lady Chesterfield, who would not forget the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. It delighted her now to be cold to him, to accept the admiration of George Hamilton and to return the yearning gazes of the Duke of York, to set new fashions in the Court such as this one of green stockings which had begun with her appearing in them.

The King’s attention was all for the fair Stuart; Chesterfield’s for his wife; and Buckingham—for naturally Barbara and Buckingham had slipped into amorous relationship now and then—was also paying attention to the Stuart, although, Barbara reminded herself, it was at her suggestion he did this.

Three of her lovers looking at other women! It was disconcerting.

George Hamilton too, she remembered, was paying attention to Lady Chesterfield and hoping to persuade her to break her marriage vows.

Could it be that Barbara, Countess of Castlemaine, was finding herself deserted?

Not deserted, never deserted. There would always be lovers, even if she chose one of her grooms—although she would not do that unless he was a very appealing fellow. Yet it was disconcerting to find so many of those who had once sought her favors eagerly looking elsewhere. It was certainly time Frances Stuart was exposed to the King as a hypocrite and humbug. He would find it harder to forgive her infidelity than he ever had Barbara’s, for Barbara’s he took for granted. He knew Barbara; she was like himself. They could not curb their desires; he understood that of her as she did of him. They were not the sort to wrangle if the other took an odd lover or two.

The building of card houses was over; Buckingham had allowed Frances to win, and now was singing one of his songs set to his own music. He was a good performer and he sang in French and Italian as well as English. His poor, plain Duchess looked on with wistful tenderness as he performed. They were rarely together, but Frances liked husbands and wives to come to her gatherings; she was so very respectable, thought Barbara cynically.

Now there was dancing; and it was left to Monmouth to partner Barbara.

A spritely young fellow, thought Barbara, but she had not allowed him to become her lover; she was not sure how the King would feel about that. Monmouth, as his son, would be in a different category from other men; and she was not going to offend Charles more than she could help at this point.

When they were tired of dancing, Frances called on Buckingham to do some of his imitations, and that night the Duke excelled himself. He did his favorite—Clarendon, carrying a shovel in place of the mace, so full of self-importance, slow and ponderous; and this made the company roll and bend double with merriment; then he did the King, the King sauntering, the King being very gallant to a lady—who, of course, it was implied, was Frances herself. Charles led the laughter at this. And finally the versatile Duke approached Frances and began to make what he called a dishonorable proposal. It was Bennet to the life. The phrases were Bennet’s, slow, flowery and wordy, spiced with those quotations with which Bennet liked to adorn his parliamentary addresses.

Frances shrieked with laughter and clutched the King in a very paroxysm of merriment—all of which delighted the King mightily; and made of that evening a very merry one.

The French ambassador who was present was, after the merriment subsided a little, so delighted with the company that he whispered to the King that he had heard Mrs. Stuart was possessed of the most exquisite legs in the world, and he wondered whether he dared ask the lady to show him these—up to the knee; he would dare ask for no more.

The King whispered the request to Frances, who opened her blue eyes very wide and said but of course she would be delighted to show the ambassador her legs. Whereupon, still in the manner of a very young girl, she stood on a stool and lifted her skirt as high as her knees that all might gaze on the legs which had been proclaimed the most beautiful in the world.

The King was quite clearly enchanted with Frances’s manners, with her ingenuity and with the grace she displayed.

The French ambassador knelt and said that he knew of no way in which to pay homage to the most beautiful legs in the world except to kneel to them.

Then was the whole assembly made aware of how deep was the passion of the Duke of York for Lady Chesterfield, for he said in his somewhat ungracious way that he did not consider Mrs. Stuart’s legs the most beautiful in the world.

“They are,” he declared, “too slender. I would admire legs that are plump, and not so long as Mrs. Stuart’s. Most important of all, the legs I most admire should be clothed in a green stocking.”

The King burst into merry laughter, for, like everyone else, he knew that the Duke was referring to Lady Chesterfield who had introduced the green stocking to Court; Charles clapped his brother on the back and pushed him in the direction of the lady.

Barbara continued to watch this horseplay. She saw Lord Chesterfield’s angry glance at the royal brothers.

To think, thought Barbara, in rising fury, that I should ever live to see Chesterfield in love with his own wife!

She looked about her for the man whom she would invite to her bed that night. It would not be the King, nor Buckingham, nor Chesterfield, nor Hamilton.

She wished to have a new lover, someone young and lusty, who would take the memory of this evening with its warning shadows from her mind.

The Chesterfield scandal burst suddenly on the Court. It was astonishing to all, for Chesterfield was known as a rake and a libertine, and none would have suspected him of having any deep feelings for a woman, least of all for his own wife.

Music was the delight of the Court, and Tom Killigrew, one of the leading lights in the theatrical world, had brought with him from Italy a company of singers and musicians who had a great success at Court. One of these, Francisco Corbetta, was a magnificent performer on the guitar, and it was due to this that many ladies and gentlemen determined to learn the instrument. Lady Chesterfield had acquired one of the finest guitars in the country, and her brother, Lord Arran, learned to play the instrument better than any man at Court.

Francisco had composed a Sarabande, and this piece of music so delighted the King that he would hear it again and again. All at Court followed the King’s example, and through courtyards and apartments would be heard the Sarabande, in deep bass and high sopranos, played on all kinds of musical instruments, but the favorite way of delivering the Sarabande was to strum on the guitar and to sing at the same time.