“I will go along to Scotland Yard. I will discover what this means.”
“Then I pray you go quietly, for the sake of your Duchess. I trust the lady is well. And the children?”
James’s face lightened up at the thought of his daughters. They were well, he told Charles; and he began to enlarge on the cleverness of Mary, to which Charles listened indulgently. He was fond of his nieces, particularly Mary, and his was too generous a nature for envy. Although he earnestly wished for legitimate heirs he did not grudge James his.
“I begin to despair of sharing your good fortune,” he said ruefully. “The Queen cannot get children. So James, you should prepare yourself to take on my burden in due course.”
“Not before I am an old man myself, I trust.”
“Do you, James? Have you no desire to wear the crown?”
“I would leifer see Your Majesty with a healthy son.”
“Would to God Jemmy were legitimate.”
He was still hankering after making Monmouth legitimate, thought James. One of the grudges Charles had against Clarendon was that the old man had stood out against Monmouth’s legitimization.
“Doubtless Jemmy shares your feelings on that score,” added James.
Charles grimaced. “Forget not what I have told you. Speak to your father-in-law. Show him the wisdom of graceful retirement. It is so much more dignified to step into obscurity than to be forced into it … or worse.”
“I will do my best.”
“My good brother, I know you will. Now I would have you leave me for the hour grows late and my guests will arrive and you, I know, have your own friends awaiting you.”
As James left his brother, he was thinking of what he would say to his father-in-law. Poor old man, his was a familiar fate. He had too much power and believed himself invincible. He had angered Monmouth by standing against his legitimization; he had made an enemy of Lady Castlemaine by trying to turn the King from his immoral way of life. A man could not afford to make powerful enemies; and his self righteousness and sanctimonious manners had in time antagonized the King. So with his ministers baying for Clarendon’s blood on one side, and his beloved bastard and his demanding mistress on the other, it was inevitable that Clarendon’s end should be in sight.
He would try to persuade him to go quietly which was the best course open to him—and although it would anger his enemies, the King would be pleased. Whatever else Charles was, he was kind; he never wanted revenge; he had loathed the act of taking the bodies of the Roundhead leaders from their graves and submitting them to insults. He had never wanted revenge on his enemies. “Enough,” he would cry. “Have done.” But if he were kind he was also lazy. He would give Clarendon the chance to save himself from his enemies and if the old man obstinately refused to, then that would be his affair.
Tonight, of course, he would forget Clarendon’s imminent fall and all unpleasantness in the company of Lady Castlemaine. He remained enamored of that virago although it was difficult to see why. And he had still made no progress with Frances Stuart, for which James was thankful, although he himself was in the same position with regard to this most beautiful and aloof young lady at his brother’s Court.
He was going straight to Scotland Yard. He must see Margaret. He must discover what this account of her husband’s calling himself the Holy Ghost was all about. Was Denham going mad? And were his enemies going to blame him for this? Were they going to say that the scandalous behavior of the Duke of York with Denham’s wife had unbalanced the old fellow? In that case almost every husband at Court should be unbalanced. It was absurd.
Margaret would reassure him; she always did. She was so young and gay and she made him feel so. His affair with her was common knowledge and he had not cared except that he would have preferred to keep it secret from his wife. But Anne had learned by now that she must accept his infidelities; it was inconceivable that the Duke of York, brother to that greatest of libertines, King Charles II, should not have a mistress or two.
Arriving at Scotland Yard, he made his way to the house of Sir John Denham, where he was conducted to his mistress’s apartments. When they had embraced she told him that Sir John had been strange lately, that he had sworn vengeance on her and her lover and that appearing before the King as the Holy Ghost seemed to be his idea of discomfiting them.
James found the youthful charms of his mistress so delightful that in her company it seemed of little importance what her husband did.
Sir John Denham appeared quickly to recover from his brief aberration. He begged the King’s pardon which was readily given; and the Duke of York continued his visits to Scotland Yard, a situation to which Sir John seemed to have become reconciled.
James felt triumphant. He conducted his affairs, he believed, as successfully as his brother. Barbara Villiers created scandal enough and so did the playgirls, but he at least had chosen his mistresses from a higher social scale than the latter.
His Duchess was angry, but that was natural. He would give way to her in some ways and she must perforce give way to him in others. For one thing, she was reading books, constantly talking with priests, and was arousing suspicions that she was leaning very close to Catholicism. That would scarcely bring her popularity and was a more serious matter than taking a mistress or two.
James’s visits to Scotland Yard were growing more and more frequent. He was deeply involved with Margaret and now that her husband had, as he said, overcome his folly and accepted this truly natural state of affairs, there was no need for them even to be discreet. Lady Denham was the Duke’s mistress and that was an end of the matter.
But one day when he made his way to the Denhams’ residence he was met by one of Sir John’s servants who attempted to bar his way.
James was astounded; then it occurred to him that the fellow did not recognize him.
But he did, for he stammered: “Your Grace … you should not go up there …”
Should not mount the stairs to his mistress’s room when she was expecting him, when he had been there a hundred times!
“Stand aside, fellow,” he began; then he noticed that the servant was trembling and trying to tell him something.
“Your Grace … a terrible tragedy …”
“Lady Denham?”
“Your Grace … Lady Denham is … dead.”
“Dead! It’s not possible. I saw her yesterday. How can it be?”
“They say, Your Grace, that it was chocolate. A poisoned cup of chocolate.”
The Duke pushed the man aside. He ran to his mistress’s room and throwing open the door stood aghast, staring at the bed.
Several people, who were in the room, stood aside as he slowly advanced and stood looking down at his murdered mistress.
The great topic of conversation at Court and in the streets was the Denham affair. Rumor ran wild. Sir John Denham had poisoned his wife because she was unfaithful to him with the Duke of York. The Countess of Rochester, another of the Duke’s mistresses, had poisoned her because of jealousy on account of the Duke of York. No matter what the rumor, the name of the Duke of York was always mentioned and because of this there was greater interest in the affair than there would otherwise have been.
A few puritans condemned the Duke of York and the manners of the Court, but those who were in favor of the new freedom—and these were the majority—turned suddenly against Sir John Denham, who had married a young woman and murdered her, her only sin being that she was in the fashion.
As a result, crowds gathered outside Sir John’s house brandishing sticks and knifes.
“Come out, John Denham,” they chanted. “Let’s see how you like the same medicine that you gave to your wife.”
When Sir John’s life was in danger as if by magic all signs of his madness disappeared. He had the rumor circulated that if he lived long enough he would give his wife a magnificent funeral at St. Margaret’s Westminster at which burned wine would be distributed to all who cared to partake of it.