Free Devil Water by Anya Seton

Widdrington muttered something, belched, and hauled himself up onto his good leg. By the fireplace the Ladies Lichfield and Stamford rose in a sedate, reluctant manner and exchanged a look of exasperation. The Duchess was no favorite with her own sex, and though by marriage she far outranked these ladies they considered that, in view of her dubious parentage, her superior airs were ridiculous. To be sure, Henrietta Crofts was an acknowledged Stuart, but a tarnished one since she was only the natural daughter of the illegitimate Duke of Monmouth, who had been beheaded after his rebellion.
    The Duchess entered, pausing a moment in the doorway, a vision in a new French gown of flowing violet taffeta garnished with brilliants. Two long blank curls hung forward over naked white shoulders and down to her slender tight-corseted waist. She waited regally for the customary tribute of the indrawn breath, which duly came from Charles and Lord Petre, then she undulated into the drawing room on a wave of musk and sweet tinkling laughter. She was followed by two admirers, for Henrietta never moved without an entourage. Today these were a red-faced country baronet, Sir Coplestone Bamfylde, and a cadet of her husband’s house, a simpering coxcombe called Mr. Paulet who made himself generally useful in return for lodging and an allowance. There was also a small turbaned blackamoor page who carried the Duchess’ fan and pomander ball.
    The Duchess inclined her graceful head in recognition of the various bows and curtsies which greeted her, and her sapphire eyes roamed lightly over the assembled faces. “The worthy Doctor is not present?” she asked with a delicious pout of her rouged lips. Her blue gaze rested on Francis because she had found him bafflingly unresponsive to her charms.
    Francis bowed again. “ Il est sorti, madame,” he replied. “Il va revenir tout a l’heure.” Francis spoke French because he preferred it to English, and also because he knew it embarrassed the Duchess, who understood little of the language. His squint gave the effect of his looking past her, and she turned away with a petulant shrug.
    “Well,” she said, “then someone must amuse me until my dear Doctor appears -- not you gentlemen who have put yourselves to such endless trouble in my behalf already.” She gave Sir Coplestone and Paulet an enchanting smile and a dismissing wave of her white beringed hand, “But you, sir!” She turned the smile full upon Charles, who crimsoned to his eartips. “If,” went on the Duchess smoothly, “Lady Elizabeth will be so good as to yield her place on the sofa?”
    “Old strumpet!” murmured Betty as loud as she dared, but there was nothing for it but to curtsey and move away, leaving the dazzled Charles to the Duchess.
    Henrietta settled herself gracefully, spreading her violet skirts, arranging the silver-lace ruffles at her bosom to disclose the tops of her breasts, which were pushed up by the stays to a rounded firmness they did not actually possess. Nor was her face as oval as it once was, though the slight slackness of throat, and the fine lines near her mouth were well concealed by an enameling of paint and powder. On her temple a black beauty patch like a crescent moon drew attention to her best features -- the sensuous blue eyes and the dark curls which clustered above them, and she knew from his expression that Charles found her very seductive.
    It was pique which had first roused her interest in the young Radcliffe lad, pique that both his brothers seemed indifferent to her. The Earl politely so, Francis with a silky insolence she could never quite fathom. Also, Charles was handsome in a callow raw-boned way, and it occurred to the Duchess that it had been several years since she had taken a very young lover. There would be a fillip to it.
    As Charles continued to gape at her wordlessly, she laughed and gestured to her Negro page, who handed her a painted gauze fan. She flicked the fan open and