His Last Mistress: The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth Read online

  His Last Mistress

  The Duke of Monmouth and Lady Henrietta Wentworth

  Andrea Zuvich

  © Andrea Zuvich 2013

  Andrea Zuvich has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For my beautiful sisters, Milka and Visnja.

  O Lord, where is my husband now –

  Where once he stood beside me?

  His body lies at Sedgemoor

  In grave of oak and ivy;

  Come tell me you who beat the drum,

  Why am I mistreated?

  To stand alone, a traitor’s wife,

  My will to live defeated.

  He swore to me he would be gone

  For days but two and twenty -

  And yet in seven years and more

  his bed lies cold and empty.

  - Folk ballad, 1692.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue - January, 1675

  Chapter 1 - Whitehall Palace

  Chapter 2 – 1680

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14 - 1683

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29: Sedgemoor

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Bibliography

  Author’s Note

  Extract from Love’s Will by Meredith Whitford

  Prologue - January, 1675

  He looked emotionless upon his reflection in the cracked, dirty looking-glass before him. His eyes were dark deep pools of blue, which sometimes seemed to take on the purplish colour of wild bluebells in the woodland, his short hair a rich chestnut brown, which he now covered with his elaborately curled auburn periwig. With a little more pride in his looks than is tasteful, he knew his was a face that could captivate any woman: he was blessed with exquisite features, a strongly-defined jaw, a well-shaped nose, a cleft in his chin, good teeth, inherited from his beautiful, deceased mother, Lucy. With his tallness of height and his unquestionable virility, he was truly his father’s son. His father was none other than King Charles the Second of England, Scotland, and Ireland.

  He was James Scott, the Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch, Earl of Doncaster, Baron Tynedale, Knight of the Garter and the Master of the Horse. His head was pounding with his latest hangover, his mind a scattered mess of graphic images of debauchery that he couldn’t make sense of. A tangled riot of red hair, gyrating breasts, and rutting dogs came to mind. Lost in these salacious thoughts, he began to fasten his lace cravat around his neck; the stubble on his throat prickled the elegant fabric as he did so. His shirtsleeves were creased and stained with wine and ale, but he shrugged, knowing he would soon be back at home where he would wash and then get some much-needed sustenance. His stomach grumbled with hunger.

  His eyes caught sight of movement behind him. It was the woman he had slept with the night before. He felt a shudder of repulsion as he suddenly remembered her - a plump, ugly lass of about sixteen with greasy red hair and possibly the largest tits he had seen on a whore. By God, he could smell her stench anew as she spread her graceless limbs across the crumpled sheets, sleeping. Her skin had bruises and teeth marks from her more savage clients and his skin crawled at the thought of having so much as touched her. He was so drunk last night that he hadn’t cared what he was thrusting energetically into.

  He had to stifle the bile rising in his gorge at the thought of what he had done with the wench as he finally tugged on his long brown leather boots.

  The repulsion hit him anew. He had to leave before the wretch awakened. He quietly placed some coins – coins that bore his father’s noble profile – onto the small table by the bed where the prostitute lay snoring now, saliva dribbling from the side of her open mouth. He left the room in haste, wrenching his thick green coat onto his arms as he stepped down the creaking stairs of the insalubrious Southwark brothel.

  “There must be more to life than this, and war,” he said to himself as he rode back upon his black horse through the snow-dusted streets towards Whitehall Palace, where there was to be a masque that evening. He was only twenty-six, yet he had seen more than his fair share of battles and lechery, and he was tiring of it all. Spoiled since he was a child, he had indulged every whim, every fantasy, satiated almost every human urge to the point where nothing now brought him joy; the endless parties with nihilistic wits and vain fops were beginning to bore him senseless.

  “There must be more.”

  Chapter 1 - Whitehall Palace

  The masque had been a massive enterprise – a feat of management of costumes and sets, with well over a hundred people involved in its preparations. Dozens of candles would light the stage and cast a warm, complimentary light upon the set. The designers had attempted to emulate something of the sumptuousness of masques from Inigo Jones’s time, hearkening back to the reigns of James I and his son Charles I.

  The parts were played by the cream of the court – James; the Duke of York’s daughters, the beautiful Mary, in whose honour the masque was held, was the lead role of Calisto, with her painfully shy little sister, Anne, as a secondary nymph, Nyphe; Margaret Blagge, festooned in costly loaned jewels, continually complained the masque was morally offensive - since it was about a rape - even though she played the role of the virgin goddess Diana; the Duchess of York’s lady-in-waiting, Sarah Jennings, with her icy blonde beauty was the god Mercury, and finally, Henrietta, Baroness Wentworth, another of the Duchess of York’s ladies, portrayed Jupiter, the king of the gods, who was in love with Calisto.

  At fourteen years old, Henrietta was a pretty girl - with her ash blonde hair fashioned into bouncy curls and she wore a blue silk robe like that worn by the Greeks of old. Her heart-shaped face was as pink as the roses that decorated the front of the stage. Like most of the girls her age, she was ready to fall in love, though she was determined not to let her heart rule her head.

  The Duke was one of the principal dancers, and was dressed as a shepherd from the ancient world, in sheepskins, and holding a long staff with a hook on the top – a shepherd’s crook. He was excited, for dancing was one of the chief pleasures in his life, where he could use his athletic energy and grace of limb to greatest effect. He had been very pleased to return to his rooms, where he had washed away the filth from the night before, the large-breasted redhead now one of hundreds of such memories.

  The dramatist, John Crowne, who had written the masque (and who, having obtained the honour of writing the masque by his influential and libertine patron, the Earl of Rochester, was unhappy both with so smut-free a work and also with the short time he had to complete the play) addressed the audience: “Your Majesties, my lords and ladies, we welcome you to our masque. Let our assortment of court beauties escort you as we travel back in time to the savour the sights and sounds of the Ancient wor
ld. So without further ado, I give you Calisto – the Chaste Nymph!”

  King Charles II, sitting next to his wife, Queen Catherine of Braganza, applauded and laughed merrily as the courtly players took their positions. Charles’s brother, James, Duke of York, sat beside him and had a rare smile upon his usually glum face as he awaited his favourite daughter, Mary. Beside him was his young Italian wife, Maria, Duchess of York, Mary’s step-mother.

  At length the red curtains were raised for the prologue, revealing Charles’s mistress, the beautiful Cockney actress Nell Gwynn, as the River Thames. The King gave a whistle and Nell gave her royal lover a little wink in return. The long-suffering queen sat nobly, ignoring her husband’s blatant flirtation with his mistress.

  With the introduction complete, the opening of the First Act fell to Henrietta and Sarah Jennings, who were the only ladies dressed as men. She took her position upon the glittering stage, and recited her lines:

  How am I tired thus vainly to pursue

  A Nymph, I cannot keep in view!

  I daily through Arcadia rove

  O’er every hill, through every grove,

  But in her ears to sigh my love;

  No sooner had Henrietta begun to speak, than the Duke’s eyes fell upon her, and something within his soul stirred as her melodious voice reached his ears. She made elegant gesticulations as she spoke, her hands waving around her, emphasising Crowne’s words.

  “Good God!” he thought, “How could I not have noticed her before? She is like an angel amongst mortals.” There had been many rehearsals, but he hadn’t paid any notice to her, but tonight, at least in his eyes, she was afire with passion in her voice, unlike the others.

  “…And may as well the shades and echoes chase;

  The shades I easier can embrace,

  Which grieves me too, whilst I this maze have trod,

  There’s none to pity a despairing god.”

  Henrietta happened at this moment to look in his direction, and she paused for a moment, yet his intense gaze never shifted from her. She continued on, relieved finally when she could stand in the wings.

  “Sarah,” she said to her friend, “that dancer in the shepherd’s costume has been staring at me the whole time. I felt as though I was standing there naked before him.”

  Sarah peered out behind the curtains, saw the man, and laughed.

  “Why, that’s the King’s eldest son, the Duke of Monmouth,” replied Sarah, “How could you not have known? He is one of best dancers I have ever seen. He is also the best soldier in whole of the army.”

  “He is the most handsome man I have ever seen,” noted Henrietta, as she also peered through the gap and looked at him spin and jump. The ancient Greek garments he wore suited his athletic build, his long, strong legs, his muscular torso.

  “Monmouth?” asked Margaret Blagge, who had overheard their conversation as she waited to go back on stage, “Yes, he is handsome. Princess Mary is already besotted by him, as most foolish women are at court.”

  “But not you, of course,” Sarah teased, rolling her eyes, knowing Margaret’s rather prudish nature.

  “Certainly not,” she haughtily scoffed in reply, “The man is a libertine.” Sensing that Henrietta was in danger of becoming infatuated with such a man, she took her to one side, “Be warned if he looks at you in that manner, for he shall desire only to have you in his bed. Monmouth has a terrible reputation – he has a perfectly good wife in Anna Scott, and he left her with several children…”

  “’Tis common enough amongst married men here at court, though it is sinful,” replied Henrietta.

  “Aye, but he left her for a string of conquests, including our Eleanor Needham,” added Margaret, “she is but a little older than we, and yet she gave in to his seductions. Sure, she is living in one of the Duke’s houses, but she has disgraced herself and her entire family, I daresay.”

  “He doesn’t look like a bad man,” Henrietta said, trying to find some good in him to support the feeling towards him in her chest. “He seems exceedingly amiable, how could he be as wicked as you say?”

  “Eleanor’s not the only one, either,” Margaret continued, “he even goes to see ladies of the night, you know, courtesans, though why I cannot say. Any woman he wants, he has. There are few court ladies that he has not had. You must guard yourself against such a man.”

  “What a beastly man,” said Henrietta, genuinely repulsed, “These libertines do disgust me. How can they call themselves God-fearing, behaving as they do.”

  “God-fearing? The Earl of Rochester would certainly laugh if he heard you. If we were to behave as they do, we would be deemed unworthy of marriage. And, poor Eleanor…she’ll be discarded soon enough; no one keeps Monmouth’s interest for long…oh! Henrietta, it’s your turn again.”

  Henrietta dashed out and assumed her role again as Jupiter, all the while feeling the stare from the handsome, mesmerising libertine.

  Monmouth took in every word that Henrietta uttered for the remainder of the masque, her voice filling his ear, her image exciting his eyes, and in every moment that passed he knew that he wanted her, his loins were aflame with desire for her.

  Nell Gwynn, now as Sylvia, ended the masque:

  “We’ll every moment our pleasures renew;

  Our loves shall be flaming, and lasting and true.”

  After the evening’s delights had come to an end, the young ladies began to change out of their theatrical garments. At this point, Margaret Blagge, whey-faced and trembling mightily, exclaimed that a highly valuable gem from one of the loaned items of jewellery she had been wearing was missing. Everyone began to search for the gem, including Henrietta and the Duke.

  His hungry eyes took in her form as she stooped around to look for the missing jewel; her blonde tresses now unbound and flowing in comely waves down her back, like pale serpents against the blue sea of her costume. How he wished to touch those waves, take in their scent. As she moved the red curtains up to look beneath them, her hair moved away from her throat, revealing her elegant alabaster neck and the soft curves of her young body, which hinted at the womanly form she would soon acquire.

  “It’s not here!” she called out, suddenly turning to the shock of him standing there before her. “Oh! Your Grace.”

  “Baroness Wentworth, I believe,” he said with an elegant bow, “I must tell you how much I enjoyed your performance this night. If I were in Calisto’s place, I would not have been able to resist your Jupiter for a moment.”

  “I thank Your Grace for such kind words,” she said, not daring to look up into his eyes.

  A tendril of that hair that he had admired had gone in front of her eye, and he tucked it behind her ear. There was involuntary frisson between them as his fingers brushed against her soft cheek. The hair upon her arms prickled with the feeling, and so did his.

  “Jemmy!” shrieked a beautiful woman, with hair the colour of midnight and skin of pure white marble, no doubt the Needham girl that Sarah Jennings had mentioned – a sister of one of the Windsor Beauties. The Duke of Monmouth gave her Henrietta one last look before hurrying after Eleanor, who gave the girl a look of death as if to say, He’s mine.

  The next day, Henrietta received a letter, which was full of silly words from the Duke – who had no talent for the written word. She quickly tossed it into the fire, and soon endeavoured to forget about him. The Duke of Monmouth had the face of an angel, but from what Margaret had said, the soul of a devil. Handsome or no, King’s son or no, she was determined to despise him for he stood for everything she hated, a lascivious libertine, incapable of honest feeling for another human being. A man who used women for his base gratification, making him nothing more than an animal; but try as she might, she could not escape the memory of him.

  Chapter 2 – 1680

  “Richard Tufton, Earl of Thanet.”

  Lady Henrietta Wentworth smiled as her mother told her to whom she was now betrothed. Philadelphia Carey had come to court expressly to tel
l her daughter the good news. She had already written to Maria Beatrice, the Duchess of York, who was now in exile in Scotland with her husband, and whom Henrietta had previously been a lady-in-waiting for, about the intended betrothal, and everyone agreed that it was a good match.

  The Earl of Thanet was an exceptionally good choice, and Henrietta herself already liked him. He was of medium height, with chestnut brown hair (under his grey periwig) and grey eyes, and a most congenial demeanour. He was very rich, too, and they would want for nothing. With such a match, the Wentworth home of Toddington Manor would finally have some financial security. For years, even during her husband’s lifetime, Lady Philadelphia had to scrimp and save the pennies. Her daughter safely married to a wealthy man would be the salve they needed. Most importantly, he was a kind, good man.

  “Why, Mamma, I believe you are in danger of making me not only Countess but very happy as well,” she said, smiling brightly.

  Philadelphia laughed, and embraced her daughter. “All your father and I have wanted – all I have ever wanted - is for you to be happy forever, my darling. You are so good, you should have the best that life has to offer.”

  “I’m so grateful to you,” Henrietta said, with sincerity both in her voice and in her heart. “I only wish the Papa were still here.”

  Her father, Thomas, 5th Baron Wentworth, a former Royalist soldier during the Civil War had died when Henrietta was five years old. She had few memories of him, but those she had were clear - his calloused hands, his warm smile, and his love for her mother. Henrietta hoped that she and Richard would be as happy as her parents had been.

  In the years that had passed since the night of the masque, Henrietta had blossomed into a lovely young woman with as gentle a disposition of character as in face. She did not possess an overwhelming beauty, nor did she boast of those charms that nature had bestowed upon her. She was of average height, with softly rounded eyes the colour of leeks, fringed with long light brown lashes, and straight eyebrows above these. Her profile was like that one would find on a Greek statue, with the forehead sloping almost straight to the end of her slightly upturned nose. Her cheeks still as rosy as ever, and her lips, with the well-defined Cupid’s bow, were inviting, and plump.