A liveried and bewigged footman interrupted Hannah Pendray’s audience with the king.

Seated on an ornately carved throne, Charles leaned over slightly, tweaking his mustache as the messenger whispered in his ear. “The regicide choked on his dinner, you say,” he remarked without humor. “A fitting end for a gluttonous whoremonger.”

A murmur of amused agreement eventually trickled through the assembled courtiers as word was passed that Henry Marten had died. The king patted the heads of both spaniels lying at his feet, then crossed one elegant leg over the other.

Munro Pendray bristled, embarrassed for his mother as fawning men and women sought the king’s attention. “A traitor’s death is hardly a suitable topic at a gathering to celebrate the long-awaited confirmation of your earldom,” he complained to his frowning father.

Morgan Pendray shrugged. “It has taken His Majesty nigh on twenty years to acknowledge your mother’s role in saving the Scottish Crown Jewels from Cromwell,” he replied. “Charles seems not to have much sense of occasion.”

“He would still be ignorant of her bravery had you not mentioned it,” Munro added, aware his Welsh-born father had little patience for English kings, though he’d played a vital part in helping to restore the monarchy after Cromwell’s death. He, too, had waited years for any expression of royal gratitude.

Morgan chuckled. “His Majesty’s first reaction was to remark I don’t sound like a Scot though I live in Scotland.”

Munro appreciated the irony. His father often repeated the tale. During the rebellion against Cromwell, every Scot who heard his Welsh twang invariably remarked on it.

Morgan shook his head. “Our illustrious monarch is still reluctant to believe a woman carried out the daring endeavor. He apparently thought a minister had done the deed.”

“Reverend Grainger from Kinneff,” Munro replied.

“Aye, too bad the man is long dead. I doubt he and his wife ever got any thanks for the risk they took burying the regalia under the floor of their church.”

“At least you named my younger brother Grainger after the pair,” Munro offered. He sensed his father’s growing irritation as his wife fidgeted with the lace cuffs of her gown, uncharacteristically unsure what to do in the presence of a thoughtless king.

“She’s going to be livid,” his sister said.

Munro agreed with Jewel. “His Majesty has clearly forgotten he was speaking with her. More interested in his confounded dogs.”

Grainger joined the conversation. “How can it be that the life of one of the regicides is just now coming to an end? I thought all the signatories to Charles I’s death warrant were hanged, drawn and quartered twenty years ago.”

“Not Colonel Henry Marten,” their father replied to his youngest son’s question. “He was sentenced to life imprisonment. It was rumored he’d shielded certain prominent Royalists during Cromwell’s reign, a fact he alluded to during his trial. It saved him from a more gruesome punishment.”

“Pretty strong words, though, especially with women present,” Munro observed. “A glutton and whoremonger?”

“Marten was a Puritan but he enjoyed life to excess,” his father explained. “He once spent time in Debtors’ Prison, and he lived openly with a woman who wasn’t his wife. She bore him three daughters. In fact, she has shared his apartments for the last several years of his imprisonment.”

“What?” the siblings exclaimed in unison, drawing censorious glares.

Seemingly at the end of his patience, Morgan Pendray, the newly-confirmed Earl of Glenheath, strode off to rescue his wife.

“Apparently, we’re to receive no further explanation,” Jewel muttered. “I wonder what became of the three daughters?”