Forced out of bed earlier than planned because damn Sam Pepys had arrived unannounced like a recurrence of the French pox, Sir Everard was most vexed. Why, the man had not darkened his door since the business with Aubrey, and even then, despite repeated attempts to gain entry after Margery’s death, he hadn’t been admitted. And here was Everard thinking the fool had learned his presence wasn’t wanted.
When he entered the parlor with Wat and Jacopo close behind him an hour after Sam burst in, it was to find his new wife looking glorious in one of the old gowns Bianca had the seamstress, Mrs. Wells, adjust. A pale blue–and-rose ensemble, it showed her coloring off to perfection. Calmly seated with the naval clerk by the window, pretending to drink a bowl of coffee (the servants had informed Jacopo she didn’t seem to enjoy the beverage; Sir Everard kicked himself he hadn’t thought to tell her to order chocolate), she was chatting to him as if they were old acquaintances. Through the window, the sky was a wash of coral and plum, the mellow light making Rosamund’s hair glow like spun gold. The room, lit by burgeoning sunlight and smelling of leather and beeswax, looked tired. Fortunately, Rosamund did not.
Fixing a welcoming grimace, Sir Everard shook off Jacopo, nodded to Wat’s unspoken question and with no small effort tapped his way toward the little tête-à-tête.
“Samuel Pepys. What a surprise. It’s been too long. Too long.”
Sam leaped to his feet, sweeping off his hat and bowing deferentially. “Why, cousin, your man over there told me you were indisposed.” He flapped his hat toward Wat, who hid his expression as he left the room. “But instead, after all this time, I find you looking the picture of health. Now I know why . . .” He winked in Rosamund’s direction. “You old dog.”
“Don’t stand on ceremony,” said Sir Everard with more tolerance than he felt. “Sit, Sam, sit.” While he might look the picture of health (something he very much doubted), Sam was wilting, in either the growing heat or, more likely, Rosamund’s presence. His puffy face, usually ashen, was pink and shiny and his protuberant eyes gleamed with discovery. Signaling to one of the footmen, who, understanding the gesture, dashed through the doorway, Sir Everard flipped the tails of his housecoat and lowered himself into the chair Jacopo deposited by the table. He smiled at Rosamund, who returned his greeting cautiously.
“My lady,” he said. “I trust you’re well.”
“Indeed, Sir Everard, most well.” She gave a bell of laughter.
Staring with his mouth open, Sam reclaimed his seat along with his wits as Sir Everard and Rosamund exchanged pleasantries like a well-acquainted couple. His eyes flicked from one to the other as if he were watching the King play tennis. Sir Everard could see Rosamund was very amused. His rebuke the previous evening had not affected her.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” Sir Everard asked and blessed Rosamund’s astuteness that she knew exactly what he was asking.
“No, no, not all, sir. Mr. Pepys,” she began, and Sam coughed. “I mean, Sam—” She flashed him a smile.
Good God, did Sam just groan? Sir Everard buried a smirk.
“—has been entertaining me with stories about his family and his work.” Before Sam could protest she continued. “Did you know Mr.—Sam is responsible for victualing the King’s entire fleet?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on. “And, as if that weren’t enough, he’s made it his business to learn how to draw the ships as well as read sea and tide charts. Why, your cousin, my cousin—”
Sam clutched his heart and Sir Everard thought the man was about to expire. Rosamund had Sam spellbound, clever minx. Why, she was masterful. As if she were born to it. Tilly Ballister had the right of it. This woman bewitched men.
Just so long as she bewitched one in particular . . .
“—is a man of many talents, sir.” Rosamund leveled another charming smile at Sam. Sir Everard watched as she continued to extol the naval clerk’s virtues, chuckling drolly sometimes, beaming at others and being altogether captivating. It took Sir Everard a moment to understand what Rosamund was about. She was reassuring him she hadn’t yet revealed any details about their hasty nuptials; on the contrary, she’d made Sam the center of conversation and flattered him outrageously with numerous questions. He studied her with growing wonder and respect.
Sir Everard knew that although Sam was currently distracted, it wouldn’t be long before he addressed the reason for his visit. He was right.
“So, cousin, how’d you do it?” asked Sam, edging forward on his seat and nudging Sir Everard with his elbow.
“Do what?” Sir Everard pretended not to understand.
“Come now.” Sam laughed. “How’d you find such a one?” He made a flourish with his hand, encompassing Rosamund, who merely lowered her head modestly. “The ravishing Rosamund. News of your marriage is all over the coffee houses and discussed in the finest homes. No question, the Navy Office talks of nothing else, so just imagine court. Frankly, cousin—when I heard, I thought it too outrageous to be true. A posting inn? Gravesend? I decided I’d quash any rumors before they took flight—especially after . . . you know . . .”
Sir Everard bristled, but caught up in his mission, Sam failed to notice.
“—by discovering the truth for myself. I went to the source; I went to Gravesend.”
“You what?” Sir Everard’s voice could have cut glass. “Why didn’t you come to me, you fool? I’m the source.”
Sam gave a leery grin. “True. But since I’ve not been welcome here awhile, and as I was intending to go there anyhow, no inconvenience was involved. Along with Elizabeth, my clerk and maid, I went to see for myself.”
“And what did you see?” asked Sir Everard, his mind afire, wondering how he could make this unexpected turn of events work in his favor.
“Apart from a posting inn which, I was reliably informed, was the scene of a lively wedding only the day previously, I’d a very interesting conversation with the owner.”
“Paul Ballister?”
“Your stepfather, Rosamund?” Sam turned toward her.
Rosamund, who had blanched at the name, gazed toward the window, plotting her escape if the look on her face was anything to go by. Curse Sam Pepys and his propensity for facts.
Unabashed, Sam continued. “That would make him your father-in-law, Sir Everard, if I’m not mistaken?”
Sir Everard didn’t answer. Sam was enjoying this a little too much.
“A greasy sort of fellow, wouldn’t you say?” Sam added.
Recognizing that any attempt to control the news of his marriage was already beyond him, Sir Everard conceded defeat. He had to move swiftly to moderate the damage and turn things to his advantage. To do that, he had to work against his inclinations and trust his dead wife’s idiot of a cousin to at least operate in his interests—and if not his, then maybe someone else’s. Seeing how Sam was already enthralled by Ravishing Rosamund, there was only one way to do that.
“Rosamund,” said Sir Everard with more sharpness than he intended. “I think it’s time for you to attend to your duties. Those we spoke of last night.” His eyes alighted meaningfully upon Descartes. “Jacopo will accompany you.”
Sam stood. “Oh, please don’t leave on my account . . .”
With a look, Sir Everard silenced Sam, who sank back into his seat. “I assure you, Sam, it is necessary. Anyhow, we’ve a great deal to catch up on, have we not?”
Rosamund put down her bowl of coffee eagerly and, after rearranging her skirts, picked up the book, curtseyed first to Sir Everard, then to Sam. Jacopo moved swiftly to her side, and Sir Everard heaved himself up and took her hand.
“I will try to call by later today and see how our . . . new venture is progressing.” He squeezed her hand and felt her fingers tighten around his in response. Good chit. She understood.
“I shall look forward to that, milord,” said Rosamund, curtseying again. She turned to Sam. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, cousin.”
Sam stood and gave a formal bow. “Believe me when I say the pleasure has been all mine.”
“Thus far, you’ve given me no cause to doubt you,” said Rosamund straight-faced.
One of the footmen coughed.
Enjoying Sam’s discomfort, Sir Everard burst out laughing, his eyes narrowing as he beheld his new wife.
Sam watched Rosamund and Jacopo depart, Wat on their heels, then swung toward his cousin.
“Please, Sir Everard, cease your chortling. There’s much I wish to discuss with you now the lady has left.” Dejected, Sam resumed his seat. “Dear God, but she is dazzling. A veritable Helen, no, a Helene in our midst. The resemblance is uncanny. Why, when I first opened the door, I thought the dead had arisen . . . Oh, that was imprudent. Forgive me.”
“I do.” Sir Everard barely heard. His mind was racing. Whereas he’d first begrudged his cousin’s presence, he now recognized it, gauche comments aside, as a Godsend.
Sam blathered on. “She’s also very like Frances Stewart, don’t you think? Older, but not by too much. I am sure the men of the court will note this and—are you listening to me, cousin?”
Sitting down, Sir Everard beckoned Sam closer. “No. I’m not. I’ve much on my mind.”
A lascivious grin parted Sam’s lips as he shifted in his chair. “I can only imagine . . .”
Feigning great reluctance, Sir Everard regarded his cousin earnestly. “Can I trust you, Sam?”
“Of course. We may not have seen each other since before the business with your son and Margery’s death, that drunken card game aside, but are we not family?”
Sir Everard nodded sagely, as if he’d not thought the one benefit of the Aubrey affair (as he’d come to think of it) and Margery’s death had been divesting himself of the likes of Pepys.
“Then, allow me to tell you the truth about Rosamund and the situation in which I found her; a situation made all the more abhorrent to me precisely because of the likeness she bears to my daughter . . .”
Slowly, Sir Everard outlined the facts: the horses, Rosamund’s injury, the return to the inn; how he felt stirred to rescue her from the villain Ballister. Of his own intentions, he remained mute. Omitting the finer details of his “rescue,” he paused only when goblets and a decanter were delivered and drinks poured.
As he listened, Sam’s expression changed from one of triumph to pity, then simmering outrage. Observing his reaction, Sir Everard knew this was the version Sam would tell over and over. If the cat was out of the bag, well, let it wear a bell he’d fashioned. A version in which he was the hero, Ravishing Rosamund very much the victim and Lovelace not mentioned. Not yet.
By the time Sir Everard had finished, Sam was incredulous and indignant. “Well,” he said, drawing himself up, his portly frame filling the chair, his chin tilted. “I say, cousin, while I found the swiftness of your nuptials somewhat troublesome and had cause to doubt your sanity—at least until I set eyes upon Rosamund—I was wrong. I did you a grave injustice. You’ve done a most noble thing. Rescued Rosamund from a veritable dragon. I just wish you’d slain the beast.”
Sam’s face softened as he gazed toward the door. “She’s an absolute beauty. That hair. That figure. That laugh. I don’t think I’ve seen her match.” He sighed before his expression hardened. “Wait till His Majesty sets eyes upon her, let alone Buckingham or Bennet; they won’t be able to resist. As for William Chiffinch, the royal procurer, he’ll be keen to teach her the route to the King’s chambers, mark my words. I don’t envy you that moment, cousin. If I were you, I’d do everything in my power to keep those men away.”
Pretending a calm he didn’t feel, Sir Everard brushed the air with a lazy hand. “Once word gets around, I’m afraid that’s all but an impossible task . . .” Rubbing his chin, he pretended to think. “And then there’s the chocolate house . . .”
“What has that to do with Rosamund?”
Sir Everard steepled his fingers beneath his chin.
Outside, a bird began to trill. The day grew dim as a bank of clouds slowly swallowed the weak sun.
“Tell me, please.”
Feigning reluctance, Sir Everard sighed. “As you have made clear, I can’t prevent people from knowing about Rosamund or embellishing the circumstances surrounding our nuptials, no matter how deep my desire to protect her. I understand I was a numbskull to think I could.” He gave Sam a warm smile of gratitude. “But, the more I consider it, the more I believe it’s important folks’ curiosity about Rosamund is, to a degree, sated.” Sam nodded vigorously. “But I want their sympathy engaged. If they have her name upon their lips, I want it uttered kindly. I want descriptions of her loveliness and innocence to fly through the air and scatter in all directions, like perfumed flowers on a blustery day. I understand her resemblance to Helene will be impossible to deny—”
“It is.”
“If everyone is going to talk about her—”
“They already are.”
“I want to extend their conversation beyond any history involving my family. I want it to be as if the Blithmans have, with Rosamund, been born again. Do you understand?”
“I . . . I think so. Like the mythical phoenix?”
Sir Everard regarded him askance. “If you say so. Anyhow, I’m relying on your help. I want you to tell people there is no scandal, no wrongdoing—at least on my part—not that there ever was.” He frowned. “There is just a guiltless young woman who was rescued from a dire future by a lonely old man who saw his daughter reborn in a hapless young chit. A chance to restore the Blithman name.”
“But, cousin, I thought with the money you gave the King, you already had? Certainly, if ever he makes mention of you, it’s with much favor.” When Sir Everard didn’t respond, Sam continued. “I’m not certain this desire to point out the likeness to Helene is wise. I mean, people might find such a comparison . . . How do I put it? Inappropriate? Monstrous even? After all, you married this likeness. They might traduce you, sir.”
“Let them. My soul is untroubled. Rosamund is beyond reproach even if I am not.”
“Of course, of course.”
Sam’s brows puckered. He went to speak, then changed his mind.
“Can I trust you with such a mission?” asked Sir Everard. “Trust you to help ease Rosamund’s passage into this city of gossips? Navigate those who would sooner flense an ingenue, divest her of the innocence you sensed, suspect her of crimes she has in no way committed? I would protect her, Sam. I would that we protect her.”
Sam’s back straightened, his shoulders set. “It would be an honor to be entrusted with such a task.” A thought crossed his mind. “But how long before others can bear witness to the delight that is your new wife?”
Sir Everard appeared to consider his answer. “If anyone wants an introduction to Rosamund, then they must wait.”
“But . . . but . . . that’s preposterous. You can’t expect people to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because . . . it’s not what’s done.”
“And since when have I followed rules, Sam—unspoken, written or otherwise? I would not be the success I am if I had. If anyone wants to meet Rosamund, then they can damn well wait until the chocolate house opens.”
“What has the chocolate house got to do with Rosamund?”
Sir Everard smiled. “Everything, Sam. Everything.”
Releasing a long sigh, Sam fell back in his seat, drink in hand. “I will not pretend to understand your purpose, cousin, but if you seek to safeguard Rosamund and her reputation, then putting her in the chocolate house, even as a means to shelter her, is not the way to do it.”
“Why not? She’s my wife. It’s my right to control access to her.”
“Perhaps, but women can’t patronize those establishments—not the kind who will be her equal.”
“But it’s not women I want Rosamund to meet,” said Sir Everard smoothly.
“Ah, you desire men to fall under her spell.” Jealousy flashed across Sam’s face. He was so transparent sometimes.
“You forget. I’m a businessman. I desire men to spend their coin at my chocolate house—and what better incentive than a lovely young woman?”
Sam frowned and shook his head. “Sir Everard, cousin, forgive me. But is this wise? For all you desire to insulate her, won’t you be risking her reputation with such a strategy?”
Sir Everard bestowed a smile. “Wisdom has nothing to do with it. My primary intention is to attract those who have . . . avoided my company over the last couple of years and ensure they make a path to my door.”
Sam studied Sir Everard. “Well, I for one am glad to hear this, cousin. Truth be told, I’ve been most anxious for your well-being. While I know you don’t want to discuss that terrible business with Aubrey, facts are, it did untold damage to your name, until your efforts to mitigate it, of course.” He hesitated. “It also hurt those associated with you—friends, family—”
Sir Everard knew then that Sam sought forgiveness for withdrawing from his company for so long. Who could blame him? Sam was right, the taint of traitor tarred all. Unlike those who avoided him when Margery and then Helene and the baby died, Sam had tried to reach out and offer solace. It was he who had refused his overtures. He felt a sudden rush of affection for the silly little man.
“Then, naturally, you were not yourself after Margery’s death, and Helene and the babe. God knows,” added Sam swiftly, “one could not expect you to be.”
They sat quietly. Raised voices drifted up from the courtyard below as Wat directed some deliveries.
“Well,” Sam said finally, slapping his thighs. “I’m most gratified to hear you talk in such terms, and if I had any concerns about your hasty nuptials to Rosamund, well, they’ve now been put to rest. But, cousin, if I may proffer a word of advice.”
It was all Sir Everard could do to control the flare of anger that rose. There was nothing worse than unsolicited advice. “What might that be?”
“If you wish your wife to make a grand entrance upon the stage of the chocolate house, play her part, then I suggest you look to her costume.”
Sir Everard appeared puzzled.
“It’s not . . . seemly to dress her in another’s clothes, no matter they are dear to you and conjure fond memories. There’s no doubt that would set even male tongues wagging and, dare I say, most unkindly. Your sweet Rosamund deserves better.”
How could Sir Everard explain that attiring Rosamund in Margery’s clothes was not an oversight but a deliberate strategy? Neither did they conjure fond memories. On the contrary, like the portraits in the study, they kept him focused. Simple.
Sam gave a nervous giggle. “I am just relieved you haven’t dressed her in Helene’s wardrobe. Imagine what assumptions would be drawn then.”
Sir Everard’s eyes narrowed. “Helene’s clothes? She took them with her when she . . . left.” His mind began to tick. Images of Helene in her wedding gown, her favorite day dress of azure and silver, edged with black. In fact, so many of her gowns had been edged with ebony. Margery would oft castigate her and remind her black was for widow’s weeds . . .
“Are you listening, cousin?” asked Sam in a tone that declared offense.
“Yes, yes,” said Sir Everard, clearly lying. “You were discoursing on Helene’s clothes, were you not?”
“No, not Helene’s, my own wife’s and that Godforsaken tailor of hers, Mr. Unthank. The . . .” harrumphed Sam, halting as Sir Everard rose from his chair and moved behind him to grip his shoulder.
“You may regale me with that tale later.” He tightened his hold. “For now, let’s talk about my wife a little longer . . . What were you saying about her clothes?”
Sir Everard loosened his hold as Sam eagerly blathered on. Making his way back to his seat, he downed a cooling ale, his mind afire.
So long as Rosamund became the subject of the chatterers and correspondents on terms he set, he could focus on far more important matters.