Unlike most women of his acquaintance, who would have fallen into hysterics at such an assault, this woman had not only defended herself with a strength and will he’d not seen before, but now sought to hide her quiet tears.
He approached her cautiously (after all, he’d seen how she wielded her fists and feet), and before he could offer words of comfort, she held up a palm, shook her head and backed away.
Discommoded, the man stopped. “My lady, please, tell me what I can do to ease your evident distress.”
“Madam?” The call from inside the building was faint but clear.
The woman’s head jerked up as she surveyed the upper story. It was the first time he had seen her clearly.
Good God. Hailstones pummeled his body from within. Forgotten scenes rose to taunt him. The rumors were true. She was Helene reborn.
Only . . .
He took in the dark, swimming eyes, the concern clouding them as she stared aloft; the little frown puckering her brow . . . remembered the way she granted forgiveness . . .
She was not.
“Please,” she sniffed in a most unladylike manner, swiping her sleeve across her nose. “They cannot find me—not like this.” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes then looked down at the wreckage of her dress in dismay. Much to his surprise, her lips began to twitch. “They’ll think I invited the attention.” She gave a laugh. The bitterness forced him to take a step back.
His mind became as disordered as the leaves scattering in the rising wind.
“I will assure them you did not.”
“No, no.” She shook her head, resigned. “They cannot find you here . . . They mustn’t.”
On that score, she was right.
She grabbed him by the hand and began to lead him toward the gate.
“Madam?”
This time the voice was nearer; a head appeared at the window directly above. The woman flattened herself against the wall of the house, forcing him to do the same. To make matters worse, some coxcombs in the lane took up the cry, calling out, “Madam! Madam!” to raucous laughter.
The woman rested her head against the building and then whispered, “Is it always like this?”
“What?” The man was unable to tear his eyes from her face, her form—so familiar and yet so very different.
“London.”
“Like what?”
“A hodgepodge of danger and drollery.” She nodded in the direction of the cheeky cries. Dimples creased her cheeks and her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, were large and molten, the lashes ridiculously long and wet.
Before he could find his voice, the one above called again. “Madam?” It was closer this time.
“Please,” the woman beseeched. “I do not want them to know what happened.” The man’s eyebrows rose. “I’m all right now and I do thank you. Please, just go.” She gave him a push.
“But I cannot leave you,” he said, even though that was exactly what he must do. He could not risk being seen.
“Why not?” She was genuinely surprised.
Uncertain how to respond, he allowed himself to be encouraged toward the gate, torn between amusement and utter bemusement.
She paused as she was about to open the gate. “Forgive my rudeness, sir. I am ever so grateful. If you hadn’t come, well, I don’t know what would have happened . . .”
Something in her face told him she knew all too well. He would erase that expression from those features, return the spark that had fired her earlier. Such boldness; courage the like of which he’d rarely seen and never in a woman. A woman whose face brought back so many bitter memories, aroused feelings he’d thought forever banished.
Aware she was waiting for him to say something, he obliged. “Aye, if I hadn’t appeared when I did, I fear those ruffians would be in a far worse state.”
She blinked, taken aback.
“The moment I heard their cries, I knew I had to rescue them.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“From a kitchen doxy. Nay.” He paused. “A veritable harridan.” He performed a flourish, removing his hat, one leg bent.
The woman met his eyes and then she did the most surprising thing of all: she burst out laughing. Astonished, the man straightened and replaced his hat. As she continued to laugh, his eyes grew wide, his lips twitched and, before he knew it, he was doubled over, laughing with her. She rested a hand on his back to prevent herself from falling.
The clouds chose that moment to release their burden.
“Go, please, go,” she said, removing her hand, composing herself swiftly. Though her eyes still twinkled. She fiddled with the latch, the rain making the metal slick.
He understood her haste, but he wouldn’t let her have it all her way.
Removing her hand, he wrenched the gate open and stepped through. About to have it shut upon him, he stopped it with his boot. Reaching through the gap, ignoring the rain, he cupped the woman’s face in his gloved palm. “I must have your name. A condition of my silence,” he said.
“First, what is yours?” demanded the woman. Water trickled into her eyes.
“Nessuno,” said the man. “I am Nessuno. Now you.”
Pulling his hand away from her face, she dimpled. “Why, the Lady Harridan, of course.”
There was a beat in which his foot slipped. Before he could prevent it, she shut the gate.
“Wait,” he cried, hoping she was still on the other side. The rain soaked his hat, his jacket. He pressed his face against the wood. “Farewell, my Lady Harridan, and may God keep you.”
He heard the latch fall into place followed by faint words as the rain grew harder and he too ran to seek shelter. He was certain he’d heard, “You too, Mr. Nessuno. My friend.”
* * *
Upon discovering Rosamund idly leafing through the treatise on chocolate, absentmindedly brushing crumbs from her bodice, Jacopo and Filip’s breathless concern at her absence and her explanation she’d simply wandered out into the back lane to get some fresh air, but was forced to shelter until the rain eased, quickly turned to mystification.
“But the gate was latched,” said Jacopo, when Filip glared at him. “I went through the church to check it myself.” The panting, red-faced boys behind him nodded.
Rosamund sent a swift prayer heavenward his search had not found her or Mr. Nessuno.
“It wasn’t latched when I first went down,” she said truthfully. “It opened easily. Someone must have latched it later.” This, of course, was also the truth. “Perhaps it was Mr. Henderson?” she said sweetly.
“Perhaps . . .” said Filip, scratching his head, looking about. “If he’s been in the stables using the press . . .” Ashe discreetly disappeared behind the shelves. Rosamund prayed he wouldn’t ask Mr. Henderson.
“Sir Everard will not be happy,” said Jacopo dolefully.
Rosamund paused in the act of turning a page. “I would not want to alarm him the way I inadvertently did you, Jacopo, Filip—and for that I’m so very sorry. You too, Solomon and Thomas. There’s no need to raise the matter with him, is there?” She glanced up from the treatise and bestowed a wide smile. “After all, I’m here now, I’ve eaten—thank you for the pie, it was delicious—and no harm has befallen me.” (That she kept a straight face when she said this owed much to her time at the Maiden Voyage Inn. Aye, thought Rosamund as she prattled away, she really should be on the stage.) “I think it’s time we returned to our lessons, don’t you, Jacopo?”
Referring to her lessons was exactly the diversion Rosamund hoped it would be.
Jacopo coughed into his fist. “As it happens, signora, while you were . . . in the lane”—doubt inflected his words—“I received a message. The signore is en route and desires to take you to his tailors, the Wellses—the same couple who looked to his first wife and daughter’s needs in Foster Lane near St. Paul’s.”
“Sir Everard is coming here?”
“Sì. At any moment,” said Jacopo. “He’s determined you’re to receive a new wardrobe.” He reached into a pocket to produce said message, then recalled she couldn’t read and stopped.
Rosamund was filled first with consternation at her lack of reading skills, then joyous anticipation. If anything could have distracted her from thoughts of Mr. Nessuno and what had just happened, it was the notion she was to be given her own clothes—not ones her mother had worn and thrown in her direction, not those discarded at the inn and patched, or those the former Lady Blithman had once dressed in and which no adjustment could quite make fit—but her very own. Clothing that no man, no matter how sodden with beer, or unaware of her status, would dare rip from her body.
Not since she lived at Bearwoode had someone made her clothes. What a magnificent indulgence. She sent thoughts of gratitude winging to her husband before they were replaced with memories of a pair of mischievous eyes that gleamed as their owner called her a harridan. With a secret smile, she banished Mr. Nessuno from her mind.
“Well, this is good news indeed.” Rising, she straightened her skirts, rubbed at a spot of blood she’d missed and found her gloves and hat.
“We’ll await him downstairs,” Jacopo said and stood aside so she might precede him.
She placed the treatise in the satchel Jacopo had given her so she could study it at leisure in her room later, though the futility of this didn’t escape her. Rosamund could barely contain her excitement. Not only was she being endowed with new clothes, but she was going to see more of London. St. Paul’s Cathedral! Foster Lane . . . well, that didn’t sound quite so prepossessing, even if its inhabitants did (tailors!), but it was a novel destination.
With a warm goodbye to Filip and the boys and another apology for causing them anxiety, Rosamund rushed through the main part of the chocolate house. As she did so she heard Mr. Remney remonstrating with his workers as to the whereabouts of his apprentices Jed Franklin and Ben Miller.
Needless to say, she didn’t enlighten him.