Sir Everard Blithman gazed in dismay at the girl lying askew in the dirt. If he hadn’t been anxious to avoid the traffic cluttering up the Great London Road, never mind lurking highwaymen, he wouldn’t have come this way or been so sorely inconvenienced.
The coachmen tried to calm the horses as they argued over who was at fault. Sir Everard shut out their noise and with some difficulty, using his walking stick for leverage, kneeled beside the unconscious girl. Pushing aside her hair, he felt for a pulse at her throat and saw her bosom rising and falling. A sleeve had ridden up her arm. He frowned and, reaching over, pulled up her other sleeve, before laying her hand upon her stomach. While her dress was crude, comprising a simple skirt, plain bodice and petticoats that had been mended numerous times and could do with a laundress’s touch, her feet were not accustomed to being unshod. It was evident from the raw scrapes her toes had suffered in her dash upon this Godforsaken road. Yet there was no sign of shoes or stockings. Her skirt was torn and any cap or coif she had been wearing had blown away in the wind, which, even as he bent over her, was increasing in strength and heat. Her hair was so very long and unruly. Though it could do with a wash, the color was so eye-catching, so uncommon. It reminded him of . . .
Pulling a kerchief from his jacket, he wiped his brow, pushing it up under the band of his hat, which also served to hold his periwig tight to his scalp. Damn this heat. Damn his whim to take what was supposed to be a shortcut.
Whoever this young woman was, once you saw beyond the patina of dirt, she was really quite striking. Perhaps that was why the rogues were chasing her, for he’d no doubt that’s what they’d interrupted: some country yokels seeking to make sport of a pretty maid. She didn’t look like a servant, though her reddened hands bespoke labor, as did her clothes. There was a quality about her, even as she lay there with a nasty gash upon her temple, that suggested she was more than she seemed. Most likely it was the brave manner in which she’d stood before his frantic steeds, neither screaming nor fainting, but trying to work out how to rescue herself that appealed to him and set his mind racing. She was clearly possessed of both a stout character and courage—something lacking in so many of his acquaintances these days.
Then there was the uncanny resemblance. The more he stared, the more apparent it became.
Most extraordinary.
Who was she? Squinting, his faded blue eyes scanned the crossroads ahead and the river beyond before once more considering the girl at his feet. He let out an exasperated sigh. It was tempting to simply leave her. There was not a soul in sight, and no one would ever know he’d been there. Apart from the hired men, the only witnesses were two mangy-looking crows and a thin cow. The rogues who’d pursued her had made themselves scarce the moment she fell and were hardly going to admit to anything.
A gust threatened to snatch his hat away, forcing him to half rise and clutch it to his head. What if those same villains returned to finish what they started? What if news he’d effectively left an injured chit in the road reached London? There’d be hell to pay—something he could ill afford in light of recent developments. He couldn’t risk it.
And there was the remarkable likeness. Was God having a lark or offering something else?
Mopping his forehead, he turned to the man waiting patiently behind him. “Jacopo.” He gestured for him to come forward.
Jacopo gazed upon the woman before a hand swiftly covered his mouth. “Mio Dio!” he exclaimed. “She’s very like the Lady Helene—”
“I noticed,” said Sir Everard dryly.
Jacopo continued to stare. “Lei è bella. Like a painting, she’s so perfect.”
“Not quite perfect,” Sir Everard said and, using his cane, pointed to her clothes then her head. “There’s the matter of her state, never mind her injuries.”
“Allora, quite,” said Jacopo. “Should I fetch a dottore?”
“A doctor? Here, in this backwater?” Sir Everard shook his head. “I wouldn’t inflict such a creature upon the poor child if we were in London. Not after what she’s been through.”
“’Twasn’t your fault, signore, nor the coachmen’s. She ran straight toward them. How she didn’t hear—”
“I’m not referring to the damage we exacted and which, no doubt, was the final straw,” said Sir Everard impatiently. “Look here.” Bending down, he ran a light thumb over a livid purple bruise near her elbow. Next to it, a series of mustard-colored marks the size of large fingers could be seen; closer to her wrist, red welts from some kind of binding.
The young man squatted beside him, his fingers unconsciously wrapping around his own wrist and rubbing a few times.
With a beringed finger Sir Everard pointed to a slight discoloration upon her cheekbone. “We’d naught to do with this. That is old. The girl has been manhandled and not just the once. God only knows what we cannot see.” Heaving himself upright, he sighed. “If there’s one thing I cannot abide, Jacopo, it’s unnecessary cruelty.”
Sir Everard deigned not to notice the expression on Jacopo’s face. Instead, he stared in the direction the girl had come from, his eyes becoming harder than the steel poniard he wore at his hip.
“Well,” he said, brushing the dust from his fine satin breeches and the jacquard of his coat. “As God is my witness, we’ve no choice. Pick her up, Jacopo, and place her in the carriage. I need to think.”
Jacopo bowed. “Sì, signore.” As tenderly as he could, Jacopo lifted the young woman into his arms, screwing up his nose as he caught a whiff of her odor. Once his master was seated in the carriage, he hoisted the girl inside and placed her along the padded seat opposite, rearranging the cushions so her head was supported, and setting a pomander of rose petals and violet beside her.
As he slowly withdrew his hand from the back of her neck, brushing the marks on her wrist almost reverentially, the girl groaned and her eyelids flickered.
“Signore, she wakes.”
The girl blinked, gasped and, with a strength no one expected, pushed Jacopo away and retreated into the cushions.
Jacopo raised his hands. “Va tutto bene . . . It’s all right, signorina,” he said quickly. “I mean no harm.”
“For God’s sake, Jacopo, move aside so the girl understands she’s not been captured by an Ethiopian.” With a sweep of his stick, Sir Everard shoved him against the carriage wall. “You may yet frighten her to death.”
The girl said nothing, just stared first at him, then Jacopo, with huge dark eyes. Recognizing that if she wasn’t treated with kid gloves she might bolt before he could be assured of her health, Sir Everard began speaking, all the while observing her carefully.
“Good morning, mistress. My name is Sir Everard Blithman of London. I’m sorry to say my horses struck you down, but I’m mightily relieved to see you’re at least partly restored, despite the wound we’ve inflicted.”
She raised her hand to the spot, drawing her fingers away and rubbing the blood across the tips. Gazing at them uncertainly, she neither swooned nor fell into hysterics as Sir Everard half anticipated. Why, she was a bold one indeed. A rare one. He wondered at the state of her clothes, her all but unwashed condition.
She took his proffered kerchief, wiped her fingers and cautiously touched her head. He waved toward a small chest at his feet. “Jacopo, give her some medick.”
“Signore.” Jacopo opened the clasps, extracted a small bottle, popped the cork and offered it to the girl. “Venezia treacle,” he said. “Good for all ailments.”
Sir Everard bade her drink and watched as she first sniffed, then looked at Jacopo before her eyes alighted on him again. “Please,” said Sir Everard. “I assure you, it’s the best of physick—the King himself takes it.”
Rosamund took a cautious sip, her eyes upon Jacopo, who urged her with a nod and a smile.
She used the kerchief to dab her mouth, a gesture that confirmed Sir Everard’s suspicion she was of a better class than her clothes and musky scent indicated.
“If you please, mistress, what is your name?” asked Sir Everard.
The girl didn’t answer immediately, folding the kerchief into a small square and glancing around as if to seek an exit. At first affronted, Sir Everard quickly saw the humor in the situation. Here he was, a renowned London merchant and knight, being assessed by a country lass who couldn’t recognize a gentleman when she saw one and didn’t have the sense to watch out for carriages on the one road that ran between her home and the city. If indeed Gravesend was her home. The longer she took to answer, the more humorous the moment became. Unable to help himself, a laugh exploded. Erupting from his very middle, it filled the carriage and was answered first by a horse’s indignant bray, then a chuckle from Jacopo and finally by the girl, who joined in with a laugh so pure, so unutterably joyous, it quite took Sir Everard’s breath away. Her face, already absurdly enchanting in an unorthodox way and not merely because of the sentiments her similarities aroused, was quite transformed. Her great brown eyes twinkled in pleasure, her teeth, a row of white pearls, were exposed as her exquisite pink lips parted. Taken aback, Sir Everard ceased to laugh and his heart all but seized.
Immediately, the girl’s fingers flew to her lips and the delightful noise stopped. Sir Everard felt gloom descend and, in yet another attack of imagination (two this very hour), felt as if the sun had been wiped from the skies.
“I haven’t done that in so long, I astonished myself.” Her voice was curiously mellow for one so young. It reminded him of honey and the creamy top of fine beer. The way she enunciated the words suggested good breeding; good breeding overlaid by a veneer of ill.
She tried to sit up, flinging her arm out as she was momentarily overcome. Jacopo leaped forward. Raising her hands, she prevented him from touching her. Instead, both men watched as she rearranged the cushions to support her back.
“Please, forgive my rudeness,” she said. “I blame the gash upon my head.” She touched it gingerly. No blood stained the kerchief this time. “My name is Rosamund To— Ballister, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Everard Blithman of London, and you too, sir, I’m sure.” She bowed her head toward Jacopo. “I thank you for your timely appearance. While your horses and I . . . er . . . enjoyed a rendezvous, the one awaiting me had you failed to materialize would not have brought such delightful company into my orbit.”
Jacopo gave a splutter. Sir Everard caught his eye. “This is Jacopo, my valet and factotum,” he said. “He hails from faraway climes.”
“I thought you must,” said Rosamund. “I’ve only ever seen folk such as your good self at a distance, upon the ships that anchor at the docks in town. You’re not as dark as some, but darker than most.” She hesitated. “You speak with an accent. You’re not a Hollander, perchance, are you?”
Jacopo glanced at his master in mock horror.
Sir Everard coughed into his fist. “He’s no swag-bellied Hollander, so you needn’t be alarmed; the language he spoke was Italian. He’s from Venice.”
Rosamund, whose color was just starting to return, fluttered her hands. “Aye, of course; I can hear it now. My humblest apologies for my ill manners, my boldness in asking. It’s just, my stepfather doesn’t approve of . . . Hollanders.”
“He’s not alone on that score.” Sir Everard smiled. “Like the damn Frenchies and, with one or two exceptions, the Papist Spanish, they’re not to be trusted.”
“Whatever you are, whoever, it matters not as you’ve shown me such kindness. Much more than I deserve or that my state”—she grimaced at her dirty clothes—“demands.” Nodding toward the bottle still in Jacopo’s hand, she smiled. “That treacle was excellent.” She smacked her lips together, the sound an angel exhaling. “I detect some honey, lavender, juniper and perhaps some St. John’s wort?”
Sir Everard blinked. “You can taste those?”
“Aye, and many other ingredients besides, which, sadly, I am unable to identify but which no doubt have contributed to my recovery.”
Jacopo stared.
“My many thanks.”
Outside, a flock of birds screeched. Restless now, the horses stamped their hooves and the low chatter of the coachmen carried.
Sir Everard exchanged a look with Jacopo which Rosamund intercepted. “Forgive me. I’ve inconvenienced you both. I feel much restored. I’ll be on my way.”
Sir Everard was not ready to let this young woman go. There was a reason God arranged this encounter—he simply had to fathom what it was. He placed his fingers on her forearm. She flinched and he quickly withdrew them.
“Soft. We’re not going anywhere until we hear your story and can assure ourselves of your ongoing safety. There were two brawny lads chasing you. It would be remiss if we did not ascertain they no longer pose a threat.”
Rosamund’s eyes flew to the door and she plucked her lip. “You may rest assured. They do not.”
“Are the scoundrels known to you?”
Raising her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Known to me? Aye. Those lads are my brothers. Well, stepbrothers, Fear-God and Glory Ballister.”
Sir Everard prayed she didn’t see him recoil at what the names signified. If there was another thing Sir Everard couldn’t abide, it was Puritans. And where there were Puritans, there were Roundheads. Anger began to build. Jacopo wore a heavy frown.
“They’re not like their names, good sir, Master Jacopo,” she said swiftly. “They were bestowed at a different time and to signify an allegiance that’s no longer binding. Their father, my stepfather, Paul Ballister, is an avowed royalist and loyal to the King. As indeed we all are.”
But he wasn’t always, thought Sir Everard. No doubt her stepfather had her recite such a response lest anyone make the obvious assumption. Like so many Englishmen before and after Cromwell, this Ballister was a despicable turncoat, a veritable poltroon with no convictions upon which to hang his hat.
“Your brothers, you say?” Sir Everard frowned.
“Aye.”
“They saw the accident befall you and, instead of rendering aid, fled?”
Rosamund found her hands interesting. “Did they? Perhaps they’ve gone to report the . . . mishap. We only live around the corner.”
Sir Everard’s frown deepened. “There’s a posting inn, isn’t there?”
“The Maiden Voyage Inn,” Jacopo replied.
“That’s where I live,” said Rosamund, in a voice that would have been appropriate at a funeral.
Sir Everard had never heard of this Maiden Voyage Inn, but then, he had very little cause to come to Gravesend, his interests being met in London, Deptford, Portsmouth, Dover and beyond.
“Well, I’d best get you home,” he said.
“I didn’t say it was my home,” said Rosamund firmly, locking eyes with him. “I said it’s where I live.” And she let out such a wistful sigh it made Sir Everard shift in his seat, as if the cushions had become stones.
An uncomfortable silence descended. There was no help for it, he must return the girl to her family, home or no home, and be on his way no matter what his mind was whispering to him. He felt for his purse. He would give this stepfather a gold coin to compensate for her injuries, ensure she received some broth and the attention of a cursed physician if needed. He knew how tricky head injuries could be. He’d fought in enough battles, seen enough men succumb to the smallest blow to know the humors could be struck out of balance in an instant. His hand tightened on his stick. He was living proof. Still, her eyes were clear, and she made complete sense—well, to a point. To differentiate between a home and the place she lived . . .
“If you feel ready to travel, then,” said Sir Everard jovially. He must be on his way; he had business in London, urgent correspondence to deal with, and he was now very late. “I’ll ask my men to take us there.”
Did he imagine it or did disappointment cross her face? No, he did not. Her joyous eyes dimmed, the corners of her mouth became downturned. Sir Everard felt as if he’d struck a puppy. Guilt rose within him. Such an unfamiliar emotion.
“It’s not very far. I could walk the distance.”
“I’ll not hear of it,” Sir Everard said and was rewarded with that smile. “Best tell the driver to take it easy, Jacopo. I don’t want to risk our guest’s health any further, no matter how close our destination.”
Flashing one last grin at Rosamund, Jacopo leaped from the carriage and shut the door, the conveyance rocking slightly as he hoisted himself onto the driver’s box.
The carriage lurched as the horses, with the encouraging cries of the men, walked forward, the wheels jerking over the ruts and potholes.
Sir Everard and Rosamund were thrown from side to side. Sir Everard watched as the girl edged forward on the seat, one hand resting upon the window, which was left unsealed. As she peered out, her mouth was slightly open, her eyes round.
“You’ve never been in a carriage before?” he asked and was blessed with a quick laugh. Though abrupt, it was no less magical.
“There was a time I was no stranger to such transport.” Her face clouded, and instead of asking the questions burning inside him, Sir Everard wasted the few precious minutes he had alone with her trying to think of something he could say, a witty observation, an inoffensive story, anything to recapture that smile, to hear that charming peal of mirth again. Its power was remarkable. Imagine what he could do if he could bottle such a thing, sell it. And when it came in such a package, one that with some tweaking bore such similitude. What an attraction; what a lure . . .
Before he could say anything, Rosamund sat back. “We’re here.”
Astonished, Sir Everard looked out just as the carriage rolled to a stop right outside a rather derelict inn with a faded sign that creaked as it blew back and forth. The carriage door opened, admitting a gust of searing air and a blast of earth stirred by the horses.
“Signorina?” coughed Jacopo, waving the dust away before offering his arm.
With a sweet smile at Sir Everard, Rosamund refused Jacopo’s assistance, rising with an elegance that belied her appearance. She steadied herself and her features settled into what Sir Everard later would describe as a state of resignation and resilience. It was like curtains closing after a wonderful performance or the moonlight drowning in clouds. Her eyes lost their sparkle, the felicity she’d so readily expressed was all but gone. About to leave the carriage, she turned, her face close. “Thank you, Sir Everard, and you too, Master Jacopo, for rescuing me,” she said. “From the road and . . . from any other misadventures that may have befallen me. I do ask God to bless you for your kindness; I’ll not forget it. Good day, sirs.”
Unable to summon a response, Sir Everard was imagining the effect she’d have upon others if she were washed and dressed in fine apparel. How no one would ever suspect someone who looked and sounded like that of ill will or malice. Knowing he should give Jacopo the coin to pass to the stepfather, he didn’t move.
As Rosamund walked toward the pitted front door, the horses hitched to the railing raised their heads to regard her. She caressed a warm neck in passing, the beast shuddering beneath her gentle touch.
Why did he feel as if he’d found a treasure and now had to surrender it?
He gazed at the inn, taking note of its shabby exterior, the overgrown grass he could see in the yard behind it. Nevertheless, the glass in the windows was spotless, the curtains clean. An image of reddened hands, dirty knees and elbows, bruised wrists, sprang into his mind, along with those merry pipes. The inn was an unsightly shell housing a pearl . . . a hardworking pearl that by rights deserved a much finer setting. What he could do with such a prize; how it could work to serve his interests.
Good God, her misery was evident; she said it herself, this wasn’t her home. She’d no allegiance here . . . Only a stepfather and a pair of footpads she called brothers who didn’t understand the jewel in their midst.
This would not do; he hadn’t made his fortune by ignoring his instincts. In his eagerness to stop Rosamund, he almost fell out of the carriage.
“Mistress Ballister!” he called, raising his stick.
Rosamund halted abruptly and with an apologetic look at Jacopo, whose arm she now held, spun around. “Milord?”
Sir Everard hobbled toward her, a preposterous idea growing in his head. He was about to speak when the door to the inn flew open and out stepped a tall man with a generous paunch. Dressed in an ornate jacket with a heavily frilled shirt, a dark horse-hair periwig and oversize hat, he paused in the shade offered by the huge trees growing near the front door, took in the scene before him, then, with a huge smile that revealed enormous sulfur-colored teeth, flung out his arms.
“Rosie, my dear child, where have you been?”
Before Rosamund could respond, the man snatched her off her feet, swinging her around, depositing a wet kiss upon both cheeks then setting her down.
“Why, when your brothers returned saying you’d set off down the southern road, I thought I’d have to raise a hue and cry. I sent them to fetch your mother. But look, here you are. Returned to us safely, and by such august personages.” Keeping one arm draped across Rosamund’s shoulders, the man lifted his rather fine hat and attempted a bow. “Paul Ballister at your service and in your debt. How can I ever thank you for returning my Rosie to me?”
Touching his hat, Sir Everard introduced himself and Jacopo and explained what brought them to the inn. His mind was galloping. So, this was the stepfather, the cowardly Roundhead who could look to the cleanliness of his own person and attire but allow his stepdaughter and the exterior of his premises to present in such a state. This was a man who could pretend affection, shower it upon a lass who neither invited it nor, by her distasteful expression, wished it, for the benefit of his own reputation. What was he hiding?
All these thoughts tumbled in Sir Everard’s head as he spoke. He omitted the part about Rosamund being chased by her brothers. The entire time, Ballister never released hold of his stepdaughter, and made sounds that were no doubt meant to express shock and sympathy. When Sir Everard reached the part about the horses knocking Rosamund unconscious, Ballister took hold of both her shoulders, bent his knees so he might study her closely and, upon seeing the cut to her head, clasped her to his bosom.
Rosamund never uttered a word. Neither did she resist nor return the many affections this man bestowed upon her; not his kisses, embraces or chucking of her chin. She could have been a life-size puppet whose strings had been severed. Her mouth was immobile; her eyes hollow. Sir Everard wondered if her smile was something he’d invented, let alone her astonishing laughter, only he knew they weren’t.
“Does it hurt, my little kinchin?” said Ballister in a voice reserved for a beloved pet, studying the recent injury closely and conveniently ignoring the others.
Sir Everard had to resist the urge to strike him.
Before Rosamund could answer, Ballister slapped his forehead. “What an addle-brained ruffler I am, keeping you standing out here in this heat. Please, please, come in, come in. After all, it’s not every day a London gent, a knight no less, brings my pretty heart, my sweet dimber panter back.” He squeezed Rosamund against him. She was crushed to his side like an empty chaff bag.
“That won’t be necessary,” began Sir Everard. “I’m more than relieved to find your daughter unharmed by the sorry experience. Nevertheless, I think it appropriate I offer you compensation for damages done, then we’ll be on our way.”
Ballister’s hand fell from the door as he turned around, relinquishing Rosamund at the same time. The relief on her face was palpable. She shuffled out of reach.
“Compensation, you said?” Ballister stroked his thin moustache, a feeble effort to disguise his Parliamentary propensities and mimic the King, as so many were wont to do.
Sir Everard cleared his throat. “I did.”
Rosamund was forgotten. Jacopo went and stood next to her.
Rubbing his large hands together, Ballister sidled closer to Sir Everard. Ballister’s features were strong, his brows heavy, but his eyes were too close together, which spoiled the effect. His pores were large and his swarthy skin bore the marks of the pox.
“I knew the moment I set my peepers upon you, my lord, that you were a generous cove, a man of high principles and sound sense.” He smiled again, standing so close, Sir Everard caught a whiff of his sour breath. He was reminded of a riddle: Why is it better to fall into the claws of crows and ravens than of flatterers? Because crows and ravens do but eat us when we are dead, but flatterers devour us alive. Having encountered Ballister’s kind before, he’d no intention of providing this particular man with a meal.
“Poor Rosamund.” Ballister sighed, looking back to where she waited, pity etched upon his face. A frowsy smell arose from his wig. “What will her mother say when she spies her grievous hurts? Now I understand the dire extent of them, I doubt the lass’ll be fit to do her duties for months. I can see something’s not right with her. Look how close she’s standing to that tawneymoor, unaware of the danger she’s in.” He waggled his head sorrowfully; Sir Everard put more distance between them, which Ballister swiftly closed. “So, what kind of compensation are we talking about, milord?” He lowered his voice. “I’ll have you know, I’m no nizzie to be bought with a few coins.”
Sir Everard stiffened. “And I am no cully to be gulled.”
Ballister looked at him agog, then his smile returned. Sir Everard could see it didn’t reach his eyes, which were of an indiscernible color and as cold as the Thames in winter.
“I didn’t think you were for a moment, sir. Not you, a London gent”—there was a flicker of scorn as his eyes alighted on the walking stick—“with as fine a carriage and horseflesh as I’ve seen in these parts—even if they did mow down my little one and almost take her life.”
A distant shout distracted them. A group of well-dressed people slowly approached, chattering and laughing, led by a woman with dark hair wearing a green dress and a large hat. Two robust young men walked on one side of her while a gentleman in a long periwig held her arm on the other.
“Why, it be my wife, Mistress Tilly, and my boys,” said Ballister, his brow creasing. Their appearance didn’t please him.
It didn’t please Sir Everard either. Unable to bear a moment more of Ballister’s company, let alone the rest of his kin, he felt anger rise within him. The girl was completely wasted here. This man and no doubt the entire family had no idea who and what they housed; look at the state of her, the way she tried to avoid her stepfather’s consideration, how her mother’s appearance made her more crestfallen.
Before he could change his mind, Sir Everard unhitched his purse from his belt, noting the widening of Ballister’s eyes, the way his thick tongue sought his lips. “Listen here, Ballister. I’m only going to make this offer once, so think carefully.”
With his eyes fixed on the purse, Ballister raised a brow. “And what might that offer be?”
“You acknowledge Miss Ballister won’t be able to perform her duties for months?”
“Aye, at least. Could be years, for all we know. Head wounds are funny things; suffered a few myself during the war.” He pushed aside his coarse wig to reveal a faint scar near his shaven hairline. It looked like the scratch a nail might leave.
“In that case, she’ll be of very little use to you,” said Sir Everard.
“No use at all,” agreed Ballister. “She be damaged goods. Just another mouth to feed, as if times ain’t tough enough.”
“Well, allow me to relieve you of that burden.” Trying not to show his distaste, Sir Everard held up the purse.
“Relieve me?”
“Aye. Since I’ve damaged your ‘goods,’ allow me to take her off your hands. What do you say?”
Sir Everard saw the look of incredulity cross Jacopo’s face. Rosamund took a step forward, but whether in protest or approbation, he couldn’t tell.
Ballister stared at Sir Everard, the dangling purse, then at his stepdaughter, who quickly lowered her head. “What do you mean?”
“I want to buy your daughter, Ballister. What do you say? Will you sell her to me?”