It was four in the afternoon before Sam Pepys discovered the handbill announcing the opening of the chocolate house that very day. Why hadn’t his cousin mentioned this auspicious event to him? Where was his invitation as a family member? And what on earth was Everard thinking, calling it Helene’s? Oh, Rosamund, how are you faring?
Arriving in Birchin Lane minutes later, Sam found the usually busy street mostly deserted. Assuming the crowds must be enjoying themselves upstairs in the chocolate house and concerned that he, a relative no less, was missing out, he paid his fare to the coach driver and all but ran down the cobbles. Wrenching open the door to the bookshop, he ignored Mr. Henderson’s greeting and the customer loitering by the counter and took the stairs two at a time. The roar of voices from upstairs was so thick, it was like a barrier.
He paused in the doorway, panting and sweating. The combination of smoke and steam swirling about the tables created the illusion of a fog-bound street in winter. Nonetheless, it wasn’t so dense he couldn’t see the dozens of bodies crammed on benches, elbows on tables, bowls and pots before them. They were squeezed into the booths down one side, all of which, apart from some spilled chocolate and sprinklings of ash, looked mighty fine. Chandeliers blazed from the ceiling. The mirror above the bar was a large gilded affair that served the purpose of not only throwing light back into the room but doubling its size. The windows facing the street gleamed and filled the room with gray light, piercing the smoke and steam roiling above patrons’ heads.
Wondering whether or not he had to deposit a coin given his familial connections, he saw, much to his astonishment, a one-handed boy navigating his way toward him, an empty tray held above his periwigged head.
“That be four pence there, my good sir,” said the boy in a much deeper voice than his height would have suggested.
Instead of arguing, Sam fished about in his purse and dropped his coins onto the growing cairn. Around him, conversation and laughter flowed. There was the pleasant chink of bowls meeting tables, the slurp of chocolate being drunk and the hum of appreciation as the taste was savored: beyond delicious and nothing like the chalky, sooty rubbish others serve.
Sam craned his neck and tried to search the crowd. Where was Sir Everard? He expected him to be strutting about like a cock in a henhouse. Was not this his day of triumph? His return to society? And where was Rosamund? Chocolate aside, was she not the star attraction? This room was her stage.
“Are you right there, sir? Wanna seat and a bowl of our finest?” asked the one-handed lad loudly as he peered up at Sam. He wore a smart brown waistcoat and breeches, trimmed with gold, and an umber shirt and hose. “I would guess you’re a sweet tooth, so sugar with maybe a hint of ninamon?”
“Ninamon?” Sam stared at him and blinked. “What are you prattling about? Oh, I see, cinnamon. Yes. Yes. I am partial. But forget that. Where is your master? Where is your mistress?”
The boy turned aside and blew his nose onto the floor. Sam stepped back and swallowed. “They be out the back. The master, I don’t think he be very well and the mistress insisted he sit awhile—out of the ruckus and smoke.”
“I see,” said Sam. “Take me to them. I’ll not stand for an argument. I am their cousin.”
With a shrug that said the boy cared neither about his relationship to the Blithmans nor whether there was to be an argument, he beckoned him forward, collecting empty bowls as he went and placing them on the tray with an adeptness that surprised Sam. The seated men barely looked up, too busy drinking and debating. Only one face was familiar: Mr. Wright, formerly a publisher until L’Estrange shut him down. He nodded gravely in Sam’s direction.
“My lady,” called the lad when they were closer to the bar. “Be a gent to see you. Claims he be a cousin.”
Bristling at “claims,” Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and removed his hat and fanned his face. Dear God, it was warm. The bar was cluttered with dirty bowls, chocolate pots galore and a tray of little dishes filled with colorful spices and other additives. Rosamund would be in her element here . . . but how did the men feel being served, not so much by a woman, something they’d be accustomed to from the many alehouses, taverns, inns and ordinaries, but by a lady? A Blithman? A name that once bore the blemish of traitor. Still, Sir Everard had greased many palms and been generous with loans and gifts to ensure he was at least accorded the semblance of respect. But what of his young second wife? Sam leaned on his elbow and turned to survey the room. Certainly the place was popular. But these were early days and all it took was a hint of scandal and, depending on the type, the place would either be bursting with bodies or emptier than a pauper’s purse . . .
“Cousin?” said a voice that sent shivers down Sam’s spine. He spun around quickly.
Ready to exclaim what a vision she was, even though she appeared quite downhearted, Sam dropped the arms he had raised in greeting as Rosamund stepped out from behind the bar.
“What is it?” She quickly scanned her skirts, patted her hair and brushed her cheeks. “What’s wrong, Sam?”
“Why are you wearing Helene’s wedding gown?”
* * *
“Helene’s?” Rosamund gasped in horror. “What do you mean?” She became very still. “Her wedding gown?”
Clutching at the nearest object, which happened to be Sam, Rosamund managed to steady herself.
“Helene’s wedding gown?” she gasped again as her light-headedness passed. She considered the dress in dismay. Only hours earlier she’d thought it the most beautiful garment she’d ever seen, even though, of all the clothes made for her, she couldn’t recall being fitted for it. Nor could she remember it arriving or being stowed in the armoire. Bianca had been so quiet when she brought it to her room that morning and dressed her. Now she knew why.
“This—” She held the skirt away from her as if it were contaminated. “This was Helene’s?”
“Maybe not the one she wore,” said Sam, releasing her. “But it’s identical in every way. I know—I was at the wedding.”
Immediately, she wished she could rip it from her body. How could Sir Everard do this to her? To what end? Why hadn’t Bianca warned her? Over Sam’s shoulder, she spied Hodge ushering in a group of gentlemen. Sam continued talking to her, his words evaporating into the thickening smoke as she willed him gone so she might collect her thoughts, her very wits. She was grateful when Harry appeared and tugged Sam’s sleeve.
“Master’s this way, sir.” For once Sam didn’t protest as he was led away. He did, however, make many disapproving clicking noises and shake his head.
Rosamund inhaled sharply, smoothed the skirts and looked around. Fortunately, very few of their patrons would know the significance of the dress. Dear God. Why dress her in his dead daughter’s wedding gown? Why name the chocolate house after her? Was it a macabre obsession or something more?
If only she could make some chocolate, she’d be able to push aside the terrible presentiments these questions aroused. Alas, that comfort was denied to her as Hodge ran past flashing her an apologetic look and went into the kitchen to fetch Filip. Once more the newcomers, while happy to set eyes upon her, thus giving them the authority to confirm or deny rumors, didn’t want her to serve them. She tried to persuade herself it was their loss.
Hoping to convince the next lot of customers that her chocolate-making skills were at least equal to Filip’s, she was about to return to her position by the door with a smile fixed to her face when another figure entered.
The day may have been overcast, but sunshine expanded her ribs, filled her heart. Thoughts of the dress were swept aside as she watched Mr. Nessuno add his coin and slowly take in the room. He’d come. He was no longer angry with her.
Even so, there was a strange expression on his face, as if he were seeing the chocolate house for the first time, though she knew that wasn’t the case: he’d admitted to climbing the stairs with Mr. Henderson on more than one occasion to see how the work was progressing. He looked earnest, and also—what was it? Triumphant? Atrabilious? Like a soldier returned from battle. Or, perhaps, seeking one. Did he think to continue their discussion? His satchel was draped across his chest.
Filled with an emotion she refused to identify, she was about to go and greet him and ask forgiveness for words she didn’t regret but wished she’d chosen more carefully, when a voice halted her.
“Rosamund.” It was Sir Everard. Flushed and sweaty, he wore a too-broad smile as he held out a shaky hand in the manner of an apology. Sam had evidently wasted no time in raising the matter of the wedding dress. She hesitated, but nevertheless wanted to hear Sir Everard’s rationale for outfitting her like Helene. She was not his daughter. God help her, she was barely his wife.
Ready to demand answers, she was stopped by the expression upon her husband’s face as he gazed over her shoulder.
“What is it, my lord?” she asked, her stomacher suddenly tighter.
Sir Everard let out a long, hissing sigh of satisfaction, as if he’d held it within for years.
“It’s none other than Matthew Lovelace,” he purred with a predatory smile. “At long last.”